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Sheila Deeth

Sheila Deeth, author of Refracted

Sheila Deeth describes herself as a Mongrel Christian Mathematician and writes fiction with hints of fact, faith, science, fantasy and more. Find out more about Sheila on her about-me page:

Congratulations to Sheila for being in the 2011 Preditors and Editors top ten SF/Fantasy Short Story Category for Flower Child.

                                       2011 P&E SF/FantasyShort Story

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New Title(s) from Sheila Deeth

Refracted by Sheila Deeth 
Black Widow by Sheila Deeth Flower Child by Sheila Deeth 

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Refracted by Sheila Deeth 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.

Next time he wakes, the young man remembers running in different fields. But he still can’t catch the girl, or find how to stay in one place. Loves proves as elusive as gold at rainbow’s end, and time slips through his fingers once again.

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.

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Pages to Print:
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PDF                  Price: $3.99 

     By Aubrie Dionne
     By Erin O'Riordan
     By Raven and the Writing Desk
     By The Dubious Disciple
        In-House Reviews


Black Widow by Sheila Deeth

History records a British queen Boudicca in 60 AD leading the Celtic tribes against Rome after her daughters were denied their inheritance. Meanwhile, legend tells of Joseph of Arimathea bringing the Holy Grail to Britain’s shores. Black Widow combines legend, history, faith and fantasy, in a tale of Boudicca’s sister, enamored with visions of a strange blue man with mystical powers. As Romans bring their peace and laws, the stranger inspires the Iceni to compromise. And as Joseph brings his foreign god, the stranger seeks a balance between old and new. But when all is lost, love turns sour and the lonely princess weaves a web of deceit to draw her lover back, plotting vengeance through the passage of years and generations.

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PDF                  Price: $3.99 

   From Reviews by Aubrie

   From P. L. Compton
   From Summit Book Reviews


Flower Child bySheila Deeth

When Megan miscarries her first pregnancy it feels like the end of everything; instead it’s the start of a curious relationship between the grieving mother and an unborn child who hovers somewhere between ghost and angel. Angela, Megan’s “little angel,” has character and dreams all her own, friends who may or may not be real angels, and a little brother who brings hope to her mother’s world. But Angela’s dream-world has a secret and one day Angela might learn how to be real.

Word Count: 15500
Pages to Print: 54
File Format: PDF
Price: $3.99
    From Community Book Stop




