Added Pinterest section to main menu

To make it a little more fun, I've added a Pinterest section to my blog. It's at the far right on the main menu.

On that page I've posted my pages for "Journey to the Center of the Earth," and "Baker Street Adventures."

The pages are loaded with all kinds of extra information, research and comments by me.

The Case of the White Phosphor "A Sherlock Holmes Mystery"

The Geldings Residence sat alone in a street of mainly shop keepers, a lone and ancient structure that had been inherited from generations of Geldings, starting from the days of King Cornish to the current Queen Mary of Scots. Not a lovely place. But a forbidding one, it sprung from the street like a malignant tumor against all the more brightly lit and clean businesses that hugged its right and left sides, and faced it from the Manly Park opposite it.

It had always been a queer neighborhood. Rumors of vampires, werewolves, changelings, black magic and dark sorcerers had abounded there from the times of King Cornish. Some even rumored it to be back from the times of King Arthur, when he and Merlin established their brief empire of Light and the round table of equality run by the most educated and noble Knights of the times.

Therefore it came as no surprise that one day the ancient structure should catch on fire and immediately burn to the ground, impacting business on both sides as firemen from the length and breadth of London strove to put out the scorching flames before all the good nearby businesses were leveled to the ground as well. The fire burned so hot that the firemen were forced to stand at least a hundred feet away to blast their water upon it.

McBride and McBride, fabled inventors of the Golden Ruby, a special hand watch that could accurately keep track of time no matter what time zone, were very bitter that Monday morning, as they rushed to their place of business to see it in flames as well as the dark and malignant mansion nearby.

"Serves them right!" Father McBride told his twenty year old partner and son, Fable McBride, a good lad with blonde hair and stark blue eyes that looked into your very soul. Or at least that's what people told him. Often. And repeatedly.

Fable shook his head, tossing his mane of shoulder length locks and curls about his broad shoulders. "We can rebuild."

His father sighed. "Yes. But will I still be alive to see the business thrive once more?"

His son was silent.

"Excuse me, kind sir." Watson asked from two gentlemen away. "Am I right to assume that you two are related to the fire here this morning?"

"Not related, but victimized." Father McBride corrected.

Watson stepped around the two gawkers of the crowd that had been building to watch the death and destruction of the old mansion, and took his hat off. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss. You are then Father McBride?"

"How would you know that, sir?"

Watson indicated the briefcase in Father McBride's hands, and the label upon it.

"Oh. Yes. Rather silly of me to question you on that, wasn't it? How can I help you then?"

"My friend and I..." He indicated Sherlock Holmes who stood closer to the fire, his eyes on something only he was aware of. "Mister Holmes..."

"Not the...Mister Holmes!" Fable exclaimed, reaching out his hand to take Watson's. "I read your articles in the London Blast every day. Fascinating. Brilliant. You are admired by every school child and young woman and man in the Greater Britains."

Watson flushed with embarrassment at the comment and looked away to hide his red face. "I've been told that you two knew the deceased."

Father McBride gave Watson another look of astonishment. "But how could you know..."

Fable nudged him. "No one could have survived that fire, Father."

"Right. Yes. So sorry. I'm just testy because of the damage to our reputation."

Watson turned to look at him again, his embarrassment under control once more. "Before we were summoned here by Inspector Bloodstone, he mentioned that you two had been having some...uh...difficulties with the Elder Gelding?"

"Yes. The man kept an inordinate number of bats in his basement, and they would fly out at night and attack our dear Nellie."

Fable jumped in. "A sheep dog. My father got him as a gift from me Mummy."

Father McBride corrected him. "Your mother!"

"Yes. That's right, Me...My Mother."

Watson almost laughed, but restrained himself at this minor infraction on the father's part against his son. It wasn't uncommon for the richer gentry to be very precise about their language as a way of showing off their wealth and considerations.

"I see." Watson spoke finally.

"Can you tell me how your dog fares now, Mister McBride?" Sherlock said as he stepped between the father and son to look into his face.

"Oh."

Sherlock waited, saying nothing.

