He walked on the soft beds of the Savannah with his head up high in the heavens

He looked down upon the fiercest beasts with his big kind eyes as he peacefully grazed

He was a calm soul, a gentle heart. His only fault- he was a rare beauty

She came on her wagon of death, looking to play her cruel sport- the one where she always wins

He was defenseless against her modern weapon

One loud bang and his head hit the dust, covered in blood. She laughed and took pictures as life left his nimble body, she posted pictures of him online as she took his last breath, scared and shocked

He did no wrong, yet executed for the pleasure of human vanity

He was no trophy for anyone to keep, he was a precious life like you and me

meant to roam wild and free

As a small child figuring out the world, I believed in several misconceptions, such as:

Handicapped spaces were meant for those who badly needed to use the restroom.

This belief sprung from my interpretation of the symbol on the sign.  I didn’t see a person in a wheelchair.  No, it was an old man on a toilet.  This conclusion was seemingly backed up by the fact that this symbol also appeared on the restroom doors and even on select stalls.

This belief was debunked sometime around age four, when my brother, who believed the same because I had told him and who was in desperate need of the restroom at the moment, tried to get our grandfather to park there because that was what the space was for.  Our grandfather’s face twisted in confused amusement as he processed the thought and came up with a way to explain the truth.

All while my brother still really needed to go.

I still think “Restroom Emergency Parking Spaces” would be a good idea, though I don’t really know how it would be enforced.  Maybe like those “for parents with sick children” or “for expecting mothers” spaces, which basically run on the honor system and fear of the shame of others judging you.  Aside from the knowledge that you’re taking up that space when someone might need it more than you, the biggest deterrent from just parking there anyway is the momentary embarrassment when someone catches you returning to your car, clearly not pregnant or with a sick kid.  And they just look at you.  That’s it.

So maybe the fear of being looked at and judged as, “Oh, that person almost wet their pants,” might work?

There was a secret button somewhere in your house that might destroy your neighbor’s house in the name of crime prevention.

This was a result of those “Neighborhood Crime Watch” signs.  Several versions of the sign exist, but the one I refer to had a big eyeball on it.  The white sclera was almond shaped, there was no iris, and the round, black pupil was in one corner.  No, naturally, I didn’t see it as an eye.  It was a comet.  The pupil was the rock part, and the sclera the tail.

We still lived in a particular town, so I had to be under three, and we passed this sign every time we entered our neighborhood.  I asked my father about the sign because I thought it was a spot for watching comets like my mother’s uncle did with his big telescope and awesome star maps.  Dad explained that the sign meant neighbors were watching each other’s houses to make sure no one suspicious tried to break in and steal stuff.

So what did that have to do with a comet?

Well, Dad didn’t answer that part, so a theory just formed and stuck in my head for a long time with very little actual basis.  Thanks to a comet being on the neighborhood crime watch sign, I believed that if you noticed something strange going down at your neighbor’s house, you were supposed to press this secret button hidden somewhere within your own home.  In response, a comet would come down and smash the perp…and probably your neighbor’s house.

That’s why they didn’t tell kids where this button was.  It was too much responsibility.

Because of this belief, I was always very careful never to look suspicious.

This is an awful idea, and no one should ever implement it as a legit security system…even if it would be an effective deterrent for crime.

Just imagine a court room setting.  The judge requests the jury’s verdict and sentence.

“Guilty, Your Honor.  We recommend the defendant be smashed by a space-borne object.”

Not the lamest way to go, I suppose.

As a side note, the neighborhood crime watch sign by my grandma’s house had an orange background with a silhouette of a “thief.”  Therefore, if you were to approach me wearing a hat and trench coat like a P.I. in an old crime novel, I probably would match you to the silhouette and think you are the bad guy.

We all had a word count limit.

Yep, I thought everyone had a set number of words they could utter in their lifetime.  If you used up all your words, you could no longer say anything.

This came from time spent visiting nursing homes, where many elderly ones sat in random places and didn’t make a peep.  At first, I thought they had used up all their words and couldn’t say anything anymore, but then one day one of them told me she liked my red dress.  Coupling this revelation with the death of another resident, my theory reshaped.  They weren’t quiet because they had run out of voice; they were saving what little they had left for truly important moments.  When you used your last word, you ceased to exist.

Now, one would think since I truly believed this, it would have shown in my actions.  I would have saved my words, but nope.  I was a very chatty little kid.

I philosophically pondered this concept for years, worried that I talked too much, that I would use up my voice before I reached twenty.  I wondered if everyone had the same word count limit, or if some were born with more words to spare, just like some people were taller.  Was there any way around the count?  What if I spoke fast, smashing my words together?  What about the ones I only wrote and never said aloud?

At age six, I was laughed at for expressing such questions, and though I know it’s not true, this concept still niggles at the back of my mind sometimes.  What if we did only have a limited amount of words to speak in our lifetime?  Would we choose our words more carefully?  Would we save them for conveying what really matters?

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And then I write 200,000+ word novels.