A Writer’s Corner

20 Jul

    Have you ever wanted to write a book? Have you read the last book in the series and don’t want it to end? On  A Writer’s Corner  you can post your stories and ideas. On this page, you can meet other people who like to write, or have read the same series as you and didn’t want it to end either. A Writer’s Corner is all about meeting other people like you and working together to bring words to life. Your comments will appear under What do People Think? and can be seen on About R.A. Spyder.

One Response

  1. Laura H says:

    You talked about Silverfin on one of your posts, and I am writing something similar right now, a story that tells how Sherlock Holmes became Sherlock Holmes, similar to how Silverfin tells the tale of how James Bond became James Bond. I was wondering if you have ant advice. So here’s part of the first chapter:

    Rain poured down the window panes. Sherlock pressed his forehead to the glass. His head was pounding and the cold glass felt superb to him. Beside him the high simpering voice of “Aunt” Etheldra yakked continuously on about the most annoying, foul, and purposeless things. Outside the carriage the landscape of London rolled past, barely visible through the downpour and smog. The buildings were brick and grimy. A strong wind howled outside, helping to drown out Etheldra’s voice. Odd phrases kept catching his ear.
    “…this move… our new neighbors are rather…Ms. Jones is simply unbearable…” She continued pointlessly. Sherlock found it ironic that she of all people was to call someone unbearable. After all, Etheldra was not exactly wonderful either.
    “Sherlock? Sherlock! Holmes child!” It was rather pointless to ignore her any further; her voice was disturbing Sherlock’s thoughts.
    “Yes, Aunt Etheldra?” The boy of twelve turned to face the plump scarlet visage that he had come to know and dislike not quite in that order. He had always felt such to Etheldra, who was no relationship of his and took him in as a babe out of proclaimed pity. Sherlock rather regretted her decision. He had a thin face, a beak –like nose, and dark hair that was kept back from his face. Sherlock appeared rather gangly in fact, but his awkward appearance often belied his brilliance. He said no more and stared solemnly at the Etheldra as she ranted on about what he was and wasn’t supposed to do until she fell silent under his gaze. He placed his fingertips together and examined her closely. She seemed exceedingly startled at the calm expression on his face. He appeared almost as one would if one were absorbed in a portrait of someone you couldn’t quite place, but for a fact, knew quite well.
    “We are almost there,” the driver called. His voice was faint above the howling wind. He had a Yorkshire accent with a rough quality that, Sherlock surmised, came from years of smoking cigars or pipes. He’d have to at least be in his thirties, Sherlock thought. The steady clatter of the carriage was slowing. Outside the window a lone streetlamp shone through the gloomy curtain of rain and fog. It burned steadily, unlike the flickering lamps they had been passing for the last several hours. It must have more oil. That meant, he assumed, that they were in a nicer area, although the limited dismal view was to hard to tell by. Another carriage flew past the window, spraying mud across the glass. The mud was black and sooty. So far all of London had been like that, dark and dreary.

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