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Mature Audiences Only

This blog contains short stories and novel excerpts intended for adult audiences.

Most of the images on this blog are PG13, but occasionally there is a picture on a specific post that might be more sensual in nature.

The stories are primarily science fiction and/or romance and may have sexual themes and scenes.

BedElliot tried not to think about itching. The monitors, one at his neck, one at his waist, were annoying but temporary. Two weeks wearing them twenty-four-seven. Two weeks with no meds, no treatments of any kind, but it would all be worth it in the end.

He’d finally know.

He’d finally be well.

Bedtimes were intrusive, but only as much as was absolutely necessary. The nurse bot asked regular questions such as “Please rate your pain on a scale from one to ten” and “Are you still nauseated?” The actual human nurse added questions such as “Is it the kind of nausea that makes you feel like you’re going to regurgitate? Or it is more that you just want to sit quietly for a while until it passes?”

Elliot had become an expert in self-evaluation. Although it was sometimes hard to annunciate exactly what was wrong, between the bot and the human nurse he was able to establish a record of all the weird things his body did.

Sleep came with only a slight delay. It usually did.

Waking was uncomfortable. Elliot had a vague memory that, once upon a time, he’d wake groggily to the sun peeking through the curtains. With a stretch and a yawn, his bladder would tell him he had to get up. Although his warm bed was so comfortable and inviting that he longed to spend just another twenty minutes there, a hot shower was just as appetizing.

For years now, waking had meant something different.

Elliot felt the wakefulness steal his dreams from him. He tried to relax into it, dreading what was about to happen. He succeeded for about five minutes, and then it hit.

Something was wrong. Something dire and dreadful was threatening him. Adrenaline or something like it began to pump through his system.

Nothing is wrong.

Elliot took slow breaths.

I am safe here.

Elliot forced his mind to go blank, to wait patiently in a safe, peaceful place until whatever chemicals his brain was producing wormed their way through his body and out again.

“Lightheaded. Like my brain is being filled with helium,” he announced to the room, knowing the monitors would record and add the information to his diagnosis. “My body is floating from the waist up…” he had to pause. Speaking out loud was jarring. It disconnected him from what he was trying to accomplish. “…but from the waist down, it feels very heavy.”

He squirmed out of the position that had been comfortable, but no longer was.

“The tightness is all through my chest, head, and shoulders. But only the upper chest. Oh no…” Elliot visualized a downward flow of comfort going from the back of his tongue down to his stomach. He shifted position carefully. It worked for only a minute, then the heartburn hit him. “Heartburn,” he reported.

He sat up, then stretched his muscles. He drank the water waiting on his bedside table. Slowly, he rotated each ankle, urging circulation into his extremities. Maybe today would be a day for joint pain. Maybe not.

“The heartburn is subsiding. The tightness is back up in my head, although there are remnants in my arms, and the backs of my hands.” He closed his eyes, searching for other sensations. “I’m not electric today.”

Elliot shuffled himself slowly to the bathroom and emptied his bladder. There was no point in taking a shower yet. His body had other things to accomplish first.

He returned to bed, sitting on the edge and reporting the various symptoms as best he could describe them. He waited patiently, not knowing whether he had five minutes or fifty. In the two weeks he’d been monitored, it continued to fluctuate. He hoped they would find some kind of pattern or causality. It was annoying.

Fifteen minutes later he returned to the bathroom. He was glad he didn’t have to describe what he’d just done. The monitors measured what they needed to measure, and the machines would evaluate his output. It was time for a hot shower, signaling the end to the worst of the morning’s trials.

Drying off was never instantaneous. He took the extra time he needed to make sure all the crevasses and foldable parts of his body were completely free of excess moisture. If he didn’t take that time, he’d end up with more discomfort, or even a rash. It was one of a dozen small things he did, not out of vanity or habit, but to maintain the delicate balance that kept him healthy. He found it all rather annoying, but it needed to be done.

He started getting dressed, then stopped. “Oh no, not again,” he said, then put his clothes on the bed and headed back to the bathroom.

A half hour later, after finishing what his body demanded he do and then cleaning up after himself in the shower, he went on with his day. The facility wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it had enough activities to keep him occupied. Elliot wondered whether the evaluation would show a major difference between his levels during the week he’d still been at home, and the week he’d spent at the facility. The doctors said they usually did. Of course. It was a clean, sanitary environment. Not that his apartment was particularly dirty, but it wasn’t kept sparkling every minute of the day. Elliot didn’t have to worry about fixing his meals or any of his regular household chores. Stress was minimal, especially with the promise that soon he would be healed.

The monitors came off that afternoon.

Soon. Just a few business days for the team to evaluate all the data that had been gathered, and he’d have an accurate diagnosis. They’d be able to find a treatment that, even if it didn’t cure him, would bring his quality of life back up to where he could be a productive citizen once more.


I wrote this story as wish-fulfillment. With our family’s upcoming move, I’ve put my WIP to the side. Still, I promised myself that I would write something every week, even if it was just a bit of flash.

This counts.

I’d originally planned to have Elliot wake up at the end of the story, with no monitors and all his symptoms flooding in with no hope of respite. But it’s cheating to say an entire story is just a dream sequence. Instead, I leave it to the reader to wonder whether Elliot gets his wish of a healthy body, or whether it was all just wishful thinking.

Looking for something new to read? There’s a new story from The Cities of Luna with every full moon! I also have an urban fantasy novella called The House on Paladin Court, about a trio of immortals who keep a dragon locked in their basement. Also new is the next volume of the Biblical Legends Anthology Series: Deluge. My weird little story The Immersion of the Incorporeum appears in this one.2015 12 01 banner

The Shatterer

ShattererJade smiled with self-satisfaction to see Lara in the crowd. Not on the stage, not in the make-up room, not in any entourage, but in the crowd alongside all the rabble who blended together as faces in the crowd, unimportant individually. It had only taken a few words spoken in the right ear to shatter Lara’s career.

It serves her right, to think she can share the stage with me.

Lara hadn’t been the first aspiring diva to learn her lesson the hard way. They called Jade the shatterer for a reason. Not only could her voice shatter fine crystal, but she’d shattered records as she rocketed to the height of celebrity in not only the world of classical music, but modern pop as well. Once she’d reached those heights, she didn’t hesitate to shatter the hopes and dreams of anyone she viewed as a threat to her sublime position.

Only the most accomplished and respected entertainers were invited to perform at the Universal Station’s Grand Ballroom. The ceiling was a lovely facsimile of the starry void…as if the ballroom actually had a view of the stars, instead of being buried somewhere inside the vast and intricate orbital station.

Jade opened her performance, as usual, with a few of her cheekier numbers in the low end of her range. She absorbed the adoration of the crowd, consuming it like oxygen. She segued into one of the classical pieces, stretching her voice easily into a range most sopranos found challenging. The awe the audience exuded was palpable, giving her the energy she needed to reach the climax.

During the brief intermission, she stood while three attendants dressed her in the dark angel costume she’d wear for the second half of her performance. The wings were annoying, but spectacular.

