This is no lab report. We’re not measuring percent error. This is telling someone you’re great with kids when the only experience you’ve had is volunteering to read out loud to them at a library event nobody remembers but you.
My head and feet don’t feel connected as I gad about on the grass. I lay on my back and roll around like a happy horse. When the hawks start circling I watch, but don’t run. They’re after the robin taking a mud bath, not me. And the blue jay sings a song while foraging.
I think about what makes me happy and suddenly the thing I love the most makes me frown. I make a left turn onto the chalk-covered sidewalk, wanting to disappear inside the paintings. I go back to sounding like a 15-year-old Mandy Moore. Still, the coffee shop around the corner doesn’t look familiar. I switch to humming, but it’s cold like I’m losing blood fast and all I can think about is what it must be like to be shot. Then I shiver because I know it’s not something I want to happen to me. It’s the unknown of if it will happen to me that scares me.
This place is driven by fear for the inhabitants that can’t seem to get away. But fear not. It’s only temporary. Ahead, there’s a lake. I want to go swimming, but I don’t have a bathing suit. I bang my head against a locker and accidentally touch my best friend’s breast while telling her she’s brilliant with invisible armor.
An empty shell is what I need, but I can’t find one amongst the leaves. I go straight on roller blades and almost collide with a squirrel that got hit by a car and flung across the street. It’s the new flying squirrel, the kind that has something in common with a squirting clam. I watch it and have the last piece of blackberry pie. There’s a yellow cake and I swallow that too like a snake and sit down satisfied, heaving a diabetic sigh of relief.
Just 536 more rounds around the block and I’m back.
Prompt: “writer’s block”