A pregnant cat chose my place to have her babies. She had to choose because she was put out of her long-time previous home, discarded like an old pair of shoes. The first time I saw her was in my husband’s workshop and right away we looked at one another and felt a bond. She was so tame towards me; I knew she couldn’t be a feral cat.
She made herself a bed beside the workshop, underneath the thick azalea bushes. I counted four newborn kittens. One was gray and white, one all gray, and two were black as night. The black ones looked like twins.
I always fed and watered Mama and checked the kittens every day, and after two weeks I noticed that one of the black ones was missing. It was hard to see them in the thick bushes so I thought perhaps I had miscounted.
The kittens grew and we played and loved each other. Mama cat was the best mother an animal or a human could possibly have been. Mama taught them to hunt, fight, keep clean and keep their nest clean.
She fed them and protected them through the summer storms, the heat, and from wild animals. She was fierce—she would have given her life for her babies.
Once Mama misread our German shepherd’s intentions towards her four-week-old kittens and Mama was more than ready to take on our very big dog. My husband was standing nearby and she turned to him as if to say, “And I will take you on too.” Both stood down. Mama was a small cat, but she was dynamite.
One evening, as the cats and I were relaxing with each other, I saw a small solid black cat sitting at a distance, watching us. It had such a yearning look—so alone, hungry and so wild. It looked exactly like Midnight, Mama’s black kitten. It was the same size, the head was shaped the same, and their eyes looked so alike. My memory drifted back to when the kittens were first born, when I thought Midnight had a twin. He just showed up there, unexpectedly, out of the black night—just appeared out of nowhere. Where did this cat come from? When Mama’s babies were born, did she mistakenly think that Midnight’s twin was dead and dragged it off to keep the nest clean? Could it be that this kitten survived without Mama?
I tried so hard to make friends with this new cat but this just wouldn’t happen. One evening I looked out my window and saw Midnight and the stranger huddling together, as if they had never been apart. Then suddenly, they were gone from my sight. I never saw either one of them again.
I am still looking for them; if you see them huddled together in the midst of the night, tell them I miss them.

“Daddy”, six-year old Clara said as she looked up at the leaden-grey sky, “what are clouds?”

I considered what to say while Clara resumed splashing in her puddles. The drizzle hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm. Should I tell the truth or the fantasy? For a six-year old with a crush on unicorns with rainbow manes, the fantasy might be a little dull.

“Well?” she said, as she landed in a puddle a little deeper than the rest, sending a splash of water all around her.

“You’ve seen the steam from the kettle,” I said, ”when I make a cup of tea?”

“Or hot chocolate. I like hot chocolate,” she interrupted.

“Yes, or hot chocolate. Well, some say that clouds are mists of water drops just like the steam from our kettle.”

Clara jumped to the next puddle along the lane.

“Is that where rain comes from,” ...and the next puddle... “ - the water drops in the clouds?” … and another puddle.

“Yes, that’s right.” I said, and she stopped, and once more looked thoughtfully up to the sky.

“But that’s silly,” she said. “We get white clouds that don’t rain, and grey clouds that don’t rain, and those really thin see-through clouds high up, and they don’t rain. You tell me not to tell silly stories,” she looked back at me. “Now tell me, what are clouds?”

Young Clara wasn’t to be fooled.

“Well, some say that clouds are mists of water drops,” I said bringing a frown to Clara’s brow. “But others say that clouds are all the unhappy thoughts that have drifted up from the people below.”

Clara’s frown relaxed away.

“And, when it’s cloudy like today, having so many unhappy thoughts just above our heads, can make us unhappy too.” I continued.

“So is that why people are on happy on a bright sunny day?” she said.

“Yes.”

Clara bent over and studied a small stream of rainwater that meandered across the path by her feet.

“Well, rain clouds don’t make me unhappy,” she said. “I can jump in puddles. I can watch little rivers of rainwater explore their way across the path. I can listen to the music of the rain as it pitter patters on the leaves and ground. I’m happy in the sunshine and I’m happy in the rain.”

Clara jumped in a puddle again, and squealed with delight as she discovered it was the deepest yet.

“See Daddy, isn’t it better when you don’t tell silly stories?”

​I smiled and looked up to the leaden-grey sky - searching. It took a moment or two to see, but yes, there it was. I tiny spot where the cloud had thinned to show just a hint of pure blue beyond. Happy thoughts.

Janet was a bully. Everywhere she went, Janet made the other kids cry. She’d pull their hair, kick them, even spit on them. Janet was not a nice girl.