The song began with her voice piercing the inky blackness, the ballroom lit only by the very realistic starscape above. As the spotlight found her, she rose on the floating pedestal, the special effects perfectly complimenting the gradual rise of her voice as she transitioned from one key to another.

Her sycophantic congregation gave her everything she craved. She almost felt that her wings could carry her away, buoyed on the praises of the crowd. She hit the high note in a blaze of glory, holding it for a record-shattering span.

When she finally let go, expecting a moment of stunned silence followed by thundering applause, her ears were confused by a cacophony of sound. She peered into the darkness below, shielding her eyes from the spotlights, but she couldn’t see anything other than a mass of churning bodies.

They were screaming in terror.

And then she heard it. The crack. Jade looked up, seeing the spiderweb of fractures in what she had thought was an artificial viewdome.

The whoosh of air was instant, the glass fell away from her. She followed, carried by her angelic wings. In another instant, there was silence, and absolute cold. She soared to the heavens, attaining heights she’d never dreamed possible.

For a moment, just one fleeting moment, she felt regret. Not for the cruel way she’d treated so many people, but for the fact that the note she’d projected hadn’t even been her highest or most powerful. And now…now the crowd below— some of them joining her in the icy void— would never get to hear it.

I needed a writing warm-up tonight, and I recalled that Jade, a friend from high school, had asked to be killed off. I hope I have done so in a spectacularly satisfactory way.

This scene is the first I wrote in the Victoria Pontifex series. This book turned out to be the third out of the five. It is not yet published…but check my author blog and hopefully someday it will be.

You can see the picture that inspired Daisy here.

Logo AB Nessie submarineDaisy peered into one porthole after another, ignoring the startled looks from the submarine’s crew. In the first place, merfolk were usually polite enough not to peep into people’s windows either on land or at sea. Secondly, Daisy was the daughter of a duke, and should really behave with a greater sense of propriety.

Then again, her father had been made a duke by Her Royal Highness Victoria Pontifex only three years ago. Daisy was neither accustomed to the mannerisms of the nobs nor did she particularly care.

Damn his infernal soul to hell… I know he’s seeing another woman, some milk-and-water missy from Galicia with icewater in her veins…

Daisy continued to swim from one porthole to another until she came to a large window. She’d only been on board the H.M.S. Tortuga once, but she surmised that the room must be something important to have such a huge piece of glass. The Tortuga, although equipped for defense, was not a battleship. It was a diplomatic vessel, or rather, a set of vessels, fitting together seamlessly as a whole, whose primary function was to look really impressive.

She casually floated in front of the window, not caring who saw her. One officer had his head wrapped in a huge towel, cucumber slices over his eyes and some greenish mud on his face. Another officer lay face down on a padded table, his own personal padding jiggling with the percussion of a masseur’s chops.

The object of Daisy’s affection and ire was sitting with his feet propped up, being attended by a woman whose skirt was much too short for decency by anyone’s standards.

Getting his nails done, of course. I should have known.

No one had noticed her yet. The swim-tail she’d selected that morning was the same color as the coral formations behind her. There was a school of tsipouras following her, and the occasional octopus. She was in the shadow of the vessel, and the salon was well lit.

Daisy swam up to the glass. With her upper body pressed against the window, several heads suddenly snapped in her direction.

She waved.

Daisy made eye-contact with the towel girl. The color drained from the poor thing’s face and her mouth formed a silent scream. A series of unfortunate events followed as the scream startled a pedicurist, who must have twisted her tool into a rather unpleasant position because the officer receiving the pedicure kicked violently, sending a tray of implements sailing across the room. As each implement found their mark, the wounded personnel turned first to each other, and then to the window.

With the notable exception of Commodore VonStrakkebroek.

Her wayward lover didn’t wave back. He just idly nodded in her general direction as if she was no more important to him than the tsipouras who formed her entourage.

Daisy felt the blood rush to her face, and she lurched away from the window before any of the officers could see her turn purple.

“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” she chanted, and the tsipouras scattered. “So he chose a shiny new ship and a complacent dirt-footed lady over me?”

Scanning the surface of the water, she identified the hull of the Death’s Embrace.  She knew the captain well, and the small ship would suit her needs perfectly.

Daisy gathered speed, launching herself out of the water and grabbing the edge of an opening on the gun deck where she knew there would be no gun.

Hefting herself up in preparation for shifting her body onto the deck, she found herself nose to nose with a smooth-jawed, heavy-lidded pirate. One hank of oily black hair hung down, covering his right eye as effectively as any eye-patch.

“Daisy, I have a confession to make…” he began, but she didn’t hear the rest. She lost her grip and splashed right back into the water. A tsipoura laughed at her, then turned tail and exited the vicinity as quickly as possible when she threatened to have him fried.

Émile, the captain of the Death’s Embrace, always had a confession to make. If confession truly was good for the soul, Émile would be wearing a halo. Unfortunately, the reason he always had a confession to make was that there was always a list of infractions he’d committed against the crown, the sea, or one of the many wenches who were inexplicably attracted to him.

Daisy tried again to board the ship, this time holding herself just below the gunport for a moment. “Émile, could I have just a bit of room please?” she asked.

He stepped back, looking sour and sad as always. His tight pants hugged his bony hips; his black boots were scuffed and pocked with holes. Daisy flipped herself inside and fiddled with the clasps along the lower edge of her corset. As the light skirt unfurled she deftly rolled the thin fabric of her swim tail down her legs. She squeezed the last drops of moisture from it, then folded and tucked it until it resembled a very respectable reticule.

“Émile, I need you to fire on the Tortuga,” she said, storming up the steep steps to the upper deck.

“You want me to attack the H.M.S. Tortuga?” Émile asked, his head cocked to one side, even more hair spilling over his heavily outlined eyes.

“Yes! Post haste. The bastard thinks he can ignore me…” her voice trailed off into an incomprehensible ranting mumble as she made her way to the lower decks.

Daisy grunted with un-ladylike satisfaction when she saw that Émile had kept the furnace stoked. The steam engines had more than enough power for what she wanted. Without waiting for the captain, she commandeered the Death’s Embrace and began to pull the various levers that would turn the ship in the right direction.

Émile appeared, frowning. “Well, all right, but I don’t think they’ll like it.” He said and reached around Daisy, flipping up the levers she’d flipped down and yanking a rather intimidating handle from right to eft with a loud clank followed by a rattle and whistle.

“They’re not far. You just have to turn so the cannons are aimed the right way.” Daisy put her eyes to the belowscope, spinning it until she sighted the large submarine resting on the sea floor. It was an easy target.

Soon the Death’s Embrace was creeping slowly out to deeper waters. “Oh, about the canons…” Émile said.

“What about the cannons?”

“Well, the crown confiscated all my powder. I can’t fire a single shot. Not even in self-defense.” Émile was the perpetual victim of life. Nothing was ever actually his fault.

