Wednesday, May 20, 2015
(New) The Scoundrel of Hyde Street A John Watson Story By John Pirillo artwork & stories at ImagineNation (http://johnpirilloauthor.blogspot.com/)
The Scoundrel of Hyde Street
A John Watson Story
By John Pirillo
Bitter and a bit worn down from his tour of duty in the Chinas, John was more than happy to shed his skin of soldiery and settle down into a more sedate life, but little did he know that it would almost immediately erupt into something much less than sedate, and much more than happy. His first night home, he found a one nighter on Hyde Street. Had he been in a better space, perhaps he would have chosen more wisely for his overnight stay, but being newly discharged from the war, and disembarked from a very long voyage across the seas, his only thought was of getting a good night's rest on something that didn't move up and down and right and left.
He felt his shirt pocket to make sure his needle and thread were there. His good luck during the war. Once they had spared him a gunshot to his heart. Smiling, he let go, assured they were there, and headed for the flats he had heard about.
So when he stashed his gear in the corner of the room near the door. It was a small flat. Barely room enough for a stove, a fireplace and a single bed; he was more than ready to collapse on the rather old sheets and worn feather quilt that adorned it. He wasn't used to even that high a quality during his war duties, spending most of his sleeping time huddled in dirt ditches, avoiding being sniped, or bitten...worse yet...by the Ching Ha Wolves...shape shifters that the Chinese used to do their dirty work...much like the marines of Her Majesty.
Their official name was Canis lupus chance, canis lupsu laniger...the Tibetan Wolf. The reason they came off with the other more strange name was that Ching Ha, the leader of the shape shifters, and a power sorceror of the Dark Arts, had a great love for wolves, and his team in honor of him...he died from a stray silver bullet fired by a soldier...named themselves after him, but keeping the name of wolves for themselves.
Except that these soldiers had huge jaws armed with jagged teeth and feet and hands loaded with overly sharp, pointed claws. He sweats even thinking of those nightmare beasts. Part of the reason for the war in the first place was that the Duke of the Germanies had been assassinated by such a beast and that had precipitated the Europes into war with the Orient. A war that neither side could win, but both desperately sought to.
That war had gone on for almost two decades. Costing the lives of countless thousands of young men on both sides. Most had died from gunshot, or explosions, but many had also died of arcane means...black magic, spells of obliteration, translation and death.
John was sick of the whole gamut...whether it was rifles, knives or hand guns. He swore he would never carry a gun again or knife, but as soon as he disembarked he was met by a young man who wanted to tend to his war wound. He was a volunteer of Her Majesty, seeking to make a name for himself. His name was Langdon. His end goal was to teach classes, but for now, tending to the war wounded was his mainstay and his livelihood.
As John sat at the booth set aside for such as him, Langdon very cheerily tended to his wound. "I suppose this is going to be a bother to you most of the rest of your life."
"I hope not."
He smiled at John. "I as well. But..."
John nodded. "You like what you do, don't you?"
"I love it."
He said that as he pulled a knife out to extract a fragment of a silver bullet from John that had lodged near his main artery. "Nasty little bugger this."
"It's magical."
"I know. The blasted thing keeps wriggling to get away from me."
"Don't let it wriggle into my artery!" John warned.
Langdon jerked the wriggling bullet piece into the air, where it made a sizzling sound and a soft sigh, then went limp. "Gotcha!"
John laughed. "You sound like a foot ball Captain winning the goal."
Langdon smiled, and then gave John a solemn look. "Every life I save is a goal much more rewarding than any sports goal I could ever achieve."
Finished, he put his gear away and spoke to an Orderly outside the booth. "Next."
He rose and offered his hand. "Please keep in contact. You seem the sort to always have a next thing you're up to."
John rose and offered his good hand. "I should hope so. And now that I've seen a knife used so skillfully and in such a tender way, I am coaxed to reconsider my vow to never touch a weapon again."
Langdon smiled warmly. "Not all weapons are of mass destruction."
John and he shook hands a long time, and then exchanged addresses. "Mine will be good only for a few days." John warned.
"Then please keep me advised of any changes."
"You as well." John returned.
The two shook hands again and John wandered off, feeling a bit dazed by the experience, but with a warm glow in his heart. It was the first time in a long time that he had some hope of a more normal life once more.
Doctor Watson? He asked himself with a sudden amount of consideration. His heart felt this kind of fuzzy glow for a moment, and then he shook his head. "I'm fooling myself. How could I ever afford such an occupation on my pension?"