Janet went through life threatening people. Nobody dared cross her; they knew she was capable of some very mean stuff. Janet was born in the 60s, and although the hippy movement was over, Janet kept her long flowing locks and kept doing LSD.

Janet bullied a man into marrying her by pretending she was pregnant. She did have some children, but she barely remembered going through it. She was too busy threatening her neighbors, family and the few friends she had. She loved to write nasty messages on people’s cars, their garage doors, anywhere she felt like it.

After several complaints and police visits, Janet’s husband decided to try to keep her locked in the house. But she was so shrill he had to do something to shut her up, so he bought her a computer. Now, Janet’s bullying and psychoses could be witnessed by a much larger audience, and she fully intended to make use of it.

She roamed all over the internet, threatening people. She had connections, all the way from the dog catcher to the UN and NATO, and if they didn’t agree with her, they would be sorry. She kept referring to her ‘feed’ and nobody knew if she was hungry or she had to go slop the hogs. Her all-time favorite bullying revolved around her tracking down people and calling their bosses to get them into trouble.'

Janet got crazier as the days wore on. Her hubby soon found out that the computer wasn’t keeping Janet quiet (she’d scream and hit it even in the middle of the night). He recognized that she was getting worse. He wasn’t sure what he should do—he didn’t think he had enough on her to have her committed, but he couldn’t stand her screeching. He locked himself in the basement and ran his woodworking saw all the time to drown out her screaming.

​One day Janet ran into the basement and turned off the buzz saw, and told him that the computer had tried to kill her. He just shook his head and turned the saw back on. She turned it back off. He turned it on again and now he’s getting pissed. “A computer can’t kill anyone, shut up and go back upstairs.”She went up the steps, mumbling to herself in an angry tone, and he went back to his saw, not making anything really, just trying to keep busy and not hear her. He didn’t hear a sound, and didn’t go up for hours. When he did get upstairs, he found Janet dead, with her head pushed through the monitor screen and broken glass and plastic all around her.

​He stood there a while, then smiled and picked up the phone. “911? I think the computer just killed my wife. Please come and take her away.”

The harpoon slammed into the body with a wet thud. Muscle and skin contracted as it flinched away from the sharp intrusion. The rope anchored to the bow drew taught. Our boat lurched as the whale thrashed its powerful tail in an attempt to get away. The second harpoon struck true and fast.

My father grabbed his lance as the men pulled the whale in beside the boat. The oval shaped blade was razor sharp on both edges. He plunged it into the side of the whale, like a hot knife through butter.  He withdrew the lance and struck again and again, until the water spouting from the whales blow hole turned crimson.

Several whales from the pod kept pace with our boat and their stricken comrade. Spiral tusks pierced the water like galloping sea unicorns. Their large eyes cast towards us in blame. A grey male, fearlessly swam next to the boat calling to its injured mate. I turned my back against the accusation in their eyes.

“Trust me son. When the ice and snow comes and winds howl across the bay, you will thank me for the meat in your belly and the fat for the fire.”

The mournful cry of the whales could be heard all night as they circled the waters in the bay. The sound filled our cabin with such deep sadness it resonated within your soul. Even my Da looked unsettled as he sat down in front of the fire pulling on his pipe.

“Get yourself to bed, boy. We’ll have an early start tomorrow.”

I slunk up to the loft. The wind moaned around the corners of the house and looking through my window I could see the bay was whipped up with white foamy waves. As I turned away from the window, movement caught my eye on the beach. I pressed my forehead against the pane, ignoring the cold. One of the Narwhal whales had beached itself.

I spun round and clambered down the ladder.

“Boy, I thought I told you to go to bed.”

“A whale beached itself on the shore, father!”

He jumped up and placed his pipe on the table, dragging on his seal skin coat. “Are you sure? If I go out there to get wet and cold for no reason you will be going to bed with a burning hide.”

“I saw it. “

“Grab your coat and a torch.” My father grabbed his lance.

I quickly pulled on my own coat and lit a torch from the fire. We left the warmth of the house and walked into the blustery wind. The torch spat and the flames jerked every which way, casting strange shapes and shadows on the ground.

“Shall I get the rest of the men, Da?”

“No, if we can take this whale on our own, our status in the village will be elevated. I might even stand for chief.”

We walked down to the bay and onto the pebble beach. The whale song had stopped. Apart from the wind and the guttering of the torch it was eerily quiet. Not even the dogs barked.

“Well, where is it, boy?”

I looked back towards our house to try and gauge where I saw the whale when my father gasped. I turned towards him, raising the torch.

