Phillip ran, net above head, he ran. Swatting at the bright ball above his head, the pollen filled, Arkansas air violently inflated his lungs and he stopped to rest. He could faintly hear the distinct voice of his mother calling from beyond the green fields. He ignored the mother. Today would be the day, his day. He would finally catch it. Armed with his father’s fishing net he inhaled one last deep breath and took flight once more after the ball of light. Darting across the fields leaping over ant hills and kicking up daffodils he swatted furiously at gods great ball of yellow. It was slow but sly, always one step ahead. It continually turned and began to duck behind Phillips home. He could see it peeking from behind, the great beams warming his face. He didn’t have much time, he had to act swiftly.
He needed a better view, he thought as he eyed an oil derrick that sat in the center of the field, a modern mountain placed amongst the ancient land. He searched the great plains with squinted eyes and plotted the perfect path as he scaled the great tower. Diving from the derrick he plowed face first into the soft grassy soil. He stood quickly to attention, wiped the dirt from his knees and elbows and began blazing the trail he had recently plotted from the peak of the mountain. He ran. This was the day. Net raised to the sky he ran across the field towards home, beneath the barb wire fence and past his father’s 86’ Chevy. He leapt into the bed of the truck to eye his target when he suddenly felt his legs jerk quickly from beneath him before he was tossed forward onto his stomach, head smashing against the warm metal. It hurt. He no longer wanted the ball of light he had been tracking all evening, he wanted the mother. He wanted the mother now.
“Damn retard”, he heard over the clang of the closing tailgate.
“Lord help the crippled Jim! What did you do to him this time?” a voice Phillip recognized filled his sun burnt ears. He smiled, it was the mother.
He awoke inside, the mother hovering above him and something cool pressed against his forehead. The mother always made him feel better. The kitchen door slammed and the thud of mud covered boots on linoleum shook the dust from the picture frames surrounding Phillip.
“Is he awake yet?” The rough dirt, grease covered voice asked from the kitchen, Phillip hated the father.
His eyes slanted and followed him as he entered the dim lit room. “You need to tell that retard to stay off Mr. Peatree’s land before he gets shot.”
Phillip liked Mr. Peatree. He was very plump with a large pudgy face and silver mustache. He wore cheap Hawaiian flower pattern shirts and resembled a young Santa Clause if he was vacationing in Gulf Shores and misplaced his camera.
“Don’t listen to him son, he doesn’t know what a long day you’ve had.” The mother stroked Phillips gritty hair. “He’s just jealous; because he could never catch it, now look at him. Don’t give up. One day you’ll catch that fading sun and we will put it in one of mama’s mason jars.” The mother knew how close he was. “You’ll get it someday baby and people will come from miles around just to see it. They’ll say my, owe my, what a great big jar of sunshine he has there!” Phillip smiled and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he thought. That’ll be the day.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
