I found it in the 'drafts' folder of my old email address. I left this verbatim, so there's bound to be a misspelling somewhere in there.
Terry Robb
Short Story
Creative Writing/Poetry
One sultry afternoon, he sat in a daze staring at the cloudy sky. A piece of rain fell from the clouds above and struck him lightly on the forehead. His eyes widened in shock and he arose to run home, eager to sleep dryly that night. His running only resulted in him becoming dirty and soaked as he had fallen quite a few times as he stole across a bumpy open.
Just after it had begun to rain, he started moving faster, and more spontaniously. He wavered dangerously from side to side, as if intoxicated by his surprise. Hundreds of thoughts went through his head, about his life, his childhood, Sherry Carlton, he thought about shoveling out the dog's pens. It's not known why he thought about such odd things while running for home.
There was a tall, silver pole in the distance that he recognized immediately. He moved a little steadier now, and set his course directly for that odd looking chrome-colored rise. Mud flew through the air with every step, and it seemed to be getting foggier as well. His breath echoed through the air like a bit of milk in a full glass of water; it hung on to it's last moments until it twisted, fading slowly in the wind behind him.
His breathing and his footsteps acted in a strange unison, his goal becoming clearer, the sun peeking it's way around the corner of a few thick clouds. Leaning forward slightly, his pace quickened. He turned his head slightly as a rain drop placed itself abruptly into his right eye. He was in wheat fields now, amazing that such an open area roar so with the wind that was picking up.
His face hit the ground hard, he'd tripped over his own shoelace. Damn it, he thought, why now? His obsessive fear of drastic change only pushed him faster, his goal in sight, he was almost there...
His home, his door, so beautiful to such eyes as his. He could see it, it was right in front of him. He awoke with a mouthful of muddy wheat, spat it out, a strange ringing in his ears. I can't stop now, he kept repeating in his mind. He wiped his face with his plaid sleeve and moved onward. A rolling sound in the distance, ignore it, home is on the horizon.
Faster, faster, his legs had reached their limit, yet he continued unfalteringly forward, stumbling more now in his awkward semi-delusional mindset. His hair stuck to his face, went in his mouth, he didn't notice enough to care. His eyes were open. His goal was set. He knew, deep down, he'd make it.
His moment was upon him, and as he came near the post, a beacon of hope in this time of need, he reached out to hit it playfully, as someone would his friend's back. He opened his eyes... her face inches from his. "Sherry..." he whispered playfully "...thank you." She raised an eyebrow.
"For what?" she seemed to be saying, but her voice was fading away... her beautiful face in pitch black.
Then, a deep red car appeared, and with it the world, in it's colorful bliss. A girl giggled. He combed his hair. He was in his prime, and nothing could hold him back.
He was at home, rocking back and forth, staring at a crack in the wall shaped like a "Y" and he said to himself "goodbye." And in an intense rush of sound... light... shock, he fell for the last time.
"It'll be alright," her father said. "He's happier now, I'm sure. Most men would give anything to pass so quickly." but this only caused her to shove her veiled face into his shoulder, and a muffled weeping could be heard, along with the wind on the day of Warren Castor's funeral.