"She is quite happy." Father McBride answered a bit too quickly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 

Inspector Bloodstone, his short red hair flaring a bit from rushing to the crime scene, or perhaps not a crime scene. That was yet to be determined. He came up and nodded to the father and son. "You remember our earlier conversation?"

"Yes." Father McBride responded. "You had two gentlemen looking into the bats issue to see if a mutually agreeable solution could be found."

"It would appear a solution has been found, though not beneficial to either your, the Geldings, or the other business scored by this unfortunate incident."

Sherlock spoke again, more slowly. "Did you have any relationship with the Goodfellows, who owned the other shop?"

"We spoke sometimes when passing." Father McBride answered politely.

Fable jumped in. "Merilee Goodfellow and I are dating."

His father glared at him. "A bad relationship it is too."

"You do not approve of the daughter?" Sherlock inquired.

"No, I think she is fine, but the father is a dark sort, and I'm afraid his nature rubs off on his daughter as well, though why my son can't see that, I don't know."

"I see. Then you won't mind us speaking to them about this incident?"

"Why should I mind? It's a free London."

Sherlock nodded, then as the last of the flames were smothered by water and began settling down; he proceeded with Inspector Bloodstone to the ruins to inspect them. On the way he stopped to look back at Father McBride, who was watching him closely, but quickly looked away when seen doing so.

Watson took out a small notebook, with hurried notes in it. "How long have you known the Geldings?"

"Never. Never saw them. Never spoke to them, except through a Legal Counsel who applied the letter of law upon them for the bats."

"And Nellie, your sheepdog. Have you made a claim for her death?"

Father McBride blanched the color of a ghost. "How in the devil did you know that, sir?"

Sherlock and Inspector Bloodstone stooped in the smoking rubble and dug something up with their hands, then slowly lifted it into view. They came waking back towards Watson and the McBride's.

They set the object down on the cobblestone street in front of the pair.

Sherlock eyed the father. "You said your sheep dog was fine, am I correct?"

"Yes. Indubitably."

Inspector Bloodstone dropped back to the left on Sherlock's slight eye movement and kept an intent stance as Sherlock continued.

"Please examine the tags on this dog's neck."

"My God! The poor creature. Caught in that horrible place!" Father McBride gasped, then dropped to a knee and examined the tags. His face drained of all color as he slowly rose.

"Inspector." Sherlock spoke.

Inspector Bloodstone pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and approached the father.

Fable tried to stop him.

"Son. Will you interfere with the arrest of a man for the murder of an entire family?"

Fable began to shake with fear and anxiety and dropped back, making short intakes of air, sounding like he might be ready to faint.

Sherlock nodded to Watson who attended to Fable, leading him towards a nearby constable wagon.

"Mister McBride, you are under arrest for the murder of Elmer, Aimee and Louis Gelding."

Father McBride put his hands out and they were handcuffed.

He looked back at Sherlock before he was led away.

"How could you know I set the fire?"

Sherlock raised a fingertip with a white substance on it. "Phosphor."

"Phosphor?"

"Your firm is well known for using phosphor in large quantities to apply the extreme heat needed for your construction of the most excellent time pieces you manufacture."

"Everyone knows that." Father McBride protested.

"This dog did not die of the fire." Sherlock noted.

"What!"

"No, it died from a severe beating. Its skull was split in three different places."

Sherlock walked closer to Father McBride.

"Mister Gelding caught you beating your beloved dog to death and threatened to expose you to the world as a man who hurts innocent creatures, thus tarnishing your reputation and that of your shop."

Fable, who had been struggling with the indictment of his father, spoke up, his voice weak and trembling. "Father. You told me that Mister Gelding killed the dog."

The Inspector gave the son a look of surprise.

Sherlock turned to the Inspector. "I think that you will find that it was the father, who ordered the burning of the mansion, but it was his son who delivered the deadly white phosphorous through the basement windows, knowing full well how deadly and highly inflammable it was."

The Inspector scowled at the son, who know hid his face in his hands and began to weep. 

