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221Bs



The Prosecution Rests"You? Doing jury service?" grinned John, reading his flatmate's letter.
"I will kill Mycroft," said Sherlock.
Both sides had concluded their arguments.
"Well, it looks straightforward to me," said the foreman, in the jury room. "I don’t think he did the burglary. The prosecution's case was pretty flimsy."
There was general agreement to this.
Sherlock smiled.
"Guilty," said the bewildered foreman.
"Guilty?" said the judge, surprised despite himself.
“Yes,” said the foreman. He paused for a moment, concentrating. “His laces indicate his alibi is false, his posture tells us he’s been in the area where the burglary took place, and his chronic dandruff suggests he’s actually been inside the burgled property. Oh, and the defendant needs 37 other offences to be taken into consideration.” The foreman glanced briefly behind him. “Probably."
From the back row, Sherlock nodded in satisfaction.
John gazed at the stunned-looking jurors gathering in th
Dancing MenSherlock strode into the living room, wearing a kilt. It revealed rather a lot of thigh—the effect being more Mary Quant than Rob Roy. 
John glanced up briefly from his laptop. “You’ve got mine on,” he said. 
“The hire company must have mixed up the labels,” said Sherlock, glaring at his hemline. 
John snickered. 
“Are you going to behave tonight?” he asked, as he put his laptop aside. “Scottish country dancing has no place for mavericks. You’ll have to work as part of a team.” 
Sherlock’s lips twitched, ever so slightly.
Mrs Hudson was a nifty little mover, despite the hip.
“Thanks for standing in,” she said. “Larry and Ken have been arrested.” 
Sherlock smiled. “Anything for you.” 
“Why are we actually here?” said John after Mrs Hudson had moved away. 
“To

Leave A MessageSherlock was galloping through his deductions when Lestrade’s phone rang.
“Hold on,” said Lestrade, and then paused. “That’s odd.”
He showed the display to John.
Number withheld: please pass phone to Sherlock Holmes,” John read out.
“Don’t answer it!" shouted Sherlock.
John stared at him. “Is this something to do with Mycroft?”
Sherlock turned abruptly and strode away.
At the lab they bumped into Molly. Almost immediately her mobile rang.
“Um..?” she said gazing at the screen.
“Message for Sherlock Holmes?” asked John.
“Turn your phone off now,” said Sherlock.
There had been a determined dash through miles of London backstreets but the suspect had managed to get away.
“Damn,” said Sherlock. “We’ll have to-”
John’s phone rang.
“It’s that weird message again,” he said. He glanced up at Sherlock. “It must be
Trailing BehindJohn hadn’t been able to drop off at all in the caravan. Sherlock, conversely, was sleeping like a baby. Up every two hours and making a hell of a racket.
“Sherlock,” said John. “There is no nicotine in this vehicle. Go to bed.”
Sherlock glared and sipped his fifth cup of coffee.
John groaned.
At least the case was over. Tomorrow they would be back in London.
John checked the connection between the caravan and car and got into the driver’s seat.
“Shall I drive..?” asked Sherlock.
Ah, apologising for last night, thought John.
“We don’t want to end up crashing into the embankment if your shoulder locks,” said Sherlock.
John started the car.
For an hour he listened to Sherlock complaining. Despite having just solved a case, Sherlock was already craving more stimulation.
At the next service station John pulled over.
“I’ve had enough. Go and buy some cigarettes.”
Sherlock stared. “Really?”
A selection from my 221Bs.
Background by Gasara Box by CypherVisor

Fan Fiction for the Unconvinced



My fourth DD.

