A retired teacher from Los Angeles passes away peacefully one night. After what feels like a long sleep, the teacher wakes up in a field of tulips. The sky above is hazy. The teacher hears a car sputtering along a winding road. He steps over the tulips and waves the car down. Excuse me, the teacher says. Where am I? The driver looks around the inside of his car, like he was searching. I don’t really know, the driver says. But I feel like I’m late for something. The driver speeds off. The teacher remembers being in bed with his wife, watching a show about time travel. Maybe this is the future, and I’ll wake up, the teacher says out loud to the field of tulips. He wasn’t tired, or cold, or hungry. He thinks about his daughter. The sky remains hazy. The retired teacher from Los Angeles sees a large, Indian willow in the middle of the field. He finds the softest spot near the tree and lies down. He isn’t tired, but he takes a nap underneath its shade and hopes to wake up back to his old life.
Peter Chiu’s recent work has appeared in Crab Creek Review, boats against the current, Midway Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in the San Gabriel Valley with his family.