The Inspector nodded to a nearby constable who took the son in tow. They marched the McBrides off to the constable wagon.

Watson sighed. "So many lives ruined over an animal."

Sherlock turned to Watson. "Which animal do you refer to, Watson? The dog or the father?" Without another word he stuck his hands behind his back and strode off, leaving a shocked Watson behind him.

Zombies Of The Stratosphere - Chapter Two (complete)

Zombies of the Stratosphere is a 1952 black-and-white Republic Studios serial that was intended to be their second featuring "new hero"Commando Cody and the third 12-chapter serial featuring the rocket-powered flying jacket and helmet introduced in King of the Rocket Men(1949). Instead, for reasons unknown, the hero was renamed "Larry Martin," who must prevent Martian invaders from using a hydrogen bomb to blow Earth out of its orbit, away from the Sun, so that Mars can take its position. As in Radar Men from the Moon (also released in 1952), most of the screen time for each of the dozen chapters is spent on fistfights and car chases between the heroes and a gang of crooks hired by Narab and his extraterrestrial colleague Marex to steal and stockpile the Atomic supplies needed for construction of the H-bomb.

The serial was directed director by Fred C. Brannon, with a screenplay by Ronald Davidson, and the special effects by Republic's Lydecker brothers. The serial is remembered today as one of the first screen appearances of a young Leonard Nimoy, who plays one of the three Martian invaders, Narab. In 1958, a feature film version of this serial, retitled Satan's Satellites, was made by editing down the serial's footage to feature film length.

ZOMBIES OF THE STRATOSPHERE - Chapter One

He's back in another adventure.

Rocketman in this serial chapter play series is now called Commando Cody.

It was fun seeing how the big motion picture companies played off each other and stole ideas by slightly changing them, though not always by much.

What's fun, especially now, and a bit sad at the same time, is watching a very young Leonard Nimoy play an alien invader.

Little did I know when I was watching him as a child that later on as an adult I would be watching him make the character of Spock worldwide famous. I suspect he was as surprised as anyone. No actor can ever know how famous, or if at all, they will be.

Fame can be as elusive as a soap bubble.

Anyway,

Enjoy

John

Rhubarby Pie, "A Chittles and Redeye Story."

"I don't believe in love." Redeye said over a glass of Sherry and rhubarb pie. He stirred the gooey pie on the plate before him, shaping it thoughtfully as he sipped occasionally from his crystal Merryweather Glass, imported from Gloucester.

Chittles eyed him sternly. "You've been in love more times than grass grows in the Spring."

"We have no grass." Redeye replied frothily, a touch of rhubarb on his nose.

Chittles pointed to his own nose.

Redeye grabbed his napkin and swabbed at Chittle's nose. 

"Not mine, you idiot! Yours!"

"Oh." Chittles responded weakly, then dabbed the pie from the tip of his beaky nose.

Chittles reached towards the center of the short dining table they use when it was just them and moved his pawn forward diagonally opposite Redeye's queen.

"That's unusual." Redeye noted.

"Checkmate."

"Hardly." Redeye replied, moving his Queen diagonally until it was directly in line with Chittles' King, who had no exit in any direction but towards the King.

"Good move."

"I rather think so." Redeye said, squinting at his pie.

"What's with the pie search?" Chittles demanded, his temper rising as he felt more and more ignored by his good friend and detective companion.

"It resembles the kidneys that were taken from Lord Peterbrooke's body and placed on his wife's boudoir."

Chittles had been raising his own pie to his mouth, grimaced, then placed his pie back on its plate, and shoved it away.

"You know how to ruin everything."

"I'm an expert at it, you know."

"Do I ever." Chittles replied.

"No, not that, this."

Redeye shoved his plate closer to Chittles to see. Chittles stopped fuming and his eyes widened.

"I'll get the car!"

"Righto!" Redeye replied. "I'll get the guns."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They met out front of the rather sumptuous two story Elizabethan Mansion that Redeye maintained with the wealth of his inheritance from his late father, Lord Redeye of Thumberland. The Tesla made a light purring sound as its electric engine sucked in the purple and blue energies of the Tesla battery.