Literature Features



Pre-inventing the WheelLon was an I.T support worker. He was also a caveman, so perhaps it would be more accurate to call it lowercase ‘t’ support.
“Me rock no right way up,” said Gurp.
Lon looked at Gurp’s rock with an expert eye. “Gurp try drop it pick it back up again?”
Gurp dropped the rock. Then he picked it back up. It was still upside-down.
“Hmn,” said Lon, mulling the problem over. “Try throw it at wall.”
The rock clattered off the wall and landed on the ground the right way up and only slightly chipped.
“Gurp thank Lon,” said Gurp as he resumed aimlessly hitting bits of cave with his rock.
Lon strolled out into the sunshine chewing cloves. Some of his fellow proto-humans were sat a little way down the hill trying to make fire. One in particular seemed to be having trouble.
Krog was waving a single stick in the air furiously, a somewhat perplexed expression on his simian face. “Fire no work,” he complained.
FFM July 2 2014The Baby-Napper
The streets were busy as the shops were opening for the day. Owners were rushing out to clear out the old for the new, and shoppers were rushing in to get the deals that were sure to follow. But there was on store that was very strange, and that’s where our story takes place.
Now like every good store we need a protagnonist. Pro-protagowist? Pro? God, how do I say that? The, heroy-person-thing that’s the-the bloody good guy!
[You can’t say protagonist?]
Shut up! Anyway, our good guy-
[Protagonist.]
I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH A SPORK! Her name is May.
[So we have a good girl, not a good guy?]
SHE was heading towards the strange shop in hopes that her desire could be fulfilled.
[Shady-ass shops tend to do that. Just look at every story or movie with one ever.]
A spork, Wilhelm, a spork. May looked up and saw the words ‘Baby Shop’ written on the sing, even though she knew the truth.
[Did you just say sing instead of sign?]
FOR WITHIN the ag
Mr. Sinungalingsi∙nu∙nga∙ling (Filipino)
    1. noun   Liar.
    2. verb   To lie.
It is a new day in a new city for Annie. They have just moved to Manila from Zamboanga del Sur. Annie and her sisters miss their home province, but they are excited to go to a new school.
Mama calls to them, “Don’t forget your sandwiches!”
There are three things Mama loves most: reading the Bible, making ham sandwiches for her daughters, and admiring her collection of rare coins from Saudi Arabia.
“Bye, Mama!” the little girls say, holding their lunch boxes.
---
Most of the little girls in their new school have always lived in Manila. Annie and her sisters are a curiosity.
“Where are you from?” a classmate asks Annie.
“The Great Wall of China,” Annie lies.
Annie says she can do calligraphy, fancy Chinese writing. She says back in China she has a black horse and a saber. A clu
BabydollPropping my daughter against the towel on my shoulder, I rhythmically pat her back. Nevaeh's just had her second bottle of the day, and try as I might, I still can't get her to burp. Today is no different, and in the end I give up, wipe her small round mouth, and pop her in the bouncer for a while. It's the electric kind, with a soft lullaby and swinging motion, so I know she'll be entertained while I get on with the mountain of washing that needs to be folded.
You wouldn't think just two people could make so much washing, but ever since her dad had left me, it seemed like the washing pile had grown larger instead of smaller. Despite the lullaby, I make conversation with her as I fold - it seems to me that it's the best way to develop her speech, for her to hear it. She's such a good, quiet baby, I often wonder how long until she starts making more noise.
By the time I've reduced "mount fold-me" to a mere foothill, she's finally asleep, so I leave her in the bouncer and dash out to che
Before the Black Throne    There was a rattle of chains as the rusty iron cage dropped from the ceiling. It was accompanied by the rattling laugh of the Dungeon Lord himself. The same mechanism that had dropped the cage over the great stone altar had also revealed his terrible black throne.
    “You may have found my gems of power, thief, but I don’t think they—or you—will be going far.”
    “No,” the thief admitted. “This cage looks pretty secure. Very sturdy. Lots of spikes.”
    “I claimed it from the Keep of Akragokh, where it once held prisoners of the Thousand Day Siege. Still, I don’t think it has witnessed such suffering as it shall see today.”
    “Oh no,” said the thief. “What are you going to do to me?”
    Standing, the Dungeon Lord approached an alcove near the throne and retrieved a
FFM 2014, July 5 - BoxesThe answering machine was blinking red. Elaine stared at it. Aside from the streetlight through the blinds, it was the only thing with a light on in the apartment. There was nothing to turn on. Everything was in boxes. Her sofa, her bed, all covered in boxes. She’d tried to unpack, after her brother had left with the rental van, but somehow every thing she pulled out of the damned boxes reminded her of him. Of them. The worst was the box with all the framed pictures – why had she even packed them? Elaine felt the tears well up again. For the last week all she’d done was cry, until her migraines became pre-emptive.
 
