Monday, August 29, 2016

I Beg Your Pardon...

The prompt for the story this week was, of course, from Tumblr/Pinterest. "Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you've caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the 'girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft' and I'm trying to figure out how to break it to you that we're on our way to a graveyard."

Of course, with this prompt, I immediately thought of Lynn Anderson's song, "I Beg Your Pardon, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden". Hence the title of the story itself.

I was struck by John to steal flowers from Sherlock's garden. And, of course, Sherlock has bees because it's Sherlock and of course he's got bees. This was a fun little AU (alternative universe) where perhaps they didn't meet at Bart's, but rather on the way to visit the ex-army soldier's parents.

I had fun with it and hope you enjoy it.

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden - An original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     It was nearly a weekly routine. He’d make his way to the cemetery, occasionally pause at the edge of a large field of wildflowers to pick a small bouquet, and finish his walk. He’d stop by the stone that held their names and places the flowers, spending a brief amount of time there, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.
     His return home was by far much quicker. He’d walk quickly through the cemetery, past the field, and return home to lock himself away for another week, maybe two if he thought he could get away with it.
     It went on this way for months, until he hesitated at the edge of the field, suddenly wary of the tall man who stood in the middle of the wildflowers. He had a scowl on his face and quicksilver eyes seemed to bore into his mind.
     “You’re the one stealing flowers from my garden.”
     He blinked rapidly for a moment, mouth hanging open in surprise. His garden? It was just a field of wildflowers, not a garden. Wasn’t it?
     “Once a week you wander past here, sometimes stopping to gather a small amount of flowers, particularly the dimorphotheca aurantiaca and nemophila menziesii.” The man’s frown deepened. “I do not know why, though I suspect it’s for some female, to gain her attention and affections, and those two, in particular, seem to be her favorites. Or your favorites, since the later does seem to deepen the blue of your own eyes. A point in your favor, perhaps, since women do seem to favor tall, dark, and handsome, which trait you only carry one.”
     “I, uh,” he blinked, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was your garden. Didn’t realize it was a garden at all, in fact.”
     “No, of course not. People rarely seem to think. Flowers growing next to a manicured lawn, surely nothing odd about that. The bees would take unkindly to you if they carried such mental capacity.” The taller man rolled his eyes. “However, I will admit I am curious to see if your token of sentiment works or not. Gather what you will and I will determine if you are to be allowed to continue or if I should call the police after you.”
     “The police!” He shook his head, “There’s no need for that! I didn’t know, honest! I won’t do it again!”
     The man waved a hand. “For me to decide. You have your instructions. Pick what this woman of yours desires and let’s get on with it, yes? I do not have all day.”
     He huffed and gathered a handful of flowers, tempted to stay away from the daisies and baby blue eyes, but they were a favorite, though not for the reason the taller man suspected. He grit his teeth and stood, waving a hand towards the path he usually took.
     “Sherlock Holmes,” the man said once he’d caught up.
     He looked over at the taller man, frowning for a moment, before offering up his own name.
     “John Watson,” he stared at the path. “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes-.”
     “Sherlock,” the tall man muttered.
     “Sherlock, then,” John huffed, “I didn’t realize it was a garden. I’ll just drop by the florist next time.”
     “Perhaps,” Sherlock interrupted. “But that is if I decide not to press charges for your theft. Constant, I must say. My brother can probably fetch plenty of evidence against you, which would be a pity for you and this relationship you’re in.”
     “Now see here, Mr. Holmes!” John bristled, pausing for a moment.
     “Sherlock, please,” the taller man looked down at John. “Stand down, soldier, I won’t bite. If nothing else, you have alleviated my boredom for the day. Perhaps I shall leave the Yard out of this should it be interesting enough.”
     “Boredom?” John frowned. What was this madman playing at? He blinked and gaped at Sherlock, the thought of telling the taller man that they were in fact on their way to the graveyard instead of seeing some woman slipped his mind. “Stand down, soldier? What the hell was that?”
     “You were a soldier, the way you hold yourself when confronted with a thought you don’t like or a threat. I suppose that limp you’ve now got is entirely in your head, but I do believe you’ve been told that by your therapist enough that you finally believed it. I suppose it comes out at moments of great duress, such as this – a complete stranger accompanying you to your significant other to deliver flowers and to be put under scrutiny. Hardly commonplace.”
     “And you got that how?”
     “Your tan lines. Nearly gone now, but still visible. Cuffs and collar, not enough of you tanned to be a vacation and, as I do hate repeating myself, the way you hold yourself. I have seen enough military men in my line of work to know how they stand at attention. You hold yourself much like them, even if you’ve been discharged for quite some time.” Sherlock glanced at him, a small smile playing on his lips. “Like I said, interesting.”
     “Brilliant,” John muttered, forgetting to be annoyed for a moment or two.
     Sherlock frowned. “That’s not what people usually say.”
     “No?” John chuckled. “What do they usually say?”
     Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."
     John nodded, laughter dying as he stood outside the gates to the graveyard. Sherlock blinked a few times, his frown returning. He stared at John, who merely shrugged and made his way to the familiar stone, the taller man trailing close behind.
     “Hey Mum, hey Da,” John murmured, staring at the stone. “Made a new friend today on the way here. Found out the flowers I’ve been picking actually belong in his garden. Didn’t know. May have to bring you fancier ones next time if he doesn’t have me tossed in jail.”
     His eyes flicked towards Sherlock who stood next to him, staring at the stone with a surprised and confused look on his face. His lips twitched up in a smile before disappearing as he looked back at the worn headstone.
     “His name’s Sherlock Holmes,” John cleared his throat, continuing, “Guessed about my service, and my limp, though that’s hardly surprising, right?” A soft laugh escaped. “Thought I was getting flowers for a date, the silly man. But, he was right. You’ve always loved daisies and baby blues, haven’t you, Mum?”
     John knelt for a moment, placing the bundle of flowers he’d picked from Sherlock’s garden in front of the stone before standing and turning to the tall man. He grinned tightly, waving a hand down at the names.
     “Meet my parents, Sherlock,” he chuckled, “The lucky lady who knew which flowers would best match my eyes.”
     “John,” Sherlock blinked, finally turning to look at the man before him. “I – I apologize, I had no clue that this is what you, where you were going. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
     John laughed, waving him off. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Now you can come visit them with me. Mum would have liked you, I think, with your brilliant wit and fast tongue. Would have given her a run for her money in the gossip circles.”
     For several moments, they stood in silence around the stone before John snapped to attention, saluting the stone. With easy precision, he spun and marched a few steps away before slumping into an easier pace.
     Sherlock jogged to catch up, wondering if John had followed in his father’s footsteps, going into the military. It was a good possibility, but it was not a question he’d ask at this moment, not when the memory was still sore.
     They walked in silence until they reached the edge of Sherlock’s vast garden of wildflowers. John smirked, smiling up at him with his hands in his pockets.
     “So, do I need to wait around for the police, or was my girl pretty enough for you?”
     Sherlock looked down at John, confusion, and horror flicking across his face for a moment before he schooled his expression into a neutral one.
     “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” Sherlock waved a hand to brush off the notion. “However, I would like to invite you in for tea. I’d love to learn more about your parents. Weekly visits? Why is that? I’ve plenty of questions if you’re willing.”
     John grinned, relaxing and nodding. “Tea sounds fantastic.”


