Pets Are Family Too!

Hello All:

I wonder if the situations in today's story would ever come true. More and more people are proclaiming that dogs are family. In fact, some people don't even turn to humans anymore. "It's just me and my dog." 

Some years ago I was on vacation and we stayed at a hotel where we enjoyed complimentary breakfast. Most people have done this and can imagine the setup. It's basically a smorgasbord selection--eggs, sausage, pancakes, etc. In walked a couple of men. One of them wore a pink polo shirt and carried a handbag, so I can only assume they were married. And he also carried a little dog in his arms. He actually went up to the breakfast bar with the dog in his arms to fix a plate! Of course the dog was licking its lips and trying to wiggle out of the owner's arms.

Within seconds the hotel manager rushed over. "Sir, I'm sorry. Health regulations prohibit pets from being in the food area."

"Oh, no... she's fine... She's our child." It took plenty of arguing to finally get the dog back in their room so the rest of us didn't have to worry about an animal contaminating our food.

Now I just know that there readers who see things otherwise. "Ruin the food? Please! It's probably a cute little dog, and who doesn't like a little doggy drool."

Today's short story is a bit intense and may provoke some strong emotions. But it's taken to the edge of exaggeration while asking the question if America will ever bow to animal fanatics to the point that things get like this.

Pets Are Family Too!

The Arizona sun didn’t just shine; it hammered the earth, turning the air above the asphalt into shimmering ghosts. For Edward, the afternoon heat was a feature, not a bug. It was 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, the kind of dry, baking heat that made the world feel suspended in amber. He was alone in his backyard, the only sound the rhythmic lap-lap-lap of water against the tile edge and the distant, dull roar of traffic on the highway beyond the chain-link fence.

Edward was forty-five, lean from years of swimming laps to clear his head, and currently enjoying the cool relief of his private oasis. The yard was enclosed, secure, and quiet. Or it had been.

Then came the splash.

It wasn’t the gentle entry of a pet seeking attention. It was a violent, churning explosion of water that sent spray hitting Edward’s face. He blinked, wiping his eyes, and looked up.

Standing at the shallow end, chest-deep in the pool, was a Rottweiler mix named Brutus. Brutus belonged to the neighbor two doors down, a man named Gary who viewed his dog as not only an extension of his own ego, but a family member. Brutus was oversized, a muscular slab of gray fur with a jaw like a hydraulic press and eyes that held zero warmth. He was known for being mean. Not "bark-y" mean, but "I will end you" mean.

Brutus didn’t come over to greet Edward. He came over with purpose. His ears were pinned back, his lips curled in a snarl that exposed yellowed teeth, and he lunged.

Edward barely had time to tread water before Brutus clamped his jaws onto Edward’s left forearm. The pain was immediate and sharp, a hot wire of agony shooting up his bicep. Edward grunted, kicking out, but Brutus was a good swimmer. He used his powerful hind legs to propel himself deeper into the pool, dragging Edward toward the deep end. The dog’s weight was immense, a dead-weight anchor trying to pull him under.

Edward thrashed, splashing water, but Brutus was relentless. The dog’s objective seemed singular: drown him. There was no playful nipping, no warning growls. Just pure, concentrated malice. Edward felt the water rising over his nose, his mouth, his eyes. Panic, cold and electric, spiked in his chest.

He couldn’t reach the ladder; Brutus was blocking it. He couldn’t kick the dog off; the jaws were locked tight, and every movement only tightened the grip. Edward realized with terrifying clarity that if he didn’t act now, he would die here, in his own backyard, by a neighbor’s pet.

His right hand, free for a split second, shot out and grabbed the thick leather collar around Brutus’s neck. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, Edward yanked the dog’s head down and drove him underwater.

Brutus struggled, claws scrabbling against the pool tiles, bubbles erupting from his nose and mouth. Edward held him there, counting seconds, feeling the tension in the dog’s muscles as they fought for air. After ten seconds—long enough to make a point, short enough to avoid killing him immediately—he released the pressure just slightly.

Brutus burst upward, gasping, shaking his head violently to clear the water. For a heartbeat, Edward thought he might have succeeded. He floated there, breathing hard, blood mixing with the chlorinated water from his torn arm. He watched Brutus closely.