     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. 
                                                       Back to Refracted
Black Widow
     I saw him in my dreams. Mother never believed me of course, and Boudicca just called it wishful thinking. “We women will save the world,” she said, “not warriors in woad.” But I saw him, painted blue as a soldier with etchings of lace on his face, and I knew he’d save me, which mattered more.
    I saw him when the wind howled fearsome horrors outside the camp. Dogs and wolves were yowling our defense. Winter’s storms were the promise of war in spring, while branches and stones tapped and tore at the tent’s fabric walls. My eyes were closed and I was sleeping in, pretending safety lay in ignorance. But I heard the noise, and behind it all, in dreams perhaps, I heard screams, the crackle of fire, and slow firm footsteps scarily heralding an enemy’s approach.
    The first time I saw him, the spider-web of chain-mail hadn’t yet appeared. I didn’t even know what chainmail was, and his skin was clear. His eyes were blue as his painted face and the sky, and he smiled down at me.
    I saw the flames behind him then—thought they’d rise and burn his feet, but he walked straight through. The tent’s wide flap became his door, sealing closed at his back though it surely never really opened. I didn’t feel its breeze. Then he lay at my side, warm as summer, and traced my face with blue fingers, silken nails trailing like knife-blades, smoothly dangerous, caressing my neck. He cut my clothes from me with a thought and poured his hands on my body, outside and in, like water flowing over and through, his tongue like the touch of fire. His fingers strummed their music on my soul. The blue man’s strength enveloped my skin, absorbed me into him, or him to me as he pulsed with power. Then, when I woke, my body was pooled with sweat of winter’s warmth and the musky scent of love.
    “Nimi’s got a boyfriend,” Boudicca laughed as I cleaned and examined myself. I threw a pillow at her, but she grabbed my hands, her fingers strong as any boy’s and far less gentle than his. “You don’t want to fight me,” she said, her eyes turning suddenly fierce, and I answered no. Boudicca was my older sister, my dearest friend, and my every-conquering foe.
    The blue man was a dream back then, but war and its dangers were real, just halted for winter. Fires burned all night in our camp as frozen undergrowth began to green, thickening the air with smoke from undried wood and our lungs with coughs. Guards whooped and wailed to keep strangers and demons away. And the daytime smoke of cooking mixed with burning and weapons and fear. Winds of dawn bore no more peace than hollow night.
    Father held a meeting to discuss how we’d defend ourselves when the enemy came. Trackers walked the perimeter to check if spies had been near. And I crawled among the shale and earth by the entrance to our tent, wondering if I’d find his footprints there. I found nothing of course. Whether stranger or demon, my blue man passed unhindered in and out in his night-time journeys and I was glad. 
                                                         Back to Black Widow
Flower Child
My mother swore she’d never lie to me. The day I asked where babies come from she told me, beautifully I’m sure, how they grow and mature from a seed planted by Daddy in Mommy’s tummy. Unfortunately I heard the word “seed” and imagination took over. I furnished a field, somewhere between the Pearly Gates and a farmer’s fences on solid earth. Angels stood guard, checking marriage certificates—since I knew some babies were born out of wedlock, I imagined devils too, with a thriving business selling fakes. Meanwhile one special angel, the baby’s future guardian of course, would officiate while the precious seed was gently laid to rest. God would water. Earth and angels would nourish. And in time the happy couple would return, cutting the cord that held the child to the ground and raising her up—a sister for me!

I never had a sister, of course, but I was sure she existed. I used to imagine her running between the plants, green tendrils of flowers in her hair, forever tethered to that field, unborn, unable to be born. I used to think my parents didn’t care, and if only they’d just go visit one day perhaps they’d find her there.

Not that I spent my whole life mourning those siblings I never had; that’s not what I mean. I just liked to complain. But I was a happy enough kid most of the time; grew up in a happy home; had a Dad who didn’t die ‘til I was sixteen, so I wasn’t exactly orphaned or anything; and Mom’s still around. I played with friends; scrambled through forests and flowers, free as a bird, like kids can’t do now; I read books; I went to school and I grew up.

My husband David was a fellow math student I met at college lectures. I went out with him for a while and we got married after graduation—all the usual things; Uncle Malcolm escorted me down the aisle to the sound of Here Comes the Bride; and we both got jobs.

Happily married, contentedly productive in my chosen occupation—writing computer programs—but sadly unproductive in that manner husbands and wives, and potential grandparents, tend to hope for, I trundled along, one day much like another, and lived for my dreams. One day I found myself pregnant and glowing, only to be totally devastated short weeks later when the unborn baby died. I slept and screamed and wept for her, my little girl, and drove my husband to distraction. Then, in a moment’s incautious clarity, I was cured. What happened was I found those childhood dreams weren’t really so far from the truth, and I don’t care if you don’t believe me. Mom thinks I’m mad, Uncle Malcolm tries to humor me, and David just pretends not to hear a word I say. But there are more things in heaven and hell than human eyes and ears can tell, and I first stopped crying the day I met my angel, Angela.


My earliest memories are a mixture of red and green—red for sleeping; green for awake. Nighttime was when I heard dream voices call and oceans roar. Words weren’t something I understood, too early then I guess, but love was sweet. Sometimes she sang to me in her summer’s light while that darker voice, warm as the liquid I bathed in, whispered its bass.