I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Monday, August 22, 2016

Blood

This week's story is less "story" and more "personal experience." Bit of backstory on this one first.

I live in a small town of less than 200. Which means we don't have trash pick-up, meaning we have to haul our own trash. Which is cool. Wednesdays and Saturdays, for three hours each day. Times change with the season, early in winter, later in summer. Easy stuff.

July 23 - A Saturday, meaning trash day - I woke up a bit late and was in a mild hurry to fetch all the trash in the house. I was wearing a pair of flats as I attempted to race through my yard and toss the stuff in the bed of the truck. We have an abundance of sticks in our yard, thanks to the crazy weather we've had off and on for a few months and the large pecan tree. I miscalculated my step and trapped a stick between the top of my right foot and the ground.

I literally attempted to impale a stick on my foot. I chunked the trash in the bed of the pickup and hobbled inside, bleeding all the while. Attempted to wake my darlin' husband (who had just gotten off a 10+ hour night shift from work), but that didn't work. He sat up, stared at my foot -"Oh my god, you're bleeding!" "I'm fine, just, I need you to take out the trash"-, I shouted at him, hobbled my way to the bathroom (dripping blood all over my house), and tried to not only wash off all the blood but not pass out while doing so (which was hard to do, just saying). (Oh, since he wasn't fully coherent when I 'woke' him, he wound up not doing anything other than falling asleep again. He felt bad about it later, so I forgive him.)