But the dog didn’t retreat. He shook off the water, his dark eyes locking onto Edward again. The respite was over. Brutus dove back in, aiming for Edward’s throat this time.

"Okay," Edward breathed, his voice steady despite the fear. "You want to do this?"

This time, Edward didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the collar again, but this time he didn’t let go until he was sure. He pushed Brutus down, holding him beneath the surface. The struggle was shorter this time. The dog’s thrashing slowed. His legs kicked weakly against the water, then stilled. Edward held him there, watching the stillness spread through the animal’s body. He waited another five seconds, ensuring the message was received, then released the collar.

Brutus floated to the surface, lifeless, bobbing gently in the current.

Edward swam to the ladder, hauling himself out, shivering despite the heat. He limped to the side of the yard, wrapping a towel around his bleeding arm, looking toward the house next door. He expected Gary to come out, shouting, confused, maybe even apologetic.

Instead, he heard the distinct, metallic click-clack of a slide racking back.

Edward turned slowly.

Gary stood on his patio, a semi-automatic pistol in his hands. He was looking at Edward with anger and thirst for justice. He looked at the floating corpse of his prized fighter, then back at Edward.

"That dog was my son," Gary said, his voice calm. "And you killed him."

Before Edward could process the absurdity of the statement, before he could raise his hands or explain that self-defense applied to humans, Gary fired.

The bullet struck Edward in the temple. It was clean, precise, and fatal. Edward fell backward into the pool, the water turning red around him. Gary lowered the gun, nodded once, as if satisfied with a job well done, and went back inside.

The trial lasted four years.

It began as a murder case, but the defense attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah Jenkins, saw the opening. She argued that the law of self-defense was not merely about protecting one’s own flesh and blood. It was about protecting family. And in the modern era, family was defined by bond, not biology.

"The defendant did not kill a man who was vandalizing his property," Jenkins argued before the Supreme Court justices. "He killed someone who had murdered his child. If we say that a man cannot defend his child because the child is a dog, we are saying that love is conditional on species. We are saying that Gary’s grief is less valid than Edward’s survival. But why? Why is the bond between a man and his dog worth less than the bond between a man and his wife?"

The prosecution countered with tradition. Dogs are property. You don’t shoot a person unless they threaten you. Yet Edward had ended Brutus’s life.

But the tide had turned. The public was captivated. Animal rights activists, emboldened by the media coverage of Gary’s "righteous fury," flooded the courts. They presented studies on canine intelligence, on emotional attachment, on the depth of grief experienced by owners. They painted Edward as a cold-blooded killer who had executed a beloved family member for the crime of existing in a space Gary claimed.

In a landmark 5-4 decision, the Supreme Court ruled that animals, when kept as companions and recognized as family members by their owners, are entitled to the same protections under the doctrine of self-defense as human relatives. Gary was acquitted. The precedent was set: Homo sapiens was no longer the sole arbiter of value in the domestic sphere.

Five years later, the world had changed.

It started subtly. Then it accelerated. If a dog could be a reason for murder, what else could be family? The legislation followed the ruling like a wave. The "Companion Animal Rights Act" was passed, granting pets legal personhood status in matters of care, custody, and welfare.

For families like the Millers, it was a nightmare.

Their German Shepherd, Gunner, was twelve years old. In dog years, he was ancient. In human terms, he was ninety. Gunner suffered from severe osteoarthritis, hip dysplasia, and early-stage kidney failure. Every morning, he woke up with a whimper, his joints stiff and painful.

Under the new laws, euthanasia was no longer a simple vet visit. An owner of a pet was required to care for the animal with equal medical treatment that a human would receive. And the cost was astronomical. These new laws were passed just as Gunner got too old. They didn't have time to purchase animal insurance.

Mr. Miller, a retired accountant, had drained their retirement fund. Mrs. Miller had sold their car. They were living on instant noodles and hope, watching Gunner suffer.

But they couldn’t let him go. To put Gunner down would be criminal negligence. It would be "murder of a family member."

Worse were the inspections.

The Department of Companion Welfare (DCW) had been established to enforce the new standards. Inspectors visited randomly, unannounced. They checked the size of the bed and whether or not it was in a room with one of the owners to prevent separation anxiety, the quality of the food, the frequency of vet visits. If a dog had too many surgeries, it was flagged as potential mistreatment—proof that the owners might be considering private euthanasia which was illegal.

