One of the biggest challenges I personally face during the summer is finding time to sit down and actually write. The pressures of being home with a pre-teen and keeping that young person active means that I have to get creative in order to be creative, if you catch my meaning ;).
That being said, until I can actually find a moment to wax prosaic on some other topic, please enjoy installment number 1 of "Moriarity's Reprise". Like its predecessor, "The Case of the Missing Amati," it is a Sherlock Holmes pastiche based on a futuristic Sherlock.
Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1
The sound of the back door slamming jolted me awake.
“Draw the shutters, will you Mrs. Hudson?’ I heard Holmes say as I sat up in my chair and rubbed the remnants of my impromptu snooze from my face. “And please fix me a caramel chocolate latte.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer replied in its feminine monotone. “I shall notify you when your beverage is ready.”
As the shutters automatically started to close, Holmes walked into the living room and, crossing to his chair, sank wearily into it. I thought that he looked thinner and paler than usual.
“Yes, I have been using myself up a bit too freely of late, Watson,” he said before I could ask, stretching out his long legs. “I’ve concluded that my illustrious predecessor had a much easier time of it in his age. I often wondered what he would have made of the women of today.”
“Sylvia Moriarity again?” I asked.
“Yes, Sylvia,” Holmes muttered, and leaning his head back, shut his eyes.
The words “illustrious predecessor” always meant one thing coming from Escott Sherlock Holmes, or rather, was a reference to only one person – the Victorian Sherlock Holmes, the man whose genetic material was the basis for much of Escott’s own DNA. As his friend and colleague, I, James C. Watson, understood that better than anyone else, and better than anyone else, I understood the huge burden this legacy placed on Escott. It drove him to such rarefied achievements, that British Intelligence now considered him their top agent, despite his unofficial status.
Yet I also knew that another impetus lay behind those achievements, one that stemmed from a person living in the here and now: Sylvia Moriarty, the descendant of the self-proclaimed illegitimate son of the infamous mathematics professor, was fast becoming Escott’s greatest antagonist.
“I don’t know, Escott,” I said, hoping to ease his mind towards the mundane. “I think you are underrating the experiences that Sherlock endured during his career. Take for instance, the young woman who was so enamored with that ruthless German, Baron Gruner. She certainly had a will of iron.”
“Violet De Merville,” Holmes said, without opening his eyes. “And Baron Gruner was Austrian, not German.”
“Well, and then there was that unnamed noblewoman, who shot and killed the despicable blackmailer, Charles Augustus Milverton. And finally, there was Irene Adler, the only woman ever to beat Sherlock Holmes. You have to admit, she showed not only fortitude but intelligence.”
Holmes’ eyes flashed opened as he lifted his head. “I hardly think, Watson, that either a woman desperate to marry well, or a woman caught in the grips of despair, fall into the category of being strong willed. As for Irene Adler – well, one can hardly say that my predecessor was in his best form on that case. After all, he allowed himself to be duped from the start when he assumed his client was the victim and not the persecutor.”
His grey eyes flitted irritably towards the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t that latte done yet?”
“It’s just finished, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer intoned.
Rising from his chair, Holmes crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room and, reaching in, retrieved a large, frothy, steaming mug. I watched as he took a long draught from his drink, his eyes closing as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Persistence
This year we hung three new birdhouses (or old ones which hadn’t been up for awhile) to see what type of birds they might attract. Hauling out our trusty folding ladder, my husband, a very tall man (or tall to a woman of my stature), took time and careful effort to ensure that each house was fastened to a tree in such a way that it was both secure and the tree wasn’t harmed. Being a mechanical engineer helps him to come up with creative solutions to do things like that. We then sat back and waited to see what the springtime activites would bring.
To our delight, a tiny pair of brown wrens decided that one of the houses would fit their needs just perfectly. Warbling on and off as they worked (and these little tiny brown birds are very loud), we watched entranced as the pair brought in carefully selected stalks of grass with which to line their new home, hanging covertly in the branch that draped a bit in front of the bird house opening before hastily flying in to deposit their treasure. Egg laying couldn’t be far off, we were sure, with peeping chicks to follow, and we all looked forward to watching our diminutive neighbors raise their new family.