So here he was on Hyde Street in a poor flat, wondering what his next big move would be as he cast himself in exhaustion onto the bed. He propped his feet up on a pillow, then crossed his hands over his chest. "Perhaps I'll think about it more on the morrow, when my head is clearer."
Then he was out like a light.
The first moment he was aware something was wrong, was when he heard the scream of a woman. It was utterly, utterly horrible. He felt as if someone were tearing a hole in his heart and eating the rest.
He shrugged off the stupor of sleep and reached for his pistol, which of course was no longer there, having left it at the disembarkment, not wanting anything more to do with violence of any nature.
Not deterred, he swept off the bed, slid back into his boots, then dashed out the front door, down the hallway as doors began to fling open, then down the three flights of stairs to the street. He flung open the front door and leaped the three steps to the pavement, then tried to orientate on where the sound had come from.
It was still pitch black outside. No moon and a thick soupy fog was eating at his feet and causing strange shadows to move about as if alive and ready to snap at him. He ignored him. After his years of avoiding the sorcerous kind of fogs, this kind was nothing to him. He shrugged his shirt tighter about him, then on a new scream dashed across the street towards an alley.
He raced into it and was struck down by someone dashing forth from it. For a brief moment he saw a fiendish face, with glowing red eyes, and then the man or creature ran from sight, vanishing into the mounting fog.
He regained his footage and moved into the alley as carefully as he could, fearing there might be more of the strange fellows, but instead he saw a lone woman lying on the stinking alley cobblestones. Her throat had been slit, but she was still alive. He didn't know what to do when he saw the horror of it, but did what he could, remembering the triage of the trenches.
He dropped beside her and pressed his hands to the wound. Her eyes fluttered open and she started to scream, but then saw the look in his eyes. She became calm. Her eyes began to flutter shut.
"Don't go to sleep; you won't waken." He warned her.
But her eyes continued to flutter, growing heavier. He knew she was about to die, and then he remembered the spool of thread and needle he always kept in his right shirt pocket. Something you always had to carry out on the battlefield, or else go naked when your clothing fell off. He kept his left hand depressed on the cut of her throat, then hurriedly pulled out the needle and thread. The needle was always threaded, so he pulled it free and did the only sane thing he could think of. He began darning her throat back together, starting with the vein he saw had been cut. It was a delicate operation, but his hand was steady. He was known to have the steadiest hand in the service with a rifle or gun, and they had been right.
His prowess on the field paid off at that moment and he managed to sew the vein shut, but without cramping it, and then began sewing the skin of the throat together. As he did so he felt people gathering about him.
A Constable came close and dropped to a knee beside him. He was a muscular young man with an earnest face. "I'm Constable Bloodstone; may I help in any way?"
"I'm not a doctor, she needs one at once!"
Constable Bloodstone rose to his feet and blew his whistle. Moments later the sound of a Constable Wagon sounded and its blue flaring lights cut through the fog of the alleyway and entered, forcing the other spectators to disperse to make room.
John helped Bloodstone lift the fallen woman up and set her into the back of the wagon, as people reached out and patted him on his back. "Well done. Good for you. Great job. She'd be dead without you. Bloody hell, nothing is safe anymore."
He smiled inwardly, but the plight of the young woman was more important to him. He jumped into the back of the wagon and Bloodstone joined him as it drove off.
They were both tense with concern as the wagon bounced and swerved.
It stopped at Hyde and Mary Hospital and they got out and as emergency attendants rushed forward with a gurney, they lifted the young woman and placed her on the gurney.
Later Bloodstone and John sat on a bench near the emergency room, as doctors raced in and out, attempting to save her life. One stopped and peered at them. An older gentleman. He came over and introduced himself. "Doctor Charles Owens." He looked at John. "You must be the warrior everyone is talking about."
"I'm not warrior." John said humbly. "Just a man looking for a job. John Watson."
The Doctor nodded. He offered his hand. "I saw the work you did on her throat, and more importantly closing off the artery. She would be more than likely dead now without that fine surgery."
"I am no surgeon."
The Doctor was silent a long time, and then smiled. "Would you like to be?"
John felt his heart racing. He felt the momentum of this moment and the power of the emotions sweeping through him. He had saved a life, not taken one. He had saved a human life. He had felt better during that time of work than all the years of blasting holes in men's chests and blowing them up.
He rose and took the Doctor's hand. "My name is John Watson. I would be proud to be a surgeon. But right now I would just like a job?"
