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About Literature / Hobbyist Premium Member FranklesFemale/United Kingdom Group :icontheknow: TheKnow
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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

Oh, Bad Luck



Winning entry in the dA turns 13: Delectably Devious Tales contest.

Fluff



My third DD and the winning entry in ThornyEnglishRose's Anthro Antics Literature Contest.

Features



:iconanapests-and-ink:

HomeMy parents bought the house on April Fools Day.  It was something of a running joke: should have known, Dad would say, tightening yet another leaking faucet.  It was a sign, Mom said, staring down a nest of carpenter wasps.  In truth, they were never lucky with dates.  Got married on D-Day, had a kid on Thanksgiving.  JFK was assassinated on my Dad’s birthday; Brenda Ann Spencer went on her killing spree on my Mom’s.  Holidays were always a touchy thing.
My second birthday was spent in the new house—a gorgeous, rambling affair in the heart of what had been a boom town during the years of the Erie Canal, and was now just a sleepy commuter village.  They’d lived in consistently horrible neighborhoods up to that point.  Dad had been mugged a block from their first apartment.  A neighbor had been brutally beaten and robbed near their second.  My Mom would recall with wonder the first week they moved int
Said Ginsberg to SalingerYou wrote a mascot for the raging hormonal outcast, a wooden whining creature made to mouth an emptyimage of youth, of rebellion, of fearI wrought a glorious delirious infamous generation, created hippies druggies homos commies poets artists—angels, allHolding my Sunflower banner, I ushered an era an epoch an upheaval—ruined the ruby lipstick & pearls housewife the gin sipping bread winning husband—wrought a new era of form of poetry of meaningYou stuttered gross prose and bred resentment.
I breathed out verse and created Revolution.


:iconblakecurran:

You should date a guy who writesDate a guy who writes. Date a guy whose fingers are stained with ink, whose pockets are filled with pens, and whose eyes smile and dance with curiosity. Date a guy who notices things like the colour of your hair and the way you have your coffee, not because he has to, but just because it’s a habit of his to notice things. Date a guy who can barely get around a computer, but is expert with his word processor. It doesn’t matter; he prefers pen and paper anyway.
Find a guy who writes. You’ll find him just outside a library. He’ll like the idea of being outside, on the verge of a thousand worlds, a few steps away. He’ll love the idea of being outside, on the brink of one world, a few carefully placed letters away.
Or he will be inside a café. He doesn’t care whether it’s boutique or Gloria Jeans, moodily or well lit, though he likes it there especially when it’s raining. He will be the one with a notebook in one hand, pen in the other,
You Tell Me Things in Drips and DrabsThe game is a itchy foot,
watching blokes stumble around
playing Agatha Christie
—it’s Dutch, isn’t it?
Day-trippers and riff-raff,
adventures and boys on bicycles,
attractive slender woman:
pretty much what I expected.
The house is going through a tunnel
(I’ll try my best to be less entertaining)
and they have facemasks like little furry burglars.
She’s either counting oxygen molecules or analysing
this whole chunk of time,
running around buying Reggae CDs.
Go back to peddling soymilk and nailing waitresses,
bloody well toasted and ghosted,
that’s what I’m talking about.
The whole Rastafarian culture,
about as long as I can stand,
didn’t go to any trouble on my part.
Do I have to go with the whole cookie analogy?
Sometimes I shouldn’t say words:
that was my point.
Yep, you’re exactly like Jesus,
fighting for truth, justice and soccer mums.
He just looked so stupefied,
extremely taciturn, so secretive.
(You can’t prowl i


:icondragoeniex:

Weaver's WebThere once was a young weaver who worked day and night at his craft. He worked so hard, in fact, that fairy-folk and elves came from surrounding villages to see him. Butterfly-lace shirts, satin vests, and skirts made from the silvered manes of unicorns- he could take any material given him and turn it into sheets of fabric, and then again into delightful garments.
At least, he liked to imagine that he could. You see, this talented, young weaver had an adventurous spirit. He never worked with the same material twice in a row, and never more than four times a month. It was too easy to get lazy that way.
So, each evening, after he'd closed his little shop, the weaver fluttered his wings and flew to the nearby forests and fields. He could lose hours there, gathering hundreds of abandoned spiderwebs and baskets upon baskets of petals and leaves.  
One day, the fairy decided this was not enough. None of it. He was well-known in his part of the kingdom, yes, but royalty had never heard his n
Newlywed Life     His heart
~ Just Married ~
     Her knife.

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
Interests

Webcam

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconhypermagical:
Thank you for joining Souljournalists! Comment here with a thumb or link to a piece of your own non-fiction and one from another deviant, and we'll feature both in our next Blab Journal. We hope you enjoy the group! :ahoy:

P.S. Sorry for the late response. ^^;
Reply
:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
(Well, you have had other things on your mind - good and bad ^^")

Thank you so much! I'm hoping to concentrate a little more on non-fiction ^^
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:iconhypermagical:
True that. :nod:

You're welcome, of course! I'm sure your non-fiction contributions will be every bit as clever and sincere as the fictitious ones. :XD:
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:iconblackoutpoet:
blackoutpoet Apr 8, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the :+favlove: on my twelve-word love poem! :heart:
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
You're most welcome ^^ It has lovely imagery :lovesquee:  Congratulations on the honourable mention!
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:iconblackoutpoet:
blackoutpoet 6 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
On that same token, thank you for the watch and the llama! :)
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:iconblackoutpoet:
blackoutpoet Apr 8, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh my word, and I just read some of your six-word stories ... they had me laughing/smiling, big time!
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:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much :giggle: I'm proud of them. (And thanks for the watch ^^)
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:iconthefairieswhispers:
TheFairiesWhispers Apr 6, 2014  New member Hobbyist Writer
I'm so glad I found your page! I love your work, and I really like the layout of your page!!! :la:
Reply
:iconscfrankles:
SCFrankles Apr 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! ^^ I've been complimented on my work before but never on my layout :giggle: Thanks for the watch too! :icongivecupcakeplz:
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