Little lamb’s gummy mouths flapped against the wilting tit of their mother. Saliva bubbled up between my canines and blood rushed. Stop. Not yet. The fields were tense, but only to me. The sheep saw another world, a world mostly tilted into the grass and dew. Did they even see and know the moon? White tails wagged like worms on bait hooks, and I nearly dropped my wool while entranced by their seduction.

Sweat swelled up between the wool cloak and me, but I learned to wait, to let it run rivers between my eyes and waterfalls from my shoulders. I even learned not to pant, to lock my tongue behind my teeth. Besides their fluff-bound flesh, I wished I could taste what they saw in the grass. I would turn my head downwards, as they do, and sensed naught.

Their people and mine truly were different. Their eyes were too far apart, their paws were hardened, and they would chew despite not even eating. I hated that the most, watching them chew. What the fuck are they chewing? My teeth tightened and my stomach growled among the clovers.

A ewe bumped her butt into mine. My wool fell, and revealed all that I was.

The herd forgot the earth and ran from me. They don’t know that once they are inside me, they can also see the moon. To be inside them, under the wool, is no place to be. I do not understand them, no matter how deep I go into the sheep’s clothing. I did conclude one thing though, and it’s that sheep belong inside wolves, inside me.

Allison Stalberg is a 28-year-old pop culture journalist pursuing an MFA in Fiction at Southern New Hampshire University. Her works include her self-published fantasy book, Wander, a sci-fi love story in Outposts of Beyond, and over 500 journalism articles on film and video games. In Bolivia with Partners of the Americas and in the states with the American Friends Service Committee, she has taught fiction writing and journalism classes to youth. She lives where she grew up, in North Carolina with her husband and cats.