The Doctor smiled, and then looked over at Constable Bloodstone. "I'm sure the Constable here could show you to our employment office?"
Constable Bloodstone rose. "It would be my honor, sir."
The Doctor gave an apologetic smile, then turned to leave, then looked back. "Doctor Watson, I rather fancy that name."
With that certain statement he fled back into the emergency room to help complete the saving of a young woman's life.
Constable Bloodstone looked at John. "She's the first one that's been saved from that monster of Hyde Street."
John's eyes narrowed with anger. "If I have my way, she shall not be the last."
Constable Bloodstone laughed. "Doctor, calm down, the war is over."
John sighed, and then rubbed his weary eyes. "Some wars never end. Now...about that employment office?"
"This way." Constable Bloodstone offered and he and John walked towards the future.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
(New) Slither "A Jungle Lord Story" By John Pirillo artwork & stories at ImagineNation (http://johnpirilloauthor.blogspot.com/)
"A Jungle Lord Story"
By John Pirillo
It haunted the forest for a thousand years. No, a thousand thousand years. It was old beyond time and it was the master of its domain. It slithered across the moss and fern strewn forest floor, its back arched upwards, then downwards, sometimes touching the roofs of the tall forest canopy, breaking limbs, scattering frightened birds and monkeys, sometimes falling to the earth and smashing whatever lay beneath it. It was huge, it was as relentless as death and it was hungry. None dared get in its path, or they would not live long.
Its huge body was scaled with a kind of green slimy moss that exuded a poison. None who touched it survived. None dared to touch it. Even the great Dragon Lord who lived in the east steered clear of its deadly form. Dragons were known for their taste of the serpent kind, but this serpent was the oldest, most deadly and least likely harmed. None had harmed it for centuries, none would again.
Its eyes were slits of anger. Anger at its imprisonment in such a file form. It had not only grown larger over the decades and centuries, but more intelligent. Such intelligence became self despite in time, and that made it deadly, for knowing it was helpless to change its destiny, it grew malignant and dark, taking life even when not hungry.
As today its long green tongue slithered out and tasted the air, and as it did it tasted...child! Its large nostrils flared in delight, its tail almost wagging like a happy dog, knocking over several tall trees in the process. Their crashing to the ground brought it back to awareness of where it was once more. Child!
Its hunger was not of belly, but of anger and malice. Anger towards a Maker who had given it so much awareness, but no way to use it. Malice, which was its anger turned practical and directed at killing, maiming and torturing any it deemed worthy of the distraction.
==================================================
Lord Graystone swung through the trees of the gigantic swath of jungle land he called home. He had spent years exploring it, but there was so much more he had not. On this day, when his beloved was involved with her committees and charities, he had decided to return to Fairie, to the ancient lands that once bordered Earth and seek new adventure. His knife swung gently against his side, secure in it's sheathe. His bow and arrows were slung across his back securely, so that his leaps from branch to branch, and swings from vine to vine, would not shake it free, but all his weapons were easily put to use when needed, for he was well rehearsed in bringing them to bare in times of need.
For now he lazed through the air, greeting monkeys with talk that surprised them, praising the golden winged lizards that hatched babies in the safety of the higher twists of branches and limbs of the forest, and cooing at the birds that soared sometimes alongside him, as if wondering how he could fly with no wings.
He was in one of his best moods, soon leaving behind the fog and congestion of Victorian London, its horrors, its traffic, its multitudes. Here the air was free of the tainted scents of mankind, and lofty with the breath of freedom, of animals that lived from day to day, moment to moment, relishing the precious life that the Maker had given them.
Not an overzealous religious person, yet a believer in God, he turned not to priests for comfort in the Maker, but to the forest with its unrestrained love, its undying gifts of life and precious joy. Then he flung himself to a thick branch and sniffed the air. Something new?
He looked to the right and the left, his eagle sharp eyes taking in everything in exact detail, but sensing nothing he could see as out of the unusual. Then he heard it, a child's cry. A sobbing. He leapt from the branch, shooting like an arrow towards the source of the cry. It was distant. He had barely heard it, but as he swung faster and faster the scent grew stronger. The scent of what?
=============================================
Time stood still beneath the green canopies of leaves for Mula. She and her daughter had been playing beside the stream of water that cascaded from the nearby mountains, bringing a coolness and sweetness of taste that was rare when one went deeper into the woods. She was of the Mulan tribe. All daughters of the tribe were named Mula, but each had a unique way of pronouncing it, which gave them a unique sound signature. The choice of Mula was simple, it indicated their ties to t he one Mula...the great Goddess who created everything...and their humble ties to humanity, which were her brothers and sisters.
