Little Shorn Sheep
Would you let a serial killer escape to save one victim?
You must choose.
A sliver of moonlight sketches the tree line a quarter mile away as you come around the bend at double-time. A hunched figure creeps out of the old hunting shack the game warden told you about. A flash of orange light limns her shadowy curves as she holds the flare high. You take the best shot you’ve ever had at your quarry.
Bang!
She cries out and drops with a crunch of desiccated autumn leaves that carries on the dead November air.
You run.
The flare tumbles end over end into the little hunting shack.
You’re halfway there when the first shot whizzes past your head. Ducking involuntarily, you slide behind a skinny hickory that’s not quite big enough to hide behind.
“You got me good, Marshal!” a young woman’s voice calls. Her maniacal laugh chokes into a bubbling cough.
A quick peek shows her aiming at you from behind a low outcropping about two touchdowns too far away.
You duck again just as another bullet whirrs past too damn close.
“Why are you doing this?” you shout.
“It’s me, seven, and the Marshal zero,” she shouts. “If you save this one, she’ll be the first!”
You holler, “Does that mean you didn’t take your trophy yet?”
Smoke from the sad little hunting shack starts to puff into the moonlight.
“Oh, I got my trophy, Mr. Marshal, don’t you fret none!”
You surge around the other side of the hickory, pumping rounds into the outcropping as you hustle toward the next closet cover: a rusted out old pickup. Return fire sparks off the decrepit vehicle just as you huddle into its shadow.
The gunfire stops. “You gotta ask yourself, Marshal—” Bloody coughing punctuates her words. “Is it worth… leaving… another woman… to die… just to chase me… through the hills?”
The sound of scrabbling through underbrush pulls your gaze around the corner. A bullet ricochet near your face scatters rust in your eyes. You flinch back, eyes tearing up.
Another woman begins screaming from the now burning hunting shack. You run around the other side of the truck. Hellish flames flicker from inside the maw of the crooked door.
As you get closer, you can see the clear blood trail the killer is leaving.
The woman’s screams cut into coughing wails.
You sprint toward the shack, dropping your gun in the dirt outside. Sucking in a huge breath, you plunge into the heat. Smoke stings your rust-ravaged eyes. A woman is tied to a camp chair, her shorn head lolling to one side. The entire structure blazes. Sweat pours into your eyes.
Hauling the woman, chair and all, out into the moonlight, you stumble to a safe distance. You cut the unconscious woman free with your pocketknife. Her freshly bald head has little nicks in the skin from the razor. She’s not breathing.
“God damn it.” Pumping chest compressions, you mutter, “Not this time. She won’t win this time.”
A taunt echoes down the valley. “Me, seven! Marshal, one.”
I must choose.
A sliver of moonlight sketched the tree line a quarter mile away as I came around the bend at double-time. A hunched figure crept out of the old hunting shack the game warden had told me about. A flash of orange light limned her shadowy curves as she held the flare high. I took the best shot I’ve ever had at my elusive quarry.
Bang!
She cried out and dropped with a crunch of desiccated autumn leaves that carries on the dead November air.
Restraining a victory whoop, I pulled out my handcuffs and ran.
The flare tumbled end over end into the little hunting shack.
“No, no, no,” I panted. “Stay down.”
I was halfway there when the first shot whizzed past my head. Ducking involuntarily, I dropped the handcuffs with a clatter. “Fucking hell!”
My pistol clutched in both hands, I slid behind a skinny hickory that wasn’t quite big enough to hide behind. Leaving my Kevlar vest in the truck to hike into the woods had been a rookie move. Laziness was going to be the death of me.
“I hope I live long enough for Rogers to mock my dumb ass,” I whispered.
“You got me good, Marshal!” a young woman’s voice called. Her maniacal laugh choked into a bubbling cough.
A quick peek showed her aiming at me from behind a low outcropping about two touchdowns too far away.
I ducked again just as another bullet whirred past too damn close. “Shit!”