Emerald green eyes reflected in the light. A gigantic grey horse stood looking at us.

“Impossible.” My father whispered as he stared at the horn protruding from the horse’s head.

The horse snorted in response to my father’s voice. A spray of mist coming from its nostrils as it charged.

“Run, boy!” he turned to push me ahead.

The horn entered my father’s back and came out of his chest piercing deep into my shoulder. We both screamed as we were lifted off the ground. The unicorn turned and slowly walked towards the water.

My father reached up, grimacing in pain and pushed me away from him. I screamed again as the horn pulled free from my shoulder and I fell into the shallows.

The unicorn kept walking deeper into the water. It looked like it was changing shape, like an iceberg melting in warm water. It was the grey Narwahl whale.

It disappeared into the dark cold depths, my father speared to its horn like a grotesque living figurehead.
​
I was only ten, the night the unicorn whale came for my Da.

Every time I walked into that room, the woman in that damn painting was staring at me. Every day, I saw something in that painting that I hadn't noticed before. I had inherited the ugly thing and couldn’t throw it away, sell it, or give it away—the family would raise a fuss. So I put it in the room I didn’t use much; then found out that I really did go into that room a lot. I had to put it out every time the family came around—and it was heavy and awkward to move so this room was just an easier place to keep it.


One day, the woman’s hand had moved, and there was a knife beside the bowl of fruit on the table that had NOT been there before—I swear, it had not been there. I backed out of the room and slammed the door shut—hopefully I wouldn’t have to go back in there any time soon. But inevitably I had to host another family dinner and put that hideous painting out where they could all see it. I started to pick it up, and noticed that the woman’s hand had moved again, this time hovering just over the knife. Cold shivers ran over me.


The family of course mentioned how wonderful the damnable painting was. I couldn’t wait for them to leave and get it back in the spare room. But when I hung it, I gasped. Now, the woman’s hand was literally ON that knife. Panic is an understatement.


I wouldn’t go back into that room for several days. When I did, I tried to not look at it—but my eyes were drawn to it. She was staring at me from every angle, and the knife was no longer on the table, but held in a firm grip in her hand and pointed directly at me. I ran from that room in sheer terror.


Now I knew what was happening—she was going to kill me. If she could move and pick up that knife, and hold it in her hand, the next time I had to move that painting, she was going to stab me to death. I lay awake all night, trying to figure out what to do.


I didn’t eat or sleep for days, and I wouldn’t go back into that room until I figured out what to do. I didn’t answer phone calls or knocks on the door. Family was worried--but I had to be alone to stop this thing.


I was sitting cross-legged on the floor when my sister came through a window because I wouldn’t answer the door. The painting was in shreds, and the woman’s knife was in MY hand. My sister screamed and dialed 911. The men in the white coats, I have to say, were very gentle with me, and I think one of them believed me—that I had no choice, it was either me or the painting.

When I was three years old, I told my mother that I lost something. She asked me what it was, and I said, “Me.” She laughed a little and let it go.

When I was fifteen, my mother told me I was adopted. I was, as I imagine all children are at hearing such a thing, distressed. My great, loving parents were suddenly no longer my parents.

“That’s silly. We always have been and always will be your parents.”

“But I have other parents out there somewhere,” I whimpered.

My mother was so gentle, and told me that my mother had loved me but could not take care of me, so God had brought me to them. I knew right then that no child could have been loved more, and I vowed to stop worrying about it and make the best of the life I had.

I got through high school and college, although I can’t say I liked school. I was anxious to get out there and start making something of myself. After all—since age three—I knew that I’d been lost and I needed to find myself.

As most college kids do, I partied and drank a lot. On this night, I drank way too much. As I stumbled around trying to find a bathroom, I bumped into a mirror. I just stood there, looking at myself for the longest time, too drunk to wonder why.

I felt a bit of panic when I raised my hand to my chin and felt stubble—and my image in the mirror’s hand did not move. Frowning, I slowly reached out to touch the mirror, and instead I felt the image’s clean-shaven chin. Gasping, I drew my hand away quickly as he said “Hey, what the hell, man?”

That was no mirror—that was me, talking to myself. I was hallucinating, and my strongest thought at the moment was that I had killed all of my brain cells with booze and this was it—I would stop drinking immediately.

“You ok man?” myself asked me.

The shock was sobering me up pretty fast, and I was able to stutter, “Who—who are you?”

He laughed and said, “My name is Josh. Who are you?”

