Category: Guest Authors

The Case of The Amber Rose of The Amazon – Part 4

The doctor laid his mask over the Turk’s head and his glove rather indecorously on the man’s upper pants. After all he was dead and propriety was beyond his reach. Reaching under his waistcoat Watson felt the edge of a dangling fabric. Deftly unbuttoning the waistcoat a red and white ribbon appeared.

“How on earth did you know it was there?”

“Note the shade of the fez.”

“Its red.”

“No, chartered liver red.”

“One of the Worshipfuls?”

“Under the hat in white thread will be

the following Corde Recto Elati Omnes”

“It seems this fellow was sent to kill us.”

The Case of The Amber Rose of The Amazon – Part 3

“What about the bees and body”

“I’ve called for Hobbs.”

“The farmer is an Idiot.”

“But not the son all will be in good hands.

Further I have hired Zachman’s Hackneys to take us to the train.”

“The station is 40 miles away, Holmes.

“I doubt the horse or driver would make it.”

“We are not going to the station;

“We head for the crossroads at 12:00.”

“Holmes the train doesn’t stop on the crossroad,

its building speed to make the grade.”

“Leave the train to my concern good doctor.

“Kindly remove the red and white ribbon from the body.”

The Case of The Amber Rose of The Amazon – Part 2

“I note Holme’s shallow, but rhythmic breathing. I thanked god for Richard Spruce’s The Hepaticae of the Amazon. The 27% solution of Yage most likely has saved my friend’s life.” As an errant bee flowed by the Doctor he remembered his secondary position, Apprentice Bee keeper. “Time to smoke you my lovelies,” said Watson donning his gloves and mask. He knew Holmes would be unresponsive for the better part of the day. No sooner than had he set the pots, a roar emerged from cottage window along with a disheveled Detective. “Watson we leave for Paris on the Hour.”

The Case of The Amber Rose of The Amazon – Part 1

Case of the Amber Rose of the Amazon

“Watson mind the body draped over the ottoman.”
“But Homes where am I to sit?”
“There is a sinister force afoot.
What does a tuck on an ottoman tell you?”
“I have no place to rest my feet”
“No, we must parse the subtle relationships of
the terms and arrive at their precise meaning.”
“Well, a tuck is a tuck is a tuck.”
“Just as a rose is a rose is a rose.”

“Clearly Miss Stein is at the center of this affair
but my mind fails me, a 27% solution is in order.”

“Quick Watson the needle!”

Bar

“Don’t you think your setting the bar quite low?” I stated.

“What are you talking about,” Doug responded, quite peturbed, “there is nothing wrong with this bar the way I’ve set it!”

“Alright! Let me try it out!”

So I sat down, the bar was still too low, so I laid down on the floor instead.

The bar was literally one foot off the floor, and the tiny drinks Doug was serving off of the bar was even more ridiculous.

I relented, “O.K., Doug, what’s the punchline to this joke?”

Doug responds, “No Punchline, I wanted to set a low bar.”

Smoke by Vandetta Lassard

Kate’s silver hair matted to her sweating brow in darkening strands. Her haggard gasps betrayed a youth where smoking was fashionable. Yet she urged him forward, clenched against his body, moaning. Brown spots and deepening creases on his chest marked the passage of time where taut skin once stretched over hard muscle.

But some things never grow old.

Gratefully, age provided them with a confidence that youthful uncertainty steals. He was hers, and she was his. Completely. She loved his wrinkled brow and knowing smile. Together they felt young again, their bodies grinding, turning grey ashes into smoky fires.

Hotel

Hotels are often portrayed as luxurious hideaways, vacation escapes for the rich and famous.

A safe house for celebrities and an escape from the scandals and unspeakable behaviors that often accompany them.

A code of silence between the guests and skilled laborers provides protection for all.

Laborers, the common populace that is forced to clean up afterwards, while smiling.

Lola knows firsthand the irreparable damages of guests gone badly behind closed doors.

She knows the sweat, and sore feet needed to protect them.

She also knows what doesn’t stay hidden, isolation, anger, addiction, desperation, loneliness, all disguised as high life.

Last Flight

I looked into the sky, and tears misted over my eyes as I watched the end of an era.

Above me was the Space Shuttle Discovery, riding piggy-back on a 747.

I remember the hope, the pride, watching Discovery launch. I remember thinking that I would be lucky enough to see terraforming begin on Mars.

I remember when we had that dream.

All that is now lost. Now, we hitch rides with the Russians.

We let others dream for us.Our heads are firmly planted in NOW.

Now where will we go, when we’ve finished destroying Earth?

Terminal

This story was written by Circe Broom, of Laurel Arts Island, what was once Second Life’s premiere showcase of music, poetry, and other arts.

Laurel Arts may be gone, but others inspired by her are carrying on her tradition of Circe’s Circle Radio excellence and dedication on the Second Life grid now.

Here’s her story.

Terminal.
That’s what they said to me.

I said… Okay. Now, what do I do?

Now, do I actually start to live the last of my life?
Now, do I believe I will die?

No. That would be too easy.

Now, I prepare for the death in which I do not believe, so that others won’t be caught by surprise.

I do not want to die.

Hospice is nice, they let me breathe better, now.

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
I pray that I will die in my sleep.

Amen.

Thank you for letting me read that Circe. I hope I did it right.

And, well, no need to keep it brief. Stick around for a while, alright?