Article Category Archives: Fiction


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Firefly is falling apart. “Firefly” is what Marie’s older daughter named the bed when it was brand new thirty years ago. On Sammy’s limited salary, buying the two girls sturdy army cots with strong wire flats and not-too-thin mattresses had seemed the best idea.

They’d worked fine, and then Sammy got a raise around the same time the girls had growth spurts. Marie pored over the Sears catalogue for weeks until she finally settled on beautiful maple-look bunk beds. Then Firefly and Nightmare (their younger daughter had thought of that name for her own cot) spent time folded up in the basement behind the water heater, and later in the crawl space under the roof.

Two years ago, when Sammy had his first heart attack, Marie asked her son-in-law to bring Firefly down to the mudroom where she unfolded it next to a space heater from Canadian Tire. Marie wanted to be close enough to Sammy’s bedroom door, but not in the bedroom. Sammy needed his sleep and the girls’ room—now the guest room—is always made up in case the girls come home for a visit. It was just easier to be here off the kitchen; she doesn’t disturb Sammy when she wakes up at night to read with a flashlight or gets up early in the morning to make tea in her “Best Mom” mug.

But now Firefly’s mattress is leaking through the wires. Whenever Marie manages a proper cleaning, she collects tiny swaths of cotton from under her cot—sometimes even from beneath the girls’ bunk and behind Sammy’s recliner. And the wires themselves have been letting her down. She can’t get comfortable on her right side because she feels her hip sagging towards the floor, which makes her feel off-balance and causes dreams of falling from airplanes or towers. If she turns over, a small but persistent mound of mattress thrusts itself into the right side of her lower back. If she inches to the left, her arm or leg drops off the edge.

Still, the idea of calling either girl and asking them to drive all the way to Cedar Springs and then take her to one of those massive furniture stores at the edge of town, well, it’s just too much to think about. Besides, according to the flyers, even small beds cost hundreds of dollars nowadays.

One morning, a huge truck delivers a new stove to Jerry and Susan next door. Late that evening, Marie drags the empty stove box from the curb into her backyard and covers it with garbage bags held down by stones and a big stick. She spends the next afternoon with her kitchen scissors making small cuts in the tough side seams until she can flatten one side of the box. Then she scores the bottom seam with her biggest knife and cuts the side off completely. She stomps on the leftover flaps so she can fit them into her recycling bin. That part takes the most time. Sammy is watching the sports channel and enjoying the low-fat chips and dip Marie brings in. He doesn’t even ask what’s keeping her busy in the backyard.

Marie takes the flattened side of the box and pushes it under the upper two-thirds of Firefly’s mattress. A little line of cardboard is showing; she adjusts the blanket to hide it. She lies down on her right side, sighing deeply, feeling supported, almost falling asleep.

And her daughters are just plain wrong to say she’s not coping any more.

Let Sleeping Cats Lie by Caitlin McGuire


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A gale of wind blew across the land. Travelling over rushing rivers and unreachable mountain peaks, she looked for a place to rest. A safe haven. A home. For this wind had seen many far-off lands but never a place to call her own. Zephyr was her name. She could be a soft and gentle breeze, the kind that crosses your face on a cool spring day. But she could just as well become a roaring wind, one that sought to disfigure the face of our world and summon chaos in the fiercest form. She was a sleeping dragon, poke her, and you would be sure to release the wrath of one of mother nature’s most formidable demons. A Poltergeist of a wind, Zephyr was made to stir the waters and the branches of our great forests, to steal hats and wreak havoc as she travelled the world.

The Girl with the Green Hair after Michelangelo’s
The Delphic Sibyl, by Frøya Smith

One miserable night, when the rain pelted against the soil, Zephyr flew overhead. A storm was coming. Tendrils of her breeze stretched over the land beneath her, feeling for asylum. She found it: a cave off in the distance, clinging to the side of a mountain and cramped in size. It would do—though something was not as it should be. From the depths of the cave’s mouth, emerged a faint glow, flickering and feeble. She hastened her pace in pursuit of refuge and intrigued by the dying light. As Zephyr approached the mouth of the cave, she realised the light was a dwindling fire, his flames no longer dancing, his life waning.

“Hello?” called Zephyr, unsure if the fire would be able to return her greeting. He did not respond. “Are you alright?” she inquired. It was a rhetorical question but what else was there to ask?

