When, at odd moments during the day, when Roger moved his hand, it blurred. Which caught his attention. He dropped everything to stare at his hand. Waiting for it to come back into focus.


Later, his hand affected his arm, and it too became a bit blurry. And now standing naked before the bathroom mirror, he didn’t see himself. He saw a blur. He reached out toward the blur, but that too turned out to be a blur.


“Honey, come see. I’m out of focus.”
“Again?”
“What do you mean, again?”

Tags: bizarre story, flash fiction, short story by Vincent Eaton, short-short fiction

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