Have you ever gone through something inside—something so powerful—that you just knew you'd never be the same again?
Well, friend, I sure have!
The story you’re about to read is one of those inside powerful somethings.
I call it a vision, but honestly, it was way more than that. I didn’t just see it—I was in it.
I became the main character! In body, soul, and spirit…
(I share more feelings/thoughts after the story.)
Ready?
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all those innocent people who were at the mercy of those who took that which was not theirs to Rightfully take.
Choices
The white man’s blood-thirsty hounds deafen Johnny’s eardrums to the pounding of his deadly heartbeat. His calloused, numb, large bare feet trample through the muddy Mississippi swamp, as a cold sweat breaks out, prickling his 6-foot, agile, overworked body.
The angry voices of the white men and the ferocious barks of their trained-to-kill hounds close in on Johnny. He halts. Tearing off his ragged, sweat-infested shirt, he thrusts it to the left, opposite of his getaway direction.
As he forges ahead in the thick, muddied waters, distancing himself from the life-threatening hunt, Johnny bends over, giving his panting body a demanding break.
From someplace deep and hidden, his tormented breathing gives way to large sobs. A lifetime of tears takes over. With shaky knees, Johnny stands and clasps his hands together. His pleading eyes turn skyward, and he cries, “Help me, Lord. I didn’t mean to kill ‘im. I swear it. I only meant to pull away from ‘im.”
His agony rolling over him like a steam engine, he bawls, “He killed her God, he killed her, just as if he take his own hands to her. She die of heartache from his makin’. Help me, Lord; I have nowhere to turn, no place to go, no choices in this life.”
Fist-slamming strikes on the front door wake the half-asleep house servant, Pete.
Clumsily jumping up, he catches the falling wooden kitchen chair. With quick-running strides, Pete makes his way to the thunderous hammering. Eager to put a stop to the hellish noise before his Master hears, he throws open the large door, ready to quiet the intruder.
But before he can utter a single word, Johnny pushes him aside and bellows, “Where is he? Where is the killer?”
Pete, in utter confusion, tries to quiet Johnny, saying, “Johnny, what the hell is goin’ on? You know you can’t charge in here. You gonna’ make the Master see red. Do you be wantin’ a backslashing? Get out of here quick before you wake ‘im.”
“Good,” yells Johnny, “I mean to do more than wake ‘im.” Raising his voice to a feverish pitch, Johnny screams, “Tell me where he is, now!”
“I’m right here, Johnny,” says Mr. Thomas, standing in the large foyer at the top of the stairs.
While walking down the stairs, he says, “So what seems to be the problem? Whatever the misunderstanding is, I’m sure we can straighten it out.”
Johnny storms toward his Master, and Pete scurries to stop him. Mr. Thomas says, “It’s okay, Pete, I’ll handle this.”
With doubt shadowing his eyes, Pete says, “Yes, sir,” and quietly departs.
Planted like a deep root, with arms crossed, Johnny says, “I ain’t goin’ listenin’ to no more lies, no more!”
“No one is asking you to Johnny. Come, let’s talk in my study.”
Barreling ahead of his Master… for the first time in his life, Johnny walks in front of a white man.
Mr. Thomas, ignoring Johnny, calmly strolls into his study, lights a cigar, and with Johnny‘s madder-than-hell scowl, says, “Johnny, you have always been a loyal and hardworking slave. And I can see how upset you are, so I’ll ignore this time, only mind you, your outlandish display of disrespect.”
Johnny moves closer to his Master and, through clenched jaws, says, “You killed her. You killed my missus. It be all your doin’.”
Mr. Thomas comes from behind his mahogany desk and says, “Now, now, Johnny, everything that could be done was done. Remember, I was the one to call the doctor.”
Before continuing, Mr. Thomas pauses to puff on his cigar. “Old doc. Raymond assured me there was nothing else that he could do to save Mary. She was a faithful and dedicated slave woman, and I’m sure a good wife to you. But she is gone now, Johnny, so you’ve got to get hold of yourself.”