Daisy seethed, and ran below to see if he had indeed been relieved of all his gun powder. There was not a single barrel in sight. Her gills flapped angrily, trying to take in oxygen from the air. Daisy resisted the urge to dive back into the familiar water from which she could gather all the oxygen she needed. Her great-grandparents had been land-dwellers, her body had not forgotten that. She calmed herself, then returned to the upper deck.

“How close can you get?” she asked.

“Well, I’m directly over them now…” Émile explained, looking through the belowscope. It sounded like an apology.

Daisy’s lips curled in a devious smile. “Perfect. Now come help me…”


man-falling-down-mdShe’s gonna blow…”

“No…no no nonono…” Emmet chanted, his eyes on the same tourist they both all watching.

“She’s about to…. oh, there she goes,” Raven said, unnecessarily booting Emmet in the rump. It was his turn.

Emmet launched himself through the crowd, vacuum in hand, followed closely by a herd of cleaning bots, maneuvering expertly in the microgravity.

“Allow me to assist you,” he said to the green-faced woman.

“Mmm…” was all she could mumble, looking like she might throw up again.

He set the vacuum to its task and placed one arm around the woman’s back while placing a barf bag near her face, activating the oxy flow. “Place this over your mouth. It will help you breathe, and contain any more regurgitation.”

Fortunately, she did as she was told. Some people resisted, insisting they were fine and then proceeding to make an even bigger mess.

A couple of rubberneckers almost missed the turn, but Raven launched out and politely nudged them back into position. The flow of tourists and commuters continued to move through the space, being gently pushed along by the bumpers. Emmet carefully maneuvered the woman out of the flow and over to the aid station. “Just put your legs through here…” he said, guiding her to the rails. “It’s just like you’re sitting down…there…”

Once she was settled, Emmet turned back to see if the bots had finished what they needed to do. The vacuum had returned to its station, emptying and cleaning itself. Raven was spraying the mist that would trap any remaining bits as they floated to the filter intake.

Just beyond Raven, there was a disturbance in the pedestrian flow. A largish man was trying to get back through the crowd, pushing people out of the way as he bounced along the corridor.

“Sir!” Emmet called out to him. “Please go with the traffic. There is a U-turn about twenty meters ahead if you need to come back this way.”

The man looked angry, and he was focused on Emmet. “You!” he yelled, followed by something unintelligible.

Emmet looked left and right, but the man was definitely focused on him.

“Sir, you must move with the flow of traffic,” Raven called out, helping the people who had been pushed away from the bumpers back into the flow. It would be disastrous if they ended up with a jam. A large ship had just docked, and people needed to get from one place to another.

Emmet punched his security call button, and the bumpers automatically slowed to half speed. A confused murmur echoed through the crowd as they adjusted to the slower movement. “Sir? Sir!” Emmet dodged as the man launched himself directly at him. The man yelled something in a language Emmet didn’t understand, but it was obvious he was outraged at something Emmet had done.

“Security! Help!” Emmet called, abandoning protocol in an effort to escape. He watched in horror as the man put his hands on the sick woman, attempting to pull her away from the aid station.

Rubberneckers were causing a pileup as more people missed the turnoff, floating away from the bumpers. Raven, who would usually have swept in and nudged them along, turned turbo and launched herself at the angry man. She latched onto his back, then sprayed a mist directly at his face. “Here, sir,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcastic triumph. “This will help you breathe.”

The bumpers stopped, and a soothing computer voice instructed everyone to remain calm in several languages. The angry man slumped, not quite unconscious, but no longer struggling or fighting.

A security detail zipped in on turbo, and Raven handed the groggy offender off to them.

The sick woman called out something in a language Emmet didn’t understand, struggling to extricate her legs from the rails at the aid station. She floated out and Emmet extended a hand to her. She pulled herself to him, then pushed away, directly toward the security detail.

“Husband!” she said, gently grabbing the man in custody. “Idiot,” she said apologetically.

The security detail nodded, and carried her along with them as they removed him from the area and the bumpers started up again.

Emmet let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Raven came over and slapped his back, sending him spinning.

“You should get hazard pay for that one!” she joked.

“That’ll be the day,” Emmet mumbled, righting himself so he could look down the corridor at the oncoming traffic. A small boy, being held tightly by his mother, was holding his hands over his mouth. “Just promise me you’ll get the next one.”

I fell off the writing wagon a few weeks ago and needed to shake things up a bit to get back in the swing. This is just a random, off the cuff story. I hope you enjoyed it.

Valentines-Day-Ribbon“Flashing can so be romantic!” Marty protested, tying his robe again. Muriel had no sense of fun anymore.

“Flopping that thing around while I’m making waffles is neither romantic, nor sanitary,” she protested, opening the waffle iron and prying the pastry out. Marty sat down just as their youngest boy came bounding down the stairs.

Scott kissed his mother on the cheek. “I don’t have time for…wait…did you make waffles?”

Muriel handed the boy a plate with three heart-shaped waffles, each with half a strawberry on top, drizzled with chocolate syrup. “Uh… I can eat fast!” he said, then sat down at the table.

Muriel put another plate with three waffles, strawberries, and chocolate syrup in front of Marty, then kissed him on the top of his head. It wasn’t the kind of affection he’d been hoping for, but it would do. Besides, it came with food.

“Dad, why is there a ribbon on your willie?” Scott asked, shoving half a waffle into his mouth and looking down through the glass table. His phone was in one hand. Fortunately, Scott had the common sense not to take penis pics at the kitchen table. At least, Marty hoped he did. He shut his knees together and pulled the sides of his robe together.

“It’s a romantic gesture,” Marty explained. The day was not yet lost. Scott would be gone soon, and he and Muriel would have the house to themselves.

“Romantic? If I did that for my girlfriend, she’d fall off her chair laughing.”

“Well, your father tries, you have to give him that,” Muriel said. “After all, it is Valentine’s Day.”

“Valentine’s Day?” Scott asked, punching and swiping at his phone. “Oh no.” He shoved the last waffle into his mouth and pushed himself away from the table. “Now I’m not only late, I’m in trouble. Bye Mom. Dad.”

Scott grabbed his jacket and ran out the door, trying to get his arms in the sleeves as he was walking down the porch stairs. Muriel walked over to the door and shut it the rest of the way.

Marty let his robe fall open again. He grabbed the can of whipped cream, squirted a generous amount on his waffles, thought a minute, then squirted a perfect spiral right above the ribbon.

Muriel turned around, then did a double-take. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the waffle iron. “You should be careful. You know how Baxter is about whipped cream.”

Upon hearing his name, the dog’s ears perked up. Marty used his napkin to clean off the cream.

“I’m amazed we were able to raise such gentlemanly boys, with the example you set,” Muriel said.

The front door crashed open, and Scott ran through to the stairs. “Dad, do you have any more of that ribbon?” he yelled.

Muriel ignored the smug look he gave her. Scott was definitely his boy.

“In the middle drawer,” he shouted, getting up from the table. “And take the whipped cream too.”

This week, Wendy challenged us to write something with romance for WOW555.

Naptime to the Rescue

For this week, write a story in which sleep plays a specific role.

napAustin glazed at the donuts. His sugary gaze fell over the box of treats until they were all coated with unfulfilled desires and the glittering promise of a quick rush of energy.