Spent several days with my foot wrapped up, trying not to bleed any more, and attempting to sleep.
For those who don't know, I have... The best way to describe it is "hemophobia", the fear of blood, but that's not quite strong enough to describe what I feel. So, I spent nearly a week attempting to see something other than blood cloud my dreams or even in the darkness that lay behind my closed lids.
I spent an entire night on the couch with the lights on and watching "Phineas and Ferb" so that I could get some sleep. After that, I took to listening to music.

It was suggested that I write down something, as I am a "writer", to help alleviate some of my nightmares and what-not. That's how I came up with this little blurb. And it actually helped. So, have a product of my nightmares and my accidental idiocy.

Blood - An original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     The color is not red so much as crimson. And yet, that is still not quite the right hue.
     Nearly everyone has seen it at some point or another, the color of life, the color of death.
     Ruby. Garnet. Cherry. Scarlet.
     All the same color, but not quite.
     Gather enough of it and it’s more of a wine or perhaps a good merlot. Sangria’s even a good choice.
     It is the color that I see when I close my eyes and attempt sleep. It is the color that haunts my dreams and rare waking moments, reminding me of something I’d rather not recall.
     Jam is a fun term and blush is far too light. Brick is the wrong hue and apples come in too many shades.
     Shock filled my vision, filling it near the color of clouds before a storm. This darkness threatened to take me away and make forget.
     It is not rose, not quite candy-colored. It is not the lipstick worn when feeling particularly empowered and sexy.
     Not when it runs down your foot, between your toes, and onto gravel, onto hardwood, into carpet.
     I could turn my pecan, caramel, cinnamon floors into a beautiful mahogany, but I’d rather not collect so much.
     A beautiful color, really, if it came from another source: a gem, a flower. The color as the sun sets behind the horizon. But it’s not.
     I can taste the pain: golden fire, biting chartreuse, bitter ash.
     They make my stomach roll and my eyes water. I cannot stand for fear of falling over.
     Currant is most likely closest, though berry is not far off.
     The color is all of this and more.

     I suppose the color I am looking for is simply called blood.


Figured it was a bit more fun with a visual. Those are all of the colors listed above in the story. Thanks for reading.


I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Monday, August 15, 2016

Extraterrestrial Humanoids and Sweetened Air-Fluff

So, I hope the blog is a bit easier to read now. I was trying to find a way to make the writing more visible without totally messing up my lovely layout. I like to think the grey is "Weeping Angel" grey, but that's just me.

Going to update weekly, on Mondays. I update multiple places on Mondays, so why not here as well. I'll keep uploading little short stories and fanfics and whatnot until I run out and then I'll go back to the 30-Day Challenge or something.

This week's story is called "Moon Men and Cotton Candy". A friend of mine gave me two words ('moon men' and 'cotton candy') and I immediately thought of how Sherlock pisses (makes fun of/ridicules) on John's choice of movies and not quite understanding the concept of cotton candy. Thus this story was born.

