Fragments Fiction

Shorts #3: Young Sherlock Holmes

I found Hortencia Holmes sitting in a pink room, reading the latest serialization of Great Expectations to her dollies; the perfect image of a prim and proper nine year old Victorian child.

"Well bless my heart and soul John Watson are you here to plead Sherlock's case and take his side?" Hortencia had the presupposing manners of an adult and she knew how to use them. She stood and faced Watson. For his part, determined not to be bullied by a mere girl, he straightened his jacket and pulled himself to all of his forty-eight inch height. He cocked his head to one side and lifted an eyebrow. He'd seen Holmes use just such a look to catch out a pickpocket victimizing the hoi polloi at Ascot during the Queen's steeplechase.

"You are wrong to assume that I would inevitably take Sherlock's position but he and I are both older and thus much wiser in the ways of kitty cats and bully dogs. I came to assure you Sherlock's dog is not responsible for the loss of your cat. Not only can I vouch for him on the day in question, I have collected his bulldog's droppings for the past week and no feline bones remnants. Alimentary, my dear Hortencia. I have arranged them for your perusal in the barn."

She set her dollies in their house, took a step toward Watson with a finger leveled at his face.

"You? You verified my cat was not killed by Jaspar because there were no kitty parts in his excrement? Surely Sherlock has bamboozled you. It was the dog's identical twin Jenkins who ate my cat. The caretaker reported that Jenkins was sent to the country within the hour my poor Whitby Jet disappeared and today, just an hour earlier, the caretaker sent word that Jenkins expired of an intestinal blockage. We can safely assume that blockage was my Whitby Jet."

I crumpled. Hortencia delivered the coupe-de-grace.

"So Watson, no shit clears Sherlock today."

Shorts #2: The Rejection

Dear Mister Colonaphan:
     You are no longer being considered for the position we offered in the local press. There are several reasons for our decision.
     First, you refused to remove that rotted, polyester imitation of dead beaver from your head. It's not hip. Second, it is no longer cool to snap your fingers on the main beat, the half beat or the syncopated beat. You ain't got rhythm. Third, your facial peel didn't remove the liver spots or the crateriferous pock marks. You still look like Mons Olympus.
     Those items gave us doubts so we sent a team to your old workplace to interview your old coworkers. Your bosses referred to you as the most embarrassing butt-kissing weasel ever created and your office mates created a "shrine of shame" in your memory so no employee -- past, present or future -- will ever behave like you again. They will complete therapy sessions within 24 months.
     One item we particularly shrank from was the Capri Pants Celebration that you insisted on having total employee participation. We have determined that Disco is dead and Capri pants should be dead unless you're a creepy pervert, serial rapist or Charles Manson. Is it possible that you are related to Eve Black or Hannibal Lechter?
     Additionally, your former staff told us that you gave them special assignments that no one in the Division was prepared for. They said that you took no blame for the subsequent failures merely let your workers, to borrow a phrase, twist slowly in the wind. The least of your sins was serving them white chocolate with minty bits and claiming that your wife handmade the treats especially for them. That was a lie. Lady Godiva had a sale that week.
     And last but not least, Devo was never a rhythm and blues band.
     Therefore, we pronounce you insufficiently groovy. We cannot hire you but we can stamp you "returned for regrooving." We are an avant-garde, cutting edge dot com. You are an embarrassment to life everywhere on the planet. Your elevator never let the basement. Perhaps you can find a 12-step program for losers. We pity them. Please, never darken our doorstep again in this millennium or the next.
     Sincerely,
     Ukifah Heep

Shorts #1: Christmas Poem