Haze

The light all around me seemed fuzzy and non-descriptive, but for some reason, I felt no fear. I arose from my bed, and walked down the stairs. The eerie light just followed.

“Mom? Dad?” I called.

A clinical utterance floated through the air, “1343 Tornado St., New Madison…”

My mind strained to place the familiar voice, but I couldn’t. It droned on… “massive head trauma due to a…” The sound faded and a light streamed through the dining room window.

I stopped concentrating on the voice. I drifted across the dining room. The light beckoned me. I pulled the string on the blinds. The white light bathed me. I smiled at the pureness. I felt powerful in its presence. Somehow, it nourished me, fed me, pumped energy into me.

The light waned, and I peered out the window to the street where I grew up. Jimmy Ferrell ambled down the sidewalk bouncing a basketball. He appeared to be ten years old. Confused, my brow crinkled at the thought. He's thirty. I'm sure of it. How could he be ten?

A feeling came over me – soothing, quiet, gentle. A brush running through my hair. Someone's behind me. I turned. My mother smiled at me. Her soft curly hair lay on her pretty flowered dress.

“Mom? Why didn’t you answer me?”

She continued smiling and brushing. Her nose scrunched in concentration.

“Mom, say something!”

“Yes, Dear. We miss you.” She stroked my hand over and over. “It’s time to come home now. Please come home.”

“I am home. What’s going on?” I felt dizzy. My eyes fluttered and opened. My mother’s face cleared through the fog. Tears streamed down her face.

“Doctor! He’s waking up. He’s coming out of the coma. Thank God.”



298 Words
Flash Story Must Contain: Tornado, String, Brush