The Millers’ house was now monitored. A small tracking device was implanted in Gunner’s collar, linked to the DCW database. The rules were strict.

Rule 1: The animal must sleep in the bed with the owner. (Imagine the many nights of lost sleep because the door whimpered and cried throughout the night)

Rule 2: The owner must share meals with the animal at the dinner table. (This was already required but now heavily checked to make sure the Millers were abiding.)

Rule 3: The dog must come with to all family outings. The dog was considered a child and who leaves a child home alone? Besides, the dog was experiencing a health crisis and the Millers might need to call 911 if something bad happened.

Gunner cried at night. It was a low, guttural moan that vibrated through the floorboards. Mr. Miller lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the whimpers. He couldn’t leave the room. He couldn’t put on headphones. The law required him to be present, to monitor the animal’s distress levels via the tracker’s biometric data.

During the day, Gunner ate with them. Not from a bowl on the floor, but from a plate on the table, mirroring their posture. It was surreal, grotesque. The dog chewed slowly, drool dripping onto the nice china, while the Millers stared at their screens, scrolling through news articles about how much better life was for pets now.

"You're doing great, buddy," Mrs. Miller whispered, scratching behind Gunner’s ears. Her voice was thin, strained. Her eyes were hollow.

Gunner leaned into her touch, his tail giving a weak thump against the chair leg. He didn’t know he was dying. He didn’t know he was a burden. He only knew that he was loved, and that love was now a cage.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. It was beautiful. It was indifferent. Inside, the Millers sat in silence, surrounded by the smell of wet dog and expensive medicine, waiting for the inspector’s next call, praying for a mercy that the dog would finally pass on.

The Polar Bear Guarding Desert Ruins

Hello All:

It's Podcast Tuesday and we have a whimsical tale of Bartholomew the polar bear, an Arctic native who trades his icy home for a vibrant new life in the sun-baked canyons of the desert. Although a cute short story which has been featured in text on the blog, there are some interesting things to learn from the story. Today's podcast discusses this.

Listen to Polar Bear Guarding Desert Ruins

Birthday Arrest

Hello All:

I'm sure today's new short story will leave you with a mix of emotions. As I completed the story, I had to ask myself who I should feel sorry for.  I'll let you, the reader, decide.

Birthday Arrest

The sun hung heavy and golden over the sprawling backyard, baking the scent of charcoal, cut grass, and blooming jasmine into a thick, sweet haze. It was a perfect Saturday in late July, the kind of day that seemed to suspend time itself. There were fifty people here—no, more than that. The air buzzed with the overlapping voices of sons, daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, all gathered to celebrate Dwight.

Dwight sat in his favorite wicker chair, the one with the cushion near the old oak tree that shaded the patio. At ninety-eight, his skin was like parchment paper, thin and translucent, mapped with blue veins and age spots. He smiled at the chaos around him. It was a good life. A full life. He had built something from nothing—a single grocery store in 1958, then another, then another, until "Dwight’s Markets" was as much a part of the town’s infrastructure as the church steeple or the schoolhouse. He had been there for every opening, every ribbon cutting, every family picnic held in the parking lot.

His wife, Eleanor—sweet, patient Eleanor, who had passed ten years ago but whose presence lingered in the photos on every wall—would have been proud. They had raised six children, all of whom worked in the business, all of whom loved each other because they spent their weekends together. Dwight had been a pillar of the community. He read the lessons at St. Jude’s every Sunday, his voice booming and clear despite his age. He had led Boy Scout troops, teaching boys how to tie knots and look out for one another. He was a man of order, of routine, of visible goodness.

"Happy Birthday, Grandpa!" a chorus of voices erupted, shattering his reverie.

Fifty faces turned toward him. Candles flickered atop a massive sheet cake decorated with fondant numbers: 98. The singing was loud, enthusiastic, slightly off-key in the best possible way. Dwight closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. He felt a profound sense of peace. He had done good. He had given everything.

But then, through the gap between two laughing teenagers, he saw them.