He couldn’t. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.

“Does every meeting on this planet have to start with donuts?” he grumbled as he found a chair.

“Yes, and I’m not complaining,” said Sirgie, helping himself.

Austin needed the sugar rush. A shot of caffeine would be even better, but even more dangerous.

He couldn’t endanger his nap.

“Excuse me,” Austin said, stepping out to the hall and splashing some cold water on his face. A few natives raised an eyebrow, but politely did not comment.

He hated the planet, and it wasn’t just because of the sugary carbohydrates. People were loud. He didn’t understand the local humor, and he was tired of being labeled a sourpuss because of it.

Worst of all, the days were unnaturally short. All right…unnatural wasn’t the right word. There was nothing unnatural about the planet’s rotation; it was simply faster than he was accustomed to. He never got enough sleep. He was always tired.

Fortunately, the donuts were gone within the first few minutes of the meeting. It was mind-numbingly boring, but somehow Austin managed to stay awake through the whole thing.

In a sadly short amount of time, his business associates were winding down for the night. Austin was just getting his second wind.

It didn’t feel right to eat dinner. It was too early. But, when in Rome… he managed to choke it down, even though he wasn’t hungry.

His hotel was quiet. His room was dark. The bed was warm and the air was cool, perfect for sleeping. Yet, as tired as he was, he could not convince himself it was bedtime yet. It was much too early.

Austin looked at the clock. He had an unreasonably short time before he had to be awake and back at work.

“What time is it back home?” he said out loud, although he was the only one in the room. “Oh look! It’s the middle of the afternoon.” He hoped his body was paying attention. This was important. “You know what that means?”

He paused, as if waiting for his body to answer.

“It’s the perfect time for a nice little nap.”

Ah! His body answered. Naptime! We understand naptime.

“Doesn’t this bed look comfy?”

Ooh… comfy…

“Why don’t we just lie down for a bit?”

His body was buying it. His brain resisted. What? Nap? Isn’t everyone else in this time zone going to bed for the night now?

“Hush! Hush…” Austin told himself. “We’re just going to take a little nap. It’s not like we’re retiring for the night…it’s too early…”

Naps were the only sleep Austin got for his entire three week trip. Every sunrise his body asked what the heck he was thinking about getting up already, and every morning he promised his body it could take a ‘nap’ later.

It worked.


Genie of the Neti Pot

neti purpleFrances used the palm of her hand to cover the large opening of the little plastic neti-pot and she put a finger over the spout. Gently, so as not to disturb her aching head, she shook it so the little packet of salt would dissolve. Carefully, she leaned over the sink, tilted her head, and inserted the spout into her right nostril.

The sneeze came out of nowhere. With the intake she sucked saline into places it should not be, and the blast made bubbles in the neti-pot. Coughing and sputtering, Frances held onto the counter for dear life as she wiped at her face.

“I wish I was over this cold already,” she grumbled to herself.

“Your wish is my command!” came a voice directly behind her.

She whirled to see a heavily muscled man in a turban and silk vest standing in her bathtub. Well, he wasn’t actually standing… his yellow pants ended in golden smoke that never seemed to dissipate.

Frances gasped, then realized that her nasal passages were perfectly clear. She took a few deep breaths. Her head didn’t hurt anymore. The snot was gone, as was the urge to cough. “I can breathe!” she exclaimed.

“You are over your cold!” the strange man, whom she assumed was a product of her fevered brain, said. “You have two wishes left.”

“Wishes?” she looked him up and down. “You’re a genie?” Genies were dangerous. Every story (well, all but the Disney ones) she’d ever read about genies had them causing more trouble than blessings with their wish-granting.

She’d have to be careful. If it was real…which it probably wasn’t…but…

“Where’d you come from?” she asked, wondering whether her clarity was the result of her newly-mucus-free head or some dream psychosis. Nyquil didn’t usually give her that bad a hangover…

“You have freed me from my prison! For that, you have my eternal gratitude, and three wishes.” He put his finger against his cheek. “Two wishes, now that you are over your cold.”

Frances looked around the bathroom. She did have a few very old perfume bottles, but they were sitting on the shelf with a heavy layer of dust. “What prison?” she asked.

The genie gestured to the neti-pot with a flourish.

“The neti-pot?” Frances asked, picking it up. It still had some saline and snot floating around. “But…it doesn’t have a lid! How could you have been trapped? And it’s not that old. It was probably manufactured in the last year.”

“Never mind that,” the genie said. “It’s magic. It doesn’t have to be logical.”

“Well, gee, in that case…” Frances decided it was worth making a simple wish. The worst that could happen would be that she’d wake up and find herself buried in blankets with three cats trapping her in. “I wish my whole house was clean.”

The genie snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the bathroom seemed a little brighter. The grime that had accumulated on the light fixture was gone. Frances stepped out of the bathroom. The stains that had been in the hallway rug when she bought the house six years ago were gone.

The genie followed her out. His legs were looking slightly more human, but his feet were still nothing but smoke.

Frances sat down at the computer. She had to google ‘how to outwit a genie’ before making her final wish.

Her dating profile was still on the screen. There were three messages from men she was trying to politely ignore, and three more messages from strangers she’d had yet to check out. “I wish one of these would turn out to be a decent guy,” she muttered, then quickly clamped her hand over her mouth.

The genie was gone. She checked every corner of her immaculate house, but there was no sign of the fairy-tale being. Frances picked up the neti-pot. She rubbed it. Nothing happened. She cleaned it out with hot, soapy water, then rubbed it again. Nothing. She mixed up the saline again, put it in her nose, and blew.

She just made a mess.

Shaking her head, Frances sat down at the computer again. She clicked the first message and instantly hit Report/Block as the image of a rather hairy and ungroomed penis stared at her. She took a deep breath, then clicked the second message. It started off well enough, but the words ‘…pretty, for someone your size’ and ‘You know what you should do?’ led her to relegate that particular match to the ‘ignore until you’re really desperate’ file.

There was one left. Frances clicked. She assumed that he was the scruffy-looking man standing between the guy in the Batman mask and the man dressed up as Superman. Scruffy-looking she could accept, embrace even. She would even hug a nerf-herder if he remembered to put the toilet seat down and didn’t say ‘what?’ every time she spoke to him.

The next picture showed him looking much more cleaned up, sitting behind a table on a stage with several people who looked familiar. She looked more closely. One of those faces belonged to the writer on one of her favorite shows. ‘My sister told me I had to get all dressed up if I was going to be on the panel,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually look like this.’

At least it didn’t say ‘my mother.’ She looked at his profile. He was a grip for the show, as well as being an avid blogger who rated and reported on everything zombie.

Frances closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her head was still clear, her house was still clean, and the seemingly perfect dating profile was still up on the screen.

“Well…” she said to the cat, who had just wandered in. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked, and clicked ‘reply.’


Sometimes, before writing, I need to warm up. Sometimes, I need to get some silly idea out of my head before I sit down to write the ‘real’ stuff. This was fun to write! And my neti-pot does say ‘genie-style.’