I said, “I am you. You don’t see that we look exactly alike?”

He said that he had noticed it, maybe not as strongly as it had hit me. Then he said, “Maybe we’re related. I was adopted.”

When my mouth finally closed, we both got a cup of coffee and went outside for a private chat. After we had it all figured out, I asked him if he’d come home with me—and meet my parents—and he agreed.

We walked in the door, and I called out, “Mom, look what I found.”

She looked at Josh, then back at me and said, “Oh, Lord.”

Then, “What did you find, honey?”

​“Me,” I said, smiling at the priceless look on her face.

The beautiful farmhouse that we have had in our family for generations is no longer warm and friendly. It is a hateful place where I merely exist now.

Our dogs and cats are cowering and afraid. Most have left home for good. The birds no longer sing, and the squirrels have stopped storing up for winter.

Our barn is desolate and the cows and horses won’t go in there anymore. Our lovely farm used to be a free-flowing home for cows and horses happily coming and going. Fresh hay was the smell of the day. The hogs would “pig out” and wallow in the mud and squeal with delight—now they just grunt angrily. Our dogs and cats would lie together and there was always peace.

I know that a farm invites a lot of different types of animals. Some are not so desirable, but we had plenty of room and food for everyone, varmints included. So we didn’t bother to kill anything; in fact we welcomed all.

Lately we have been targeted and threatened, and now our home is no longer a safe place to be. Huge husky rats have purposely chewed holes through our roof and the rain is damaging our antique furniture and valuable hardwood floors. There are holes in our walls that have allowed snakes, skunks and raccoons to take up abode here.

The sound of feet heavily walking within our ceiling is deafening and the stench is overwhelming. Yellow stains are on the ceiling and the drywall is crumbling. I feel eyes in the dim light at night watching me. I am sometimes awakened by something running over my legs while I lie in bed. I am shaking and my mind is showing signs of insanity.

What have I done to deserve this? I have welcomed all and harmed none. I thought the new way of thinking was to fight no one and to love everyone no matter what. It was ingrained into my psyche that animals are equal with us and there is good in all.

I have taken to my bed now and afraid to move. In my dreams the rats keep telling me to leave at once or suffer the consequences. They want my house and barn—and will stop at nothing to get it. Could I be dreaming all of this—is this really happening?

I hear a commotion but I’m afraid to open my eyes. My mind is scrambled and I’m weak, but I know that something is going on. I finally opened one eye and gasped as I saw several big owls sitting all around me. They were “screeching” and “hooting” as they were killing rats left and right. I was shocked that I could so easily smile as I watched so much death!

​It suddenly dawned on me—we must become more like wise old owls, because some animals are just plain evil. Thank God they were there in time to save us from the rats.

I got on the plane knowing that if there was a screaming child, it would be sitting right behind me—screaming and kicking my seat. Today, I simply was not going to take it—today I needed sleep.

I was so exhausted I was asleep in minutes. I was in such a deep sleep the stewardess had to shake me to wake up after we landed. I looked around the empty plane—she had let me sleep until everyone was gone. Thinking that was odd, I got my overhead bag and walked alone into the terminal, then outside to catch a cab home.

Still tired and groggy, I opened my front door and dropped my bag and kicked off my shoes right at the door—too tired to unpack. I wanted a bath and more sleep. I’d slept on the plane, but it felt like I’d had a 10-minute nap. All I wanted now was to sleep until my daughter and husband got home.

I showered and it felt good to get into my own bed. I planned for a long sleep when I was awakened by a shrill scream. There stood my daughter Amy, staring at me as though I was some monster, and screaming.

“Amy, what is it, what happened?”

“Who are you?” she screamed.

“Amy, for heaven’s sake, it’s Mommy. What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not my mother! Get out of my daddy’s bed.”

She ran down the hall and slammed the door. I couldn’t imagine why she was so mad at me. I knocked on the door but she screamed for me to go away. Then I heard her sobbing into her phone, “Daddy, there’s a strange woman in your bed, please come home right away.”

I went back to the room, confused and upset. Something was wrong with my daughter and I couldn’t help her. I’d just wait for Paul—he’d straighten it all out. It was only minutes before I heard him drive up and bound up the steps to Amy’s room. I could hear their muffled conversation but couldn’t make out anything they said.

He came storming down the hall, “Who are you? What are you doing here? You scared my daughter to death and I’m calling the police.”

Oh, no. Paul didn’t know me either. What was going on here?

“Paul, for heaven’s sake, it’s me. What is wrong with you both?”

