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

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-
[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?]
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 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.”
“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



Something Borrowed

Journal Entry: Thu Aug 28, 2014, 4:30 AM

The pieces that I've selected for this feature all have something in common: they've taken other people's material and made something new from it.

In this first poem, the poet has taken a snippet of conversation overheard at an art opening and shaped and framed it - turning it into a poignant work of art itself. It's quite brief but gives you a lot to think about.

Borrowed Style

Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem GhazalMy dear Baltimore child,
dear tale-told heart, gin-joint king,
  Winter is colorless without you,
    all white and dead.
  I miss the boldness of your black,
    I miss the color red.
  I wear your favorite color, grieve,
    though we were never wed.
  My dark, distant poet,
    dreaming evermore in red.
  Annabel Lee should have been written
    for me, instead;
  She was white winter-stale,
    and I am bright summer-red.
  I watched winter take your soul,
    watched the frost in your lungs spread.
  You can be no lover now,
    drained of all your blood, your red.
  You are colored, still,
    blue and beautiful and dead.
  But I cannot warm your body with mine,
    cannot give to you my red.
  I have tried to wake you with kisses,
    tried to make us a wedding bed
  In your tomb in the city by the sea,

by AzizrianDaoXrak

This piece deliberately attempts to imitate the style of some of Edgar Allen Poe's poems: it takes the form of a love poem to the late writer himself, weaving in references to his life and works. I find AzizrianDaoXrak's use of colours here rather delicious; they transform a mildly disturbing theme into something beautiful.

Borrowed Stories

It's Always Blackest Before the ThroneCurriculum Vitae
Girth Loinhammer
Previous Employment:
Dungeon Lord
Snake Cult Leader
Island Owner
General in the Legions of Shagamemnon
Reason Left Last Job:
Green, three-boobed alien women wanting to be taught the Earth-concept of love.
Special Qualities:
Has own armour (black leather with spikes).
Interviewer’s notes: This guy seems perfect!
Dearest Mother,
I realise there is no way for me to get this letter to you but I feel in need of a sympathetic ear at the moment.
Things haven’t been going too well. I thought the dungeon was the way to go in order to gain power and riches but people somehow completely misinterpreted the whips and chains. Thought it was a place offering… erotic satisfaction. It all made me terribly uncomfortable.
So I gave up and swapped genres from Fantasy to Sci-Fi. But things didn’t improve and now I appear to have ended up in Gritty Realism. I’ve managed to get a minimum w

by SCFrankles

I've immodestly included my own work in the feature because it fits in so nicely with the theme and I'm pretty proud of this piece.

One of the challenges in Flash Fiction Month 2014 was to write something inspired by a fellow FFMer. I didn't even have to think about it: I chose to write a sequel to DamonWakes' three brilliant Dungeon Lord stories (you can find the links in my story's author's notes). As I've found with fan fiction, it can be a lot of fun playing around with other people's characters and stories - and even though Girth Loinhammer belongs to DamonWakes, this story still feels like mine.

I've fallen in love with clerihews recently. And here is a charming and amusing example of the form - the poet having borrowed Jeeves from PG Wodehouse and put him centre stage. The wordplay in the third line is particularly fine.

Borrowed Lines

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

by BlakeCurran

This last one is a piece of found poetry made up entirely of quotations from television shows. It's playful, clever, witty and just makes sense enough. My favourite part:

You make a move: I rip out your jugular./The pain this fork is going to cause/when I jam it into your eye/oh hey, pillow talk, whatever turns you on.

I find the whole poem so, so satisfying.



Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Snoopy Writer Stamp by Mirz123

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.)


An article I wrote for SixWordStories:


"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

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.

Unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a man.
GK Chesterton


Add a Comment:
anapests-and-ink Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I see I missed your birthday (by, like, a lot).  Is it too late to wish you a happy one?
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much :D (I'll save it up for next year :P)
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for collecting Sapiosexual :)
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're most welcome ^^ :boogie:
StormBringer23 Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014
Thank you for the :+fav:, and I hope you had a great birthday. (Same date as my daughter!) You Leos rock.
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
We do indeed rock ^^ Lions and Tigers in Kenya Happy birthday to your daughter too, and you're welcome for the fave! ^_^
StormBringer23 Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014
I bow down to the Awesomeness that is the Lioness, your Majesty.

(I'm outnumbered by Leos in my house two to one. Can you tell?)
chromeantennae Featured By Owner Aug 6, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! :love:
SCFrankles Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you ^^ Dance! 
chromeantennae Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
'Course! :boogie:
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