Fun Sheepless closet quote

Sheepless in Seattle by AmyBeth Inverness is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

I would love for you to share this story as widely as you like! Please keep my name attached to it and do not alter it in any way (see license info above.) At the bottom of the page you’ll find downloads of the story in DOCX, PDF, EPUB, and Kindle versions.


 Sheepless in Seattle

For Amy, because she is my favorite. And not because we have the same name.


Doc waved at his neighbors as he walked home from the clinic. He could have taken the people-mover that ran parallel to Seattle’s one and only truba line, but he liked taking the pedestrian path that ran through the center of the city. It was fall in England and that meant it was fall in Seattle, as the founders of the city had decided they wanted to have seasons in the sealed-off lunar rille they turned into a human habitat.

The clinic was eighteen sections from home. Being Seattle’s only medical facility, it was located in the city center. Doc and his wife, Tyne, had found the perfect little plot, an odd little canyon off the main rille near the western end of the city. There, they created their own little oasis, complete with not just a lawn but an entire field of grass, carefully cultivated over the years.

The trees planted along the public path were barely big enough to have more than a few leaves. Seattle was experimenting with a few varieties that hadn’t been tried before on the Moon. Some were thriving; others didn’t do well in the lighter gravity. They were currently bright with red, orange, and gold, just as they would be on Earth.

“Hey Doc, nice sweater!” said one of his neighbors when they passed in the middle of a little bridge. The bridge was currently unnecessary, as the little stream that ran from the western end of Seattle to the east was barely more than a trickle. It was the community’s hope that someday it would be knee deep with a wealth of water. An attractive combination of rock gardens and greenery lined the stream from beginning to end, Seattle’s own Central Park.

Doc returned the greeting then hurried on, eager to see his wife and girls.

“Dada!” Victoria called to him as soon as he walked through the front doors. The toddler bounced over to him and reached her arms up, asking to be held.

Doc scooped his daughter up in his arms and squeezed her until she squealed.

“Gentle!” his wife chided, appearing in the entryway to the kitchen. She set a basket of clothes down near the back doors, which shared the vestibule with the front entry. “Somebody was supposed to help me hang up the washing, but she disappeared.”

Victoria’s little face scrunched up with guilt and she reached out toward her mother, pushing away from her father. Tyne took her and Doc kissed his wife’s cheek. He placed a hand on her expanding abdomen. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

“Fine now, but the morning sickness is back with a vengeance for my third trimester.”

“Do you need me to get you more sour candy from the general store?” he asked.

“No, Kate bought me some on the way home from school,” she answered.

Doc glanced around. “Speaking of Kate, where is she?”

“Playing at the Saunders’ house, as usual.”

“And Mary?” he asked.

Tyne snorted, putting Victoria into the laundry basket and picking it up again. “Can you guess?”

Doc chuckled and looked out the clear panels in the back doors. The green field stretched far behind the house, bounded by the high canyon walls on either side. Mary, who had just turned eight, was running around with the dozen sheep Doc had recently imported from Earth. Assisting her was Dixie, the herding dog Tyne’s parents had sent along with the sheep.

The sheep did not belong to Doc. They were an anniversary present for Tyne, who missed the green fields of Wales where she grew up. It had been an incredibly expensive and complicated process, but Doc would do it ten times over if it made his wife happy.

“Just a little while longer and they’ll start giving us some nice wool,” Tyne said, squeezing his arm as she carried Victoria outside. Doc followed them. Tyne set the basket with Victoria down and the little girl climbed out. She picked up a damp shirt and handed it to her mother, wearing her very best Mommy’s-little-helper smile.

Doc looked out across the field, which sloped down gently from the house, bounded by the canyon walls that formed a sharp ‘V’. Mary and Dixie had chased the sheep toward the back, where a tiny pond was constantly circulated and filtered to give the flock clean drinking water.

He looked up at the ceiling high over their heads. It was early evening, so it was still very light outside. He’d lost track of whether it was lunar day or lunar night. He had no idea whether the kondensats were letting in an appropriate amount of natural light or releasing the energy they’d stored up a week or two ago.

Doc started walking out toward the flock. When he was about halfway there, Dixie saw him and started running. Then the sheep bleated and the herding dog turned back, barking and chasing them instead. The sheep shied away, finding themselves up against a rock wall, then turned as a unit, trotting straight at him.

Doc froze and the sheep rudely shoved their way past him, stopping when they reached the house, which spanned from one canyon wall to the other.

Dixie continued to chase them until a shrill whistle pierced the air. Another, more complicated but faint, whistle sounded, followed by the exact same whistle much louder and clearer. Dixie lay down, even though her body still quivered with excitement.

Mary walked up slowly, concentrating on something on her link. Another faint whistle sounded, coming from the link. Mary listened carefully, then repeated the whistle.

Dixie trotted over to Mary and sat obediently in front of the eight-year-old.

“Grandfather Glock is teaching me the commands he trained Dixie with,” she said, holding up her link for her father to see.

Doc waved and said “hello” to his father-in-law.

“Watch this!” Mary exclaimed. She whistled and gestured, and Dixie ran off toward the little flock. Mary continued to whistle commands and Dixie drove the sheep down to the pond and into the man-made grotto that served as a barn.

Dixie trotted back to Mary, tongue lolling, looking immensely proud of herself. “Good girl,” Mary said, patting the dog and scratching behind the fluffy beast’s ears.

“Has Dixie had her dinner yet?” Doc asked his daughter.

“No, we got a new bag of food and it’s too hard for me to open,” she said, running her fingers under Dixie’s collar.

“Oh,” Doc said. “Well, you go and help your mother with the laundry. I’ll take Dixie inside and feed her.”

Mary trotted off toward her mother. Doc turned to face the dog. “OK girl, want some supper?”

Dixie cocked her head to the side then looked back to where the sheep were. A few were peeking out the barn door, looking to see where the dog was.

Dixie growled.

“No more chasing the sheep tonight,” Doc said. “It’s time to go in and have some supper.”

Dixie whined and looked at the sheep. Doc walked to the back doors, both of which were wide open, and called Dixie.

“Dixie! Go with Daddy!” Mary barked and the little dog obeyed.

“Well, I guess you know who the boss is,” Doc remarked, walking into the house.

Dixie woofed.

Kate, his eldest daughter, walked through the front doors just as Doc closed the back doors. “Daddy!” she said, her face lighting up. “Can I have money to go skating with everybody tomorrow night?”

“Who is everybody?” he asked, walking into the kitchen, followed by the dog and his daughter.

“Oh, the usual. The Saunders kids, Tommy Baker, some girls in my class—”

“Wait—a boy?” Doc asked, freezing with the new bag of dog food in his hands, unopened. Dixie sat at his feet, tail thumping and eyes wide.

Doc looked at his daughter critically. She was almost eleven. Was that old enough to start liking boys?

“Da-ad…” Kate stretched the word out to two syllables. “John Saunders is a boy, and you don’t care if I hang out with him.”