“Leave now and I will not call the police,” Paul hissed.

​He followed me to the door, picked up my bag and handed it to me. I walked out in a daze. Where could I go? They were kicking me out of my own home. I sat on the curb, next to a bus stop sign. I guess I was thinking I’d get on the bus and go, only God knows where. I leaned against the sign and closed my eyes. I guess I dozed off because suddenly someone was shaking me vigorously. “Miss, wake up, we’ve landed. Wake up.”

He was so distraught that the sheriff had to set him down and give him a drink before he could speak. The sheriff waited patiently for him to become calm enough to question.

“I understand that your wife is missing, Mr. Wilson. Do you feel like you can talk about it now?”

Without even looking up, Wilson nodded, and the sheriff continued.

“Tell me what happened.”

“She is gone. I don’t know where she is.”

“Give me a description of your wife. What does she look like?”

“She’s purty,” Wilson sniveled.

“Yes, I know, but describe her. How tall is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was she wearing?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How much does she weigh?”

“She’d kill me if I’d ever asked her.”

“What color was her hair?”

“I dunno. It changes every month.”

“Was anyone with her when she left?”

“No, she left alone,” Wilson said between sobs.

“Ok, ok…describe the car she left in.”

Sobbing harder, Wilson said, “She warn’t driving no car. She left in my truck.”

“Can you describe the truck for me?”

“It was a Ford F150 with oversized tires and mag wheels, candy apple red with Moave leather adjustable seats, a 3.5-liter EcoBoost V6 engine and stick shift, heated seats, and a white custom-built camper with a gun rack on the back.”

​Wilson was openly sobbing now. The sheriff stood up, patted him on the back and said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson, we’ll get your truck back.”

On the way to the party, Scott gave June the silent treatment. That was okay since it gave her time to think. She wasn’t positive what Scott was mad about, but she thought it had something to do how she kept going out with a couple of other guys she still liked—guys on the wrestling team. And they’d both be at the party. She tried to explain it to Scott, but nothing seemed to satisfy him. She was beginning to think he might be more trouble than he was worth. This was about the only thing her mother was right about—eighteen was too young to settle down.

“I could be on the wrestling team, too, you know. I can beat the shit out of both those guys. Matter of fact, I’ve done it before. It’s just that I have to work.”

“Look, this doesn’t have anything to do with wrestling or who’s tough.”

“Sure, right.”

When they arrived at the party there were already fifteen or twenty cars and trucks parked at crazy angles on the gravel, down the driveway, and around the corner out at the curb. Scott braked to a stop but made no effort to pull in or park.

“So, what’s up?”

“I changed my mind. Why don’t you go by yourself, have a really great time, and get a ride home with one of your buddies.”

June gave him what he wanted. She jumped out of his truck and started running into the trailer park. Within a half hour she was on her third beer and not long after she’d put away a six pack. After that things changed. She was mixing in the middle of a crowd talking to some people, mostly guys—some she knew and some not. She had no idea what she was talking about. Then she started drinking wine coolers and the room began spinning; she fell to her knees and then onto her back. Some guy picked her up by her armpits; some others carried her by her boots.Things were dark as she lay on a bed, and she was sure she was going to throw up. That’s all she remembered. When she woke up the house was quiet and her head throbbed. She could barely make out what seemed like morning light coming in through a torn curtain in the small bedroom. She noticed her blouse was torn and her bra was gone; her jeans and panties were pulled down over her boots, which were still on.

​After a few minutes she’d gotten dressed as best she could, staggered into the kitchen, and then outside. All the vehicles were gone.

Jessee was last seen trying to drag himself down close to the edge of the riverbank. He knew that he had to lap up some water to keep himself hydrated.

Jessee has had a rough two years living alone away from his beloved family. Over time he has become thinner and his hair is ratty and dull in color. Jessee was still hunting and eating and sleeping and going through the motions of living. But just surviving was not enough—he was literally failing to thrive because he was not receiving the love he was missing.

Jessee now lies by the sweet smelling water as he drifts in and out of consciousness; he is extremely weak. The weather is getting cooler now and his only thoughts are of his lost family. To his last breath he will fight to see his family one more time.

It was a cool morning and his breath was becoming shallower. Jessee was barely aware of his surroundings when suddenly he could feel warm and gentle hands picking him up. Were they angels carrying him to heaven, he thought? Is it over before I can see my family again? A tear appeared once again at the thought.

