Hunting [FICTION]

I stretch lavishly, exclaiming in surprise to find that my hands have bumped one wall even as my feet press against the other. I watch as my arms retract back into the red plaid sleeves of my flannel pajamas. I note the dark outline separating me from the orange walls of my bedroom. For a moment, I think to question this strange phenomenon. The question quickly fades away as my eyes rest on a chunky blunderbuss resting against a dresser with rounded corners and drawers with no knobs to pull them open.

"Time to catch that gwoundhog!" I exclaim, leaping from my bed.

I look around for my wardrobe, realizing that comfortable nightwear and hunting shouldn't mix. Before I can locate rugged clothing, I look down to find that my pajamas have disappeared. Now a thick pair of jeans, heavy hiking boots, and a thick green flannel coat cover my body. I reach up and pull a fur-lined cap with earflaps from my head. I replace it and pull the earflaps down, leaving my hands free for more important tasks.

I pick up my blunderbuss and rest it against my right shoulder. "I'm weady."

With stretching steps that must make an outsider think I am doing lunges for exercise, I cross from one room to the next. I vaguely notice that the next room sports the same orange walls and brown flooring, but only my deep need to catch the groundhog registers. I pull open the front door and step out into the vivd day.

One fluffy white cloud, outlined in black, mars the perfect blue sky. A few dark lines mark higher tufts of grass on the solid green ground beneath my feet. I pass my mailbox and glance at it and see my name emblazoned in thick block letters: PHYLLIS FUDD. I giggle and reach one hand up under my hat to reassure myself that I still have thick, red curls on my head.

A noise sounds off to my right and I turn toward it. Without thought, I face the left and address the unknown source of sound.

"Be vewy, vewy quiet, I'm hunting gwoundhogs."

As if summoned by my declaration, an oversized groundhog lumbers past me. I intercept him easily and point my blunderbuss at his face. He wraps one hand over the barrel, tapping long claws against the dark metal as he offers me a buck-toothed grin.

"What's your problem, lady?" He asks in a gruff voice.

"Youw day has come."

He shakes his head. "You're a couple of weeks late."

Startled to hear him speak, I blink slowly. "I'm what?"

"My day came weeks ago. I predicted an early spring, so why the violence?" He pushes the barrel of my blunderbuss toward the ground.

I stare at him, flummoxed.

"Nothing to say? Good. Fudd, go home and sleep it off."

As he disappears over the crest of the hill, the sun leans toward the earth to laugh at me. Discouraged, I take the rodent's advice and return to the comfort of my bed. But I know, as you know, that I will rise tomorrow and pursue my prey once more.