Four police officers in crisp uniforms stood by the back fence, arms crossed, watching. Behind them, three men in dark, ill-fitting suits leaned against a sedan, their expressions unreadable. They weren’t looking at the cake. They weren’t looking at the party. They were looking at him.

A cold spike drove itself into Dwight’s chest. The singing continued, oblivious. "Happy birthday dear Grandpa... Happy birthday to you..."

Dwight’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "Not today...", he thought, panic rising in his throat like bile. "No, not today. I’ve been so good. I’ve reformed. I’ve paid my dues."

He remembered the nights. Not the memories he showed the congregation, the gentle stories of hard work and integrity. He remembered the wet grass, the smell of pine needles, the weight of the ever dying women in his arms. He remembered the specific rhythm of his cruelty: the slow squeeze on their throats to cause strangulation, the release, the gasp, the repeat. He had kept them alive just long enough to know they were dying. It had been an art form, private and silent, before the world grew too loud and too bright for his secret sins.

"Please," he whispered, though no one heard him over the clapping.

The song ended. Applause broke out. Confetti cannons popped, showering pink and gold paper over the guests. Someone handed Dwight a plastic fork. His hands trembled so violently that the tines rattled against the plate. He looked at the slice of chocolate fudge cake, rich and inviting. He wanted to eat it. He wanted to savor the sweetness, to prove to himself that he still could enjoy simple pleasures. He reached for his glass of iced tea, his fingers brushing the condensation-slicked rim.

"Dwight?"

The voice was deep, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. It cut through the remaining chatter like a knife.

Dwight froze. He slowly lifted his head. The detective in the center of the group of men stepped forward. He was young, perhaps forty, with sharp features and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything. He held a small notepad in one hand.

"You're under arrest," the detective said, his voice carrying clearly across the sudden silence of the yard. "Suspected of the murders of seven women. Dates range from 1946 to 1951."

The fork slipped from Dwight’s numb fingers, clattering onto the pavement. The cake sat untouched, a bright yellow island in a sea of white plates.

"There must be some mistake!" shouted his eldest son, Mark, stepping forward, his face flushed with confusion and indignation. "This is Dwight Miller! He’s a retired businessman! And was highly active in his church throughout his life1"

"Grandpa didn’t kill anyone!" cried out his grandson, Leo, shaking his head violently. "He saved kittens! He volunteered at the library!"

Dwight looked up at them, his eyes wide and watery. He tried to speak, but his voice was a dry rasp. "Please," he croaked, leaning forward, gripping the arms of his wicker chair until the wood creaked. "I’m reformed. I’m retired. Look at me. I’m ninety-eight years old. I’m too old for jail. Just... let me have my cake. Please. I’ve been good. I’ve been so good for seventy years."

The detective didn’t blink. He signaled to the officers behind him. Two of them moved forward, their boots crunching softly on the gravel path leading to the patio.

"You don’t understand," Dwight pleaded, his voice gaining a desperate strength. "I changed. I felt it. In the fifties, it just stopped. I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m not that man. That man is gone."

The detective tilted his head slightly, studying Dwight with the detached curiosity of a biologist examining a specimen. "We found the remains, Mr. Miller. Under the foundation of your first store. And then under the second. We found teeth. We found bone fragments. We matched the dental records from missing persons reports in ’48 and ’52. You didn’t just kill them, Dwight. You buried them beneath your legacy."

Dwight’s breath hitched. He looked down at his hands—hands that had signed contracts, shaken hands, blessed babies, fed the hungry. Hands that had strangled seven beautiful, trusting women in the dark.

He ignored their pleas as if he couldn't hear them. He had never wondered if they forgave him. He had simply assumed that because he had stopped, because he had become a saint in the daylight, the darkness had been erased. But the earth remembers. The bones remember.

The officers took hold of his upper arms. Their grip was firm, professional, unyielding. Dwight didn’t resist. He looked at the cake one last time. The candles had melted into sad, dripping tears of wax. The chocolate frosting was beginning to soften in the heat.

As they led him away from the table, past the stunned silence of his family, past the confused great-grandchildren clutching their juice boxes, Dwight realized the truth. He hadn’t been forgiven. He had just been quiet for a long time. And now, the noise was finally catching up to him.

