The Prosecution Rests"You? Doing jury service?" grinned John, reading his flatmate's letter.
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.
Leave A MessageSherlock was galloping through his deductions when Lestrade’s phone rang.
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.
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.
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.
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.
You Tell Me Things in Drips and DrabsThe game is a itchy foot,
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.
Newlywed Life His heart
Getting Down"Sherlock, are you planning on getting down from there?"
Daily Lit. Recognition for April 21st, 2014Daily Lit Recognition for April 21st, 2014
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Recognition!
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Please comment and the features and congratulate the artists!
Featured by: TwilightPoetess
His lap was reserved for science... by ArbiterGirl
Reminder for everyone: Tell the people you
love, that you care. They aren't mind-readers.
Featured by: AyeAye12
Blue Kentucky by sydnerella
A poem that captivates the homeliness
and essence of a homeland, with beautiful
imagery too; country poetry at its finest.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter side shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
Outside, rain whispers thr
Topsy Turvy Contest WinnersWe had some superb entries for the Topsy Turvy Contest! I would like to take a moment to congratulate everyone who participated on their truly entertaining and wonderful entries. I loved seeing your unique interpretations on the prompt. There were touching entries, funny entries, and intense ones too! You all did a fantastic job!
It was incredibly hard to narrow it down to a mere three choices. Everyone, please give a huge "Congratulations!" to our winners!
Prize - 250
Prize - 500
The Case Book of Mrs. HudsonMrs. Hudson put aside her newspaper and watched as Miss Morstan crossed gracefully to the mantelpiece. She was wearing grey today, with a touch of blue at the neck bringing out the colour of her large, sympathetic eyes. Mrs. Hudson’s friend and colleague truly was a picture of sensitivity and refinement.
Until she tripped over the bearskin rug.
“Damn and blast the wretched thing!”
Mrs. Hudson winced. “My dear, do try and remember to moderate your language.”
Miss Morstan grinned. “There are no clients here to be shocked.” She continued to the mantelpiece and selected a cigar.
“But we are not alone in the house,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Our landlords may come in at any time.”
Perfectly on cue, Mr. Holmes entered with the tea tray.
Miss Morstan hid her smile by bending to light the cigar. Mrs. Hudson frowned at her and turned to Holmes.
“Thank you,” she said, as he placed the tray on the table beside her chair. She p