I came to an open field not long after I started to run. The grass was high, easy to hide in, like a prairie. The thick blades of grass surrounded me. Cattails and a small puddle-like pond area stood to my right. I had the idea to bathe, but the pond was too shallow. I stumbled down to it and cupped my hands to drink. I knew the idea was barbaric, but my tongue was dehydrated to the point that it was numb. I couldn't resist. I dunked my hands into the murky water and raised them out, holding them to my lips so not even one drip could escape. I lapped it up slowly. It tasted atrocious, but I was so thirsty that I gulped everything down and took four more swigs of the groggy puddle water.
Then I threw up.
What? I had to include the details. The water (or should I say very very liquidated mud) was so grimy and sludgy that it couldn't cooperate with the leftover food in my stomach, which was probably my lunch because mum died whilst making our dinner and we never got to eat. Anyway, I got on my knees, spit, and wiped my mouth with my sweater sleeve. I flicked my tongue around. The repulsive taste was still on it, and all around my mouth. I spit again. Gross, you might think, but not as gross as the foul taste of the "water." I stood up and took a deep breath. Brushing the dirt off of my newly torn jeans, I started to walk again, watching my feet the whole time. I was depressed, who's going to blame me? I decided to take a look around.
Grass higher than my waist.
Two large, tall houses, one old and boarded up, one much farther away, with overgrown plants that had small orange seedlings.
Garden gnomes - or were they?
I could've sworn I saw one move. "Wha..." I did a double take and shielded my eyes from the now glittering rays of sunlight dripping down on me. I was right, they did move. The not-garden gnomes were just roaming the field that the family living in the boarded up house must've called a yard. My eyes drifted from the ground to the sky.
And that's when I saw it.
Two figures. Flying figures. People figures.
Impossible.
Must've been hallucinating.
No.
One laughed and swung their hand toward the other. They high-fived. That's one high five, I thought.
Then I really developed it.
Two humans.
Boys.
Flying.
But people can't fly! Then I remembered The Old Storybook. Mum used to read it to me every night before bed. I called it The Old Storybook, but the real title - what was it? Oh yes...The Wizard Of Oz. I recalled one character - Dorothy - then the next; Scarecrow, Tin Woodman, Cowardly Lion - and the little puppy, Toto. But who was that one....ah, yes, The Wicked Witch of The West. Dorthy had splashed water on her because the Witch stole her shoe, and she melted. But that wasn't important. I put the palm of my hand on my forehead and concentrated. What was so important about the Witch of The West?
Then it hit me.
One word.
Ready?
Broomstick.
