"Human Women"

Another week, another short story.

I'm a week behind, because last weekend my wife and took our two daughters to Disney World for the first time. It was an amazing, exciting, and very tiring trip. We were glad to get back, and I was glad to have a few relaxing days before heading back to school at the end of spring break.

This is another story of Jillian Nightingale, nurse practitioner to supernatural creatures and cryptohumanoids. Her other adventures, while not being necessary to follow this story, can be found in the links below.

"In Sheep's Clothing" 

"Sometimes I Feel Like I'm Being Watched"

"The Best Medicine"  - Jillian's inaugural story

"Open Enrollment"  - this story takes place in Jillian's world, although it doesn't explicitly star her.


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"I don't know if I can do this."

Max Bartrom, bartender of The Scabbard, looked up at me. "What? What're you talking about?"

I swallowed hard. A chilly breeze blew through the gravel parking lot behind the bar. Shifting uneasily, I ground gravel beneath my tennis shoes and wrapped my jacket a little tighter around myself. "Look, I... I don't want to put you out any more than I already have. I'll just call the Agency and have them move the patient from my caseload."

Max dropped the large wooden box he'd carried out to the parking lot at his feet. "What's the matter? You're not scared, are you?"

I dropped my jaw and tried to act surprised by his insinuation. "Scared? Are you kidding me? You should see what I've already dealt with this week. I've talked a ghost out of an existential crisis, successfully gotten three vampires on artificial iron supplements, and diagnosed a mermaid with a gill infection. And it's only Tuesday."

Max smiled. "So, you're not at all concerned about seeing Mister Mephiblasheph today?"

"Of course not," I lied. The fact that my voice leapt an octave did nothing to sell the illusion. "It's just that I know you've already done so much for the Agency this week. I hate to trouble you any more than necessary."

Max cracked his knuckles and sifted through the contents of the box. Despite the cold, stiff wind, he wore nothing thicker than his usual jeans and black t-shirt. "The Agency subcontracts out to me: the more jobs I do for them, the more they pay me. By no means are you inconveniencing me for bringing me more work. In fact, I wish you'd see more dangerous patients every week. I might finally be able to afford that boat I've had my eye on."

The non-cowardly way out of seeing this patient was starting to erode under my feet. "No, seriously, its not a big deal. Providers change patients all the time."

Max stood, something from the box in his hands. "Catch."

He tossed something to me in a slow, underhanded arc. On instinct along I caught it. It was a black, porous rock, about the size of a tennis ball.

Confused, I raised my eyes to Max in time to see him aim a thin, wooden rod, tipped with a white pearl, at me.

And then my world was swallowed in a blinding, howling torrent of fire.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! OH MY GOD!" I screamed, even though I couldn't hear myself. I felt the vibrations in my throat, so I knew I was speaking, but all sound was swallowed in the roar of flames all around me.

I stood, silent in the blinding inferno, for what felt like years. Then the flames disappeared as quickly as they had come, and I slowly blinked my eyes open. Purple spots danced in front of my vision, and I rubbed them in an effort to see more clearly.

I could still feel the warmth of the fire clinging to my jacket, like it had just come out of the dryer. The gravel around my feet was blackened like soot. But I was completely unharmed.

"Huh. How about that," Max said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Looks like you can do it, after all."

Gagging on a response, I was suddenly aware of heavy warmth in my hands. My eyes traveled down to the black, porous rock that Max had thrown to me. It was smoking slightly.

My eyes shot up to him. "What in the ever-loving crap was THAT all about?" I screamed at him, heaving the rock at him with all my might. He easily caught it with one hand. The smug jerk.

"You seemed like you needed convincing that I could make you fireproof for your visit to Mephiblasheph today. He is a dragon, in case you forgot. And he has the flu. He's the sort of patient for whom you'd want to be fireproof."

I squeezed my fingers together into white-knuckled fists. Anger grew like an inflating balloon in my chest. "Yeah, I got the general idea of what you were doing, thanks!" I hollered. "I really meant, why the ever-loving crap would you do that to me? Do you get your jollies freaking people out or something?"

Max looked hurt by my words. Which was strange, because in the months I had been working with him, I had never seen him looking so vulnerable. "You just seemed like you needed a little convincing. That's all. Dragonfire is pretty horrible, believe me, even when you only get sneezed on."