Moon Men and Cotton Candy - an original story by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “What is this?”
     John looked up and frowned. “It’s a movie.”
     “Obviously,” the detective rolled his eyes. “About moon men?”
     “Oh, shut up.” John snorted. “You hate all the movies I pick out. You’ll only deduce this one too, I’m sure.”
     Sherlock huffed but said nothing as he shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring at the doctor. John rolled his eyes and headed towards the counter, pausing by the snacks. He raised an eyebrow as he looked back over his shoulder.
     “What?”
     John closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Snacks, Sherlock. Want anything?”
     Sherlock huffed again, hand snaking out to grab a bag of cotton candy. “Do people actually eat this?”
     “Yes. Usually at fairs, though. Can be a bit sticky.” John shrugged.
     Sherlock stared at the brightly colored confection before heaving a heavy sigh. He soundly thoroughly put out by this whole affair. John clenched his jaw and counted again. He would not murder his flatmate in the movie store.
     “I don’t know why you bother following me,” he muttered as he swiped the candy from Sherlock and placed it and the movie on the counter. “You hate domesticity and all its finer points. Plus, you always piss on my choice in movies.”
     “Do not,” Sherlock muttered sulkily.
     “Bond, detective shows,” John ticked off a list as the cashier rang up the items. “Doctor Who. You even ruin books for me. I’ve had to read up in my room to keep the mystery there.”
     Sherlock raised an eyebrow, tempted to ruin the book that John was currently reading (the sister had done it, of course), but he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he focused on why he had decided that following John around town was better than sitting back at the flat.
     “Bored. Besides, I do enjoy looking into the nuances that are John Watson.”
     “You’re not bored, and you don’t care about my nuances until you want to pester me.” John paid for the items and tossed Sherlock the cotton candy. “Don’t eat that until we’re back at the flat, yeah?”
     “I’m not a child in need of minding,” Sherlock snapped, spinning out of the store, coat billowing behind him.
     He didn’t wait for John as he raised his arm, hailing a cab instantly. John shook his head and ducked into the cab once Sherlock opened the door. The drive home was silent, though the old army doctor could tell Sherlock was fuming over the movie choice. He chuckled. Served the lanky git right for being a bloody prat and following him out.
~
     “I don’t understand what is going on!”
     John held back a laugh. “They’re exploring the moon, Sherlock, what’s hard about that?”
     “There is no life on the moon!”
     “Says the man who knows nothing about the solar system.”
     Sherlock glared at John, flicking a piece of the sticky pink candy at him before turning back to the screen. “Everyone knows there is no life outside the Earth. Science has yet to find proof.”
     “Of course, you know that.”
     “Everyone knows that, John. If there was life outside our planet it would be plastered everywhere and the crime in London would be boring.”
      “God forbid we find extra-terrestrial life elsewhere and the criminal underbelly of London suddenly becomes too dull for you.” John groaned. “Shut up, trying to watch this.”
     Sherlock huffed, torn between glaring at the melting mass of sugar in his hands and the obviously idiotic ‘astronauts’ searching for ‘moon men’. John chuckled and took a chunk and put it in his mouth, smirking at Sherlock’s frown.
     “This is a ridiculous attempt at a confection,” Sherlock muttered, following John’s example. Sweet and melted on his tongue. Mycroft could ruin his entire diet with this silly treat. Suddenly, Sherlock had an urge to send several tons of the stuff to his brother.
     “Don’t,” John shook his head. “You know Mycroft will not be amused. And I really don’t want to know what he’d do in return.”
     “The moon men look exactly like the so-called scientists,” Sherlock chose to ignore John’s warning. He had a point, but that didn’t mean he had to say that the doctor was right. “They’re not even-!”
     “Sherlock!” John snapped, shoving a handful of cotton candy in the detective’s mouth. “Shut up!”
     Sherlock gave him a glare that could send harden criminals scurrying, but John was pointedly ignoring him. He was going to enjoy the rest of the movie even if it meant shoving the rest of that damn candy down the bloody prat’s throat just to keep him quiet.
~
     “Still didn’t see the point,” Sherlock grumbled, washing his hands in the sink. John refused to let him touch anything until the stickiness was cleared from his fingers. He couldn’t blame John, not exactly. He’d be cross with himself later if he didn’t delete the entire night from memory.
     “To have fun, idiot,” John snorted, turning on the kettle. He busied himself with making tea as Sherlock muttered. “I won’t subject you to any more movies about moon men.”
     “Or let me pick up any of that dreadful candy.”
     “Agreed,” John nodded. “Don’t know what I was thinking, letting you get that stuff. Made a right mess of yourself. Go get changed.”
     Sherlock glared. “I am not a child, John Watson.”
     “And you’re going to ruin your clothing if you don’t get it into the wash, Sherlock Holmes,” John raised an eyebrow. “Go. Change.”
     Sherlock thought about fighting it for a minute, but eventually gave in and changed into his sleep pants and a t-shirt. He threw a dressing gown on, mostly to please himself, and stomped back into the living room, throwing himself on the couch.
     “Claims not to be a child, but sure acts like one,” John muttered, setting Sherlock’s tea on the coffee table.
     “Not a child.” Sherlock sulked.
     “No, of course not.” John raised his voice to conversation level. “You’re the world’s only consulting detective, you’d never act like a child.”
     “Says the man who watches ridiculous movies about moon men and eats cotton candy.”
     “Yup.” John let the ‘p’ pop loudly in the near silence of the room.
     “Idiot.”
     “Berk.”
     Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was a ridiculous movie. He would, no doubt, delete this horrid experience from his memory. Though, it was nice not to be bored for a bit.
     “I’ll let you pick the next one,” John said, smiling. “We can go back tomorrow. I’ve got to return this one anyway.”
      Sherlock frowned for a moment before chuckling. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to watch ridiculous and obvious movies. It was wonderful to not be bored.
     “Fine,” Sherlock huffed, feigning annoyance. “But you can’t complain.”
     “I’ll do my best.” John agreed.
     Sherlock flipped over, stretching out and clapping his hands together in his mock-prayer, contemplating what horrid film he could force John into watching, smirking as he stared at the ceiling.
     This would definitely not be as boring as he feared. Delightful.