Weeks later Jessee woke up out of a coma. He looked up into the most beautiful loving pair of eyes that he had ever seen as he realized, “Wow I can see.” He once was blind, but now he could see, and he wasn’t even in heaven. He found out later that he was in a hospital. While he was in a coma, the veterinarian had surgically removed his cataracts. He could hear other dogs barking and birds chirping and cats meowing, all which were in the hospital with him. His ears had been cleaned and his fur had been brushed. Even his sore hip joints felt better—he felt like a new dog!

Yet, his thoughts soon focused on his first love. The doctor knew this wonderful dog must have had a family and put an ad in the paper about Jessee needing them. He wrote a plea for the real owners to please come, so Jessee’s broken heart could be mended. The doctor didn’t bother to ask for him to be adopted because somehow he knew that just any home would not do.

The kind doctor expected someone to come, but an entire family showed up—unheard of. Jessee was out back in his large pen, and you could see the expression on his face slowly change; his ears perked up, his eyes were wide and bright with excitement and he was smiling. He could smell them, hear them and sense them despite the long yard and the walls and the doors. He was not about to wait, he had never jumped so high as he cleared that fence and bounded through the doors into the arms of his beloved family.

Jessee had many tears flowing now--not sad tears, but happy ones.

Yeah, he was a bad ass—the baddest of the bad asses. Just ask anyone in the neighborhood. Nobody dared to cross him. The police didn’t come after him, even when they knew he had done something bad. He was a drug dealer and the neighborhood bully. He hated everyone, but he especially hated kids and animals. Every time he saw a cat or a dog, if he could catch it, he would torture it, or at least give it a good kick on his way by. If a kid who owned the pet began to cry, he would also slap and kick the kid.

There was a large, black cat that roamed the neighborhood. He was no stray; he seemed well fed and his coat was beautiful. He walked in a haughty manner, and the kids named him Mr. Peabody because they said he was an English gentleman. He came every day and they all waited anxiously for him to arrive. Everybody loved Mr. Peabody—everybody but the neighborhood bully, that is.

Several kids were on the lawn playing with Mr. Peabody when the bully walked by. Without warning, he picked the cat up by his neck and drop kicked him into the overhead electrical wires. The wires made a hissing sound and the cat fell all the way to the ground, with all the children screaming loudly. One girl picked Mr. Peabody up, but he was dead. They all walked away crying, and the bully laughed. Later, he saw them burying Mr. Peabody and laughed louder, which made them cry harder.

The next morning, the bully came out of his house, all bleary eyed and hung over, and there sat Mr. Peabody. He stumbled and then ran back into his house and slammed the door, breathing heavily. It could not be the same cat, he told himself, just a look alike. But he was afraid to open that door. He stayed in his house every day because every time he’d open the door, there sat that damn cat. He would throw things at it, but the cat never left.

Finally, he decided he’d had enough, and he walked out and right past that cat. He didn’t kick that cat though; he was scared and he walked by quickly. He looked back over his shoulder, and that damn cat was following him, keeping the same distance with each step. The faster the bully walked, the faster the cat walked but he never closed the distance.

​He was hyperventilating now, and started to run. He ran and kept looking over his shoulder as he ran, and did not even see the car coming that hit him so hard it threw him into the brush beside the road. The car stopped and a man got out to see what he had hit. He saw the cat first, and picked it up. Not a stray, it had a tag. He turned the tag over and looked at the name: Karma.

People kept telling me that if I wanted to win the lottery I had to buy a ticket. I finally decided to do that. I bought the ticket and threw it in a drawer. One day my sister called. “The lottery is worth $50M now, and the winning ticket was sold in this town but nobody has claimed it.” I said, “So what?” She knew I’d bought the ticket and said, “Well dummy, go check and see if you won.” I said, “Oh sure, I’ll do that. While I’m at it, I’ll see if my pig is flying around overhead.” She laughed and said, “Just go check; here are the numbers.”

​I scribbled down the numbers, got the ticket out, and then I think I passed out. I’m not sure but suddenly my head was on the table with a knot on it, so I’m pretty sure I passed out. I had won! I was a millionaire, 50 times over! It never even occurred to me to wonder what life was going to be like after this.

Life after this turned out to be hell. Everyone was after that money. All of my “exes that live in Texas” were suddenly wanting to remarry. The IRS was hounding me. My phone never stopped ringing with ‘offers’ and ‘investments’ I had to have. The doorbell rang constantly even though I had put a no-soliciting sign up. Family I didn’t even know I had (and still not sure they really are family) started just showing up for long visits. I was never alone now; someone was always in the house with me, demanding money from me, begging for money from me. I felt like screaming all the time. I was sure I was going crazy.