No. No. This was not how she’d spend her first night away from that cheating, no good piece of shit. She’d broken free now, and even though she had no job or prospects, and a family two states away (her brother, bless his soul, was probably halfway through Washington by now), she wasn’t going to just lie around and cry. Elaine got up
FFM#5 [Challenge] -- Newsreader“Bloody hell, where’s Richard.”
“He’s in the tea room.”
“Doing what?”
“What else? Making a cuppa.”
“Tea? He’s supposed to be on air in five minutes.”
“It’s what he always does before a news broadcast.”
“On radio perhaps, but this is television.”
“And?”
“And he’s got a face for radio, so he needs a bit of spruc—hello Richard.”
“Hello David, how are you this evening?”
“Perfectly fine, thank you. Listen, if we could get you down to the wardrobe down the hall, we need to—“
“Oh, don’t be daft David. What should the television viewers care about the way I’m dressed?”
“Well, you understand it’s important to comport ourselves decently to the viewers at home.”
“I understand that, yes.”
“Good, then you’ll understand that the situation with your hair
FFM 2014: PulaOnce upon a time in in a small village in Botswana, there was a little girl named Lesedi who was very naughty.
While out walking one day Lesedi came across Mma Rammala cooking porridge for her breakfast. Mma Rammala had forgotten her bowl and went to fetch it, and seeing the porridge untended Lesedi decided she was hungry and ate it.
When Mma Rammala returned to find her cooking pot empty she cried out in shock.
“Lesedi, what has happened to the porridge I was making for my breakfast?”
“Impi the Vervet Monkey took it,’ Lesedi said, and pointed to the tree where he was sitting.  “I tried to stop him, but my legs are not fast enough and I couldn’t reach him in time to stop him eating everything.
“You greedy Monkey!” Mma Rammala scolded. “How dare you eat all my breakfast!”
“But I didn’t do it!” Impi cried.
“I don’t believe you. You are a liar and a thief!” Said Mma Rammala and turned her

Flash Fiction



The Language of DanceGerald had been a bit anxious about going abroad on holiday to a country so far away. But he’d always wanted to see the place and he was determined to make the most of it. He’d practised the language for months until his legs ached and now, if perhaps not exactly fluent, he did have quite a vocabulary.
He’d been so nervous coming out of the hotel for the first time and seeing a couple coming towards him. But he’d done a little pirouette and they’d pirouetted back, and it was all fine. They’d maybe been smiling a little at his accent but they had understood what he meant and Gerald was thrilled.
Filled with confidence, he’d soon got the hang of going into shops and tap dancing with the assistants. In one establishment he’d got into a lovely conversation with one of his fellow shoppers—an elderly lady. They’d waltzed for nearly half an hour.
And now he was on his way back to the hotel after a delightful evening out. The opera ha
WordsThe meeting of the support group was taking place in the Dusty Dictionary—a refuge from the world for the archaic and lesser-used words in the English Language.
“Who would like to start?” asked the group leader, poltroon. “Ruth, perhaps?”
The word quivered a little. “My name is ruth, and I’m an archaic word….” It gave a sob. “I’m so sorry…”
“Take your time,” said poltroon.
“It’s just so hard!” said ruth. “I haven’t worked in years, and I’m not sure I ever will again. But ruthless is constantly being employed. It doesn’t make any sense. How can people have ruthless without needing ruth?”
Dandled nodded sympathetically. “I rarely get any gigs nowadays myself. But when I do, I turn up and find dangled has pinched the job. ‘He dangled the baby on his knee.’ What the hell does that even mean? Sounds bloody dangerous to me.”