The fire gestured slightly, his flames moving side to side, in what was clearly a “no.” Zephyr rushed to his side. Using her powers, her howling and fiendish gales, the kind of wind she was created to be, she summoned kindling from the forest. Small branches and twigs flew toward the cave, spinning through the air at a treacherous speed. They sung through the ether, hurling into the cave, to finally rest amid the fire’s embers. In a matter of seconds, they caught ablaze, sparks flying in a fit of spirit. Life returned to the fire, his flames roared and live coals crackled, caught in the wake of Zephyr’s mighty wind.

“Alive. I’m alive again. How? Why…?” He spoke in undertones, his voice trailing off as he interrupted himself. For a moment the two sat in silence. “You saved me.”

“Indeed I did.”

“I don’t understand.” He knew he should be dead. And yet here he was.

“Well, let me introduce myself, as you clearly aren’t going to.” The fire gaped at Zephyr. This stranger had just saved his life but she acted as though it were nothing. “They might call me the mistress of mayhem, the queen of the sky or the bringer of the windswept. But you may call me Zephyr, gentle breeze of the west.”

The fire stumbled over his words. “I, uh, name is, that is to say, I mean….”

“Out with it, will you?”

“Inferno. My name is Inferno.” No longer stammering, Inferno spoke softly. “Thank you. Just…. Thank you. Words cannot express the gratitude I feel towards you. You saved me from a treacherous fate, a painful death I would have endured alone. Thank you, Zephyr, mistress of mayhem, bringer of the windswept and gentle breeze of the west. I am forever in your debt.”

“You forgot queen of the sky.”


“It’s Zephyr, mistress of mayhem, queen of the sky, bringer of the windswept and gentle breeze of the west. You forgot queen of the sky.”

“Are you kidding?” Inferno screeched at this quarrelsome wind’s ability to infuriate. “I just thanked you for saving my life! And all you can say is that I forgot part of your title?”

A playful smile danced on Zephyr’s lips. This was the Poltergeist of a wind that most are familiar with. “I did just save your life. You should be more grateful.”

Inferno paused, considering his position. The wind did have a point. His flames turned a rosy red, as he blushed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay. I was being a pain,” said Zephyr.

“So was I.”

The two stared at each other then burst out in laughter. Zephyr’s sides shook as she laughed and her winds rushed through Inferno.

“Ahhhh!” He screeched in pain and swiped at her breezes, trying to push them away. Zephyr didn’t know what she had done. “You will kill me if you don’t watch,” he wheezed. “I am a fragile force, formidable, yet fragile. I can be broken by wind, rain and earth.”

Zephyr didn’t understand, she’d never met anyone opposed to her breezes, but then she hadn’t met that many creatures.

“It’s all about power and how it is used,” Inferno continued. “Who has it and who wants to take it. You have power to destroy or sustain. This is your choice.”

Zephyr listened. Inferno’s words brought forth deep questions and she searched her mind for answers. She realised that if she let down her guard, if she let her winds fall astray, she could hurt him. Zephyr had never felt this way before: All her life, she had been cold; now she felt warmth.

Light from the clearing skies shone into the cave. The ether was exposed and stars illuminated Zephyr’s shimmering form. Inferno watched as her breezes swirled in midair but at the same time hardly moved at all. He gasped.

“What?” Zephyr asked, fearing he was still angry.

“You’re shining,” he said, “like stardust.” And Inferno’s flames danced in the moon’s glow.


Related reading: “Uranium” by Elise Marcella Godfrey

Three Keys

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Years ago, my first real boss taught me two things. One. Listen to the boss. Two. Listen to your head and heart. In case of conflict between one and two, remember that God is watching; do what is right.

Today, my head is aching with the sandpaper of forced retail smiles and the fumes of polyurethane shoes. Against my heart, the jangle of three keys on a lanyard. Check shoes right and left, same size; scan barcode; enter payment; bag purchase; smile, “Thank you for shopping at Metropolis”; repeat.

My spine aches with ten-hour days and five-hour sleeps. While waiting for a Mastercard to ring through, I call my chiropractor’s office.

“The number you have reached is no longer in service.”

I leave a message on his cellphone. “Hello, this is Susan. I can’t get through to you. I am worried. I need you.”

Check shoes right left size barcode payment bag repeat.

As I hang up the phone, it rings. I juggle paperwork and small change, tuck the phone against my shoulder.