Redeye hopped into the front seat next to Chittles, who floored the power pedal, and sent them squealing off into the center of the road, leaving a smoking trail of rubber behind them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lady Peterbrooke sat on her fan porch, where twin fans, mounted with Tesla engines purred quietly, keeping the air stirred above her  Pompidou hairdo, which was the rage of Parisian ladies at that time. She sipped at a glass of lemonade that her maid had just placed on the antique Edwardian foot table with its ornate King and Queen legs with raised gold bars. The leggings of the porch railings were also embossed with gold leafs and roses of a ruby gold metal, creating an artificial look of a garden bordering her porch and enclosing it in a warmth of nature.

In a neatly embroidered bag hanging from the side of her chair were darning needles and yarn of a colorful nature. Several of the needles seemed a bit rusty.

She eyed the New London Brazier, a rather radical newspaper that demanded freedom for women, and was co-sponsored by Lady Shareen, the fiancée of Lord Graystone, also known as the Jungle Lord. She gave herself permission to hold the paper lightly on her lap, where a gold chemise napkin laid lightly to catch any crumbs or liquid that might decide to play there.

She looked at the picture of a man standing next to Lord Graystone, which was the trademark logo of the paper. Man and woman united in power. Equal in abilities. It was New Age according to all the occultists and a sign of the coming of the New Christ who would lift up the masses and bring them on the golden trail to Heaven, where they would all live forever and ever with their accumulated wealth and power.

She thrilled at that prospect. Her late husband had as well before he...

"Lady Peterbrooke, there are two gentlemen here to see you." Maid Margaret's said to her from the screened door, her form invisible behind it.

"Oh?"

"Lord Thumberland's son and Chittles, I believe his name was or is, I should say. Rather remarkable men too. Very strange, but different. Shall I bring them to you?"

Lady Peterbrooke rose carefully and set the paper and her lemonade down. "Please do. But ask them to wait five minutes for me to freshen before they come back here."

"Yes, Madam." Maid Margaret replied.

But instead of preparing herself as she had promised and indicated, Lady Peterbrooke did a very remarkable thing. She hiked her bloomers so that her stockinged legs were visible and leaped the porch railing and ran as nimbly as a rabbit for the backyard fence, where there was a ladder against it. She reached the ladder, and began rapidly climbing it.

As she reached the top, an ugly, grinning face smiled into her startled one.

Chittles touched his hat in a gentlemanly fashion. "Good day to you, Lady Peterbrooke. I have the pleasure of escorting you to your new home."

She looked down and saw Redeye standing next to a gentleman with a severe scowl on his face.

He turned to Redeye. "Exactly as you indicated she would be and do."

Redeye nodded, as Chittles helped Lady Peterbrooke down the ladder on the other side of the wall, then guided her to the back of a constable wagon, where Constable Evans touched his cap, then gently, but firmly escorted her into the back, and placed handcuffs on her.

"But what I don't understand is how you determined she would flee like this?"

"Rhubarb pie. You see." Redeye leaned close to the Inspector and smiled. "When we found her husband, as she claims he had been discovered, his kidneys and intestines had been wrapped about each other like a slice of pie ready to be eaten."

Inspector Bloodstone made a face like he was going to be sick, then stiffened. "I see. But how does this relate to the death?"

Chittles explained. "In order to wrap the intestines and kidneys about each other, one would need the correct kind of darning tools. And..."

Redeye finished. "Lady Peterbrooke is the only one within fifty square kilometers of London that has such tools." He held up her darning bag, and thrust out the needles with the rusty stains on them. "I think once we put these stains under the proper eyes, we will discover Lord Peterbrooke's kidneys..."

"And intestines..."

"On them." Redeye finished.

"Thus." Chittles went on. "Redeye's rhubarb pie and Lord Peterbrooke's kidneys and intestines neatly wrapped up the case."

This was the final tipping point for Inspector Bloodstone. 

He rushed to the street and heaved his guts. After a few more moments of emptying his late breakfast, he turned to them. "Excuse my poor manners, but I didn't eat too well earlier."

