(From the Writer’s Digest creative writing prompt “Shhh, I’m wabbit hunting”)
The sound of loud obnoxious music wakes me, and right away I know something isn’t right. The world is bright with exaggerated colors but lacks fine details. I’m moving but unable to control my actions. I tell myself this isn’t real, even as I feel the hunter’s drive to shoot critters pulls me along. The duality is disturbing, to say the least.
I clutch a double-barreled shotgun in my hands as I creep through the forest, my feet silent in my hunting boots. I turn slightly to the right, put a finger to my lips, and say to no one in particular, “Shhh, be vewy vewy quiet…I’m hunting wabbits!”
I try to move, to say something, but I’m confined in the scripts of the cartoon I saw hundreds of times while growing up. A duck and a rabbit fight over who’s “in season” but no one gets hurt. Feathers fall and beaks are readjusted. I must be a bad shot.
It goes dark; there’s a scene and wardrobe change. I’m singing “kill da wabbit!” over and over to Wagner, all while in a shiny breastplate and Viking helmet. There’s a trip to the barber, a very fat and disproportionate white horse with pink mane and tail. After much drama and a little death, the lights go down again. The rowdy music is back, signalling the end to my nightmare.
Or so I thought.
I’m taller, young. Broad shoulders, slim waist, short legs. Very short legs, in fact. I wear a snug black t-shirt and jeans. Sunglasses. I’m certain I’m cooler than the Fonz, though this new self of mine doesn’t know who that is.
I kiss my momma on the cheek, walk down the hall and strike a pose in the mirror. I run a comb through my blond hair and flex my muscles.
“Damn, I’m pretty!”