It’s my boss, calling to tell me he’s denying my request for a new ladder.

I remind him that already two of my salesgirls have been hurt from falling off the store’s broken and wobbly ladder.

He tells me that obviously I need to train my staff on proper use of a ladder. And furthermore, if my parttimer refuses to use the vacuum cleaner because it spits smoke and smells like burning flesh, instead of requesting a new vacuum cleaner I should get a new parttimer.

A little boy tugs on my pants leg. “Lady, how old are you?”

I tell him that today, I am really old.

He asks why I have green hair.

I tell him you are what you eat, and I eat a lot of broccoli.

Right left size barcode payment bag repeat.

I balance on a floor slippery with a layer of plastic shopping bags, dropped pennies, and till receipts as I headcount the lineup of customers and hand a lady her purchases.

She clicks her tongue at my wrist braces and Band-Aid fingers and asks if I am working alone again.

Before I can answer, the phone rings.

It’s my boss, wanting to know why I wasn’t working yesterday.

I tell him it was my day off.

He says that is irrelevant; there is work to be done.

He says that contrary to my request, the store’s carpet does not in fact need to be replaced.

After too many months of arguing, I am not concerned with watching my fucking language, so I remind him that my carpets are saturated with shit from a burst sewage pipe.


Chosen by Jan Jenkins

My customer looks horrified and scurries out the door.

Right left size barcode payment bag smile repeat.

Little boy tugs on my pants leg and asks how many earrings I have, and how I got them through my ears.

I tell him about a million, maybe more, and most of them were done with a big needle.

He looks impressed.

I tell him two of them were done with a gun.

He looks horrified.

A customer counts out pennies on my glass countertop. I pretend to watch, but really I am counting the reflections of burnt-out lightbulbs in the ceiling above me and weighing the consequences of my bosses’ wrath versus the logistics of climbing a broken ladder balanced on a shitstained floor with both hands bandaged and six months of five hour’s sleep to change four damn lightbulbs.

The phone rings. It’s my boss again. I can’t hear what he is saying, but it sounds like I am wrong again. I say, “We appear to have a bad connection. I can’t understand you,” and hang up.

Little boy tugs on my pants leg and asks if I am really really old, or if I’m just pretending to be.

He stands on his father’s toes and says, “Daddy, hurry up. The store’s closing and we’re gonna get locked in. This isn’t a good place to spend the night.”

I do not tell him I know from experience he is right. Instead, I lean over the counter and stagewhisper, “There is always a way out. I have a magic key to the magic door.”

He glares at me skeptically. There is no such thing as magic.

I pull my lanyard off over my head and hand it to him, keys jangling. “Have you ever seen a key like this one?”

He turns in a circle, counting keys, counting doors. One for the front door, one for the back. And one square and pockmarked, heavy and exotic, no door in sight.

Right left size barcode payment bag smile.

Wide-eyed, he returns my keys in solemn outstretched hands and whispers, “There really is a magic door.”

The phone rings. “Thank you for calling Metropolis.”

“This is a message from Telus Mobility. The following voicemail message is undeliverable: ‘Hello, this is Susan. I can’t get through to you. I am worried. I need you.’”

I lock the door behind the last customer and wave through the glass. The phone is ringing.

One. Listen to the boss. Two. Listen to your head and heart.

My head is full of sandpaper smiles and the fumes of cheap shoes. Against my heart, three keys jangle: one for the front door, one for the back, one for the bank deposit box. God is watching; do what is right. There is always a way out.

An earlier version of “Three Keys” appeared in the anthology Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workspace. Lost Horse Press, 2015.


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Downstairs, something crashes to the floor. Claire waits a moment, alert to the smallest sound. When the house stops moving, she grabs the phone and dials.

He answers on the second ring. “Buckman, here.” His voice—so self-assured—silences her.

“Hello?” he prompts.

“It’s me. Are you okay?”

“Yes, is something wrong?”

“You didn’t feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The earthquake.”

His laugh sounds relieved. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m serious. Our house moved. You should leave that office tower.”

“The house moved.”

“I was in the back bedroom. It shifted and now the door frame is crooked. This isn’t funny, Ryan, I know what I’m talking about. I lived through a lot of quakes as a kid. We’d hear the crystals fall off the chandeliers.”

“Were you napping when this happened? Dreaming maybe?” He changes his tone. “Have you checked on the baby?”