I guess you could say I snapped. I know my sister wanted to have me committed. But I wrote her—my only true living relative—a check for $500,000. I would have given her more, but I decided that this amount was enough to make things easy for her, but not enough to ruin her life as mine had been ruined. I took it to her house and told her I wanted her to have it. At first she said no, but she finally took it. I told her my plan for the rest of it.

“I don’t want to live this way. I’m putting a story in the newspaper that I’ve given all the money away.” She said that was fine, as long as I didn’t REALLY give it all away. 

So, I planted the story in the paper, and suddenly things were quiet again. I bought a casket and put it in my basement. I put a small slit in the lining, and stuffed the money into the lining and sewed it back up. Nobody would try to rob me now; they thought the money was all gone. And who would look into a casket for it anyway? I’m going to take it with me!

Hi my name is Jessee. I am pleased to meet you. I live on a large farm with no neighbors at least for a mile. I live the freest life that one could ever want. I make my own decisions—I wake and sleep when I want, I eat or do not eat at my own discretion, and I bathe when I say. My favorite hobby is hunting and I am excellent at it. I am a part of a large family that really loves me. I am told I am quite handsome by all those around me. I am quite spoiled, but well-behaved and loyal to a fault.

If you have not guessed, I am a proud and confident pure-bred Golden Retriever and we all have been living here for eight years now and loving it.

One day I noticed a lot of commotion that I didn’t understand. It seemed that trucks were carrying large loads of furniture and boxes out of my family’s house. At the end of the day, my best family friend put a rope around my neck and led me into the barn. I have never been so hurt. Never before has a collar touched my neck, let alone a rope. He led me up to the loft of the barn, turned me loose, hugged and kissed me and left.

I watched them drive away as a tear trickled down my snout and without thinking I jumped from that window and tried my best to follow. But after running for miles down that awful hardtop road, I just couldn’t keep up. I was confused and hurt and I have never felt so alone.

I started to go back to my farm, but my feet were bleeding and sore. I looked around for a safe place to spend the night and found a hollowed-out tree. I don’t know how long I slept; it seemed forever. Depressed, I just laid there for three days and didn’t move. I didn’t realize my family came back for me bright and early that next morning but could not find me.

It’s has been two years now since my family left and I am so alone. Oh yes, I am still free. But without love, I might as well be in a deep dark dungeon. Lately my family has been on my mind. Are they alright? Are they safe? Are they missing me as much as I am missing them?

The jump from the loft caused damage to my hips and I am in so much pain now. I am nearly blinded from cataracts and my hearing is almost gone. But worse than my illnesses is my broken heart.

To everyone, this is my desperate cry, please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.

I sat up, groggy and cold. I didn’t know where I was—hell, I didn’t even know who I was. I looked down at my bare legs and feet first and wondered where my shoes were. Then I looked around. Where am I? I’m in the woods. It’s night, I think. The sky looks dark so I can’t make out much except I’m in the woods—with no shoes and light clothing, and it’s cold and I’m freezing and can’t remember who I am or how I got here. I can see that the trees are mostly bare, but it can’t be winter because the brush and grass are still green. There’s a glow ahead of me, as if there’s a light shining somewhere. I’ll just go toward that light, and I’ll get home. Home? Where is home? “Never mind,” I tell myself, “Just go to the light.”

I struggled dizzily to my feet; I had to cling to a tree to balance myself. I squeezed my eyes tightly to make the dizziness go away. Good, the light was still there. The ground was hard and the sharp twigs and thistles hurt my feet, so I stopped and looked around the tree to see if I could find my shoes or a coat, or anything to get a little warmer. Nothing. As I walked, small things came back to me. It was odd that I remembered that I had a dog and was worried about him. Then I remembered my first name, but not much else.

The terrain was getting steeper and when I got to the crest, the light was so bright I had to blink a couple of times to steady my vision. Below me was a flurry of activity. There were strange looking vehicles, and strange looking forms—not exactly human but not animals either. And then it all came back to me in a horrible flash—today was the day the earth was destroyed.

I remembered that these creatures came and destroyed everything and were taking a handful of survivors. I remembered that’s how I lost my shoes and some of my clothes—escaping from them. I hid and watched as they marched about 100 humans onto their ship—knowing that once they took off, I’d be the only one left on earth.