Then disaster struck. I looked from my kitchen window one morning to find the wren house all askew and no sign of our little brown friends anywhere. Of late, raccoons had been attempting to raid our bird feeders at night, and, since this is when the damage occurred, we can only assume that these furry striped bandits were responsible. To see that the eggs were gone and that the once tidy nest was churned into an unrecognizable mish-mash was very sad, but the one question we couldn’t answer was what had become of the adult birds? Did they survive? Since we didn’t hear any singing, we could only assume that the worse had happened. That day, though sunny, was spoiled by an aura of gloom.
The next morning, however, I woke up early to hear a wren singing outside my bedroom window. I recalled in my still half-asleep state that a house meant for bluebirds hung on this side of our lot. We’d been watching it along with the others, and knew it was empty, since the finicky critters it was meant to aid passed it over for more familiar boxes in a neighboring field. Pulling on my robe, I went down to the ground floor, and peered out into the early morning light. And, sure enough – I could plainly see a pair of wrens busily carrying in stalks of grass to line the interior of their new-found home. As late in the season as it is, I am fully convinced that these are the birds from the destroyed bird house. It is nice to think that egg laying and peeping chicks are once again on the agenda.
The lesson here is obvious – if you want something bad enough, don’t let anything or any setback stand in your way. Persistence pays off in the end, I am sure of it. And if you don’t believe me, well, just go ask the wrens.
For more information on House Wrens, Click HERE.
To our delight, a tiny pair of brown wrens decided that one of the houses would fit their needs just perfectly. Warbling on and off as they worked (and these little tiny brown birds are very loud), we watched entranced as the pair brought in carefully selected stalks of grass with which to line their new home, hanging covertly in the branch that draped a bit in front of the bird house opening before hastily flying in to deposit their treasure. Egg laying couldn’t be far off, we were sure, with peeping chicks to follow, and we all looked forward to watching our diminutive neighbors raise their new family.
Then disaster struck. I looked from my kitchen window one morning to find the wren house all askew and no sign of our little brown friends anywhere. Of late, raccoons had been attempting to raid our bird feeders at night, and, since this is when the damage occurred, we can only assume that these furry striped bandits were responsible. To see that the eggs were gone and that the once tidy nest was churned into an unrecognizable mish-mash was very sad, but the one question we couldn’t answer was what had become of the adult birds? Did they survive? Since we didn’t hear any singing, we could only assume that the worse had happened. That day, though sunny, was spoiled by an aura of gloom.
The next morning, however, I woke up early to hear a wren singing outside my bedroom window. I recalled in my still half-asleep state that a house meant for bluebirds hung on this side of our lot. We’d been watching it along with the others, and knew it was empty, since the finicky critters it was meant to aid passed it over for more familiar boxes in a neighboring field. Pulling on my robe, I went down to the ground floor, and peered out into the early morning light. And, sure enough – I could plainly see a pair of wrens busily carrying in stalks of grass to line the interior of their new-found home. As late in the season as it is, I am fully convinced that these are the birds from the destroyed bird house. It is nice to think that egg laying and peeping chicks are once again on the agenda.
The lesson here is obvious – if you want something bad enough, don’t let anything or any setback stand in your way. Persistence pays off in the end, I am sure of it. And if you don’t believe me, well, just go ask the wrens.
For more information on House Wrens, Click HERE.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Zen of Lawn Mowing
I hate mowing my lawn. And I love it too. It is the classic conflict of the ages, dressed in modern technology and fueled by neighborhood ordinances which, regardless of how I might feel, state that the lawn must be kept mowed.
Let me first explain that the object of my love/hate relationship is not a riding lawnmower, which 95% of my neighbors use (those who don’t subscribe to a lawn service, that is). It is instead a self-propelled walk-behind type, bought 15 years ago when the house was first built and, despite a few quirks, still runs great. Unable to justify replacing something that isn’t broken, I have instead forced myself into ever greater familiarity with my mechanical beastie, growing my contempt for it as I walk behind it and listen to it growling purposefully away.
