Blood rushing, hands outstretched, a perfect streamlined point above my head.  Tuck myself in and flip off the back end, shooting out again for another lap.

Cold stings my eyes and scrubs my chapped skin, but my time is improving.  Next time, I’ll beat her.  Next time, I won’t make myself a fool.  Next time, I’ll finish the race.

One more turn, can’t slow down now.  Feathers whip past my face as I draw in my wings for the turn and snap them out again.  Beating, gasping, reaching.  My fingers brush the tile.

Not fast enough.  Tomorrow, I’ll do better. 

--

And once again, I take the prompt and run in precisely the opposite direction.  I am utterly hopeless.

I do really like this, though.  I like how energetic it is, the urgency and rush.  I love how it reads as a swimmer until you hit "feathers" and "wings", and then your brain sort of scrambles to reassemble your mental image because oh, no, she's flying.

And a flight race resembling a swimming race is just a cool concept.