I Am Not Dreaming

“I am not dreaming,” Alex said aloud to himself, though no one heard. He blinked hard.

Ricky was on the floor, chalk covered hands twitching at his sides. Mrs. Hubbard obscured his artwork as she leaned over him, a look of panicked concern plastered across her dark face. Students were approaching to help, then retreating from the glazed look of horror on the poor boy’s face. Finally, Mrs. Hubbard crouched down to cradle his head in her hands revealing the final touch to the drawing, “Salome,” written in jagged letters beside the figure.

“I am not dreaming,” Alex said again, struggling to reign in his breathing. He blinked hard.

He had to squint to look back out the window at a scene that looked so peaceful by comparison. Janine and the woman in black stockings were making slow, steady progress towards the woods. The trees seemed to be waving them onward. The sun itself seems to be slowing their progress.

One last look at the chaos at the front of the room, and Alex came up with a plan even he didn’t like.

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