Still I have to give my nemesis credit. It does make me get out and get some exercise (it takes me an hour to mow our yard), uses less fuel than those owned by our neighbors, and is cheaper than a membership to a health club. That is part of the basis for my love of it I suppose. I seem to need such motivation to exercise any more, and the knowledge that I’m not only friendlier to my environment but pinching pennies while I’m improving my health does seem to assuage my feelings of resentment.
But the main component of the love part in my relationship with lawn mowing is the meditative trance that takes hold as I’m fulfilling my neighborly obligations. Under the hypnotic white-noise of the engine, I become unusually attuned not only to my surroundings but the marvelous way my mind works, and for awhile, I can revel in and listen to my brain’s complexity as it multitasks on several levels. “10 more passes to finish this section.” (Wonder if my son will remember to meet me in front of the office today?) “The turn at this point is getting too sharp; time to change up the pattern.” (I can really spice up my story if I take this avenue). “Need to attend to that Creeping Charlie again.” (Should start seeing this year’s fawns soon). “Watch it – there’s a toad trying to get outta the way!”
Yet, despite all that, I still hate lawn mowing. I hate feeling like I’m getting cooked to the core by the sun (and yes, I do stick to mowing as early in the day as those darn ordinances will permit). I hate the gritty, sweaty, bile-filled creature I inevitably turn into afterwards when I’ve completed my chore (thank goodness for long cool showers). Most of all I hate the demands mowing makes on my time. The pressure that builds and builds inside me when more than a week has gone by since the last mowing is absolutely inescapable, however, and, worse, a killer of my creative juices. If I wish to make progress on my writing projects, I have no recourse but to get up and attend to the matter. Otherwise, my muse is forever held hostage.
But to learn more about one’s own inner workings… Well, I have to admit, that is priceless in its way. Too, to have lawn mowing help me straighten out a story line, or to even provide me a story to write – which, as this entry proves, it has – is a reward that even a crotchety skeptic like me has to acknowledge.
Still, it isn’t enough to cure me of my hate of this ordinary, physically taxing task, which means that the love/hate relationship will always be there, I’m afraid. But at least it is tempered by the knowledge of all that I gain - that is, until either those pesky ordinances change, or I break down and persuade my husband to invest in a riding lawn mower.
Let me first explain that the object of my love/hate relationship is not a riding lawnmower, which 95% of my neighbors use (those who don’t subscribe to a lawn service, that is). It is instead a self-propelled walk-behind type, bought 15 years ago when the house was first built and, despite a few quirks, still runs great. Unable to justify replacing something that isn’t broken, I have instead forced myself into ever greater familiarity with my mechanical beastie, growing my contempt for it as I walk behind it and listen to it growling purposefully away.
Still I have to give my nemesis credit. It does make me get out and get some exercise (it takes me an hour to mow our yard), uses less fuel than those owned by our neighbors, and is cheaper than a membership to a health club. That is part of the basis for my love of it I suppose. I seem to need such motivation to exercise any more, and the knowledge that I’m not only friendlier to my environment but pinching pennies while I’m improving my health does seem to assuage my feelings of resentment.
But the main component of the love part in my relationship with lawn mowing is the meditative trance that takes hold as I’m fulfilling my neighborly obligations. Under the hypnotic white-noise of the engine, I become unusually attuned not only to my surroundings but the marvelous way my mind works, and for awhile, I can revel in and listen to my brain’s complexity as it multitasks on several levels. “10 more passes to finish this section.” (Wonder if my son will remember to meet me in front of the office today?) “The turn at this point is getting too sharp; time to change up the pattern.” (I can really spice up my story if I take this avenue). “Need to attend to that Creeping Charlie again.” (Should start seeing this year’s fawns soon). “Watch it – there’s a toad trying to get outta the way!”