"What did you have?" Redeye inquired.

"Rhubarb Pie."

Today we mourn the loss of Leonard Nmioy and honor him for his contributions!

When they played the soleful tune for Spock, thinking that he had met his death, Star Trek found one of its finest moments. For it is not the splendor of space, the battling of empires, the accumulation of wealth we will remember a person for...but what they have accomplished in their lives.

Spock was the quintessential male...embracing both the feminine and the masculine sides of life with his great intellect and deep compassion.

Embodied by Leonard Nimoy, the character became a symbol for the  New Age man who will be vastly more intelligent and logical, but also sensitive to the needs of the many.

God Bless Leonard Nimoy on his final voyage from Earth and may he find the peace and happiness in the Realms of Light where he is going.

Thank you for all the blessed years of enjoyment you have brought me and my family, my friends and all the children of this world.

Bad Hair Day, "A Samuel Light Junior Story."

Bad Hair Day

"A Samuel Light Junior Story"

John Pirillo

Approximately ten minutes after P.E., after a shower, after a four mile run, after cramps in his right leg, after Jimbo making his life a hell by shoving a cigar in his gym clothes hamper and Coach finding it, and after another four mile run and a hundred push-ups for that, Samuel was finally able to go home. 

It had been a Bad Hair Day for him.

Now he knew why the girls called it that. It meant that anything that could possibly go wrong had or would. He wasn't a pessimist by nature. But some days it seemed like the world was going to end. Or at least a reasonable approximation, if there was such a thing.

Oh and by the way Samuel is a spiritual detective. That's what his Mom calls him. The big, cuddly blonde who has raised him since he was...well, born. She always told him he was born for a purpose and as he began sprouting psychic abilities and some right scary stuff he began to believe it wasn't just for a purpose, but to scare the Holy Crap out of him.

Samuel didn't swear. Usually. He saved those spare words for when he cracked his head on the kitchen cabinet door, which was often. He was sprouting inches a lot these days. And for those times when he burned himself, which was frequently, because he usually made his own breakfasts, because Mom was running off to her day job...she had two, night and day...to keep him and her in the home that his father had built and was now being taxed so heavily that she could barely keep up with the taxes, let alone the payments for the supplies that built it. It wasn't much, but when you worked for a K-Mart or Wal-Mart, you didn't make much. She never got a degree. Never had time for it. She had him almost right after she'd met his father. Least that's what she told him, though he suspected sometimes that she was withholding a secret from him.

And yeah, he could read intentions, if not minds at times.

Right. Another one of those things his Mom called psychic abilities, but his friends called weird and crazy, and voodoo. He laughed to himself as he stuffed his gym shorts into his backpack, and headed for the gym exit.

Mister Peterson stood there at the door frowning at him, as he said good-bye to his Rat Pack; he called the kids of this period. They were his favorites. Sam knew it. He always told the other teachers, because they were smart and motivated.

"How's the throat these days?" Mister Peterson asked him as he prepared to exit.

"Uh..."

"Stay away from those stink sticks, Mister, they'll punch holes in your lungs." He was warned as he exited.

Sam didn't respond. What could he say? He had been framed! Nope. Wouldn't work. The Coach was not anything, if not stubborn. He refused to see the other side of the poker deck, the part which one had been dealt. He said it was because he grew up in Chicago where everyone had a story, but Sam suspected it was just his nature, or at least the one he had decided to fix himself on.

"Hey Sambo!" Jimbo taunted.

Sam spun around and glared at his friend, who was almost as tall as him, but built like a tank by comparison. "You framed me!"

Jimbo, his reddish hair tinted almost blonde from the hard light of approaching summer, grinned that annoying grin he always gave when he was going to start shoveling...the compost heap at him..And said. "You look good in one. Should mount you on the gymnasium wall for all the girls to ponder the meaning of why they never give that kid a chance, and then remind themselves why they don't."

"You through?"

Jimbo shrugged. "Going to Papa Maries for a malt. Wanta come."

