Channel Surfing

Flip,to the wind flapping againstthe face sticking out of the car window,eyes grazing the skyline asthe sun goes down,down,down.

Flip,to roaring crowds chanting your name,the announcer handing you the trophy:“And the award goes to...”

Flip,to the trophy laying against the white carpet,blood splattered against the walls.“The red queen was here,”you whisper into the sharp silence,eyes staring up at the popcorned ceiling,the lamps in the room going brighter,brighter,brighter.

Pause.You peel open your eyetaking in the lightsneaking in from under your door,muffled voices drawing closeuntil you see the shadow of familiar feet.Fear tears at your throat as phantom handscreep across your body.The door knob turns, light spilling it,and you see hi-

Flip,to you running through thick mudlike hands clasping around your anklesas you chase the flitting lightdancing from tree branches,mocking your tear-stained facewhile you sink lower into ground;you hear laughter piercing the airuntil you wake up.