Other stories for this prompt

The sheep were at pasture, but the shepherds were gone. They had made a deal with the wolves to let them have a portion of their herd just to be left alone.

That night, the wolves slowly approached the pasture, their long canines shining as they approached their soon-to-be meal. Heavy paws crunched against the dirt and grass as low rumbles started in their throats.

The sheep were at pasture, but the shepherds were gone. The wolves would feast well tonight.

The sheep were at pasture, but the shepherds were gone. And the sheep were not sheep anymore. They were...

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"The sheep were at pasture," Daniel typed into his screen. Monica slinked up behind him, read the screen and mocked, "Wow Dan, that sounds like the beginning to a dirty joke, not a children's story."

"Thanks for the encouragement. Hey, I thought you were on your way to get your nails done?"

"I'm getting ready to go, I got stopped by a phone call from your mother."

"What did she want?"

"Nothing really. She just wanted to know if she could throw a surprise party for her little baby boy's thirtieth."

"Shit. I told you I don't want any of...

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The sheep were at pasture.

It was 0300 and the troops were restless. They wanted action, not this placid chewing of grass. Every day was filled with nothing but chewing and the occasionally terrifying sheering.

The ones that came back from the shed came back wrong. Nude and shivering, wild looks in their eyes. Year after year. Jimmy couldn't take it anymore. When they came for him the last time, he ran for it. He chewed and bit and growled his sheep growl.

He didn't come back. That night they looked in when they saw the soft lights come on...

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The sheep were at pasture. They stood, milling, queuing, just waiting for someone to wake them up. To show them their own cage, to let them know that they didn't have to be sheep anymore.

Were there even sheep cages? Pens, it was pens, sheep were kept in pens. Pens writing the manifesto, no typing, that would have been too simple. Ideas should be dragged from your mind, panicked and screaming.

He shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to think straight, to keep everything in order in his head. That was the price to be paid for thinking with...

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I was trying to count them. The little bastards kept moving around, making me lose track, infuriating me to no end. I had been awake for almost thirty hours and sleep was no closer than it had been twenty-nine hours ago. Even my imagination wouldn't collaborate in sending me into unconsciousness. Goddamn sheep.

Sheep and sleep were two very similar words, I decided. I instantly sought to catalog all the words that rhymed with sleep. Bleep, steep, reap, peep, seep, weep, beep, keep, jeep. Meryl Streep.

The original verb still eluded me. It would be a long night (and day).

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The sheep were at pasture. The air was still and crisp, silent but for the rustle of leaves and the drift of a "baa" from the content grazers.

Restless, I turned my eyes to the mountains that were the backdrop of the field, letting my eyes rove over the gray craggy slopes up to the snowy white caps that scraped at the belly of the sky. I felt the chill creep up my spine.

Adventure stretched just beyond these fences. One day, I would become more than this, more than a humble shepard. One day, I would scale those mountains...

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The sheep were at pasture and he tried not to disturb them as he jumped over the fence and darted across the field. He had to keep moving, if he stopped they would catch him, if they caught him they would kill him. It was a game, he was the odd one out, he'd been playing along, thought he was include but no, they'd kept him out, always kept him separate so they could use him. When the moment was right, when the moment had come, they had pounced. One had circled around him while the others continued to dance....

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About the prompt

Originally displayed on:
November 17, 2010


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