This was a fun creative writing prompt from Writer’s Digest. Let me know what you think!

You are an expert at capturing alligators—they call you “The Alligator Whisperer.” Your work has helped scientists gather extensive information on the life of alligators and you are hailed as a hero in the scientific community. Everything is going great until one day the alligators start hunting you. What do you do?

She ran as fast as she could. The earth betraying her every step, threatening to deliver her to their gaping jaws with each twist and turn.

The trees. I need to reach the trees.

Lungs bursting in the struggle to survive. Heart straining against her chest, leaping ahead and carving a path to safety. Sweat spraying from outstretched fingers with every stride. Droplets caught the sun and released it in a rapid fire pantomime of her life’s work. Gathering beneath her breasts, beading down her belly, and bursting from the dam forming rivulets down her legs. She was fairly certain it wasn’t just sweat weighing down her boots and she was not afraid to admit it.

So fast. How could they have turned so fast?

The rustling was getting closer, and she didn’t spare a glance back. She would make it or she wouldn’t.

There it is, three, two, one.

Leaping up she grasped the branch with her sweaty palm. Slipping almost instantly, she used her tenuous grasp to wrap her other arm, and then hook her leg around the lifeline. Clinging ferociously to the scaly branch while she gasped for air and begged her spasming muscles to grip just a little tighter. Bellowing in frustrated rage the beasts gathered beneath her. Their claws scratching at the tree, their jaws snapping with fearsome power. Catching her breath, she stared in awe at the milieu swarming beneath her.

How could this have happened? Where did I go wrong?

Nearly a decade of research and still she was ill prepared for this moment. “The Alligator Whisperer” once a self proclaimed title she trumpeted with pride, now felt like a funeral dirge years in the making. She was never the Whisperer, it was always them whispering, until now. Now they were the trumpeters.

Always so sure of herself, so confident she understood these primitive creatures. What did she know? She only knew she was running out of time. Her pride and bravado had finally done her in. She watched as they continued to multiply beneath her temporary haven. Their weight slowly forcing her tree to the point of no return. She had no weapon. She prided herself on never needing them. No weapon. No phone. No hope.

I’m a leader in my field. Crack. I’m accepting an award next week. Shudder. I have trophies. Snap.

Her weight and their rage brought the tree down quickly. Her screams went unheard.