The Ever Growing Retardation Factor of Society

 Hello All:

It's Video Saturday, and I have some more thoughts, ideas and researches I've accumulated for some years to lay out in a very fascinating video. The video aims as a warning to society and the terrifying direction we are heading. Have you noticed a growing "retardation factor" in society? I think we all have.

For me, it started one Friday evening in 2020 at a Five Guys restaurant in Illinois. This would have been shortly after the COVID lockdowns.  I joined my wife and daughter for dinner. As time passed in the restaurant, I looked around at everyone and wondered if I were eating at a mental hospital. What was wrong with everyone? They sat at their tables, basically wearing pajamas and chewing their food with their mouths open. And they had that lazy, dumb sort of look in their eyes. Of course, there were numerous digital gadgets opened at the tables. I finally looked at my wife and asked, "Is it just me, or is everyone in this place retarded?" 

Now to be fair, it isn't like this in every situation. There is plenty of intelligence still out there. Yet we've all seen the degradation of society with a seeming decline of intelligence. And it's by design if you ask me. Yes! I've said it! I really think there are forces in play that created this digital decline in people. I believe that at some point in history there was a secret technology and government symposium that planned ways to dumb down society and make people more controllable with the use of technology. It's a little conspiracy theory of mine.

Today's video is by no means conspiracy theory. It contains actual research and data that proves we've been on a downwards trajectory since the late 80s. The hope is after viewing this video, you will take action to ensure your cognition and intelligence remains preserved.

I Can Outrun This Thing!

Hello All:

Happy Friday! I've missed a couple of days this week on the blog. That can happen from time to time, especially when I become absorbed in a project at my day job. Rest assured, it's only temporary. I've thought of turning to an AI system in times like this to request a short story to share on my blog. But that's not right. I need my creativity and my ideas in whatever article is published for that day. 

But, at least we have a fantastic alien abduction suspense flash fiction work for you today! (Yes, this is my creativity!)

During the height of the mid-century UFO phenomena, highway encounters were among the most frequently documented reports submitted to civilian research groups. Investigators often noted a distinct pattern in these rural roadway cases: a sudden loss of vehicle control, localized electrical interference, and a profound, unsettling sensation of paralysis known to researchers as the "oz factor"—a terrifying quiet where all ambient environmental noise suddenly vanishes right before contact. 

I Can Outrun This Thing!

The late afternoon light stretched across the high-desert asphalt like spilled amber, painting the scrub brush in long, jagged shadows. Miles of empty two-lane highway unfolded toward the horizon, flanked only by sun-baked rock formations and the occasional lonely telephone pole. Inside the sedan, the radio buzzed with low static, a faint hum competing with the rhythmic roar of tires against pavement.

Then, a sudden glint caught the sky.

At first, it looked like an aircraft banking hard against the setting sun. But it was moving far too fast, dipping beneath the cloud line with a jagged, unnatural velocity that defied physics. It dropped lower, hovering silently above the distant ridge. 

Pulling over onto the gravel shoulder, the driver kicked open the door and stepped into the dry, hot air. He reached into the glove box, retrieved a heavy pair of vintage binoculars, and brought them to his eyes, zooming in on the metallic disc suspended over the desert floor.

The optical glass focused sharply. Along the central rim of the seamless craft sat a row of narrow, rectangular viewports. Behind the dark tint, indistinct outlines began to take shape. Humanoid forms stood motionless, their oversized, bulbous craniums sloping down to thin, frail shoulders. In that second, one of the figures shifted forward, its large, void-black eyes looking directly down through the lens. 

A violent shockwave of numbing cold surged through his chest. It felt as though frozen currents of high-voltage electricity were ripping through his nervous system, locking his muscles instantly in place. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, yet his limbs refused to obey. The sensation was terrifyingly familiar—a deeply buried memory unlocked in a fraction of a second, suggesting this was not the first time he had felt that paralyzing ice in his veins. 

With a sharp gasp, the physical lock snapped. The craft tilted silently and shot upward into the haze. 

Stumbling back into the car, he slammed the door and threw the transmission into drive, tires screaming as he burned rubber back onto the highway. Panic surged through his throat. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as his eyes darted continuously between the windshield and the rearview mirror. 

Just two more hours, he chanted internally, repeating it like a mantra. Two hours and I’m back in civilization. I can outrun this thing. I can fight it off.