“John Saunders is five years old, and you’re best friends with his big sister,” he retorted.

Kate shifted her weight back and forth, looking down before meeting his eyes again. “Anyways, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Saunders who are taking us.” She spat the sentence out quickly, rocking up on her toes and back on her heels like she always did when she really wanted something and was waiting for an answer.

Doc wasn’t ready to give her an answer yet. “Just where are they taking everybody?” Doc asked. “And just what kind of skating is involved?”

Kate put her hands behind her back, her usual gesture for looking innocent and trustworthy. “Roller skating. You know, shoes with wheels attached? There’s a rink in Alicetown.”

Doc knew how magical Alicetown was to his tweenage daughter. It was by no means a large city, not by lunar standards, but it was much larger than Seattle. It was also only a short truba-ride away from home.

“I’ll pack both my lunch and Mary’s tomorrow. I’ll feed both of us a hot breakfast, and clean up after, and get us both to school on time. You and Mom won’t even have to get out of bed!”

Doc relented. “Well, that’s a bargain I just can’t refuse.” He took out his wallet and handed Kate what he suspected was a bit more cash than she really needed. “Thank you Daddy!” she sang, then bopped up and kissed him on the nose. “I love you so much!”

Doc shook his head as Kate ran up the stairs. He knew she loved him, but the older she got, the less she said it.

A whine from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet got his attention. Dixie was almost trembling in anticipation, shaking her ruff and staring at the bag of food.

“I didn’t forget about you!” he said, filling the dog’s food bowl. He picked up her water dish and went to the sink by the window. In the backyard Mary and Victoria were walking hand in hand, slowly making their way across the field. He thought they might be singing, but he couldn’t hear. Everywhere they went, the sheep followed.

It was magical.

“Have I told you lately what a huge waste of money it was to import a dozen sheep from Wales to the Moon?” Tyne asked, setting the empty laundry basket down and slipping her arms around his waist.

“If you want a dozen or two more, I’ll gladly do whatever it takes to make you happy,” he said, turning so he could draw her closer.

You make me happy,” she said, laying her head on his chest.

“I’d better,” he said. “I promised your parents I would make you happy. You think it was difficult importing a small flock of sheep to the Moon? It was nothing compared to importing one wee wifey.”

Tyne laughed and Doc felt a tiny thump from her belly. He got down on his knees and addressed his youngest daughter. “Elizabeth! What are you doing in there? Gymnastics? Highland Dancing?”

“Mary says she’s practicing parkour,” Tyne said with a giggle.

“Well, that’s an excellent choice. Loonies are champions at parkour.”

Dixie woofed and wriggled between them. “Oh, your water, your wiggliness,” Doc said, putting the full water bowl back on the floor.

“What is Dodo doing?” Tyne asked, staring out the window.

“Which one is Dodo?” Doc asked, standing next to his wife. The girls and the sheep were all around the little play structure he’d built.

“You can’t tell them apart?” Tyne asked, regarding him quizzically.

“No,” Doc shook his head. “I can see some differences, but I can never remember which one’s which.”

“The one that just jumped off the kids’ slide is Dodo. The one up there now is Romana. I’m not sure what Victoria is doing to Peri, but Mickey isn’t happy about it.”

They watched as Mary scooped up her little sister before the young ram got too close. She put Victoria up on top of the blue box with all the gardening tools, then resumed teaching the sheep how to use the slide.

“Oh!” Tyne exclaimed. Doc grimaced as one of the sheep paused at the bottom of the slide and emptied its bowels. “Well, that’s not exactly the best place for that, but we’re actually making some money off selling the natural fertilizer.”

Mary either didn’t notice or didn’t care that there was sheep poop at the bottom of the slide. The next sheep landed in it, then trotted off across the green lawn.

Doc and Tyne watched out the window. Her hands covered the lower half of her face, and his knuckles were under his nose, as the slide got dirtier and dirtier. They both let out a groan as Mary took a turn, coating her clothes with filth.

“Well, we said we didn’t want to raise the kids in an over-sanitized environment,” Doc said, shaking his head.

Tyne ran to the bathroom.


Doc went straight from the truba to the people-mover, dragging himself home at four in the morning. He’d been called in to the clinic shortly after dinner for an emergency, and he’d accompanied his patient to the hospital in Alicetown.

He found a dog and a toddler in his bed, but no wife. He tiptoed into the bathroom, seeing that she was in the shower, leaning against the tile wall.

“Morning sickness?” he asked gently. She just nodded. Doc undressed and climbed in with her, supporting her while the warm water ran over them both. He was exhausted, but he knew she was even worse off. He rubbed her back gently as he held her. When Tyne finally declared herself done, they dried quickly and collapsed into bed with Victoria and Dixie.

A few hours later, Doc yawned and stretched, groggily checking the time. The clinic knew he’d had an emergency the night before and wouldn’t be in until later.

Dixie was the only one still in the bed with him. There was no sign of Tyne or Victoria.

Doc took his time getting dressed, then Dixie followed him downstairs.

“Sheep go for a walk!” Victoria announced, pulling her toy ride-on sheep behind her as she came out of her mother’s workroom.

“That’s nice, dearie,” Doc said, ruffling her hair as she went by.

Tyne was sitting at her spinning wheel, happily working the latest batch of wool her parents had sent her from Earth. Synthetic materials were much cheaper, but the hand-spun and knitted items Tyne made were in high demand all over Luna.

Doc kissed his finger and carefully placed the remote kiss on his wife’s nose, knowing better than to disturb her when she was working. He went to the kitchen, followed closely by Dixie, and filled up her food dish while his tea steeped.

He gazed out the back window, still somewhat groggy, as he sipped his tea and waited for his eggs to fry.

It was a beautiful field. The natural look belied the extensive and expensive engineering underneath it. The ceiling vault high overhead had been built by the city, a necessity as they sealed off the rille and its various odd little off-shoots. The kondensats functioned perfectly, letting the seasonally-appropriate amount of light through during the lunar day, and broadcasting the saved-up light energy when it was lunar night. Seattle’s day/night cycle mimicked that of Wales almost perfectly.

The v-shaped canyon had been merely sealed rock when they bought it. An agricultural-grade water cycling system had been installed, special permits were obtained to carve out the barn and one other utility space, then they re-sealed the rock. The dirt had been the most expensive part. He wanted it deep enough so that if his children wanted to dig, they wouldn’t endanger the mechanical systems that made everything work. He’d also invested in a few bushes and trees.

The most difficult part had been keeping Kate and Mary, who were both quite young at the time, off the grass while it was still fragile. Doc himself religiously mowed and cultivated the lawn to golf-green perfection. It looked like a beautiful, natural meadow, even though it was bounded by steep rock walls.

When his tea had finally cooled to exactly the perfect drinking temperature, he took a long slurp and finally started feeling awake.

He couldn’t see any of the sheep from the kitchen window. There were several places they could hide, including the barn where they had several comfy pens. Doc had set the sprinkler system to turn on in the wee hours of the morning in order to wash off the slide. The sheep might still be waiting to make sure they weren’t going to get rained on.