​Then I heard my dog bark—and it came from that ship. I didn’t think, I just ran as hard as I could toward my dog! As I got close, two of the creatures grabbed hold of me and dragged me onto the ship. They threw me onto the floor, and I cried out my dog’s name. He came bounding out of the crowd of people and jumped onto my lap. I heard someone say, “I wonder why they let a dog onboard?” Another said, “Probably for testing, like us.” I closed my eyes tight, and held my dog tighter, and felt the space ship start to move. At least I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t asleep; I was wide awake. It wasn’t a dream. It was another one of those damnable things that has happened to me all my life—the things I’d tell my mama and she’d get nervous and say, “Oh no, not another premonition.”

All my life I’d had these, and I hated them as much as my mother feared them. I could see things. It made me sound a little crazy, but it was true—I really could SEE things. And those things would come true and freak everyone out, including me.

So here I am again, sitting by my window, wide awake, and seeing this thing happen. It’s so hard to explain. It’s not like I’m actually seeing things and people outside my window—only trees and skies. But in my mind I’m seeing something altogether different, and the vision is as clear as the trees and sky just outside.

I see a middle-aged man, walking down a dark road, with a broken-down car with blinking lights in the background behind him. Another, younger man is coming up behind him, and he’s totally unaware that another car had stopped just past the broken-down one. He doesn’t even hear the guy walking behind him. He just suddenly feels a sharp pain between his shoulder blades as he falls face down on the ground. He’s not sure what happened, but he is acutely aware that he is dying. He struggles for just a minute, then it’s over and he dies there in the dark. I can see the killer rifling through his clothes, taking his wallet, his watch, and then as if the vision isn’t weird enough already, he pulls off the man’s shoes.

I shake my head to clear it out—go away damnable vision. I wouldn’t mind so much if I could ever know who that man was, or who the killer was, and could go to the police and save him. But that part never comes to me, and the stress of these premonitions never eases as the years go by.

But, I can’t dwell on this. I have a date tonight with a group of old friends. I’ve cancelled twice and can’t do it again. So I get shaved, and dressed, and start out on the back roads to get there because I hate driving on the interstate. I’d only gotten a few miles down the road when a yellow light came on the dashboard. Damn! Now what is wrong with this car?

​The car is sputtering and spitting, and finally comes to a dead stop. I’m a good 5 miles from anything and suddenly realize I’ve left my cell phone at home and have no choice but to walk it. I put the blinkers on—wondering why because who in the devil would be out here at night—and start walking. The lights from my car seem to get brighter, but I don’t even turn around and look. I know exactly what’s going to happen. 

As a teen, I would often wake up screaming as I scrambled to get the light turned on. In the dimly-lit room with only the moon for light, I would see a shadowy hand gripping a knife, coming down quickly toward my face. Other times I would see hands holding a pillow that would be pressing downward toward my face, trying to smother me. I finally left my room light on continuously.
 
I seemed to grow out of this, until one night I lay sleeping in my dorm room, where I had a visitor that appeared as a shadowy figure standing by my bed. This figure seemed petite, but would intentionally fall across me. It seemed it would ultimately smother me to death. I chalked this up to an overwhelming amount of stress due to my studies.
 
I graduated, moved in with two old ladies, and got a job at an old hospital. Some wings of the hospital were no longer in use. Sometimes I would walk the halls and visit the vacant, spooky rooms. There were reports of screams and call lights coming on in the empty rooms. Some saw what they described as angels. I never had any of those experiences, but I was drawn there in the evening when the light was getting dim. I would occasionally witness a shadow near me, and would walk quickly toward the brightest light.
 
One night I woke up to see a heavier female figure standing by my bed—just looking down at me. The following morning, I mentioned it to the oldest lady. She said, “Oh, honey, I am sorry. I should have told you that Clara (the other old lady) was released from an insane asylum.” That night I put a chair against my door. There were no visits from Clara, but it did not stop that shadowy figure from standing at my bedside.
 
Eventually I married and moved in with my dream mate. I continued to have bad nights and bad dreams, but I would somehow hide this from my love.
 
Now, I am old and fatter, and a stroke has left me an invalid. I am living in one of those homes that no one wants to end up in—a house of horrors. When the moonlight dances around me, I can’t reach my light when the shadowy figure appears. When the shadow falls over my body, no one will believe me. When I scream now, no one listens to me. I am helpless.
 
My shadowy figure has stalked me all of my life and now has finally gotten the best of me. I can’t move, so the shadow just stays there in one place, wherever I am. My shadow won’t leave me; it is there all the time.
 
As I am being carried out on a stretcher, my head is covered up. There is no moonlight, only pitch black. At last I have won; my shadow is gone.