She was part Elf, but also part something else, lost in time, much like the histories of Fairie, which were so thickly endowed with rumor and myth. Her ears were elongated; her eyes slit like an oriental woman's, her breasts large and pendulous. Her waist was narrow and tapered, her arms strong and bronzed like obsidian with bursts of red. Her lips were full and sensuous. She was alone. Her Mu, husband, had died at the hands of the Great Snake, the god of the forest who chose when one was to live or die.
She did not believe it was a god, but those about her had come to fear it so greatly because of its cunning that they believed so over time. Some even wanted to sacrifice to the Great Snake, but the Mus, the men of her tribe, refused to allow that, though sometimes a few would dare to do so. Such caught in the act were severely punished, their lands taken away and sent off into the jungles to survive as best they could.
"Mula Ma." Her daughter called her.
She turned to look away from the thick canopy overhead and gave her bright young child a look of utter and pure love, such as only a mother can do. Her eyes lit up with a light that any child can recognize, even if most men do not. She was a mother. A Mula Ma.
"Yes, Mula?" She asked her daughter.
Mula, her child, stood about three feet tall. She was growing like the ferns of the forest, springing up so fast that she seemed almost gangly. She was barely ten suns old, but she was strong and healthy, her face bright with reason and alive with laughter.
Her hair was highly polished silver. The combination of obsidian skin and silver hair were the wonder of the tribes that lived about them, but no big thing to her and hers. They were only seen as the blessings of the Maker.
"The earth shakes."
Mula gave her daughter a frightened look. She dropped to the ground beside the stream and put her ear to it. She listened only a second, then her eyes widened in terror.
She leaped up and grabbed her daughter's hand. "Run, Mula, run!"
======================================================
Warm. Juices splattering sweetly down its throat. Savoring of goodness. The Great Snake slithered and slid rapidly towards a tasty climax, its throat already feeling the tastiness of fresh flesh wetting it.
Small shrubs and brush were nothing to it, not even felt as it rushed towards its goal. Its eyes honed in on its goal. Two pitiful creatures rushing for a safety they would never reach. It decided to make this more fun.
======================================================
Mula and her daughter screamed in horror as the Giant Snake burst from the jungle green and towered over them, its tail lost in the canopy of green above. Its eyes twirled hypnotically, beckoning them to move no more. If it could have smiled, it would have been no more frightening, than the sight of its huge fangs, easily as large as an elephant, its eyes the size of small boulders and skin that reeked of slime and poison.
"Behind me!" Mula ordered her daughter.
Her daughter was unable to move.
Death hovered over them tantalizingly, waiting for the first one to move. To become its meal. Who, which one would it be?
=====================================================
The tiny things were frozen in shock, as they always were before it pounced on its snack, crunching them between its jaws, allowing the juice of their life's blood to ooze pleasingly down its throat.
It readied to strike. No need to rush. The more terror the creatures felt, the better the feed.
Something struck its back hard.
It paid it no attention.
Nothing could harm a god!
Again, something struck its back, but this time, it felt pain.
It slung its head back over its first coils and saw a tiny creature that looked like the others, standing on its back, something sharp in its right fist. The thing that had hurt it.
He would hurt back.
He struck at the creature, like lightning in action, but his jaws clamped on nothing.
Puzzled, he swiveled his head around to see where it had gone.
The two tiny creatures it had intended for its play and meal were gone.
Now, it was angry.
It let out a hiss of such loud displeasure that several nearby trees lost all their leaves from the force of the blow of its mouth.
Then it felt something strike its left eye. Its life-force spilled from its eye and spewed upon its scales, causing them to hiss and smoke.
It shook its head, now knowing what had happened to the tiny creature on its back.
Something tiny flew through the air, but instead of landing on the ground where it could crush or eat it, it clasped a vine from a tree and swung upwards and from view.
The Giant Snake let out a moan that spilled forth like the bellow of an old wood burning train, then lowered its proud head, and slunk back into the forest. As it did so, it heard these words.
"Come no more, Old One. Preserve your years, your life. And harm no more! Eat that which the Maker provides. No more!"
It turned its head slightly and saw a tiny creature, cup its hands to its mouth and then let out the terrible cry of the King Dragon.
Terrified and confused, the Giant Snake slithered and slid faster and faster, until it reached a precipice at the edge of the jungle. It didn't hesitate. It shot forth into the voice between the sides of the precipice.