Doc put his eggs between a couple slices of bread and meandered toward the back doors. Victoria passed him again, still pulling her toy sheep, heading back to her mother.

“Sheep go for a walk!” she announced happily.

Doc patted her on the head again as she passed. He stood on the back patio for a minute while Dixie raced ahead. There were no sheep in sight. If they were in the barn, Dixie would have them out presently.

Doc strolled back through his perfect little world, bracing himself for the inevitability of a small stampede that would run him over any minute.

Dixie ran in one barn door and out the other.

No sheep emerged.

Dixie ran through in the opposite direction, then stood on the stone threshold, looking around, confused.

Doc turned slowly in a circle, dropping the remains of his egg sandwich to the ground, much to Dixie’s delight. There were several places he wouldn’t be able to see the sheep from the house, but he was out standing in his field. The only place they could hide was the barn.

Doc walked slowly through the barn, peering into each pen. There were no sheep in sight. He scratched his head, then stepped outside again.

He looked up at the rock walls. Sure, there were plenty of handholds where the girls loved to climb, but there were only two places where the sheep could climb higher than a meter and they were both no more than a narrow ledge.

His eye scanned the back of the house. It was two stories high and spanned the space between the canyon walls, quake dampeners on either side. There was no way for the sheep to get past or over unless they learned to fly.

He unlocked the door to the utility shed, but there was hardly enough room inside for one sheep to hide, much less a dozen. He relocked the door and went back inside the house. He checked that the front door was not only closed, but locked. Both Mary and Kate were very good about that.

He turned away from the kitchen, exploring one half of the house downstairs and up, then circled back down to Tyne’s workroom without seeing any sign of livestock in his home.

He wondered if he should have looked in the closets.

“Dearie…” he said, standing in the door to Tyne’s workroom, at a complete loss. Victoria was riding her sheep, pushing it along with tiny toes that barely reached the floor.

Tyne looked up, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

“I can’t find the sheep,” he admitted.

“What?” Tyne said, putting the yarn she’d just spun into a mailer for shipping.

“The sheep. They’re not in the field. They’re not in the barn. I checked the whole house, except the closets—”

“What would sheep be doing in the closets?” Tyne asked, getting up and walking to the entry hall.

“I don’t know. Meditating? Looking for sweaters? Curious about what you do with all that wool?” Doc answered, beginning to think he was losing his mind.

The front doors were still closed and locked. The back doors were closed, latched securely but not locked.

“Did you look behind the tool box?” Tyne asked, opening the back doors and stepping out.

“Not specifically,” Doc defended himself. “One sheep might fit there, but twelve?”

Tyne walked around the little blue tool shed, then they both went through the barn twice. Victoria went to the slide and sat patiently at the top.

Doc began to panic. How did one lose an entire herd of sheep? Maybe they had been abducted by aliens. Was the community ceiling alien-proof?

He didn’t share his alien theory with his wife. Time-travel was a more likely explanation anyway. Or time-travelling aliens…

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped his lips and he covered it with a cough. Tyne went to the slide and caught Victoria when she slid down. She scooped her up and carried Victoria up to the house.

They closed the back doors behind them and just looked at each other, Dixie in the middle looking back and forth from one adult to the other.

Victoria toddled over to her sheep, which she had parked by the front doors.

“Should we search the house again?” he asked.

Tyne shook her head. “Could they have got out front somehow?”

On cue, Victoria climbed up on top of her sheep and snapped open the lock on the front doors. Both parents watched, incredulous, as the toddler climbed down, moved her toy sheep away from the front doors, and opened them wide.

“Sheep go for a walk!” she announced proudly.

“How long has she been able to do that?” Doc asked.

“I didn’t think she could!” Tyne protested, stepping out onto the front porch. “Neither Kate nor Mary could work that latch until they were five.”

“Victoria,” Doc asked. “Where did the sheep go?”

“Sheep go for a walk!” his daughter pointed off down the street past the Saunders’ house and the other neighbors in their little cul-de-sac.

“Oh, Victoria…” Tyne said, her voice quivering.

Victoria’s happy face fell. “Sheep lost?” she asked. Her lower lip began to tremble.

Tyne dropped to her knees. “Oh, dearie, the sheep can’t go walking through town! That’s why we have such a nice big pasture for them.”

Victoria started crying and Tyne gathered her in her arms, comforting her. She looked up at her husband.

Doc was already grabbing a sweater and pulling it on. “I’ll go find them. Don’t worry.” He tried to sound confident, even though he felt anything but.

“Take Dixie!” Tyne said. Doc grabbed the leash and fumbled with attaching it to the squirmy dog’s collar. He knew better than to take Dixie out without it. Most of the time she was a sweet, obedient dog. But all it would take was one irresistible distraction and she’d be off like a rocket.

A pot of mums that had been sitting innocently on the corner of the porch was demolished. That was the first clue that the sheep had been through that way.

Doc looked at the pavement and wondered just how a shepherd was supposed to track his flock across such a hard surface. He had no way of knowing how much of a head start they had. No neighbors were around. Usually, after the initial rush when the citizens of Seattle went off to school or work, the residential areas were fairly deserted. If the sheep weren’t being noisy, they might go unnoticed.

At the end of the cul-de-sac Doc had two choices, upstream or downstream. Dixie homed in on a rather stinky bit of evidence that the sheep were headed downstream. Doc took one of the scooper-bags he carried for the dog and cleaned up the excrement, depositing it in the first cycler he found.

He wondered how much money he’d just thrown away by putting the manure into a public cycler instead of processing it into fertilizer at home. It seemed like a ridiculous thing to worry about. The entire situation was rather ridiculous.

Doc and Dixie followed the stream down to the end of their section, where a block of buildings spanned the rille from side to side and top to bottom, making it possible to seal the section in case of emergency. There were only three openings; the downstream tunnel on the right, the upstream tunnel on the left, and the pretty pedestrian tunnel where the stream flowed through.

He hurried through to the next section, Dixie trotting along happily. There were a few garden beds along the stream that had been munched and trampled. He shook his head, wondering how much it would cost to repay the city for the damage done by his wayward flock.

His link bleepled and he connected to his wife. “They’ve been spotted!” she said. “You’ll never guess where they headed.”

Doc looked around him, seeing many picturesque natural spots along the stream. There was even the occasional tiny waterfall. The problem was, it was all flowing water. Sheep preferred still water. The only other place with still water was the primary school, which had its own little frog pond.

“The school?” he asked.

“The school,” she confirmed.

Doc started running, which made Dixie quite happy. He passed through one more section before reaching the school. He ran straight through the arch that led to the courtyard in the middle where the little frog pond was, nearly colliding with the principal in the process.

Mr. Neugebauer was either bemused or annoyed. Doc couldn’t tell which from his expression.

“Are these yours?” the principal asked, gesturing with one hand and extending the other in a very professional manner.