The speedometer needle swept past 75, 80, and pegged firmly at over 90 miles an hour. The engine whined in protest, the desert landscape blurring into a streak of faded red sand and pale green sagebrush. 

Suddenly, the sky above the hood darkened.

The massive disc descended rapidly from the clouds, matching his speed perfectly. It hovered barely twenty feet above the pavement, gliding beside the driver's side window in a horrifying, silent drag race. The dashboard electronics flickered and died; the speedometer dropped to zero even as the car hurtled forward under an invisible physical pressure. 

Once again, the chilling numbness flooded his limbs. In his mind's eye, the terrifying visage of the thin-faced creature behind the viewport blazed with absolute clarity, its icy projection burning through his consciousness. 

He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, but before he could push any further, a blinding flash illuminated the road ahead.

Another craft dropped from the sky, settling heavily across both lanes just two hundred yards in front of his speeding vehicle, completely blocking the highway. 

He jammed his foot onto the brake pedal with all his weight. The tires screeched against the burning asphalt, leaving thick black trails as the car fishtailed violently before grinding to a halt mere feet from the hull of the grounded object. The engine sputtered and died into absolute, suffocating silence. 

A soft seam opened along the base of the craft, bathed in a brilliant, pale blue light. Dark silhouettes stepped out onto the dusty highway, advancing slowly toward the stalled car to escort their trembling passenger aboard. 

Why Presentism is Trapping Us

Hello All:

Now don't tell me you are one of those woke people who refused to observe Christopher Columbus Day, yesterday! I hope you didn't go out and riot in the streets and smash statues of Columbus because he's known to have owned slaves; all the while finding someone else who can wear the title of discovering America.

Last year around this same time I reflected on the disturbing trend of revoking historical figures of their contributions to our world. It seems anyone has dirt on them which appends the bright, red "but" to whatever accomplishment they've made. I converted these notes into today's podcast for Tuesday. 

Listen To Presentism Trapping Us

Live Alien Abduction on the Evening News

Hello All:

Live Alien Abduction on the Evening News was written ten years ago. It was one of those stories that I didn't unpublish. I recently thought of reworking the story, but there's really nothing wrong with it. The only change is a new AI generated cover artwork.  The short story was inspired by an actual dream I had one night in 2016. And now we enjoy it as a short story.

Live Alien Abduction on the Evening News

It was supposed to be the night of a special, never-seen-before meteor shower. Astronomers theorized that two colliding asteroids in Earth's usual path of orbit (when Earth wasn't in that location, of course!) had resulted in countless fragments of shattered space matter.

And this is what the weather anchor, Steve Sodaman, reported to the much-intrigued city and surrounding suburbs after presenting the nightly weather forecast.  It was the 10:00 edition. "Now astronomers say that this will be an absolutely fantastic meteor shower.” he explained. “It's supposed to be unlike anything people have seen before! The sky will be lit up for hours..."

Just then, one of the news anchors interrupted, "Steve, you might want us to click over to the other screen. We've got a caller who claims to have some amazing, live video footage of the meteor shower."

"Let's see it!" agreed the weather anchor.

The entire city and surrounding suburbs watched as the screen switched over from the weather anchor's presentation, to what appeared to be the broadcasted web cam from someone's cell phone. But it wasn't a view of the sky. Rather, it was simply the view of someone's front door, taken from inside a home, with a brilliant red light shining through the plate glass from above.

"And we have them on the phone, too." informed the news anchor. "You can talk to them."

"Hello?" called out Steve Sodaman.

The caller's voice (a woman) could be heard through the broadcasted receiver of a phone. "Yes, I thought I should share this video with you. It's live. It's a terribly bright, red light that is shining through our front door. See the large plate glass, above?"

"Yes, we see that." confirmed the weather anchor. "From what we see on the screen, it looks like enormous lava light. The red color has swirling, globs of color to it."

"Exactly!" agreed the caller. "We're wondering if this is what we are supposed to be seeing."

"Well are you sure that's actually from the meteor shower?" asked the weather anchor. "That looks like a decorative light outside on your front porch."

One of the news anchors interrupted and asked the caller, "Did you go outside to see what it is?"

"We can't!" answered the caller. "We're afraid to go out there."

