80 YEARS TOO OLD
CHAPTER 1: BACK IN TIME


Frank Westerfield sat at his favorite magenta recliner in his snug, toasty living room. His short, old, veined hands grasped the arms of the well-used chair; his eyes drooped closed, then opened again within a second, fighting for his freedom of consciousness with his body. For the past year he had been having steadily increasing trouble with his sleeping schedule, he guessed it was just part of being old. Sometimes the world would go all blurry and distorted, and he couldn't focus on what was going on, and his mind would pass over real matter; and before he knew it, he would be off to dreamland, which usually was a blessing for him.

A light breeze flowed through the house, making the curtain's linked to the window next to him flutter like an agitated butterfly. Frank sniffed heartily, pulling back the sneeze before it started. He knew he should probably get up and close the window before he caught a cold and paid for it afterwards, but he just felt so...mellow here, sitting in this mushy chair; he didn't feel like ever getting up. He didn't feel like he wanted to deal with anything today, he didn't care if it was laziness, or just that he was finally reaching the final stage of his life; it was strange, human's never seemed to experience such a sensibility unless they were old. The longer you lived, and cheated the phantom of that final departure, the more you didn't care what happened to the world around you, and everything was soft and kind, and just felt...right somehow. Frank leaned back in the recliner, gaining a tormenting groan from it that he ignored. He stretched out his colorless, ancient legs and exhaled softly. He truly was getting old; his bones just didn't feel the same anymore, even a simple act as stretching out on a chair took almost half his energy. Maybe it was time to call a nursing home? Frank mulled that thought over in his head for a moment. Then his wrinkled lips stretched themselves and he chuckled gruffly, a moment later his chuckling fun finished abruptly when he hit a snag in his throat, and he elapsed in a morose coughing fit. He raised a fisted hand to his mouth and pressed it against his lips. He couldn't imagine himself under a roof with crusted oldies just like him, sitting around playing chess, croaking out half-exhausted words that were meaningless, taking too much energy, staring into blank space, not unlike him now. He saw that he was very similar to the other elderly, being treated in homes at this moment; but he just couldn't take the thought, one of the things he hated most, was not being able to care for himself, clean his own mess. He wouldn't stand for half-willing kids younger then him about forty years picking up after him, and treating him with kind fake words, what did they care? He was going to die sooner or later; all they had to do was treat him good till he kicked the bucket.

If he could have any wish now, Frank would pick something that had been growing in his mind for the past three years. To go back in time, to relive his childhood days, the days of innocence and glory, the days of record and soul music, the days that were known as the golden age in this century. Frank closed his weary, drained eyes and scuffled closer into his armchair, seeking warmth. And turned on a black and white film in his mind, a jittery, static-filled tape stuck on rewind flashed through his brain, a boy with bright red scruffy hair; wearing dirt-covered shorts and a too long shirt. In the boy's hand was a brown baseball glove, in the other was an almost unrecognizable baseball ball, used to the point it was hardly white in any area. He revealed a toothy, creaky smile to the empty living room. He watched as the boy drew back his too short arm and threw the ball as hard as he could to another boy a few feet away. The other boy jumped up too late, and the ball soared over his head like a hawk, it plopped down into the dirt far away and the boy was forced to run to go get it.



The other boy ran back to his position a few feet away, the ball in hand. He raised his arm, drawing it back a little, then was about to swipe it through the air throwing it back to the red haired boy but he suddenly stopped; and drew in his hand with the ball in it to his glove; he scuffled his feet a few times, clearing the dirt in front him, his eyes following his feet's movements.

"What's up Jimmy!" the red haired boy yelled, swaying back and forth in his place, impatiently staring at his best friend. "Throw it already!"