The terrible path of the monster was suddenly noisy again as all the jungle creatures came forth from their hiding places to live safely again. At least for another day.
======================================================
Mula and her daughter ran for what seemed forever, but when nothing happened. They finally stopped and looked behind them. All they could see was a tall white man with bronzed skin and golden eyes. He smiled at them, then leaped into a tree and swung from view.
"The Jungle Lord!" Her daughter exclaimed in awe.
"Yes, Mula. The Jungle Lord."
The cry of the Jungle Lord as he swung scattered vicious animals from his path as he vanished into the green splendor of the fierce jungle lands.
The Master Villain, Bela Lugosi, in The Invisible Ray...a movie trailer at ImagineNation (http://johnpirilloauthor.blogspot.com/)
Since we have been digging into the word Invisible relative to my character from The Baker Street Universe, I thought it only appropriate to branch out a touch with this classic horror film.
Bela Lugosi became famous in America as Count Dracula, "I do not drink...wine!"
Enjoy
John
Monday, May 18, 2015
(New) Go where you've never been. Exotic, stunning new worlds of imagination and adventure. (http://johnpirillo1.blogspot.com/)
A world so exotic and stunning that you won't believe it exists. But it does and you can read rare interviews with such people as Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarity, the Invisible Man and read stories that will whisk you away into realms of adventure and romance that will leave you breathless.
Don't miss a single post. It's a great experience.
I should know, it's my blog!
The Baker Street Universe
:) John
The Lost Soldiers of Nan Nang A Doctor Watson Story By John Pirillo at ImagineNation (http://johnpirilloauthor.blogspot.com)
You've always known him as the second half of the famous Baker Street Team, but what was he like as a young man. Where did he live? What did he do?
This story follows Doctor John Watson as a war veteran through a maze emotions and adventure that shows just how strong this man truly is and why he has made Sherlock a great partner.
Don't miss it!
The Lost Soldiers of Nan Nang
A Doctor Watson Story
By John Pirillo
Sergeant John Watson was a crack shot and never missed a target, but that day he missed more than once. He couldn't put his mind on his fighting for some reason unknown to him as he sighted down the barrel of his Langley 251, a modified, rifle capable of firing an amazing four rounds by rapidly winding its gear at the shoulder. It handled like one of those new cannon models that fired fifty rounds of heavy caliber bullets that when they impacted could shatter a solid brick wall, not that there were any where he was fighting.
A young man with great expectations for the future, he had entered the ranks of the Queen Mary of Scots Soldier Battalion as a medic, and had rapidly assumed battle positions as the men in his team mysteriously dropped like flies during the night, with no explanation of what had killed them.
He was sweating bullets in the morning sun. It was hot. Very hot. This part of the China Isles was closest to the Tropical Equator, and the average temperature on a good day was in the nineties. This was not an average day at all. It was bloody hot as hell he thought to himself, stroking his forehead with the back of his hand to clear dripping sweat from oozing into his eyes and ruining his sight through the scope of his Langley.
"Watson, how's the front?" Demanded Captain Webbles from his makeshift cot in the trench Watson stood in. A trench filled with squirming insects, mud and feces as the soldiers had no way to relieve themselves above the ground because of the danger of being caught with their pants down. Literally.
The natives had no respect for a man with needs. But then, he thought grimly, neither did they. He had seen two of the privates of his company break into a small temple of the Buddha Sun, a variation on Buddha that the natives of Nan Nang worshipped. He was supposedly able to manifest in the body of an animal and bring revenge or rewards to those who opposed or were loyal to him. Personally, Watson, still a naive young man in many ways, didn't believe in avenging gods, but he thoroughly believed in avenging devils...usually men of dark purposes who used magic or science to destroy their opponents or subjugate them, which was a big portion of why the present war continued despite their side carrying such huge losses.
He had come into Nan Nang's dripping wet tropical forests with a battalion of almost a thousand battle hardened soldiers, which had over the last few days been whittled down to several platoons of about fifteen in each, if you counted the wounded and near to dying.
It was a miserable bloody day and a doubly damned bloody war!
He swiped at the sweat again.
"Nothing." He finally answered Captain Webbles.
"Harrison." He called out to his right.
A slim older man of twenty-six turned to look at him, keeping his head ducked low as he did, lowering his own Langley to keep it safe. "Yeah?"
"See to the Captain!"
