I’m not even fully awake yet, and I still don’t know how it happened. One second I’m lying in bed, thinking it’s just another Thursday morning, and the next I hear this weird dragging noise outside—like metal scraping wood. I figured maybe the garbage bins tipped over again or something. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I froze. The bottom half of our back door was gone. Not opened. Gone. Smashed inward, with splintered wood everywhere and the latch half-hanging by a screw. And right there, standing in the middle of the patio like he owned the place, was Oscar—our horse.…
Author: World Wide
I’ve been up at 5 a.m. every day since I was twelve. Cows don’t wait, and neither does the sun. Most folks in my high school couldn’t understand that. While they were Snapchatting their lattes, I was wrist-deep in feed buckets. I didn’t mind at the time—farm life made me strong, grounded. But the teasing stuck with me. They’d call me “Hay Girl” or “Bessie’s Bestie” like it was hilarious. Even the teachers kind of smiled along. I remember once in sophomore year, I came to class smelling like manure—one of our calves had slipped in the mud that morning,…
So, I was halfway through fixing the chicken coop when I noticed Barley, my old yellow Lab, trotting up the dirt road like he always does after his little morning adventure. But this time, he wasn’t alone. Right behind him was a dark brown horse with a worn leather saddle, reins dragging in the dust—and Barley had the reins in his mouth like he was proudly walking it home. I stood there, hammer in one hand, trying to figure out if I was hallucinating. We don’t own a horse. Not anymore. Hadn’t since my uncle passed and we sold off…
It started with one daffodil. My youngest, Luca, picked it from the neighbor’s yard (without asking, of course) and came home beaming like he’d just discovered gold. “For you, mama,” he said, holding it out like it was the most important thing in the world. Since then? It’s become their ritual. Every single school day, without fail, my boys come home with flowers. Sometimes it’s a full bouquet from the florist down the street (thanks to their grandma sneaking them cash). Sometimes it’s a random fistful of wildflowers—or weeds, honestly—but they present them with so much pride you’d think they…
I was already having the worst day. Slept through my alarm. Spilled coffee down my shirt before the interview. Parked in the only available spot, fed the meter with my last few coins, and sprinted inside thinking maybe the universe would give me a break. Spoiler: it didn’t. The interview tanked. Like, spectacularly. I forgot the manager’s name halfway through and called the company by their competitor’s slogan. Twice. I walked out with the kind of dazed shame that makes your shoes feel too loud. And then I remembered the meter. Three-hour limit. I’d been gone closer to four. I…
It’s not every day you’re half-asleep on the Lloyd Center line and look up to see a full-grown llama just casually standing there, blocking half the aisle like it belonged. People were whispering, phones out, trying to be discreet and totally failing. One lady near me actually snorted from laughing too hard. I mean, what do you even do? Pretend it’s normal? Offer it a seat? The guy holding the lead rope was this older man with a beard like a snowstorm—serious, quiet, like this was just another Wednesday for him. No explanation, no apology. Just him. And the llama.…
I mean, who says no to holding a puppy? The woman in the window seat gave me a nervous smile as she unzipped her carrier, revealing this tiny, ridiculously fluffy ball of brown curls. The second I saw him, my heart melted. He looked up at me with these watery blue eyes, like he had some giant, ancient secret he was dying to tell. “Would you mind holding him for just a sec?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I just need to grab something.” Of course I said yes. I scooped him into my lap, careful as anything.…
No one really knew his story. He arrived at the nursing home with nothing but a duffel bag, a photo album duct-taped shut, and that old “Vietnam Veteran” cap he never took off. Staff said he barely spoke. Ate in silence. Slept by the window. Never visitors. Never mail. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful—more like a silence full of ghosts. So when the therapy puppy crawled into his lap that Wednesday, nobody expected much. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either. Just rested his hands on the pup like muscle memory. Like his body knew this feeling…
He was always the quiet one. You could pass by him in the hall three times a day, and he wouldn’t say a word. Just a slight nod maybe, a faint tug at the brim of his “Vietnam Veteran” cap. He kept mostly to himself—meals, meds, the same chair by the window every morning. Never smiled. Never asked for much. And then that Thursday, the therapy dog volunteers came. Most of the residents smiled politely or reached out for a pat. But when the little brown puppy was placed in his lap, something changed. He didn’t move at first. Just…