“There’s nothing showing up on the news feed about an earthquake. I think you’re safe, sweetheart. Give a kiss to my little guy. I’ll try to be home early.”

She stands by the crib, her arms lead weights. The baby is asleep, eyelids aflutter, hands clenched like walnuts. His face looks unfamiliar. She shuts the door as she leaves the room.

Dave Simpson punches Ryan’s arm lightly. “How old is that baby of yours now? How’s Claire?”

“Three weeks,” Ryan answers. He hesitates, then adds, “I think Claire’s a bit down. Unfocused, you know.”

Dave nods, becomes fatherly. “It’s all normal, no need to worry. She’s probably only getting two, maybe three hours of sleep a night.” The second time, his knuckles linger against Ryan’s bicep. “Give it some time, man. She’ll get through it.”

On the dining room floor there is a starburst. The light from the window picks out glittering pinks and blues. Claire squats to examine the concentric circles of breakage. The bell-shaped chandelier now misses its ornamental clapper. It can no longer sound the alarm. She places her finger on a crystal chip to sweep it closer to the epicenter of damage. The pain is out of proportion to the wound. Drops of blood mimic the spray of splinters. They smear on the dustpan when she gets the broom.

“I’m home! Where’s Mattie?” Ryan throws his suit coat on the sofa, pulls on a fleece sweater that will be soft next to his newborn son.

“He’s asleep.”

“He sleeps more than I expected.”

“Well, all he really needs is the bottle.”

“Yes, but do you think he interacts enough?”

“Are you suggesting I’m doing something wrong?”

“Claire, love, I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” He reaches for her, holds her lightly. “You’re a great mom. I’ll just go check on him and then I’ll make dinner. Why don’t you have a shower, call a few friends?”

She doesn’t move. He says, “What happened to the chandelier?”

“I told you. There was an earthquake.”

Upstairs, the baby starts to fuss but Claire still does not move, doesn’t seem to notice. There is no sign she has had him downstairs during the day—not an empty bottle or a toy. Ryan observes this but, with effort, holds his tongue.


The baby is warm, bottom-heavy. His lips wow open and closed as Ryan changes him and slips tiny limbs in a clean sleeper. The desire to satisfy that small mouthing need sends a shudder through his body. He is now a father. He lifts the child to his face and whispers endearments. He promises to keep him safe forever.

With the infant tucked in a sling against his chest, he heads to the kitchen. At the back bedroom he stops. Is the door frame crooked? Maybe. It might have been that crooked before. The house is a hundred years old, after all.

“So what did you and Mattie do today?” Ryan pours Pinot Grigio into Claire’s glass.

“I’ve been thinking about the earthquake. We aren’t really ready if there’s an emergency. We should have a kit.”

He rallies to the change of subject. “We probably have the stuff we need in the camping gear. Four-season bags, candles and flashlights, a water filter. We could always use the barbeque if the power went out. We’re in pretty good shape, I think.”

“I’m going to put something more together. I bought bottled water today. The Internet said we should have four litres per day per person for at least three days.”

“I guess if we’re on the subject, I should anchor the bookcase in Mattie’s room to the wall. I meant to do that last weekend. And it probably wasn’t a good idea to hang a glassed picture above his crib.”

Claire rises, paces the length of the dining room, back and forth, back and forth.

“I need to make a list. Can you clean up dinner? Feed the baby?” She walks upstairs with a pad of paper.

The dishes take longer than he expects. When he joins her in the bedroom, he has missed the news broadcast. In the corner, Claire is hunched over the computer. By the bureau there are two boxes of litre-sized water bottles.

Three people. Only two dozen bottles.

She’s animated in the morning.

“Did you know that, across the country, there are over five thousand earthquakes a year? I didn’t realize that there could be foreshocks and aftershocks. Yesterday’s earthquake might have been a foreshock. I made a list of all the things I need to get to be fully prepared. Here, I want you to have this picture of me in your wallet. One of the advisories said to have pictures of your family and friends in case you’re separated.”

“What about Mattie?” he asks.

She looks surprised. “He’d be with me, wouldn’t he? Besides, in no time he’ll look different.” She takes another gulp of coffee, toast untouched. “I’ve asked your mom to come sit with him this morning while I go out.”

In occurs to him that he hasn’t seen her touch Mattie in two days.


The baby is flat on his back. She should change him but doesn’t. Would she recognize him if they were separated? She closes her eyes, but can’t conjure his face. What she sees looks smashed, like a deflated ball or a splintered crystal.

