Cowgirl Contemporary Fantasy

My husband and I were each getting ready for work the other day, he in the downstairs bathroom and me in the upstairs.  Our five-year-old had been instructed to get dressed in his room. From stock.xchng His bedroom and the upstairs bathroom share a wall.  I can usually tell if he's getting dressed or not because it seems to be physically impossible for him to do anything without singing or talking to himself, a habit I'm certain came from me.  If it's quiet, usually he's gotten distracted by a book or toy. It had gotten quiet, so I began to listen closely.  Soon, I heard a "MEEP!"  Not usually a sound that comes from his mouth. "Honey?  What's the matter?" I called. "Kitty's being mean," he answered, and I figured he was letting his legs dangle off of the side of the bed.  The cat loves to play with his toes while he bounces his feet this way and that. I yell, "Are you dangling anything?" "Well, I am n...

I love to wake up to hear the sounds of grass and tree leaves rustling, mixed with the song of the western meadowlark and the wind whistling through the crevices in the wood and steel outbuildings. Out of necessity, I must listen to the sounds of car horns, airplanes, and dogs barking, and have done so for well over a decade. The hardest thing I have ever done is to walk away from the farm and ranch, knowing it would not flourish under my hand.  I still think of myself as a cowgirl, but I find myself without  a cow. Perhaps that's why I write: to take myself away from the scent of refineries and pavement and back to, as Tolkien puts it, "good clean earth."  But dreams only last as long as sleep, and one cannot sleep forever. As I step forward in my life, I often wonder if my footsteps will ever be able to turn toward the Badlands, and I pray that God sees a path that I cannot. But for now, trapped near pavement I must be, but I long to see scoria roads ...