Dressed to KillAgatha had her victim trapped now in the corner of the room.
“Mr. Seacombe is very annoyed with you,” she told the woman. “Running off with his firm’s money like that.”
She got even closer. “I’m afraid it’s time you learnt your…”
Agatha stopped suddenly. The woman was looking at her but didn’t appear to be listening to her. Agatha frowned.
“I’m sorry—am I boring you?”
“Hmm..?” The victim’s attention abruptly came back to Agatha’s face. “Oh, sorry! I was just admiring your outfit. You don’t often see a one-piece cat suit nowadays. It’s gorgeous. Is that real leather?”
Agatha sighed. “Oh, right. I see.” She clenched her fists. “It’s always the same. A male assassin turns up and it’s all: ‘Gosh, what an interesting weapon’ and ‘Aargh! Aargh! Please don’t kill me!’ A female turns up and all you
I've Really Lost My MindThe young man smiled, with just a touch of embarrassment. “I seem to have lost my mind.”
The female attendant looked at him. “This is a railway ticket office.”
“Yes..?”
“You want the lost property section over there.” She pointed at a counter where a severe-looking man was rearranging misplaced umbrellas.
“Thank you!” The young man nodded politely and headed across to the other section.
The lost property attendant looked up as the young man approached. “Is it an umbrella you want?” He indicated the display.
The young man appeared to be tempted for a moment by a purple one decorated with cats and dogs, but then apparently remembered why he was there.
“No,” he said. “I’ve lost my mind. I’m pretty sure here was the last time I used it—I was trying to work out what would be the cheapest ticket to Inverness on a weekday in June, outside peak hours, travelling with my back to the engin
A selection from my flash fiction.
Background by berzelmeier Box by CypherVisor

Visual Favourites



please call me, baby by JCapelahello? by joel3dFractal Machine by AexionOutdated icons by MessBook
A selection from my favourites.
Background by NightBlueSky Box by CypherVisor

Plain-and-Mousy

Webcam

It Was Over in a Flash

Fri Aug 1, 2014, 8:10 AM


And so Flash Fiction Month 2014 has come to an end :faint: (Though I gather there are some articles about editing and possible publication routes to come. And the judging is still carrying on - I won the first week mug, you know ^^ Well, I was pleased...)

This was my first try at FFM and I have to say it was a revelation. Though I'm confident of my ability to write once I know what I'm doing, I've always thought of myself as someone who has trouble coming up with those initial ideas. And yet for 31 days straight I came up with a new idea every day. (Some better than others admittedly.) It's changed the way I see myself as a writer - I now know I can write whenever I want to. I may have to struggle a little bit to come up with an idea but I can do it.

I've also learnt not to dismiss a possible idea too quickly. During FFM there wasn't time to doubt yourself. In the past I might have thought: "Oh, that's interesting!" But then looked at the idea again and started worrying it was too slight or dull or odd. Or had all been done before. And there are aspects of my personality that I'm a bit shy about revealing even through the filter of fiction. But during FFM there simply wasn't time for all this angst - once you'd come up with something you just had to get on and write it. It was very freeing. After all, you don't know if an idea is going to work until you try writing the story.

I've ended up with 31 new pieces of varying quality but I have to say overall I am very happy with what I produced. And I loved the camaraderie of FFM :lovesquee: (dA has long felt like a home from home but FFM felt like: "My people! My people! Where have you all been?" :D) It is a relief to be able to stop having to write and post on the same day, but I do want to keep the momentum going. I'm aiming to write at least one new piece of flash fiction every week from now on. (Not including my 60s.)

I heartily recommend giving FFM a go when it comes round again. And I heartily recommend visiting Flash-Fic-Month and having a gander at some of the stories. (You'll find the links posted there.)