"Right on!" Harrison announced, dropping lower in the trench, seeking the only water they had, seated on a slight rise of filth in a thick leather flask. He grabbed it and hunch-backed to the Captain, who was obviously in great pain, but tried to hide it behind a greeting smile.
"Harrison, any news?"
Harrison and the others knew there was no good news, so to keep up the Captain's spirits, he was delirious most of the time, and he nodded. "Aye, somewhat. Here!"
He offered the water to the Captain, who gratefully drank a few sips, then pushed the flask away. "Save some for yourselves, Private."
"Plenty enough for all of us. Drink up, Cap."
The Captain looked him square in the eyes. "When I'm gone you make sure that Nanny gets my letter."
Harrison waved off the words. "You're goin' no wheres, Cap. So I'll be needing to take nothing of yours anywhere, 'cepting your baggage, of course."
The Captain gave him a weak smile. Harrison was his aide, and carried all the war documents and battle plans, as well as equipment for deciphering, none of which mattered at the moment, and explained the baggage being half buried under a collapsed trench wall behind them.
"Nanny will want to read my last words."
Harrison waved off the words again with a joke. "Look, Capt. The only thing your Nanny will be reading you is the riot, if you don't get your arse back together soon."
The Captain chuckled lightly a moment, his face brightening. "Yay. She would do that now, wouldn't she? She's a good woman, my Nanny. A very good..."
He made a sudden grimace and cried out, causing Watson to look away from the battlefield. Harrison looked over at him, and then hunch-backed to his place as Watson set his rifle down, then did the same back to the Captain, who was now struggling to stand up.
"Help me up, Watson!"
Watson tried to get him back on the cot, but the Captain was out of his mind with fever and pain. He grabbed Watson by his collars and screamed in his face. "You must! I won't lay here and die like a stuck pork for a barbecue."
Watson, at that very moment, saw a light in the Captain's eyes. A fading light.
"Very well, Captain."
He helped the man stand up, with Harrison and the other platoon members watching now; all knowing in their heart of hearts what was next.
"See. Everything's calm out there." Watson declared, sweeping a hand across the view in front of them.
The Captain nodded. "Very good, Sergeant. See to the men's rations. I'll be seeing Nanny in a few hours, and I must get dressed properly."
He struggled free from Watson and began straightening his clothing. He smiled weakly as he did so. "Must look proper for the old lady, you know."
"That I do." Watson declared, even though he had no one special in his life at that time.
"You're a good laddie." The Captain announced unexpectedly, tapping Watson warmly on his chest. "I will name my first son after you, John."
"I suspect you will, sir."
"And he shall be seated on your knee at Christmas, and mine as well. I insist on you joining us for dinner tonight."
"I gladly accept, sir."
The Captain smiled brightly, and then turned to look to his right. "There she comes now. My Nanny."
Watson turned that way and saw nothing at first, and then he saw something wispy in the air, glowing a soft white.
"She is so beautiful in white." The Captain said with pride. "I love her so much."
"And she loves you as well, Captain."
He turned back to Watson and smiled gratefully. "Someday you will be a great man, John Watson. Now, I must be on my way. Be sure to dress properly for our Christmas dinner."
"Do take this as my present. I'm sorry I couldn't wrap it."
Watson watched as the Captain slipped a cross from his pocket and handed it to him. "Don't lose it. It will bring you good luck."
"I will not forget, sir."
"Farewell."
The Captain shut his eyes for a moment, and then reopened them. "It's so beautiful. So bloody blessed beautiful."
Then he fell into Watson's arms and slumped against him, almost throwing him into the mud of the trench.
Watson felt his face begin to crinkle as the stress of the weeks and the death and dying caught up with him, and then as he laid the Captain gently back down on his cot and shut his still open eyes, he said. "God rest you, for God knows you got no rest here, Captain."
The men of the platoon gathered around the Captain and began to sing a Christmas song, "Peace on Earth."
And for the first time in days no one died in the trenches they occupied. For death had visited and claimed its guest for the day and sought no more.
Watson sat down and put his face in his hands and wept. Wept for himself, his friends, and all the souls who had perished around him. Someday, if he survived, he would remember this place and be grateful to be alive, to have the chance to help others without fear of death. But right now, that moment, he felt the weight of the lost souls about him, the death and the dying, the burden of carrying on when it appeared to be a useless battle and a useless war.
He clenched his fists and wiped at his cheeks and eyes.
