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Fiction Inspirational Mystery

The doorbell rang. I was busy escaping the dark world outside. My eyes controlled by the media radiating from the TV. Shaking my head at the strange behavior of people. Differencing of opinions disrespected, leading to personal attacks. Disagreements turning into war - into war!

I look at my phone for the fourth time in the last few minutes, checking for notifications of any kind. It’s 11:11pm. I make a wish. Wait, didn’t the doorbell ring? I create a wrinkle between my brows.

Who is at my door this late?

I don’t feel like getting up. I’m half asleep, in a sort of daze. But maybe it’s important.


I thrash off the couch and stomp over to the door in my matching pajamas, fluffy slippers, and fuzzy blanket. My hair untidy and face completely exposed – no make-up. The real outside of me.

I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

The differing thought makes me irritable, and I can feel the outside darkness seeping within. But I reach for the doorknob anyway, before even taking a peep and deciding if it was safe to open. Not smart, but desperate to get the moment over with so I can go back to the entertainment of distraction. Forget the curiosity of unfamiliarity, I rather have my mind zombified by the ones in control, by the media.

Too late. The door is open.

I look around and see no one. It’s actually kind of quiet out. Too quiet.


There’s a letter on my doorstep – thick and leather wrapped. The smell of it reeked with a stench I’ve never smelled before, like the pig had just been skinned alive and its curing time disregarded. It was red, and had a weight to it, a heaviness that pulled away from me as I tried to pick it up.

Maybe there’s money in here. My curiosity spiked. I wonder how much.

Money would be the answer to my problems. I wished for it. But my 11:11 wishes never come true.

Maybe it’s something more valuable than money. The thought flashed across my mind. I snicker as I flip over the package. What could be more valuable than money?

There’s no address. No sign of penmanship anywhere. Just a leather skin folded into an envelope.

My curiosity is on fire.

There’s gotta be a message inside, beyond the package.

I’m nervous to see what’s under the flap.

What if it’s not meant to be addressed to me? Maybe someone made a mistake.

I look up again to see if anyone’s watching. No one. Just me.

Well, it’s right in front of my face. I have to know now.

I let out a held-in sigh as I lift the heavy flap of skin. It easily bent over backwards, releasing a flap below that exposed the entire rawhide.

No notepaper, banknote, or even love letter fell out. Instead, chiseled marks were inscribed on its entirety – burned into the flesh, like a statement being branded into a wild animal. Someone clearly wanted this message preserved without the manipulation of modification. I felt its intensity. It was powerful.

Another sigh, as I search for the beginning. The message read:

To Whom It May Concern:

Nobody talks about the grey sheep. The one that has white wool with black, dirty filth hiding underneath. No. They only pay attention to the white part. But since I have black wool, I’m seen as the black sheep. Maybe because I’m different, and it’s obvious.

Since I am a rarity, I’m not likeable. Unlike the grey one, who is agreeable to the white ones – walks like, talks like, and acts like them. But one thing is obviously different to me, he doesn’t think like them, no. I see right through his thick, white wool skull. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The ugly vicious cycle – pretending, while premeditating. It’s disgusting.

At least I’m obvious with my unagreeable self. At least I value my rarity and speak my true feelings. If I don’t agree, I’m allowed to voice my opinion – and it should be respected. But the white ones don’t like that – using your own voice – and the grey one notices the dislike. Instead of him being different too, he chooses to be fake. What a disgrace. A disgrace to one's self. To be a liar in your own skin. Black and white. Grey.

I wish they saw both colors as one, instead of them separately. A space between the lines they’ve created in their own matter, grey matter that is. Instead, they rather choose a side and completely ignore the other. Even ignore the fact that the other is a sheep at all, just like them! It’s disheartening!

But I’m not like them, even if I am a sheep. I think differently. I see differently. I know differently. Because I am different. And I’ll be damned to lighten my wool just to be seen as white or even grey – that would make me fake. I don’t want to blend in when I was born to stand out. But the grey one wants to blend in. He wants to be noticed, for his likeness, and he’ll fake it because he’s in sheep’s clothing. Dirty. Absolute filth. Ignorant to his own truth. Ignorant to the facts.

They all are sheep, yes, but they are liars too. Not lions, LIARS. And I’m not a liar, but I could be a lion in sheep’s clothing. Yet, my difference of opinion affects their black and white vision so much that they only see me as black, when I am in fact a sheep, just like them – or am I? Maybe on the outside, but underneath my clothing and skin is the truth, and I’m not afraid to show it like the grey one is.

Maybe if he was sheared off, stripped of his falsity, they would all see. Oh, yes, justice in due time. Then the white ones will see the truth. Then they’ll see the white-looking sheep was actually black. Then they’ll see his volatile self. His differencing of opinion. And when he’s immediately disowned by the flock, he’ll look to me for a helping hoof but will completely forget that he once acted like a white sheep and disowned me.

But I am different. I’m not like the white ones, and I was born to stand out. Because instead of me walking like, talking like, and acting like them by disowning the grey or white ones, I owe it to myself to accept them for who they really are. Because I think differently, see differently, and know differently. And the truth is, I am a sheep just like them. Or maybe we all are… something else… underneath our skin, beyond the grey matter.


The Lion of a Sheep

August 21, 2023 06:52

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1 comment

Jenni Bradshaw
20:46 Aug 27, 2023

Hi everyone! I understand this short story may be somewhat difficult to interpret as it is written with metaphors so I would like to help with some explanation behind the message. A black sheep is known (metaphorically) to be an obvious outcast of a group, the different one from society. But no one talks about the grey sheep - the one that is an outcast internally (perhaps mentally) but chooses to fake fitting in with society instead of following their true essence because of the fear of being disliked, disowned, disconnected from the grou...


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