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Sheila Deeth 
Refracted
is Sheila Deeth’s first professionally published book. Her short
stories, book reviews and articles have appeared, or will appear, in
VoiceCatcher 4, Mythica
Publishing’s Maybe Tomorrow
anthology, Second Wind Publishing’s
Murder in the Wind, and Poetic Monthly Magazine. Her self-published
books are available from Amazon and Lulu, and her work has been
published online in Nights and Weekends, Poetic Monthly, the Shine
Journal, and Joyful Online. Sheila describes herself as an English American, a Catholic Protestant, a mathematician who can’t add up and a writer who can’t spell. She grew up in the UK and has a Bachelors and Masters in mathematics from Cambridge University, England. Now living in the States with her husband and sons, she enjoys reading, writing, drawing, telling stories and meeting her neighbors’ dogs on the green.
Check out Sheila's Blog here:
http://www.sheiladeeth.blogspot.com
New Titles from Sheila Deeth
Click on the thumbnail above to learn more about the books listed. 
Rivers are drying and crops are dying, but children run and play in the
fields, and think they might even enjoy setting monsters free. Of
course, the parents won’t approve, but that’s the least of their
problems, come the flood.
Maybe it’s fate. Maybe fame and fortune have something in mind. Or maybe
when time finally runs out someone else might help him find what he’s
looking for.
Reviews
We played in the fields that
day. The grass was brittle, dry as sand underfoot, but if we ran we
could hide the hunger in our bellies, burying it under shouts of
laughter and games.
Put’s granddad was still
working, hammering, banging, yelling insults at everyone. His Uncle Shem
was busy with the animals, and some of us kids thought we’d try to open
the gate. It feels odd now. What on earth did we think we’d do? Kids
with limbs like twigs and sticks versus monsters from fairy-tales?
I remember the dust in my
nose. It smelled like food, like dinner undercooked, like coats grown
stiff in winter. Not that my memories of winter were clear, since the
sun had been heating up every year, and the river had turned to a
trickle made mostly of dirt. Some of our houses were falling down, the
mortar too dry to hold, brittle like twigs and thin like our arms, hot
as a kitchen oven used too long.
The monsters though—the
monsters in Put’s granddad’s field were just fine. Nobody knew where
he’d gathered them from. We hardly recognized some, creatures from
nightmares and dreams penned in amongst sheep and cows.
But I’m running away with
myself. That’s not the right place to start. That’s not how it began.
We played in the fields,
like I said, and we opened the gate. I remember the rope scratching my
hand and the splinters of wood snatching my fingers as they slid back. I
remember shrieks of laughter turning to billowing noise when the
monsters gave voice. The air began to boil over the fence, dusted with
sweaty clouds of earth churned by creatures. And then my foot slipped. I
caught my breath, sure I was going to be trampled in the rush. My body
flailed, arms and legs swinging round and down ‘til my head banged hard
and my eyes saw stars.
That’s where I wanted to
start, with starlight twinkling overhead, holes in the sky like eyes so
far and wary, as if the monsters there were watching me. I’m lying in a
bed that’s not mine, covered over with a quilt and a smell like
grandmother’s thumbprints pressing me down. When I move I feel like I’m
stuck to the straw so I try to peel myself off. I should be peeling
strands from my arm and my head, but I’m too confused and end up trying
to separate fingers from knees. Then I fall to the floor and notice it’s
rough like wood instead of smoothly polished with trailing dust. I see
stars like eyes so very far away. Did I say that before?
I woke, except I knew in my
heart I couldn’t have been awake. The eyes in the sky; the blanket of
blue printed with white—if I was in bed I had to have been inside. But a
bed with a grandmother’s quilt and bits of straw, they’re all parts of
my memory jumbled up. Red blood on the straw with pricks of yellow
splinters scratching me; did the splinters make me bleed?
At some point my head
stopped rocking from side to side. I realized then the ground had come
unmoored. I could feel the world tipping over and back. It almost
overbalanced then settled with a quivering shake like fear. I felt
dizzy. I think I threw up, adding more color to pallet and quilt. I
guess you didn’t really want to know that.
I heard voices, though the
roaring in my ears made them faint. I’d hit my head so hard the bones
were still screaming.
“Shem, get that gate
closed.”
Perhaps I was dreaming.
Perhaps we were still in the field.
“Shem! Now!” A woman’s voice
shouted, then three younger women. How did I know there were three? It
just felt like three. Do you ever wonder how some things seem so clear
when others are vague? It’s the obvious that fades. I fell asleep again.
Put’s voice was the next to
speak to me. I must have fallen out of bed and he was lifting me back.
His arms felt like they’d break under my weight and my body hung loose
over them like a sack of seed when the crop’s burned dry.
“You okay mate?” he asked.
I replied with a grunt. My
brain couldn’t furnish the words.
“You know what happened?”
Really? I’d kind of hoped he
might tell me.
“You know where you are?” I
knew I wasn’t lying in my own bed; that was certain, for sure.
The world rocked round me
again. The roaring grew louder. I realized now the sounds weren’t just
echoes in my head. The air was filling with angry noise, shrieks and
groans, screams of people, and shouts of monster-breath. Faraway crashes
reminded me how the creatures had trampled me.
Later, Put’s mother dripped
water on my head, as cool as memory. She had a damp cloth hanging from
her hand. When the drips hit my nose I spluttered and shuddered awake.
“Lie still young man.”
“Why?” I asked, glad to find
my mouth was finally remembering how to speak.
“You’ll fall over.”
“Over what?”
“Over the edge.”
“Over the edge of what?”
The roaring threatened to
drown everything out so I didn’t hear her answer.
When Put’s mother had walked
away I decided to get to my feet. I wanted to prove I knew how—prove it
to her? Prove it to me?—and to prove I wouldn’t fall. I staggered while
the world rolled by, a million drunkards dancing beneath the heavenly
turtle’s back. Then I threw up again and slipped in my own mess. The
straw round me was matted. The bed was a pallet on wooden floorboards
laid out under roiling sky. So maybe I had seen stars before, but now
the heavens were gray.
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