I jabbed my index finger at Max. "Look. I told you that I didn't want to do it. That I was content to change my schedule. Did that sound like it had any coded messages of, 'please toss me a fireproof rock and then blast me with a magic flamethrower' hidden in it?"

Max seemed taken aback. He opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.

"I am not scared of dragons. Or ghouls. Or vampires. Or any other kind of patient I have to see. And even if I was, I don't need you stepping in to help me be brave. I can be brave on my own." Though my clothes were still warm from the fire, I crossed my arms over my chest and stalked past Max, toward the bar's back door.

"Jillian," came his voice from over my shoulder. I froze with my hand on the door. I didn't want to turn around, because it would certainly ruin the effect of my storming away. But, darn it, my parents raised me better than to be rude. Even to people who had pissed me off. So I turned, and I found Max's face apologetic. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry." He gathered the box from the ground, tossing the wand and rock into it. "And I know you don't need my help being brave. I didn't mean to imply that."

A knot of anger that had developed between my shoulder blades loosened. My spine relaxed slightly. "It's just, that... dammit, Max. I'm the first human provider The Agency has ever hired. I've seen a lot, since taking this job. You know that. Hell, I've been here every day since I started this job, picking up magical equipment without which it would be impossible for me to do my job."

Max knew that. He also knew I was getting to the point. Which I assume is why he stayed silent and simply nodded.

"Yes. I was scared about visiting a dragon today. Okay?" I growled. "And, you know what? I've been scared on many occasions, as a normal human entering the homes of cryptohumaoids. But, see, the thing is, I don't think there's anything wrong with that. There's something to be said for having a healthy amount of fear for things that could literally rip me limb from limb if they chose." I raised my eyes to his. He was still watching me speculatively with the box of magical supplies in his arms. "But one thing I haven't done it let that fear control me. Yes, There were patients I would have rather not seen. But I went anyway. Do you know why?"

"Yes," Max said softly. "For Hope."

Hope was my four-year-old daughter. She was my sole motivation for taking the job with The Agency for the Betterment of Cryptohumanoid Kind. More specifically, it was The Agency's paycheck, which paid for Hope's treatments and kept us out of poverty.

I nodded sharply.

"I'm sorry," Max replied. "It was out of line for me to force-demonstrate the firestone. I should have respected your wishes."

"Thank you. I forgive you," I replied. I then lowered my eyes and held out a hand to Max. "Now give it back, please."

Max looked confused.

I gestured with my outstretched hand. "Come on. Please don't make this harder on me."

"Wait a minute," Max stammered. "You mean you're going? You're actually going to visit the sick dragon? I thought we just had an emotional conversation about how I should respect your wishes and let you make your decisions."

"We did," I replied. "And now I'm deciding to visit Mephiblasheph. So I'll need the firestone."

Max's words seemed trapped in his throat. For a few minutes he simply gestured silently with his mouth open. "Are all human women this confusing, or is it just you?"

"The choice to see Mephiblasheph or not is mine alone. I am an independent woman," I said, ignoring his question. "But, that being said, sometimes an independent woman needs a friend to remind her when she's being a scaredycat, and when she needs to woman up and do what needs to be done." I raised my eyes. "And when to trust that her wizard friend is going to supply her with the tools necessary to do her job, like he always has."

Though he looked like he wanted to say more, Max simply shook his head and handed over the firestone. It was still warm.

"And to answer your question, it's not just me. And it's not just human women. If you dated a little more, you'd realize that."

Max had held the box awkwardly on his hip while digging out the firestone, but he'd repositioned the box in his arms and now approached the back door of the bar. I held it open for him. "Oh, please," he scoffed. "I'm one-hundred and eighty-one years old. And, of all the species I've dated, I've never met a woman as complicated as you."

"Sounds more like a problem with the women you've dated than with me," I said over my shoulder. I crossed back through the bar, nodding to the regulars that sat on their usual stools, even though it was barely past nine in the morning. From the bar I picked up my medical bag where I'd left it, and dropped the firestone inside.

Max stepped behind the bar and set to polishing pint glasses, what he'd been doing before I'd come in for my daily supplies. "Same time tomorrow, then?" He asked, an amused twinkle in his eye.

Slinging my medical bag over my shoulder, I replied, "Same time. As long as you promise to get my permission next time before immolating me."

Max draped his bar rag over his arm like a waiter. "I shall be a perfect gentlemen."

