Category Archives: Fiction

The Sheep and the Fortress: An Allegory

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Once upon a time there was a flock of sheep. They lived and grazed in open fields day after day. They were content and generally got along with each other.

One day, the sheep began to hear rumors about a giant rolling rock ball heading their direction from far away. They could not see the rolling rock, or hear the rolling rock, and the sheep went about their business as if all was well.

Soon, a wolf came to the flock. He was not a bad wolf. Rather, he was a wolf who had traveled far and wide. He knew about the rolling rock and came to talk to the sheep.

“Sheep,” the wolf said. “Listen to me. I will be building a fortress of stone to protect us from the rolling rock that is coming this direction. There will be room enough for all you, and you are all welcome to join me inside at no cost to you.”

The sheep were not very interested. Many did not believe the rumors that the rolling rock was coming. They continued to go about their business as if all was well.

The wolf began to build the fortress. The sheep paid little attention as day after day the fortress got bigger and stronger, until at last it was finished. By this time, some of the sheep had heard the sound of the rolling rock, or heard from sheep who had seen the rolling rock.

“Sheep,” the wolf said. “The fortress is finished. The rolling rock is getting closer. You are welcome to come inside and be safe.”

A few of the sheep went into the fortress, but the rest remained in the fields. They did not trust the wolf, and they thought that the sheep who went into the fortress were gullible and stupid. How could something like a rock be so dangerous? they wondered aloud.

The next day, the wolf again invited the sheep into the fortress, but they refused. Now the rolling rock could be seen on the horizon, heading their direction. The sheep wondered aloud how any fortress built so quickly could be any good.

The next day, the wolf again invited the sheep into the fortress, and again they refused.

“Why do you not come inside the fortress and be safe?” the wolf asked.

“You are lying,” the sheep said. “We don’t trust you.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” the wolf asked.

“Because you are a wolf,” the sheep said.

“Who do you trust,” the wolf asked. The sheep thought about this for a while.

“We trust other sheep,” the sheep said.

“Who else do you trust,” the wolf asked. The sheep again thought about this for a while.

“We trust the shepherd,” the sheep said. “If the shepherd tells us that it is safe inside the fortress, then we will go in.”

So the wolf went to talk to the shepherd. As soon as the shepherd saw the wolf approaching his home, he grabbed his gun and shot the wolf. The shepherd did not trust the wolf either. The wolf died on the spot where he fell.

The next day, the rolling rock arrived and crushed most the sheep in the flock, and they died. The rock struck the fortress and caused some damage but the walls held fast and those who were inside were unharmed.

The next day, the shepherd came to the field of dead sheep. He was not concerned that the rolling rock had crushed them. He skinned them all and butchered them. He was pleased to be well stocked in meat and wool for a very long time.

The sheep inside the fortress came out and started a new flock. As they moved from pasture to pasture, they came upon other sheep. They told the other flocks about the rolling rock and how the wolf saved them with his fortress and how the shepherd did nothing to help them. The other flocks did not believe this story.

Years went by, and everyone forgot that this ever happened.

The End

Cicada Days

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This is an excerpt from a short story I wrote after my town was visited by 17-year periodic cicadas, back in 2004. Since another brood has just emerged this year, I thought it would be good to share.

Annie waited for her father in the shade of the dogwood tree.  He would be home from work soon, so she sat on the concrete steps leading to her front door, listening to the cicada noise.  The insects made a sound that was remarkable to her five-year-old ears.  She listened closely.  Sometimes it was a soft, background whir; sometimes it was a loud, throbbing buzz.  Sometimes it was both, the sounds layered one on top of the other, creating a two-tone droning chorus of insects.  The buzz undulated in and out with a sonic frequency only the bugs understood.  The whir, though, was constant, continuing deep into the night long after the buzz had died down.

Annie watched the cicadas around her, on the tree branches, the bushes, the blades of grass.  There were always a few in the air, flying awkwardly, seeking a better place, one less crowded perhaps, or maybe one bright with insect life.  When a cicada would land at her feet, she’d hold her finger out to let it crawl onto her hand so she could bring it close to her eyes.  They did not seem to be very smart, she thought, as each would just stand on her hand or move slowly up her arm.  With a bulky body, black triangular face, round red eyes, long, orange-rimmed transparent wings, to her they were both fascinating and a little scary.  She’d let them crawl on her bare arm a few seconds, until she could no longer stand the prickly little insect feet against her skin, then brushed them off and watched as they flew on to wherever they needed to be.

On the steps in front of her, cicadas were scattered randomly here and there.  It was hard to tell the live ones from the dead until one moved.  There were so many dead.  Some never emerged completely, expiring while only half out of their skin.  Others appeared to be normal, except they were dead.  From where she sat, Annie could see the surface of the street that ran past the end of her driveway.  There, hundreds of bugs lay smashed by passing cars, their bulbous bodies flattened, their lifeless wings fluttering in the wind like feathers or leaves or maple tree seeds.

But even with so many dead, there were still enough alive to make the noise that surrounded her, that filled the hot, humid air.  It was impossible for her to know just how many cicadas were in the trees around her.  She imagined it was one creature that produced the sound, distinct from the goofy black bugs crawling around at her feet.  It was hypnotizing, and unbearable.  She closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears.

bug girlAnnie felt something touch the top of her head and she flinched, swatting with her hand.  She then opened her eyes to find her father standing on the step in front of her, stroking her hair.  She took her hands away from her ears.

“Hi, bug-girl,” he said, smiling.

“Hey Dad,” she greeted him.  Then, quickly, she said, “Dad, I gotta tell you something.”

“Yes, honey?”

“There are so many dead ones.”

“Dead what?”

“Cicadas.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “But there are so many more alive.  Millions and millions.  Think about that.  The dead ones aren’t so many, then, right?”

“Yeah,” Annie said. “But the dead ones still make me sad.”

“Don’t be sad.  It is part of nature,” he replied.  “It is how things are.”

She was quiet for a moment, watching a cicada crawl toward her father’s shiny black shoe.

“Nice shoes Dad,” she said.  “Don’t step on the cicada.”

She stood up and instinctively sought his hand with hers.  Together, they walked up the remaining steps to the front door of the house, threading their way through the insects.