The roar, I guessed after a while, was just the sound of fluid surrounding me. It tasted salty sweet and filled my eyes and mouth and ears. My body would move sometimes, pushing wetly against those cushioned walls that held firm, yet yielded, all around. Then, once in a while, something would lean into me, rocking me with that voice of love. “Feel that? She kicked.” The words carried delight in their singsong tone; I’d wriggle again and push against the pressure, kicking I guessed, whatever that meant, feeling the weight of affection pressed against elbow, ankle or knee.

In the green of waking up I imagined my dreamtime voices belonged to heroes, mystical guardians of my fate. I longed to see them, connecting their sound with the shadows that sometimes swam through the glow of my growing. I learned to reach out when they were close, waiting for that touch, that sound of joy, wondering if there were a way to forever hold such pleasures and more. But then the green would surround me again, its milk scented with hay. Leaves formed a sweet cocoon to shield my eyes from sun’s red rays. Angels, white as light, trod paths and cleared the scrub away, keeping insects that buzzed and hummed safely distant from newly formed souls. Warmth and dampness poured over me, pumped through my veins while tiny limbs budded fingers, legs and arms, and bending head. In the real world I thought I’d grow up to be an angel; in the dream-world I’d rather be man, or woman, or hero.

The leaves cocooned me in eternal green while dream-walls filtered red. But the angels were bright enough to shine with their own light, human shapes that wandered between us like shadows in reverse. They were my keepers of the gates…

It started, the end or the beginning—I’m not sure which—while I was asleep, red warmth and people-sounds. The ocean’s roar grew violent and angry around me, changed its shape to waterfall. My body jerked in slumber as fluids flushed. My river gone dry, I struggled against my cage and started to fight.

The lights of my red world grew scary then, viciously bright. Something whiter than angels made brittle images on the air. Voices were sharp and fearful, mother singing but the tune all cracked like there was a hole in her heart, beating ragged and sharp. “My baby has gone down the plughole…” she laughed, her body, me, quaking and bent. I didn’t know what a baby or plughole meant, so I simply stored the sounds in memory.

When Mother fell silent, her heartbeat slowing, her thrashing flesh finding rest, then my own struggles dimmed and I fell asleep. Everything up to then felt like a dream, but somehow sleeping didn’t feel like falling awake. My body was sliding, squeezing, fighting its pain, but I had no control and no desire to control it. Flickers of green trickled over me, as though I were trying to rise, but the nightmare held tight.

The world went black at the last and there was silence for a while. Somewhere in the distance the mother-voice cried while Father soothed with words like heavy sap in the burgeoning dawn, but I wasn’t really there. Just a memory of listening, of feeling, seeing nothing, making no sound.

Later I tumbled to the ground and felt the soft sweet earth, dark crumbles flaking under my hands. I tucked my fingers into the cool and damp. Stickiness felt like comfort in my palm. Sunshine was warm, filled with life and new growth, and it pleased me. I hadn’t liked this fighting dream, so instead I was glad to wake up in a field and know I belonged to trees, even if leaves weren’t holding me.

I remember an angel bending over me. His face—her face; it doesn’t really matter with angels—was filled with concern. His eyes were pale like fragmented clouds and hair swirled white against sky. Warm breath blew over me, tickling my nostrils and tempting with the sweetness of flowers. Then a sun-white hand reached down and cupped my head, lifting me up so the world could take shape around me. Earth, stems, leaves and sky. Dark ground and petals too, pale roses in the gloom.

He settled me on a cushion of green and coiled the twisting cord around my feet, then sang to me. I think birds gathered to his call, but perhaps imagination’s embellishing the tale. I think the insects hummed a steady bass beat to his tune. But the only thing I know for sure is I fell asleep, a deep and dreamless, seamless, meaningless sleep. No red night-light, no voices and no pain; I was safe and secure, wrapped in my nest of leaves ‘til it was time to wake again.
                                                                                                   Back to Flower Child