His hands tight at his sides, balled into fists, Johnny steps even closer to his Master and mirroring his rage, he repeatedly opens and closes his fists, shouting, “You took to beddin’ my missus and her soft heart couldn’t take it. She cry and cry on my shoulder. She say you steal her dignity. She die of a broken heart. And you be the one who broke it.”
With concern masking his face, Mr. Thomas states, “Johnny, calm down.”
“Why you afraid your wife will hear you be beddin’ my missus?”
As he steps closer and lays his hand on Johnny’s arm, looking him square in the eye, Mr. Thomas says, “Johnny, that’s enough! Mary was my slave. And I did all I could do for her.”
Johnny jerks away from his Master’s devilish touch and life-stealing words.
He then strikes back with the harsh reality of the venomous truth. “You kill her. You steal her dignity when you take to beddin’ her. Her spirit, it brake like glass, nothi’ I do bring her comfort.”
His voice rising to a scream, Johnny roars, “You kill her. You be a murderer!”
Mr. Thomas grabs hold of Johnny’s arm and, with a red face, says, “That is quite enough!”
“Take your killin’ hands off me” (!), Johnny screeches, and with a hard yank, he pulls away from his Master.
The Master trips and falls, hitting his head on the fireplace mantel; he breaks his neck and dies instantly.
There among the monstrous trees and the overcast shadows, Johnny drops to his knees.
Searching the Heavens for freedom’s door, he pleads, “Give me a choice, Lord, please give me a choice.”
As illuminating rays filter through and blaze into Johnny’s raw, anguished heart, he feels a sliver of hope.
With the quieting of his grievous sobs, breathing easier, Johnny awakens to his prayerful plea and watches as a vision unfolds.
Johnny is running and running until he comes to a big river. There on the embankment is a small boat. Johnny watches as he climbs into the boat and for many days and nights, without food, he travels the waters.
Finally, exhausted and with a fever, he falls asleep. Two boys find him and carry him to their mamma. She nurses him day and night, bringing him back to health.
While still in bed but on the up rise, she beckons the headmaster to take a look at the strong man who, once completely well, can do the slavery of three men. The headmaster, knowing the big, black man must be a runaway slave, decides he’ll let him stay, since he can, more than likely, work like a horse.
Within milliseconds of the vision’s ending, another vision begins.
Johnny turns around and heads back toward the ready-to-kill white men. He runs until they spot him. Johnny then turns his back on them, and they shoot him without hesitation.
Lying face down in the muddy swamp, Johnny mutters, “Now I can be with my missus and no white man can hurt us anymore.”
He takes his last breath.
As the visions end, Johnny hears, “You have a choice.”
Slowly, Johnny stands and says, “Thank you, Lord.”
He then turns around to head back toward the white men.
After my vision ended, I lay there rattled and transfixed by the intensity.
After several minutes, I said out loud, “I don’t like the ending. Maybe he could choose the first choice.”
I heard a clear voice inside me that said, the second choice is more powerful and more true. Keep it.
I thought, what am I to do with this? Instantly, I knew it had to be a book.
To my surprise, I found that when I wrote the book, I didn’t forget a single moment.
Each moment - forever etched into my beingness.
Friend, what can I say? To become someone, outside my realm of reality, from a different time, and so completely different from myself, is like crossing an invisible threshold - one that leaves me changed, in ways I can’t quite wrap my brain around.
I'll leave you with a statement I once heard—one I'm meant to write on the back of any vision that becomes a short story:
Behind the Magical Kingdom of Fairytales is the Jewel of Truth.
I’ll divert from the Joy Compass this week and let you simply sit with the story—your thoughts and feelings about it are more than enough.
I’d love to hear from you.
Thanks for being here with me.
I appreciate YOU.
With all my love,
Gloria