The other men continued to sing the song, and he rose among them, and they all clasped arms and shoulders and put their hearts into the song and across the delta of Nan Nang, creatures stopped calling to each other, natives rose to listen in wonder as the most beautiful song they had ever heard, arose like the voices of angels, bringing comfort and some relief from the darkness of those times.
Watson just stopped once and turned and as he did he caught a glimpse of something rising from the Captain's prone body. It looked like the Captain. He waved at Watson and smiled, then turned to face a woman, Watson guessed Nanny, and joined her. Together they climbed the trench wall and walked across the delta as a white mist gathered before them, enveloped them in white light and swept them away.
Watson nodded. The Captain would at last be able to be with his wife, who had died a year earlier. "God be with you both!" Watson whispered gently as the white light vanished. "God be with us all!"
Then he turned back to his men. For that was the case now. He turned back and lifted his voice with theirs, sharing what little comfort he could find for them in this moment of camaraderie and sharing.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
His death was only the beginning of a great adventure. The world opened up in a way he could never understand. The Death of Conan!
When you look up into the sky, you wonder.
You wonder if there could be others like yourself out there.
You wonder what they would think, do and believe.
What you don't wonder is if they weren't like you at all,
but something entirely new!
The Baker Street Universe explores the possibility of the
existence of an entirely new universe that is in parallel to our own.
It is populated by heroes and villains we have created.
What if the best and worst of us were real?
What if they breathed life and were determined to find us?
What would happen then?
What would happen then?
Read the story that crosses over from our world into that
new existence.
Follow a living and breathing author, Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle, as he makes the leap from our humanity to a new one.
What he finds there in the new universe will:
Astound you!
Frighten you!
Make you think like never before!
What if they were real? What if you weren't to them?
(New) The Crime of Loving is never paid off"A James Moriarity Story." By John Pirillo artwork & stories at ImagineNation
The Crime of Loving is never paid off
"A James Moriarity Story."
By John Pirillo
"The crime of loving is never paid off. It will last until your undying days." Sir William Shakespeare.
Those words echoed in the chamber of his mind over and over as he remembered her. The Elf Princess who had nurtured him and salvaged his damaged body and soul. Every since he had spotted her that one time on Baker Street, he'd never been the same. So as he stood in that same window, like most of us do when striving to bring back our dear lost ones, hoping beyond hope that they are not dead, but still live...as he stood there, those were his hopes and desires. To bring her back into his life. To reclaim his investment of emotions and happiness once more.
But such was not to be.
"Pound for your thoughts, James."
James turned to eye Watson, who was giving him a close look, almost as if he could read his mind. "Rather expensive gesture."
"Not at today's rates. A pound is swiftly becoming as useless as a penny has long been."
James smiled. Watson might be gruff and emotional at times, but one thing was certain. His friendship. He could see why Sherlock...the new one...clung to the friendship so closely. A friend was the only true treasure in a man or woman's life. All the glitter and gold of life were nothing but vain gestures to claim happiness, never brought it.
Watson came to the window and looked out. "March is always cold and dreary."
"I've seen worse." James said without thought.
Watson gave him a distressed look. "I didn't mean to dredge up those old memories again."
James put a hand on his friend and partner's shoulder. "One thing you may never be, Watson, even if you are so many other things and that is unkind."
Watson relaxed beneath the grip and turned to look out again.
"We're a funny pair of buggers now, aren't we?"
"Yes. I looking for a lost love and you a friend, who is not lost, but because he has chosen to remove himself far away, could very well be."
Watson sighed. "We know each other too well."
"Never." James replied whole heartedly. "Friends can never know each other too much. Speaking of knowing...our friend Chenay has invited us to a dinner social at Byron's."
"The poet?"
"That one."
"Conan would love to go to that, I suspect."
"Already on his way to meet us. We should be hearing his taxi humming up right about..."
A Tesla Cab turned nearby and came humming to a stop out front. Conan stepped onto the floorboard of it, then down to the sidewalk. He looked up and waved.
James and Watson smiled at him.
"Amazing, when you think of how much all of us have been through, that we can still adapt so easily to so much variance in our lives."
"Variance is what we were born to serve." James uttered, remembering words that Captain Nemo had spoken to him on the cruise they had been on at one time, a long time ago.
"Nemo?"
"But of course."
"Heard from him?"
"Usually the only time we hear from him or he from us is when there is a major world destructive event about to happen or already doing so."
Watson chuckled. "Indeed so."
Mrs. Hudson was heard downstairs opening the front door and greeting Conan, who gave her a loud greeting in return, and then the both of them came up the stairs, talking softly to one another. Conan entered first, and then rushed over to shake hands with both men.