To get you started off, here are some of my favourites from FFM 2014:

Pre-inventing the WheelLon was an I.T support worker. He was also a caveman, so perhaps it would be more accurate to call it lowercase ‘t’ support.
“Me rock no right way up,” said Gurp.
Lon looked at Gurp’s rock with an expert eye. “Gurp try drop it pick it back up again?”
Gurp dropped the rock. Then he picked it back up. It was still upside-down.
“Hmn,” said Lon, mulling the problem over. “Try throw it at wall.”
The rock clattered off the wall and landed on the ground the right way up and only slightly chipped.
“Gurp thank Lon,” said Gurp as he resumed aimlessly hitting bits of cave with his rock.
Lon strolled out into the sunshine chewing cloves. Some of his fellow proto-humans were sat a little way down the hill trying to make fire. One in particular seemed to be having trouble.
Krog was waving a single stick in the air furiously, a somewhat perplexed expression on his simian face. “Fire no work,” he complained.
FFM July 2 2014The Baby-Napper
The streets were busy as the shops were opening for the day. Owners were rushing out to clear out the old for the new, and shoppers were rushing in to get the deals that were sure to follow. But there was on store that was very strange, and that’s where our story takes place.
Now like every good store we need a protagnonist. Pro-protagowist? Pro? God, how do I say that? The, heroy-person-thing that’s the-the bloody good guy!
[You can’t say protagonist?]
Shut up! Anyway, our good guy-
[Protagonist.]
I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH A SPORK! Her name is May.
[So we have a good girl, not a good guy?]
SHE was heading towards the strange shop in hopes that her desire could be fulfilled.
[Shady-ass shops tend to do that. Just look at every story or movie with one ever.]
A spork, Wilhelm, a spork. May looked up and saw the words ‘Baby Shop’ written on the sing, even though she knew the truth.
[Did you just say sing instead of sign?]
FOR WITHIN the ag
Before the Black Throne    There was a rattle of chains as the rusty iron cage dropped from the ceiling. It was accompanied by the rattling laugh of the Dungeon Lord himself. The same mechanism that had dropped the cage over the great stone altar had also revealed his terrible black throne.
    “You may have found my gems of power, thief, but I don’t think they—or you—will be going far.”
    “No,” the thief admitted. “This cage looks pretty secure. Very sturdy. Lots of spikes.”
    “I claimed it from the Keep of Akragokh, where it once held prisoners of the Thousand Day Siege. Still, I don’t think it has witnessed such suffering as it shall see today.”
    “Oh no,” said the thief. “What are you going to do to me?”
    Standing, the Dungeon Lord approached an alcove near the throne and retrieved a
FFM#5 [Challenge] -- Newsreader“Bloody hell, where’s Richard.”
“He’s in the tea room.”
“Doing what?”
“What else? Making a cuppa.”
“Tea? He’s supposed to be on air in five minutes.”
“It’s what he always does before a news broadcast.”
“On radio perhaps, but this is television.”
“And?”
“And he’s got a face for radio, so he needs a bit of spruc—hello Richard.”
“Hello David, how are you this evening?”
“Perfectly fine, thank you. Listen, if we could get you down to the wardrobe down the hall, we need to—“
“Oh, don’t be daft David. What should the television viewers care about the way I’m dressed?”
“Well, you understand it’s important to comport ourselves decently to the viewers at home.”
“I understand that, yes.”
“Good, then you’ll understand that the situation with your hair
FFM 2014, July 5 - BoxesThe answering machine was blinking red. Elaine stared at it. Aside from the streetlight through the blinds, it was the only thing with a light on in the apartment. There was nothing to turn on. Everything was in boxes. Her sofa, her bed, all covered in boxes. She’d tried to unpack, after her brother had left with the rental van, but somehow every thing she pulled out of the damned boxes reminded her of him. Of them. The worst was the box with all the framed pictures – why had she even packed them? Elaine felt the tears well up again. For the last week all she’d done was cry, until her migraines became pre-emptive.
 
