Back to Reality

Thomas blinked. The dusty, earthy smell of the Zulu savanna was gone, replaced by the faint scent of chalk and old paper. The roar of thousands of warriors had faded into a gentle hum, the kind that settled in your ears after a loud noise. He was back. Back in Mr. Abernathy’s classroom, back on the hard wooden chair, back with the blinding morning sun streaming through the tall windows, making the motes of dust dance like tiny, forgotten ghosts.

His heart did a frantic little jig against his ribs. Had it been a dream? A vivid, impossibly real dream? He glanced down. His history textbook lay open on the desk, pages slightly crumpled, as if it had been through a rather exciting adventure of its own. The drawing of Shaka’s crescent formation was still there, a neat diagram of lines and arrows, utterly devoid of the thundering hooves, the glint of spears, or the palpable hunger of the men who had *invented* it.

He touched the page, half expecting his fingers to tingle, to feel the phantom warmth of the African sun or the rough texture of a warrior’s shield. Nothing. It was just paper. Ordinary, boring paper.