I had loads of fun with this one and I hope you all enjoyed it. :) Feel free to let me know down in comments below what you thought or what you'd like to see me write about. :D


I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Another One-Shot of Sherlock

So, concerning Camp NaNoWriMo, I made it with a bit over 55,000 words this year. Mostly centered around fanfiction I'd written, though a few thousand words were supplied by my novel-in-progress (which will be a forever thing, I swear... :I)

Anyway... I thought I'd offer up another one of the dozen short stories/one-shots that I wrote last month. I've got several more Sherlock themed ones and a sad few Supernatural ones. I'm super up for suggestions or prompts, as I plan to do the same thing this November for "National Novel Writing Month". Way more fun than focusing on one novel for an entire month. :)

This is Never Stood a Chance and it's between John and Mary. There's a bit more information towards the bottom on my feelings towards Mary, though in the beginning I really didn't mind her. A bit crazy, yet, but still... Things have changed a bit since then.

Never Stood a Chance - an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016
     “I never stood a chance, did I?”
     She looked sad, almost. He bristled slightly, knowing the look on her face was yet another act. His lip raised in a silent snarl and she had the decency to appear ashamed for a moment.
     “John,” she started, pity flowing from her lips as if he deserved it.
     “No, don’t.” He shook his head, moving a pace back. “Don’t, Mary. It’s too late for that.”
     The act fell apart then like she shed a second skin. She straightened to her full height, though it wasn’t much taller than he was if you took into account her heels, and glared at him, a sneer pulling at her lips.
     “Fine,” she snapped. “Leave me then. For him. Three years of your life gone, John, because he couldn’t be bothered to tell you once he was alive.”
     “He was busy, Mary,” John snarled back. “Of all the stupid, idiotic things for him to do with his life, I can accept that. I may hate him for it, yes, but I forgive him. I can’t forgive you. Your lies are worse than anything he’s ever given me and I was wrapped up in a god-damn bomb once!”
     Her eyebrow twitched at that, but she seemed to ignore it. “So, you’ll just leave me and what we’ve built–.”
     “What did we build, hm? Besides a lie?” John’s lips twitched upward in a smile, but it held no humor as it disappeared quickly as it had come. “That child you’re carrying, is it mine?”
     “That’s not fair!”
     “Is it mine?”
     The words echoed between them, her angry and frightened look giving him the answer he needed. Simple observations were all it took to read her thoughts, he’d learned more than enough in the past few years. Sherlock would have been proud.
     “Right.” The only word he could say; a simple word that he fell on when all others failed him. His lips twitched again as his hand clenched and unclenched in rapid succession. He spun on his heel to leave, but turned around again, as if to say something, but words failed him.
     “John, please…”
     He shook his head. “I can’t. Not now, not ever. It’s best you leave and forget about,” he waved a hand between them. “Whatever this was supposed to be.”
     “John, please.”
     “Shut up,” he snapped. “Just shut up.”
     For once, she obliged, her lips set into a thin line as she stared at him. Questions and various emotions flickered in those blue eyes, almost like looking into a mirror. He shook his head as he spun again, ignoring the look on her face, the pain in her eyes, everything that nearly broke him. Damn, she was good at this… He made it a few more paces before he paused, pulled back once again by her voice,
     “I never stood a chance, did I, John? Not against him?”
     He looked back at her, a pitiful smile gracing his appearance. He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled weakly. He turned and walked away, only raising his voice to answer her question as he left her behind,
     “That’s the sad part, Mary,” a slight pause, “You did once…”
So, I have this posted on another site and someone brought this link to my attention - Penitence, Paradox and Psychopathy: Why Mary is A Bit Not Good. It's rather long and VERY anti-Mary, but is well worth the read. I now think I'm leaning far more to the side of "Mary's a fuckin' psycho" and actually fits this story rather well. Makes me laugh a bit, really. Let me know what you think 'bout it in the comments below.

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )