I can feel something before I can see it. A vibration in the ground that almost knocks me off my feet. It reminds me of when someone jumps too close to me on the trampoline. I feel an uneasiness in my stomach, and out of the corner of my eye, a large shape appears.
It must be my imagination, it has to be. There is no way in hell that a dinosaur the size of half the park is coming my way. But no, the earth shaking tells me that it's not an illusion, it's a stegosaurus.
I slowly back away, then try to run, but as with all dreams, my feet feel like they're stuck in cement. Suddenly I'm far away from my house, but I have to warn my family. I try screaming at people nearby, "RUN!", but nobody hears me. They wouldn't believe me anyway. My heart pounds. I know there will be more. It will be too late.
Another, more massive dinosaur looms into view, a brontosaurus. He's moving slowly, but he's not happy. He has a baby with him, and he's protective. I try to run the other way. Danger is close. I can feel it in my bones.
My house is steps away, and I slam the door, my heart thumping in my chest, as a velociraptor bangs against the door. He can't get in. But I know what comes next. It always does. I hold my breath and look for a place to hide where he can't see me. His eye, bright and yellow and glaring, is staring at me suddenly from the floor to ceiling window in our entrance. I scramble to another room, the living room, but the tyrannosaurus takes a couple steps and sees me through the bay windows. It's too late to hide anywhere here, he's going to crash into my house at any moment.
For a split second I feel he might not be looking at me, and I bolt up the carpeted winding staircase and lunge into my room. By now he's realized that I'm gone from the living room, and I have seconds to hide behind my bed. At my bedroom window, I realize, he sees me. My foot. He can smell me now. I should have hid in my closet, there are no windows there. Do I have time? I'm frozen to the spot, unable to breathe for fear that it will break his still and that will be it. I can't even cry, I can't utter a sound, I can't call out, I'm stuck here.
I feel like the house is about to be broken apart, it shakes with such violence and the noise is deafening. He calls out, that high pitch cry. This is it. I close my eyes, and then someone calls my name.
Words of advice: Don't ever let your kids see Jurassic Park. This nightmare (along with one where it's a giant) haunted me for years. YEARS. Sure, I'm a pansy and I hate scary movies, but if your kid has any type of imagination, do not let them watch it. I actually still watch Jurassic Park when it comes on, it's sick, I know, but I can't help it. That scene with the velociraptors still scares the piss out of me. Now, aliens, that's another story. I could write a book on how many hours I lay frozen in my bed, deathly afraid that there were aliens in my bedroom in the shadows. I would have killed for a simple boogey man.
I wrote this as the second writing prompt from Studio 30 Plus, the first was on Concrete. They're amazing, and I am in love with these writing prompts that get my creative juices flowing. Even if this one will probably result in
Interesting how I call myself a strugglesaurus. Noting to talk to my therapist about this.