“Ryan, where did you put the candles?”

“Calm down, Claire. I can buy candles on my way home. I was going to go to the drug store after work anyway. Mom said we’re almost out of diapers and formula. Unless you picked them up after she left?”

“No. I wanted to get this emergency kit ready. I have to go. I left some things in the car.”

“Dave, did you hear anything about an earthquake yesterday?”

“If it wasn’t in the business section, I didn’t read it. Man, Ryan, you look wiped. Walking advertisement for prolonged bachelorhood. Go home and get some rest. I’ll cover.”

“I just might do that, thanks. Once I’ve finished this paperwork, I’ll go.”


The front door is unlocked but won’t push open. Ryan puts his shoulder to the wood. The crack widens. The resistance increases. “Claire!”

Seconds pass. His body floods with adrenaline, muscles tensing. He pushes harder. Something gives way. Cardboard or plastic. He can just squeeze into the vestibule. Almost the entire space is piled with boxes and duffel bags. Neck high. She can’t be leaving him? Moving out?

The upper box contains tins. He yanks the zipper on the closest bag. Unfamiliar nylon billows out, the color of a construction cone. He rifles below. A down jacket, five hundred dollar price tag still attached, rubber boots, heavy gloves. Underneath, sleeping bags. New, not the ones they own already. Tent poles. The stacked boxes are labeled. Inflatable raft. Generator. Oxygen from a medical supply store.

“Claire!” What he sees is so wrong. Breath-sapping, stomach-turning wrong. That part of the book on post-partum—the part he’d skimmed—what did it say? Moodiness. Sadness. Not this.

He pushes past the piles, opens the inner door.

“Ryan, take cover!”

Claire is under the dining room table. She judders, as if the room is moving violently. But the house is static, silent, except for the sound of Claire bumping against the floor.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Come on out. Everything is okay. Where’s Mattie?” The knot in his stomach sends out a wave of heat, crashes like a tsunami when it hits his heart.

“Claire, where’s the baby!” He starts toward the stairs. Her chin bangs rhythmically against the floor.

“Take cover!”

Even two at a time, the stairs are too many. The back bedroom doorframe is crooked. Just a little crooked, same as always. Mattie’s room is a distant three strides down the hall. The crib is squashed. On top, the bookcase is almost flattened to the floor.

He hears no sound, no cry. The quaking of his body is the only movement. He thrusts his hands under the fallen wood. Surrounded by wreckage, he heaves.

Staircase by Karin Shaddick

Staircase by Karin Shaddick














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Carmen Is Licking Her Babies

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Carmen is licking her babies. She licks their faces and they almost fall over. She’s so strong and they are so little but they seem to like it. It’s funny to watch them. They just fall over all the time with their eyes shut just getting licked around. I have my tummy on my special pillow and my hands under my chin. I’m watching them really close up which is fine because they like to be watched.

I always do this after work. I come in right off the Access-a-bus and get my pillow and get right in here. We’re all squashed up behind the sofa — me and Carmen and the babies. Mum told me to move away but she doesn’t really know Carmen like I know her. She doesn’t understand what it’s like. Me and Carmen have a special bond. In particular that is because she is my cat. That means I’m allowed to watch her close up.

Today I’ve got a bag of chips. These ones are chili or something really gross. Why would anyone make chips that taste so bad? If I was in charge of making chips I wouldn’t make anything so gross for sure. You can bet on that. I wouldn’t put them in the cupboard with the lock on either. I would have them out in big bowls. And good flavours. Not gross ones.

Little Black Cat is the one who gets the most milk. She always pushes the other kittens out of the way and gets right in there. I know someone else who is like that. My sister whose name is Ros Johnson. She always gets the best stuff and gets more than me even though she is eight years younger and that is the truth. Chips for example in particular. Ever since she was born that has always been the way. I just have to put up or shut up. That’s for sure.

When I watch Carmen I can see how much she loves her babies. She licks them and she feeds them. She looks after them and they are hers for sure. I get a feeling inside my tummy and in my heart when I’m watching them. It starts on one side and then it goes all around my body. I feel it right inside me. Really deep down and tingly. Especially tingly in my tummy. I think I know what it is but I’m not sure. I’m not going to tell anyone yet. It’s my secret and mine alone. I might tell Carmen — she’s been through all this before — but that’s about it to be honest with you.

