This is not the original story I had planned. I had written a draft with a complete story titled ‘Resilience’, but the page refreshed and I lost the original. I had hoped that the draft would be saved somewhere, but no such luck. I am disappointed and quite angry, but what good will that do? I couldn’t recreate the story and do justice to the original, so I decided to write a new one. I apologise for the length, but there’s only so much you can write when you’re frustrated.
The last time I posted fiction on this blog was 5 months ago and I still can’t believe it! Writing fiction just for the blog took a backseat during NaNoWriMo but I vowed to continue it, so here I am again with a short story. This qualifies as fanfiction, but I really couldn’t get this out of my head after New Year’s day. I’m talking about (brownie points for getting it right) Sherlock, of course.
The first episode came out on Monday and since then I haven’t stopped thinking about it, or about what the next episodes will showcase. A short story titled Appointment in Samarra is narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch in this episode, with the backdrop of the London Aquarium and sharks reinforcing the nature of the tale. During the episode, however, Mycroft (played by Mark Gatiss) remembers that Sherlock had written his own version of the story as a child for he did not like the original. It seemed like a good challenge to try writing that version of the story, so here is my interpretation of what the young Sherlock might have written (and then some more of my imagination).
Leslie entered her grandmother’s room to get away from the crowd below. Her eyes were tired of seeing only black everywhere and sympathetic faces that offered no real comfort. It had been years since she had set foot here and she felt like she was invading the privacy of a person who still lingered around somehow. She sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. The sheets still smelled like her grandmother, but the warmth had seeped out of them. Leslie shivered, getting the distinct feeling that she shouldn’t be here, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed to see if those awful rumours that were being whispered downstairs were true.
Warning: Stay far, far away from this post. It’s not worth your time.
You have been warned. The rest is up to you.
With that cheerful introduction out of the way, let’s get right into the crux of what seem like several unconnected matters, prompted by the lovely people at The Daily Post.
The fourth calendar month brings with it Camp NaNoWriMo (for those unfamiliar with it, check it out here). I’m taking part in it and have set myself a small goal of 10,000 words. I’m finally going to be working on my novel and hope to reach my word count goal against all odds (college assignments, dance practice and general laziness, to name a few). Due to this, writing fiction outside of it is going to be pretty hard as I don’t think I’ll have the time. That said, I do love fiction, so here’s something I wrote a long time ago and submitted it to a magazine, but it was never published and the editor never got back to me. I know it could be better, but I’ll be posting it anyway.