Mrs. Hudson lingered at the stairs, giving Watson a look. A smart man. He left the others and descended the stairs with her, soon lost to their view, had they been looking.
"James."
"Conan." He greeted his friend.
Conan motioned to a chair and James sat, with Conan sitting opposite him. "I have bad news."
James felt his throat tighten in despair. Only one thing could strike him so hard. He became breathless with anticipation as Conan measured him with his eyes, and then finally spoke again.
"The Elf Princess you have sought is in grave danger."
James almost wept with relief. Now he knew she was alive, but the news was horrible. "I shall leave at once to rescue her."
He started to get up, but Conan was faster and put a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. He started to push against it.
"Let me finish!" Conan said fiercely, his eyes sparkling with purpose.
James relented, but still kept the option open for fleeing to help once he knew the full circumstances.
Conan waited a moment, and then seeing James had capitulated, he sat down again. "Sherlock and Professor Challenger are there even now to succor her."
"Where is this...there?" He asked, the menace barely hidden in his voice.
Conan looked at his friend's eyes and shuddered. He prayed that she lived, for if not, a war of proportions never before seen just might erupt.
"The Queen's Black Tower."
"The what!"
James shot up, his face red with indignation. "How dare her! After all we've done for her and this blasted kingdom."
Conan remained immovable, waiting for the inevitable next question, which came. "Why?"
"For her safety."
James felt some of his anger ebb and flow away, but his face still remained flushed with hope and a violent kind of anger that refused to vanish entirely. "Who?"
Conan was used to his friend's form of questioning and replied at once. "The Hollow Man."
James was confused for a moment. "But why would he seek to harm her? She wasn't even known to this kingdom until she rescued me. He fretted with his coat's lapel, using the distraction to try and gather his thoughts, seek an avenue of understanding that made sense. But even with that, he could feel his heart breaking. He wanted to rush to her rescue her, hold her in his arms, and keep her safe!
"James, it's complicated."
James sighed. "Isn't it always?"
"Yes. But this time more so. You see the Hollow Man has made a pact with someone we have sought to keep away from our kingdom over and over, and yet he returns more powerful and eager to destroy than before."
James knew instantly. "Hyde!"
"Yes. That beast."
"But how has he escaped this time?"
"No one is certain. Wells and Jules, even as we speak, are enroute to the vessel that was his jail cell near the moon, but we won't necessarily hear more than what we've already figured out."
"Which is?"
"That she knows something about their plans."
"Then she should speak of them at once." James said. "That's the logical thing to do."
"There's more."
"What more could there be?"
"Her father has gone missing as well."
Then James knew what was going on. He stiffened his resolve and rose again. "We must go to her side at once."
Conan nodded and rose. "I knew that would be the case, but I wanted you to know everything before you took on this case."
"Case?"
"Yes." Conan said.
"You see, not only is the father missing, but so is the Queen's brother."
"That complicates things."
"Tremendously."
=======================================================
She sat in the dark cell, several lit candles illuminating the book she read. "Good Night and Dreams," by William Shakespeare. It was a play similar to Romeo and Juliet, but had a happier ending. Queen Mary had a personally signed copy of it, which had been loaned to her. She was grateful for its comfort now, as she missed the daylight tremendously, but knew she had to remain as hidden as possible, even if it meant being in the deepest dungeons of the Black Tower.
"How art thy eyes like that of the morning sun
Lighting my brow with warmth and love
Thy words are like song birds that come
With calls of greeting from high above."
She read aloud, then stopped and began to sob. Tears wet her eyes and she rubbed at them. She thought she heard something move outside her cell, but then it became still again. She sighed and raised the play again to read further, but before she could a man's voice came into the cell.
"And how much more so, the touch of your hand
The light of your comely eyes,
The caress of your words without need or plan
That lifts me up with great surprise."
"JAMES!" She uttered frantically and jumped to her feet. She raced towards the opening cell door and leapt into the arms of the huge man whose face had become her sun and moon, whose words her song, and whose thoughts her calm.
"James!" She wept.
Conan stood framed in the doorway, his form seeming more like a wisp of smoke, than a real person as he stepped back into the shadows, turned and walked away.
James gently pressed her from him and looked into her wet eyes.
"Never more!"
"Quoth the Raven." She answered.
James leaned over and kissed her on her lips and for those brief moments of electricity, their souls blended and heaven and hell both vanished in a sea of peace known only to those whose love enfolds the universe in its grasp.
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