"Don't hurt yourself," Rolf, a regular at the bar, mumbled with a laugh.

Max plucked a lime from the bar caddy and flung it at Rolf's head. It bounced harmlessly off his forehead and onto the floor.

"Be good, boys," I called as I opened the door. "See you both tomorrow."

As the door shut behind me, I heard the wizard bartender tell the werewolf on the bar stool, "I'm telling ya, man... human woman. Watch out."

Now fully equipped, mentally and physically, to see my full caseload of fantastic magic and supernatural patients, I simply smiled.

"Who Was Veronica Dawson?" short story: 'Taking Flight'

The setting: five years ago, yesterday, Panera Bread, where I'd set up camp with a bagel and several cups of coffee. School had been cancelled for snow, and I didn't have any tests to grade, so I decided to write. Three hours later, I'd churned out what would become the first two chapters of the prototype manuscript of Sleepwalking, my first YA novel. 

Now, five years later, I've signed a publishing agreement with Jupiter Gardens Press, and Sleepwalking will soon be coming to bookshelves near you. In celebration of Ronnie's 'birthday', and her story finally being given life (or unlife, as it were), here's a new short story starring Ronnie and her honorary orphanage-sister, Deirdre. 

Check out Who Was Veronica Dawson? on Facebook, too. Show your support for a burgeoning author! 

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“What makes you think this is going to work?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“What makes you think it won’t work?” My sister, Deirdre, replied.

I gripped the windowsill until my knuckles turned white. “That doesn’t count as reasoning,” I said. “You’re supposed to give me a real reason.”

Deirdre’s face appeared in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t take my eyes from the yard beneath us. “A real reason? Have you seen what happens to you at midnight? Is that not real enough for you?”

She made a good point. Still, when I tried to summon enough bravery to slide my butt closer to the widow’s edge, I froze with terror. I turned to face her again. “But what if it doesn’t work?”

Deirdre lowered her brow and glared at me skeptically. Then she took two steps back from me, extended her arms, and tossed her head back. Her chin lolled open, and she groaned and staggered around the room without bending her knees.

“Oh, come on,” I huffed, spinning back to our bedroom and placing my feet on the floor. “You’ve seen me in my cursed form for five months, now. Have I ever staggered around the room like an extra from a George Romero movie?”

“Braaaaiiiinnnsss,” Deirdre moaned, ignoring me. She suddenly lunged for me, and I stumbled backward. My feet got tangled in the chair to our desk, and I tumbled onto my huge butt with my sister on top of me. The chair went flying, I giggled uncontrollably, and Deirdre gnawed on my hair.

“Okay, okay! Enough!” I laughed, pushing her off of me. “You’re right, okay? The worst that could happen to me is a few dozen broken bones. And they’ll all be back to normal in the morning.”

Climbing off of me, Deirdre raked her brown curls back from her face. “So, why not try it? Do you know what I’d give to be able to do the stuff you can do?”

I pushed a lock of short, black hair out of my eyes. It was eternally wet, unable to dry, unable to transfer water to any other surface, and it stuck in place and showed off my massive forehead. Wet hair was one of a dozen transformations I underwent every midnight, each of which would be gone when the sun rose.

I, Veronica Dawson, am a Sleepwalker.

I was hit by a runway truck in front of my school six months ago. Instead of dying, like a normal person, I inherited my family’s long-lost curse of undeath. During the day I look the same as any other fifteen-year-old. But, from midnight to sunrise, I transform back into exactly as I looked the moment I died.

“If I could give it to you, I would,” I told her, trying to get to my feet. Both my hips were broken and shifted weirdly when I tried to stand, so Deirdre had to help me up. My broken ribs moved creepily through my torso as I straightened my shirt.

“All I’m saying is, since you’ve got to deal with the bad parts of the Sleepwalker, you might as well have some fun with the ‘ancient curse powers’ part. At the very least, the ‘being indestructible’ thing will be a blast!” 

I moved back to the window and placed my hands on the sill again, leaning out into the warm, summer air. “Deirdre, not even Sylvia can use her curses to make herself fly. And she’s over five hundred years old!”

Deirdre crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve never even asked her if she’s flown, have you?”

“Well, no. But I just assume that she can’t do it. If she could, why would she drive us everywhere in that old station wagon?”

“You could be the first!” Deirdre cried, dropping to her knees at my side. “The first Sleepwalker to fly!”