She cackled and fired.
“Why are you doing this?” I shouted. I scanned the area between us in quick peeks. There wasn’t any good cover for somebody my size.
“It’s me, seven, and the Marshal zero,” she shouted with a manic edge to her voice. “If you save this one, she’ll be the first!”
If I could keep her talking, she wouldn’t be killing the missing woman.
I hollered, “Does that mean you didn’t take your trophy yet?”
Smoke from the sad little hunting shack started to puff into the moonlight.
“Oh, I got my trophy, Mr. Marshal, don’t you fret none!” she wheezed.
I grumbled to myself, “That means I’m plumb outta time.”
Gritting my teeth, I surged around the other side of the hickory, pumping rounds into the outcropping as I hustled toward the next closet cover: a rusted out old pickup. Return fire sparked off the decrepit vehicle just as I huddled into its shadow. I swapped out my spare mag and tried to count how many shots she’d taken.
“Just give me one clear shot,” I prayed to any god that happened to be listening.
The gunfire stopped. Where there should’ve been silence, my pulse pounded in my ears.
“You gotta ask yourself, Marshal—” Bloody coughing punctuated her words. “Is it worth… leaving… another woman… to die… just to chase me… through the hills?”
The sound of scrabbling through underbrush pulled my gaze around the corner. A bullet ricochet near my face scattered rust in my eyes. I flinched back, eyes tearing up.
Another woman began screaming from the now burning hunting shack. Beneath the racket, I lost track of the sound of the escaping killer crawling away. I ran around the other side of the truck. Hellish flames flickered from inside the maw of the crooked door.
As I got closer, I could see the clear blood trail the killer was leaving. She wasn’t crawling. She was upright and moving fast. A flicker of a shadow beyond the tree line tempted me. Not worth a wasted shot in the dark. But I could catch her easy.
The woman’s screams cut into coughing wails. Every victim had been bound and burned alive. The coroner swore they all passed out from asphyxiation first, before the end. But I didn’t believe him.
I sprinted toward the shack, dropping my gun in the dirt outside. Sucking in a huge breath, I plunged into the heat. Smoke stung my rust-ravaged eyes. A woman was tied to a camp chair, her shorn head lolling to one side. The entire structure blazed. Sweat poured into my eyes.
Hauling the woman, chair and all, out into the moonlight, I stumbled to a safe distance. I cut the unconscious woman free with my pocketknife. Her freshly bald head had little nicks in the skin from the razor. She wasn’t breathing.
“God damn it.” Pumping chest compressions, I muttered, “Not this time. She won’t win this time.”
A taunt echoed down the valley. “Me, seven! Marshal, one.”
He must choose.
A sliver of moonlight sketched the tree line a quarter mile away as the marshal came around the bend at double-time. Arriving days or hours late to murder scene after murder scene was wearing him down. And this one was escalating faster than any serial he’d ever studied or pursued before. He hadn’t had a lucky break in this case—until now. If he hurried, he might catch the killer in the act this time.
A hunched figure crept out of the old hunting shack the game warden had told him about. A flash of orange light limned her shadowy curves as she held the flare high. The marshal hadn’t expected the killer to be a woman, but that didn’t deter him a bit. He took the best shot he’d ever had at his elusive quarry.
Bang!
She cried out and dropped with a crunch of desiccated autumn leaves that carries on the dead November air. The flare flopped to the ground. Muffled thrashing in the shadows followed. He couldn’t see a target for a follow up shot.
Restraining a victory whoop, the marshal pulled out his handcuffs and ran.
The flare rose up and tumbled end over end into the little hunting shack.
“No, no, no,” he panted. “Stay down.”
He was halfway there when the first shot whizzed past his head. Ducking involuntarily, he dropped the handcuffs with a clatter. “Fucking hell!” No time to go back for them.
His pistol clutched in both hands, he slid behind a skinny hickory that wasn’t quite big enough to hide behind. Leaving his Kevlar vest in the truck to hike into the woods had been a rookie move. Laziness was going to be the death of him. Or damn fool urgency. Even the game warden, who always worked alone, had warned him to wait for backup.