"Afraid to go out there?" exclaimed the weather anchor, Steve Sodaman. "Just open your door so we can see what it is. I'm curious."

"Yeah, I think we all are." chimed in one of the news anchors, Laurie Sandcastle. "And the same goes for everyone else watching in this city."

"We're actually afraid that something is out there with it." informed the caller. "We think there is some intelligent presence beyond our comprehension that is trying to get our attention."

"Wow!" exclaimed the other news anchors. "Like what?"

"Well don't be afraid." reassured weather anchor, Steve Sodaman. "You've got the whole city with you right now. We are broadcasting your live video."

The caller sighed and then spoke to another person who was apparently her husband. "They want us to open door and see what it is." Some arguing could be heard before she returned to speaking to the newscast. "Okay, we're going to open the door."

The phone was set on a nearby table in the family room with camera lens facing the foyer so that the whole world could watch the family—a husband, wife and three kids—approach and open the front door.

As the front door opened, a blinding red light nearly exploded through the foyer and family room. It was so bright, that it flooded the phone's light detectors. This triggered the automated light adjust so that video could still be detected. While this occurred, all those who watched the news broadcast that evening heard bloodcurdling screams from the family.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the weather anchor, Steve Sodaman. "What could possibly be happening?"

The phone's camera gradually adjusted the light exposure so that identifiable video footage returned. The whole city watched as the trailing bodies of family members ran for dear life to some other area of the home. Seconds later, a mysterious cable (or hose) floated its way through the front door. It was apparently very long and stretched to the outside world from wherever it had come.

"This is very bizarre." commented news anchors, Laurie Sandcastle. The camera switched over to her as she announced to the city's millions of viewers. "Ladies and Gentleman, we originally accepted live video footage of the meteor shower from a caller. But the live video has evolved into something bizarre. It would appear that a mysterious force has penetrated a home and has the family terrified. We'll continue broadcasting this video as time permits."

The whole world continued to watch as the bright light from outside the door continued to shine through the home. Additional wires and hoses floated inside and towards the area where the family was presumed to be.

"Hello?" called out the voice of a little girl.

"Yes who is this?" answered weather anchor, Steve Meteor.

"This is Allison. I live here with my Mommy and Daddy."

"What's going on right now?" asked the Steve Sodaman. "Is someone in your home?"

"We can't see them." answered little Allison. "There's a big, floating house outside with bright lights on it."

"Like a space ship?" suggested one of the news anchors.

"Yeah..." answered little Allison.

"And did the people on this space ship come in your home?" further probed the news anchor.

"We can't see them. They move too fast" explained little Allison.

Suddenly, bloodcurdling screaming could be heard from one of the rooms. "Stop it! Go away! Leave us alone!"

"Who is that?" asked the news anchor.

Allison sounded so sad, "It's my Mommy. She wants them to go away."

"Awe..."

"Awe..."

"Awe..."

The news and weather anchors all exclaimed sadness together.

Just then, a lighted object with peculiar writing that was attached to one of the hoses floated in through the door. It was difficult to make out what is said. Most people watching the video assumed that it was too fuzzy to be seen clearly.

"Something just floated in through the family home." announced weather anchor, Steve Sodaman. Like Laurie said a few minutes ago, we were watching what was supposed to be live video footage of tonight's meteor shower, but it's turned into what appears to be a family alien abduction."

Steve Sodaman then asked the little Allison, "Do you know what that thing is that just floated in with the hoses."

"It's a sign, "answered Allison. "It has writing on it."

"Do you know what the sign says?" asked the weather anchor.

"No, it has strange writing on it." answered Allison. "I think it says that medicine is going to be used for the surgery. It's the name of the medicine, and it's inside the sign.

"Surgery???" shouted news anchor, Laurie Sandcastle. "They're doing surgery on all of you?"

"Yeah..." answered little Allison. "That's why Mommy was so upset. The surgery hurts and makes all of us sick."

Screams from the other end of the house suddenly turned softer and softer. Whatever the aliens were doing to the family, it caused them to grow weak, maybe unconscious.

"I have to go now." informed little Allison. "It's my turn for surgery."

***

And that's what was reported during the 10:00 news on a night of a meteor shower.

The End!