Flash Fiction, Shorts

Memory Lane

The man sat in his rust-colored station wagon trying to decide if there was anyone home.

He had parked across the street from his childhood home, after taking the turn down his old, dead-end street on a whim. Everything was just as he remembered, too. The one-story ranch style house was painted the same slate gray it had always been. He had been sitting for twenty minutes now. It didn’t look like anyone was home.

As the man opened the car door it started to rain a thin, light drizzle. He plodded up the yard, noting that the toys strewn about (baseballs, water guns, croquet set) were not so different from what he had played with as a child.

He walked straight up to the door and peered through the window. No one. He slammed his shoulder into the door, which swung open easily, as if it recognized him. He walked through the halls of his old home, trailing a finger along the textured wall, and stopped in front of his old room.

Where his bed used to be was now a crib. The room was obviously in the middle of renovation; ceilings lined with blue tape, blue paint cans stacked in the corner. A roll of blue tape lay on one of the cans. He picked it up, tore off a strip, and wrapped it around his finger.

The rest of the house seemed more or less the same. The man felt a stranger connection with the family that lived there. It was like they had shared memories and experiences. He wanted to talk with them and hoped someone would come home right then.

When he couldn’t justify dilly-dallying any longer he left. He walked across the lawn and climbed back into his car. As he did, his old neighbor, Mr. Henderson, who was watering his garden yelled at him. “Hey you! What were you doing in there?”

He started the car and drove away with the window down and listened to Mr. Henderson shouting. “I’ll call the police. Hey. Hey!”




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