Yet, despite all that, I still hate lawn mowing. I hate feeling like I’m getting cooked to the core by the sun (and yes, I do stick to mowing as early in the day as those darn ordinances will permit). I hate the gritty, sweaty, bile-filled creature I inevitably turn into afterwards when I’ve completed my chore (thank goodness for long cool showers). Most of all I hate the demands mowing makes on my time. The pressure that builds and builds inside me when more than a week has gone by since the last mowing is absolutely inescapable, however, and, worse, a killer of my creative juices. If I wish to make progress on my writing projects, I have no recourse but to get up and attend to the matter. Otherwise, my muse is forever held hostage.
But to learn more about one’s own inner workings… Well, I have to admit, that is priceless in its way. Too, to have lawn mowing help me straighten out a story line, or to even provide me a story to write – which, as this entry proves, it has – is a reward that even a crotchety skeptic like me has to acknowledge.
Still, it isn’t enough to cure me of my hate of this ordinary, physically taxing task, which means that the love/hate relationship will always be there, I’m afraid. But at least it is tempered by the knowledge of all that I gain - that is, until either those pesky ordinances change, or I break down and persuade my husband to invest in a riding lawn mower.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Case of the Missing Amati, Part II - A Sherlock Holmes Pastiche
Upon our return, Escott was scanning the capital of the column next to the vacant table. Holmes shutdown his computer as we approached; his self-satisfied demeanor and shining eyes told all.
“Tell me, Signora DiRiso,” he said, “were the people who refurbished the fireplace known to you?”
DiRiso’s jaw dropped. “How did…That wasn’t …?”
“It is elementary, Signora. The fireplace glistens from its cleaning; there is not so much a trace of dust evident to the eye. When one considers the unmarred sheen of the marble floor before it, denoting an unusual lack of traffic, the conclusion is obvious.”
The director swallowed. “The …company is our usual one. The workers were new to me.”
"Are there other cleanings scheduled by the same?"
"Items in the Hall of the Halberdiers are scheduled for cleaning next week."
A smile spread across Holmes’ face. “Signora DiRiso, might I trouble you for a ladder?’’
Two minutes later, a ladder was leaning against the column Holmes had been scanning. Escott easily scaled to its top, then, reaching through the column’s elaborate capital and into the abacus and arch, his hand disappeared, only to return clutching a two-foot-long swaddled bundle.
“Signora DiRiso,” Escott announced, “allow me to present the missing Amati.”
Amazement and joy swallowed any words Caprice DiRiso may have had.
"The problem was simplistic, though not without merit,” Holmes said, upon his return to the ground. “It was evident from their reports that the Polizia De Cremona had, understandably, assumed the Amati violin was no longer in the museum. I, however, chose to first test veracity of that premise. Using my thermal imager, I examined any place in which the missing instrument could be sequestered. My computer’s sophistication soon detected the holographic transducer disguising the hole in the column’s capital, this despite the false readings it transmits. I also determined that a foreign, violin-sized object lay within the architrave.
"It is an age-old ploy being adroitly reused: hide a coveted object in the very area meant to safe-guard it until both the furor dies and the authorities' attention is diverted. The article is then retrieved in relative safety. In this instance, the scheme has been successfully foiled. It remains but to catch the perpetrators.
"And that should not be difficult to do, though it will mean postponing the announcement of the violin’s recovery. As the cleaners are the likely culprits, the polizia need but wait for their return and their inevitable attempt to recover the Amati. It is a task for which police are imminently well-suited, though Watson and I can be on hand to superintend, should you desire.
"What remains, then, is the issue of how the villains were able to undermine your security system." Holmes' face hardened as he reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a tiny opalescent disk which he offered to Caprice DiRiso. "Since your security system operates in the Lexitant Technology environment, I'd suggest having your network administrator apply this patch. You should not experience any more breaches. Contact me upon your next OS upgrade."
Though left unsaid, the hint of anger in Holmes' eyes told all: Sylvia Moriarty, CEO of Lexitant Technologies, had once again made use of the backdoor she had planted in her universally used operating system.