Three Black Cats 1955 by Maud Lewis. (c) Art Gallery of Nova Scotia. Used with permission.

Three Black Cats 1955 by Maud Lewis. (c) Art Gallery of Nova Scotia. Used with permission.

Little Black Cat has opened his eyes now. Before when I was looking at him I could see his eyes were open. He’s all snuggled up real close to his mom under her neck. They have a special bond for sure. None of the kittens have got Down syndrome I don’t think. But they are still special and they’ve got a special bond. Just like me.

I’m going to Group Meeting today. I go to Group meeting on Sundays. On Mondays I go to work and then I watch movies and that’s it. Sometimes I have an early night and get my beauty sleep. On Tuesdays I go to Cheer which is pretty good actually. On Wednesdays I go to Special Olympics Bowling which sucks big time. On Fridays I go to Group Meeting and on Sundays I go to Group Meeting again even though I already went the day before yesterday. And on the other days I do more movies or I go out with my respite worker and go to the Mall or something. Really it depends.

Today is a Group meeting day though. We are doing “Sharing.” I don’t know whether I will share about my secret but I think that maybe I won’t today. I think I’ll do a puzzle book instead and use the new markers — there’s a new wordsearch and I am so totally awesome at those. Really, if you give me a wordsearch you would be amazed that I am so awesome at it. Some people think that people with Down syndrome can’t read but they don’t know about my talents with the wordsearches, that’s for sure.

I have decided that I won’t tell anyone else my secret for the moment. If it turns out to be really true, I will just let the baby grow and then when it is ready I will plan a big party and have a baby shower. I’ll have balloons and I’ll invite everyone from Cheer and Group Meeting and I might invite some of the people from Bowling but not Hayden because he just gets on my nerves to be honest with you. When everyone arrives there will be a big table that they can put their gifts on. Then I will sit in a big chair and there will be lots of balloons all around. Everyone will come up to me and give me their gifts and I will say, “Thank you. You are so kind.” They’ll be so happy to give me the gifts like a pram and I’ll have really cute clothes for the baby too. I think the decorations will be yellow because that is good for a girl and a boy too. I think I will have a girl first and then a boy afterwards.

I’m going to call my daughter Lynetta Spears Florence Johnson and then if I have a boy I will call him Wayden Mark Ronan Johnson. I won’t dress the girl in only pink because it is good to have other colours not just pink for a girl. We don’t all just like pink. Sometimes we like to wear other colours like black or purple or green and that’s the honest truth. If people give me pink clothes for the baby that will be fine. But otherwise I will choose all different colours. I will get a baby alarm too so I can hear when the baby is crying. I’ll take her into my bed and I will rock her in my arms and say “Go to sleep” and then I will sing to her. I will be very patient with her because I am good at being patient. I don’t mind waiting for things like being in the line at Tim Hortons. Also, I have good people skills for sure.

I will be a very good mom. I will love my children both the same. I won’t let one of them get more than the other and watch what she wants to watch on the TV and not let the other one watch her shows even though she has been waiting for ages. And I will make sure that my children are always clean. I know it will be hard work but that is OK. My mom will help me too.

Carmen carries her babies with her teeth. She bites up on their necks and brings them back when they run away. They don’t mind because its just Mother Nature but I think she should stop really. Little Black Cat came up to me today. She’s much bigger than the other ones now. She came up and licked my finger. It’s rough and wet and not wet at the same time. If I put my hand by her mouth she will lick me for sure.

I think I am going to date Hayden from Bowling. I’ve thought about it and it is quite a good idea actually. Anyway he asked me and I said yes so he is going to be my boyfriend now for a while at least. We might try sex too because that is what you actually need to do if you want to have a baby. I do know that if you feel tingly feelings in your tummy and in your heart that doesn’t mean you are pregnant. That is just the feeling that you have when you are looking at Carmen or another cat who has babies. It doesn’t mean you are going to have a baby yourself actually. The way to have a baby is to have a proper relationship and have sexual intercourse together and then you will feel the same tingly feelings but it will be because you are pregnant. Not because you are looking at a cat. I went to Group Meeting today and that is what they said there too. Also they said that you have to have sperm go inside you. I don’t mind that I’m not pregnant now. I know I will be a good mom someday. I will be patient for now and hang out with Carmen and help her be the best mom she can be. And that is OK for sure.