“I hope I live long enough for Rogers to mock my dumb ass again for not doing everything by the book,” he whispered. He’d welcome his supervisor’s tongue lashing, if he lived long enough for her to give it to him.
“You got me good, Marshal!” a young woman’s voice called. Her maniacal laugh choked into a bubbling cough.
A quick peek showed her aiming at him from behind a low outcropping about two touchdowns too far away. She lay low on the ground, propped up in the shadow of a sandstone boulder. The moonlight shone on the pale skin of her bald scalp.
He ducked again just as another bullet whirred past too damn close. “Shit!”
She cackled and fired. He cringed behind the too small tree and waited for her stop shooting to reload.
“Why are you doing this?” he shouted. He scanned the area between them in quick peeks. There wasn’t any good cover for somebody his size.
“It’s me, seven, and the Marshal zero,” she shouted with a manic edge to her voice. “If you save this one, she’ll be the first!”
If he could keep her talking, she wouldn’t be killing the missing woman. He’d love to know her motive for murdering random women. Some serials liked to yap about themselves. Maybe this one would, too?
He hollered, “Does that mean you didn’t take your trophy yet?”
Smoke from the sad little hunting shack started to puff into the moonlight.
“Oh, I got my trophy, Mr. Marshal, don’t you fret none!” she wheezed.
He grumbled to himself, “That means I’m plumb outta time.”
Gritting his teeth, he surged around the other side of the hickory, pumping rounds into the outcropping as he hustled toward the next closet cover: a rusted out old pickup. Return fire sparked off the decrepit vehicle just as he huddled into its shadow. He swapped out his spare mag and tried to count how many shots she’d taken.
“Just give me one clear shot,” he prayed to any god that happened to be listening.
The gunfire stopped. Where there should’ve been silence, his pulse pounded in his ears.
“You gotta ask yourself, Marshal—” Bloody coughing punctuated her words. “Is it worth… leaving… another woman… to die… just to chase me… through the hills?”
The sound of scrabbling through underbrush pulled his gaze around the corner. A bullet ricochet near his face scattered rust in his eyes. He flinched back, eyes tearing up.
Another woman began screaming from the now burning hunting shack. Beneath the racket, he lost track of the sound of the escaping killer crawling away. He ran around the other side of the truck. Hellish flames flickered from inside the maw of the crooked door.
As he got closer, he could see the clear blood trail the killer was leaving. She wasn’t crawling. She was upright and moving fast. A flicker of a shadow beyond the tree line tempted him. Not worth a wasted shot in the dark. But he could catch her easy. He wouldn’t need the game warden to follow that kind of spill, even in the dark.
The other woman’s screams cut into coughing wails. Every victim had been bound and burned alive. The coroner swore they all passed out from asphyxiation first, before the end. But he didn’t believe him.
“Fuck!”
He sprinted toward the shack, dropping his gun in the dirt outside. Sucking in a huge breath, he plunged into the heat. Smoke stung his rust-ravaged eyes. A woman was tied to a camp chair, her shorn head lolling to one side. The entire structure blazed. Sweat poured into his eyes. Heat seared his lungs with every breath.
Hauling the woman, chair and all, out into the moonlight, he stumbled to a safe distance. He wanted to collapse, but he took time to cut the unconscious woman free with his pocketknife. Her freshly bald head had little nicks in the skin from the razor. She wasn’t breathing.
“God damn it.” Pumping chest compressions, he muttered, “Not this time. She won’t win this time. I won’t let her.”
A taunt echoed down the valley. “Me, seven! Marshal, one.”
What the hell is this?
In level one of the Story Grid Writer Mentorship, we have a set of seven scene archetypes that we practice in a wide variety of ways. There are many knobs and dials that we twiddle and twirl to develop the vast number of narrative skills required to become capable of writing whatever story calls to you. Mastery of all seven is required to graduate to the next level. Students will write many, many versions and revisions of each of the seven over the course of their level one mentorship.