No. No. This was not how she’d spend her first night away from that cheating, no good piece of shit. She’d broken free now, and even though she had no job or prospects, and a family two states away (her brother, bless his soul, was probably halfway through Washington by now), she wasn’t going to just lie around and cry. Elaine got up
ApocalypseContrary to popular misconception, the end of the world is not global warming, a nuclear fallout, or a mechanical uprising. Zombies do not erupt from their graves, aliens do not suddenly decide to invade. There are no horsemen, vengeful Gods or wayward comets. Lightning does not smote the wicked and angels do not lead the worthy to peace. The end of the world is not a mass disaster; there is no exploding sun, tidal wave or earthquake. Instead, it is those quiet moments happening all over the world, every day.
***
Resting my hand on the gentle curve of my belly, I croon sweet nothings to my baby. I have decided that "it" is a "she", though the ultrasound confirmation is still several weeks away. Still, I have heard her heartbeat, and I am looking forward to hearing it again later today. I sit like this for an hour or so, soaking the sunlight into my skin and communing with the life growing inside me. I am lulled by the sound of traffic in the street, but the unmistakable drone of my hus
FFM 29: The Beginning of the End< 07-08-3108 0800:00PST // Executing Scheduled Archive Process… >
< 07-08-3108 0800:00PST // Recovering Video Logs… >
< 07-08-3108 0800:00PST // Data Loss Detected… Reviewing Saved Data… >
< 05-21-3108 0614:27PST >
Ahem.  Herbert Marshall, ID number 107a, logging on.  Personal log entry one.  Day one of the Cauffield Experiment, sixty days remaining until I get to see sunlight again.  It’s for the best, of course: if the Virus were to reach the surface… well, I don--it can’t.  
< Data Loss >
--brought Nanashi with me, though.  I set up her litter box in the bathroom of my quarters, and brought lots of treats.  I think she’ll adjust fine--
< Data Loss >
< 05-27-3108 0601:12PST >
Day seven of the Cauffield Experiment, and already great progress.  First few days were rough, but the old boys club is starting to recognize that I’m not “just a jack-ass out of college.”  The o
wake up elijahwake up, elijah: extricate yourself from the poison fogs of war, unbubble your skin and spiral back into the coat that lifts from the pavement and shoots back into your left arm and then into your right as you drag yourself up the steps and pull the door closed and shed your jeans that fold back into a pile and your shirt and coat that fly back into hangers and your socks that ball up, your towel falling away as you step in wet and step out dry from the shower and bury back into warm blankets and sandy eyes. . . .
wake up, elijah: undiscover the forest, your scrapes resealing, lines of sweat running up your cheeks and beading up and sinking back into your temples, anti-gravity plucking purple leaves from your hair in clouds that drift apart and snap back into the looming branches above, moonwalk downslope and fear not the abyss behind for your destination is sure, a bus of backpackers to whom you wave goodbye, sit back down beside a friend and have a conversation where you both eat up
FFM 2014: The Stars (Are Out Tonight)Squinting at his reflection, Frankie put the final touches on his makeup. He did a quick itinerary check of the contents of his purse, hitched up his tights, adjusted the starry metallic fabric of his miniskirt and blew his reflection a kiss. Not perfect, but it would have to pass muster as he was already far too late. 
“—British troops are shipping out tomorrow to join the allied forces on the African front. Peace rallies and protest riots have broken out across Britain in response, sparking a new rash of anti-military sentiment that has resulted in several violent attacks. Just the latest in a series of hate crimes to sweep the U.K.—“
“God, shut that off will you! ” Frankie called out as he emerged from the bathroom. Naturally Henry ignored him. His brother had been vegetating on the couch all day, watching reruns of the news on the telly as though it were some sort of holy penance.
“Sure you don’t want to come o
His EyesIt has been three months since we heard from the mainland.
Speculation abounds. Some catastrophe has befallen them there; a plague has ended them, or a war, or perhaps something so dreadful that we cannot even imagine it. We are left here to starve, slowly, as we wait for news and supplies.
~
This morning we saw a boat on the horizon. Through the spyglass we saw that its occupant is a lone boy, and that his skin is patterned with lesions. Sula saw something in his eyes, he said, though he did not say what it was; but he was so shaken by the sight that he begged us to shoot the boat down before it reaches us.
We have no choice but to obey. We may pity the boy, but if he carries a plague a show of mercy might doom us. We will fire the cannon as soon as he comes within range.
~
We burned the flotsam brought in by the tide. There is no sign of the boy's body. With luck the current carried it away.
~
Sula woke with fever today. He sweats in rivers, and he will not open his eyes. He begged f
runaway irony (FFM 22)Twenty minutes after finishing the documentary on New Zealand, Nicole had a plan worked out. She wrote it all down in gel pen, an itemised list of all the things she needed; then she got to work.
It wasn’t easy to convince the man in Bunnings to sell her nails, but she put on her best innocent face, and told him it was for her father’s garden shed. It wasn’t easy to convince the neighbour to let her have the old fence palings, either; nor the logs that had been earmarked for a bonfire, but a few hearty fibs and her best “I just want to help my daddy” smile went a long way to convincing them.
Two weeks later, she had bruised hands, a lot of knowledge about how not to use a hammer, and what she hoped would pass for a half-decent raft. She packed herself a bag with some clothes and spare underwear, then packed another bag, this one larger and wheeled, with as much canned food as she could carry. Before she left, she remembered to grab the can op
FFM19: Where No Sock Has Gone BeforeHis socks blinked at him. Jim hunched his shoulders. The socks tried to mimic the motion but since they had no shoulders they just kind of bunched up a little. Captain Bob, as usual, was not impressed.
“It's life, Jim, but not life as we know it.”
“Shut up, Bob, this is serious.”
Captain Bob gave him a look that made him immediately regret his outburst. It was the “I'm your superior officer and I have the airlock codes, so no one will think twice if they see your body suddenly floating in space “ look.
“So am I,” Captain Bob said, “Stop leaving your dirty uniforms next to the radiation shields. It's an old ship, there's bound to be some spill off.”
The socks agreed.
But it wasn't until his uniform pants tried to bite him that Jim truly learned his lesson. He spent the rest of the voyage in the laundry room, learning how to operate the machines. Captain Bob was still not impressed.  