"Staordinario," DiRiso breathed as she accepted the disk, still cradling the violin. "I cannot think of words sufficient to thank you, Signore. How can I ever repay you?"
A twinkle entered Holmes' eye; a smile touched his lips. "Being a violinist myself, I would find it extremely gratifying to try my skill on such an exquisite instrument."
DiRiso did not hesitate; she instantly strode to an antique secretary. A touch of a button revealed a selection of bows, pads, and rosin.
"Enjoy," she said, extending the violin towards him. And, for a full half-hour, Escott Sherlock Holmes played as I have never heard him play, his face serene as the music of Bach ... or was it Kreisler?... echoed through the marbled corridors of the museum.
[end]
“Tell me, Signora DiRiso,” he said, “were the people who refurbished the fireplace known to you?”
DiRiso’s jaw dropped. “How did…That wasn’t …?”
“It is elementary, Signora. The fireplace glistens from its cleaning; there is not so much a trace of dust evident to the eye. When one considers the unmarred sheen of the marble floor before it, denoting an unusual lack of traffic, the conclusion is obvious.”
The director swallowed. “The …company is our usual one. The workers were new to me.”
"Are there other cleanings scheduled by the same?"
"Items in the Hall of the Halberdiers are scheduled for cleaning next week."
A smile spread across Holmes’ face. “Signora DiRiso, might I trouble you for a ladder?’’
Two minutes later, a ladder was leaning against the column Holmes had been scanning. Escott easily scaled to its top, then, reaching through the column’s elaborate capital and into the abacus and arch, his hand disappeared, only to return clutching a two-foot-long swaddled bundle.
“Signora DiRiso,” Escott announced, “allow me to present the missing Amati.”
Amazement and joy swallowed any words Caprice DiRiso may have had.
"The problem was simplistic, though not without merit,” Holmes said, upon his return to the ground. “It was evident from their reports that the Polizia De Cremona had, understandably, assumed the Amati violin was no longer in the museum. I, however, chose to first test veracity of that premise. Using my thermal imager, I examined any place in which the missing instrument could be sequestered. My computer’s sophistication soon detected the holographic transducer disguising the hole in the column’s capital, this despite the false readings it transmits. I also determined that a foreign, violin-sized object lay within the architrave.
"It is an age-old ploy being adroitly reused: hide a coveted object in the very area meant to safe-guard it until both the furor dies and the authorities' attention is diverted. The article is then retrieved in relative safety. In this instance, the scheme has been successfully foiled. It remains but to catch the perpetrators.
"And that should not be difficult to do, though it will mean postponing the announcement of the violin’s recovery. As the cleaners are the likely culprits, the polizia need but wait for their return and their inevitable attempt to recover the Amati. It is a task for which police are imminently well-suited, though Watson and I can be on hand to superintend, should you desire.
"What remains, then, is the issue of how the villains were able to undermine your security system." Holmes' face hardened as he reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a tiny opalescent disk which he offered to Caprice DiRiso. "Since your security system operates in the Lexitant Technology environment, I'd suggest having your network administrator apply this patch. You should not experience any more breaches. Contact me upon your next OS upgrade."
Though left unsaid, the hint of anger in Holmes' eyes told all: Sylvia Moriarty, CEO of Lexitant Technologies, had once again made use of the backdoor she had planted in her universally used operating system.
"Staordinario," DiRiso breathed as she accepted the disk, still cradling the violin. "I cannot think of words sufficient to thank you, Signore. How can I ever repay you?"
A twinkle entered Holmes' eye; a smile touched his lips. "Being a violinist myself, I would find it extremely gratifying to try my skill on such an exquisite instrument."
DiRiso did not hesitate; she instantly strode to an antique secretary. A touch of a button revealed a selection of bows, pads, and rosin.
"Enjoy," she said, extending the violin towards him. And, for a full half-hour, Escott Sherlock Holmes played as I have never heard him play, his face serene as the music of Bach ... or was it Kreisler?... echoed through the marbled corridors of the museum.
[end]
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