This is my intentional, public practice of the fourth scene archetype we start every new student with: Bite the Bullet. I’m of the mind that I shouldn’t be asking anyone to do something that I’m not willing to do myself. We begin with second person strict in the present tense on purpose to focus the student on the core conflict: will the protagonist choose to save an innocent victim or pursue the antagonist to bring him to justice? I think of it as What price will you pay for justice?
In this archetypal scene, we rise above the lowest level of the core genre pyramid (Action) and step up into the Horror genre in a reality conflict. The madness/sanity dilemma of this archetype is useful well beyond traditional Horror story plots, but we start there because it’s universal and approachable. And every masterwork has an element of a questioning reality Horror story in it somewhere. (Yes, every single one.)
In the mentorship, we build up from there. Each iteration of a scene, especially the revisions, are intentional practice of specific skills. We start with a very short second person strict present tense to focus on the punch/counterpunch of the core conflict. Constraints are both freeing and focusing. We’ve found that if you can’t do it in 500 words, you probably can’t do it in 5,000. As we revise each week, we add complexities and nuance.
The reason that we do not start with third person past tense, despite it being the most common point of view in genre fiction, is that third person lures the writer subliminally toward omniscience. We have found that the awkwardness and unfamiliarity of second person and present tense to be a valuable forcing function. Something about the immediacy and urgency of both enables most students to focus on the core Crisis and its stakes rather than rambling about fun, but ultimately unrelated and irrelevant topics.
The difference between Strict and Limited in point of view can be quite dramatic, especially once you learn how to setup the Crisis stakes without the crutch of internality. No, we never practice Omniscience by design in the Writer Mentorship Program. It’s a very advanced narrative skill to do properly and not common in modern genre fiction anyway. Omniscience is easy to write badly and almost always disruptive to Sam’s experience. The weekly practice drills zero in on all the different narrative muscles and reflexes that need individual, purposeful exercise in each as the constraints shift and the word count relaxes.
And, of course, your feedback is welcome.
Scene Analysis
I offer you three renditions of the same scene with different parameters:
500-word Second Person Strict Present Tense
750-word First Person Strict Past Tense
1,000-word Third Person Limited Past Tense
OOD The killer wants to torment the marshal without putting her own getaway at risk.
OOD The marshal wants to apprehend the killer without allowing another innocent to die.
II The killer lights a flare.
PC The killer taunts the marshal about failing to save any victims.
PC The killer reveals there’s a victim tied up in the shed.
PC The killer begins to crawl away through the underbrush.
TP A woman screams from the now burning shed.
CQ Will the marshal leave the screaming woman to die in order to pursue the killer?
CX The marshal runs into the burning shed door to rescue the now unconscious woman.
RN In the distance, the killer taunts the marshal with the score as the marshal tries desperately to resuscitate the unconscious woman who stopped breathing.
SAM is struggling with a dilemma that challenges two core elements of her Worldview that causes a paradox in her reality and must choose one in order to struggle forward.
Want help with your story?
If the Nine Circles of Revision Hell seem daunting to you, you’re not alone. They can be a slog, even when you’ve done them many times. For a lot of writers, the editing process is the most painful part of publishing. I’m weird. I enjoy it! But I’m aware that not everyone does. If you don’t get off on revisions or if you don’t even know where to start, let me help you.
I’m a Story Grid Certified Editor and founding member of the Story Grid Guild. I’ve been helping my clients with developmental editing of their novels and screenplays as well as chapter-by-chapter scene coaching for their works-in-progress since 2020. I joined the staff of the Story Grid Scene Writing Workshop as a coach in June 2024 and the Story Grid Writer Mentorship cadre as a mentor in January 2025.
I’m available for hire. Book a campfire chat and let’s see if we might be compatible story adventuring companions.
Good stuff. Thanks Dave!