:yayay: - NaNoEmo 24/30 + Plz 


deviantID

SCFrankles
Frankles
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Snoopy Writer Stamp by Mirz123
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The Lord gathered all the writers and divided them into four groups.

To the first group He said, “You will be novelists and you will make a living from your work.”

To the second group He said, “You will be poets and people will admire and be moved by your work.”

To the third group He said, “You will write short stories and people will enjoy your work.”

And to the final group He said, “You will write flash fiction and… Yes, well, sorry about that.”


My name is Frankles. I write flash fiction, specialising in the humorous six word story.

(When I get called home, there are going to be words.)
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An article I wrote for SixWordStories:


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"Why should you be interested in the work of SCFrankles? In three words: six word stories. These are often thrown out there as something more like a joke than a work of art, but here you can tell there's been some real thought put into them--though that's not to say that there aren't some hilarious ones in there. I'd quote a few, but you've got no excuse not having a read through her gallery yourself! You may also be pleasantly surprised by her longer fiction: in my experience, it's rare to find someone who can write both forms so well." DamonWakes
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I am a mod for Sherlock60 on LJ: a community for writing 60 word ficlets based on the 60 stories in the Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes canon.
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Unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a man.
GK Chesterton
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:iconprettyorangemonster:
PrettyOrangeMonster Featured By Owner 1 day ago  New member Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the watch 

I'm a big fan of yours, so it means a lot!
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome ^^ I look forward to seeing more of your work! :happybounce: (And thanks ^^ :blushes:)
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:iconangeink:
AngeInk Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fave, Frankles!
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
You're most welcome ^^ :boogie:
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:iconsame-side:
Same-side Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014   Writer
In your story about the Lord dividing writers into four groups, you neglected to mention where playwrights and screenwriters fit. How would the Lord address them, you think?
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Well, maybe:

"You will transport people out of their world and show them another."

But I suppose that may not be truly specific to playwrights and screenwriters ^^
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:iconsame-side:
Same-side Featured By Owner Jul 20, 2014   Writer
Maybe something like giving words to actors and turning them into people they're not.
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Jul 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Oh, yes, I like that - that's excellent ^^ It's a far better definition than mine ^^" That really is specific to playwrights.
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:iconlo536:
Lo536 Featured By Owner Jul 17, 2014
Thank you for the llama!  :la:
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome ^^ :thecarlton: 
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