Doc shook the principal’s hand, making sure he still held tightly to Dixie’s leash. She was straining to be let loose on her wayward charges. “They’re my wife’s. Yes, they’re my responsibility. I’m so sorry—”

Mr. Neugebauer laughed. It was the well-mannered, contrived kind of laugh one makes in polite company in order to diffuse a tense situation. “Well, although we have a policy against letting students bring live pets for sharing day, this certainly has been an interesting distraction.”

Doc looked around at all the porches and balconies overlooking the courtyard playground with the frog pond and a dozen misplaced sheep. Knots of children peered out from each, barely restrained by their teachers.

“Do you have a cart or a harness or something for them?” the principal asked.

“Well, no…” Doc let the thought trail off and looked down at Dixie, who was quivering with anticipation. “Dixie’s trained to herd them.”

Doc took Dixie off the leash. He had imagined calmly patting her head and giving her instructions to round up the flock and point them toward home. However, as soon as she was free, Dixie launched herself full speed toward the frog pond.

The sheep split into two groups, one huddling together and milling about in a tiny circle while Dixie chased the other group toward the main entry to the school’s offices. “Dixie! No!” Doc yelled, but the dog completely ignored him. Once the first group of sheep was stuck in the entryway to the school, Dixie changed direction and took off after the other group.

The terrified sheep ran toward the street, Dixie hot on their heels.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Dixie dropped to the ground in a low crouch, her chin on her paws. A more complicated whistle followed and Dixie ran around the sheep, turning them away from the street and back into the school’s courtyard.

Doc looked up to see Mary, standing on her classroom’s balcony, her fingers in her mouth to produce the extra-loud whistle she’d learned from her grandfather. After a few more whistles, all twelve sheep were confined in the alcove leading to the offices. Dixie paced in front of them, not letting any escape.

“Mr. Neugebauer, can I jump down? Just this once? Please?”

At the sound of Mary’s voice, Dixie started turning in circles, looking up at her and barking. One of the sheep (Doc thought it was Dodo, but he wasn’t sure) tried to make a break for it. With another shrill whistle from Mary, Dixie had the stray sheep back in the huddle.

Mr. Neugebauer smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. “All right, Mary, but just this once,” he called to her.

Mary leaped gracefully from the balcony and landed nimbly on her feet. Dixie ran to her and the sheep began to mill away from their improvised pen.

Mary whistled and Dixie trotted over to one side, waiting. “Come on everybody. Let’s go home,” she called to her companions. With nervous sideways glances at the dog, the flock followed Mary out to the street. What little traffic there was stopped as she led them toward the stream in the middle of the rille.

“Do you need me to sign her out, or—”

“No, no. I’ll take care of it,” the principal said, putting a hand gently on his arm and encouraging him to leave. “But no more live animals at school.”

Doc brought up the tail end of the little parade, feeling somewhat helpless. Mary led the procession, making sure traffic was stopped every time they needed to cross a street. She kept a watchful eye on the sheep and the dog, giving Dixie short commands to make sure all twelve of the animals stayed together.

When they reached home, Tyne had both the front and back doors wide open, and furniture blocking all the other possible exits. The flock obediently headed straight to the field, rushing ahead of Mary when they saw their home. Mary and Dixie followed them back to the barn.

Doc closed all the doors then helped his wife move the furniture back where it belonged. He looked at her with eyebrows raised.

“Victoria?” he asked.

“Asleep,” Tyne answered.

Doc turned to the now-closed and locked front door. “Another lock? Higher up?” he asked, regarding the two latches that were already there.

“Get one that’s a little more complicated this time,” she said. “Something that’s Victoria-proof, not just baby-proof.”

“Good idea,” Doc said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll run out to the hardware store right now.” He kissed her quickly and opened the front door. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

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Sheepless in Seattle by AmyBeth Inverness is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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Saint George and the Kraken

Saint George

I wrote this to go with Wendy Strain’s WOW555 Challenge to give us an action scene as told from the perspective of your villain. The idea is that we can fit the prompt around our NaNoWriMo (Which starts at midnight tonight!) story. I don’t usually write from the villain’s POV because I don’t often have a clear villain. But my steampunk stories do have villains…of sorts…

This scene won’t be in the novel as-is. It might not be in the novel at all. It does take place, but I might write it as an intentionally deleted scene, and only allude to this event (there are many similar) in the finished story.

Saint George and the Kraken

Saint George slithered into one of the tunnels that was much too small for the humans to follow him. He could escape…his way was clear. But that would leave the two would-be heroes to wreak even more havoc than they already had. These two were more tenacious than most, and quite clever. He had no idea how they’d gotten into the lair, but he had to get them out.


Saint George climbed up and around until he could look down on them. The woman was standing in front of the panel that controlled the merfolk’s prison doors. The man stood behind her, obviously a subordinate. Every once in a while, his hand would float towards the levers and buttons, as if he couldn’t resist touching them. She slapped his fingers repeatedly. Although he looked chagrinned, his hand returned again and again, driven by a compulsion Saint George knew all too well.

Maybe she would open the cages. Saint George had no idea what the merfolk would do if she did. They might regard her as their savior, or they might attack out of habit. That was what they were trained to do, after all. But if she did open the cages, there would be hell to pay when the good doctor found out.

He had to get rid of them. He might be able to beat one of them in a fair fight, but they had weapons that were far superior to his enhanced claws.

He flicked his tongue. Tension was in the air.

Saint George found a spot where the water was dripping, making the rock slippery, and dropped to the floor only a few meters away from them. Quickly, but not too quickly, he ran down towards the water, slipping and slithering whenever the floor was wet enough to let him slide.

“There he is!” the man said. As planned, they both took off after him.

Saint George’s familiarity with the maze of tunnels allowed him to stay ahead. He heard an ‘oof’ and glanced back to see that the man had slipped and fallen, but the woman was still hot on his heels.

He reached the edge of the pool and slipped into the water. There he lurked in the shadows, watching.

“Damn it, he gave us the slip again,” the woman said, standing at the water’s edge. “Westley…Westley?”

The woman glanced back along the way they’d come. Her male companion was still up on the balcony about thirty meters above the water, right by the big red lever.

“Westley…NO!” the woman screamed, but it was too late. His hand shook as he reached out, grasping the lever labeled ‘PULL TO RELEASE KRAKEN’. The sound of grating metal echoed off the walls. The poor fools had no idea what direction the sound was coming from, but Saint George knew.

The woman was already running back up the way she’d come, muttering curses he couldn’t quite interpret.

Saint George quickly made himself scarce.

The merfolk might be unpredictable, but he knew exactly what the kraken would do.

Moon Dragons release announcement

Lunar Chart NASA with citiesUnder Loch and Key is the blog I use to share bits of fiction…either samples of my own stories, or flash fiction/blog hops.

I haven’t been posting much lately, but that’s for a good reason! I have signed with Distinguished Press to publish a collection of short stories titled “The Cities of Luna” and I will continue to publish a short story every full moon.

If you’re interested the details of my current life-in-writing, please visit my writerly blog The Inverness Press.

I will continue to share bit of fiction here Under Loch and Key; it just won’t be as frequent as it used to be.

Thanks for visiting!