I looked down at the lawn again. “But what if I fall? What if it hurts?”

“The sun rises in half an hour,” Deirdre reassured me. “You’ll be like Humpty Dumpty. You’ll be put back together again!”

I frowned at her. “You never actually read that nursery rhyme, did you?”

“Come on!” Deirdre pressured. “When you’re cursed, things don’t hurt nearly as much as they do when you’re normal! You probably won’t feel a thing.”

“Probably versus actually is a distinction I’d rather not test by throwing myself out of a window,” I murmured.

“Oh my gosh, you are the worst immortal, zombified, magical-curse-using sister ever,” Deirdre prodded, her voice sarcastic. “Are you going to do it, or what?”

I took a deep, steadying breath and looked down to the lawn again. Since I had become a Sleepwalker, around six months ago, I had put up with a lot. Crazy cultists, who saw Sleepwalkers as abominations, had hunted me since the day I woke up in the morgue. Their minions had attacked me in Starbucks, in the back yard… even on dates. Things hadn’t exactly been easy, and more than once I had wished that I was just a normal teenager girl again instead of an undead monster.

Sure, being able to fly wouldn’t make up for all of that. But would be a nice start.

“Okay,” I said, squeezing my brow into a knot. “I’m going to do it.”

“That’a girl!” Deirdre cried. She dropped to her knees and leaned on the window sill. “Want me to give you a countdown?”

“No,” I replied. “The power for the curses comes from my emotions. I need to pump enough emotion into the curse to make it work. And flying will probably take a lot. So I probably need to psyche myself up or something.”

Next to me, I heard Deirdre give a speculative Hmmm before standing.

Then she pushed me out the window.

Normally, my curses are powered by my words and emotions. Sylvia, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, told me that it took a delicate balance of both to make a curse do what you want.

I opened my mouth and tried to come up with something – anything – to say that could keep me from becoming a greasy stain on the grass. But sudden terror caught my voice in my throat, and my stomach lurched from the sudden freefall. No words came.

The backyard rushed up to meet me.

I tried to scream. Even that wouldn’t come out.

The world became a white flash of pain. I became a crumpled heap on the grass.

Dimly, I heard Deirdre scream, “Ohmygod!” from the bedroom window. For ten or fifteen agonizingly slow seconds, I lay in a twisted, painful pile, the dew-covered grass cool on my cheek. The city around our suburban house was strangely silent, I realized, aside from the ringing in my ears from impact.

I heard the back door open, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Deirdre charge across the grass toward me. She dropped to her knees by my face. “Oh my god, Ronnie, I am so sorry! I thought that if I pushed you, you’d be scared enough to make yourself fly! I was trying to help!”

“… ow,” was all I could manage in reply.

“What hurts?” Deirdre asked.

“Everything,” I groaned. I tried to roll over, my a dull ache in my back told me that was a stupid idea. “How bad do I look?”

Deirdre winced. “Well… things are sort of… twisted out of place.” She tried to brighten her face. “But, not much more so than your normal cursed form, so that’s a plus, right?”

“Please don’t do me any more favors,” I breathed, trying again to get my arms beneath me, and again falling back to the grass.

“Does it hurt? Do I need to get Sylvia?” Deirdre asked.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt like a bunch of broken bones would normally hurt,” I huffed. “But I feel like one big bruise. All over. Still, I don’t think you need to wake Sylvia.” I looked up to the sky, which was still dark. “How long did you say it was until sunrise?”

Deirdre revealed her phone from her pocket and swiped the screen a few times. “About twenty minutes,” she said.

“Oh,” I sighed. “Okay, good. Since you pushed me out the window, you get to keep me company until my body repairs itself.”

Deirdre sat cross-legged on the grass. “Okay. I owe you that.” She swiped her phone a few times more. “Want to know what’s happening on Facetagram?”

I tried to shrug. I think it dislocated my shoulder even more. “Sure.”

“Oh man! Sharee broke up with Brandon!” Deirdre cried, already absorbed in social media heaven. “Look!” She presented her phone to me, and I tried to read the status update even though it was sideways.

“She was talking about that last week,” I wheezed. “What else is going on?”

“Ooh, look. Carrie posted a picture of what she ate for dinner last night.” Deirdre showed me her phone again, and I saw a sideways picture of a hibachi restaurant.

I sighed. It was going to be a long twenty minutes.