"Okay."

Just like that all their quarrels and Jimbo's terrible jokes were forgiven. Sam never held onto anything, except some doubts about himself, which he only brought out when he sat facing his closet where the giant Knight lived.

As they walked past the admin building and then headed onto the main sidewalk fronting the two million dollar school that looked more like a two million dollar prison with all its metal doors and gates shutting off the rooms and openings, and waved at the Campus Cop, who gave them a sour look, they headed across the street, avoiding the sidewalk crossing where the cheerleaders were gathered for the bus.

"You think any of them like you?" Sam asked as they passed them.

Jimbo shrugged. "Don't really care. All the other girls at school do."

"You're so lucky."

"Son, it's not luck." Jimbo told him with a grin. "Some of us are born cockeyed crazy with powers that drive mortal men mad."

"Me!"

"Yup!" Jimbo agreed. "And some are born powerful handsome and maddeningly gorgeous to the ladies."

"You!"

"Hey! You're firing on all eighteen cylinders this afternoon."

"I don't have eighteen."

"Seems like it sometimes.

"That's because you're still working on firing up two."

Jimbo cracked into laughter, pounding Sam on the back so hard he almost fell over. "Now...that...was funny!"

As they walked he could see Papa Maries neon sign hanging over its dark front. It always seemed to be darker there than anywhere else. He could have looked into it deeper, but he didn't like fooling around with psychic powers. Mom had told him to use them wisely or they would be taken away.

How she knew that, he never asked. He trusted her in that, because the one time he had tried to open up his third eye in an older part of time, he had seen a ghost straight from Hell. He had run home screaming at the age of seven, a disillusioned and chastised runt of four feet in height, who would never doubt his Mom's wisdom again.

As they entered Papa Marie's he smelled something weird.

"Smell that?"

"Yeah." Jimbo replied, his nose wriggling from the effort of trying to block out the annoying scent.

Sam suddenly perked up. He felt, rather than saw what was happening. He threw down his back pack and ran past the tables of kids who were eating and drinking, but lost to what was going on. Jimbo was hot on his heels.

They tore into the kitchen and Papa Marie was slumped over a kitchen sink, his hands limp at his sides, his grill smoking, starting to catch on fire. Jimbo ran for a bucket in the back. They sometimes helped clean up for free food and drinks. Sam put a hand on Papa Marie. He could feel warmth, but it seemed to be cooling where he touched him.

For no particular reason his hand began to glow a bright green. 

"Holly Batman Droppings!" Sambo yelled as he saw it.

Papa Marie suddenly jerked upright, coughing and hacking, and then he wiped at his mouth and his forehead and gave Sam a peculiar look.

Sam said nothing.

No one said a thing, until the smell of burning burgers caught their attention again.

Jimbo tossed the water on the grill and then they spent the better part of their afternoon helping Papa Marie to clean up the mess.

He never spoke to Sam or Jimbo about what had happened, nor did they talk about it to each other at that time, but everyone had changed that day in some way.

But like the friends they all were, he and Sambo finished helping. Papa Marie made them super whoppers on dishes heaped with curly fries and a separate giant mug of vanilla ice cream with coke in it and everyone went home happy that day. Especially Papa Marie!

===========================================================================

Want to read more?

Amazon is now selling my first story in the ongoing adventures of Samuel Light Junior.

Samuel Light Junior, Spiritual Detective Chapter One: Magic Happens 

Buy it now for only 99cents!

Samuel is a normal, everyday teenager, except he hasn't a clue where his father is, or what he does. His mother has secrets. He goes to a school where there's ghosts. The girl he likes is also liked by his best friend. Yeah. Normal teenager.

Samuel's life gets more complicated when he begins seeing through the eyes of people who 

have passed away, and then later actually sees people who have passed away.

Samuel just wants to live a normal life, but for him that's going to be a life that's anything but normal, as he ventures into the world of magic, the occult and the spiritual.

To graduate from Elvis High School he not only has to overcome normal teenage angst, but also overcome mysteries and magic that would daunt the bravest of souls.