Moriarty's Reverie

Image Credit: Sarah M., Phoenix, AZ The author's comments: I absolutly love Sherlock BBC and I just wanted to write this about Jim, if he survived after the Fall. Black clouds gather as rain starts to fall on the hotel window and the train tracks below. Bread’s “If” pours out of the phone on the bedside table. A man’s hand is hanging off the bed at an odd angle and his brown hair sticks out of the pillow in which his face is planted. He’s snoring softly, bedcovers twisted around him and pieces of a Westwood suit laid on the stained, green carpet that covers the floor. On his phone is a sent message. Subject: THE FALL To: Sherlock Holmes Did you miss me? -JM As the train passed below James Moriarty opened his eyes sleepily. The hotel room was dark abide the headlight of passing cars on his wall and his phone, now playing “All We Are” by Matt Nathanson, an American artist, but then so was David Gates. Jim got up, walking across the room and stopped to make some coffee. He didn’t look out the window but knew it was raining by the sound, such a depressing sound, rain. “I’ve wasted, wasted love for you, trading out, for something new. But it’s hard to change the way you lose, if you think you’ve never won.” Jim smirked as the second verse came on his phone. He’d won, bloody thousands of times and, and losing was just as hard. Maybe that’s not what Nathanson meant. Jim poured more coffee into his cup, but he knew plenty of songs that did, “Bloodshot” by Jack’s Mannequin for instance. Sherlock would have gotten the text by now, and for the first time in three years, Jim wouldn’t be lonely or sad or depressed, and wouldn’t wake up to the taste of a bloody gun in his mouth, no, he would be happy again…except… Jim couldn’t fathom what it was, but something was holding him back, something deep rooted in his psyche, a frightening disturbed place, something about needing love- He spat his coffee out and dragged his fingers though his hair. Love was a word that had taken away from him early on, when he just a lad, when his mother had died and his father had left him, alone their house, forever. He had been forced to mature and learn things at five that he shouldn’t have known till fifteen, had not needed love, and yet… and yet…he wanted it.     The music stopped, done with the track. The only sound was the soft thump as Jim slid down the cabinets onto the floor crying loudly, drowning out the sound of rain doing the same. He was so tried.  

STORY OF THE MONTH: November 2019

The Story of the Month is chosen from the Story of the Week winners announced from the past month. The finalists for November were: Sundays by Una Nine Nine Rain Dance by Raymond Sloane Surrender by Eileen Hansen Shadows by Dmitri Christopher The winner of the November 2019 Story of the Month, and the $10 … Continue reading STORY OF THE MONTH: November 2019 →

CASEY LAINE: Photographs of the Condemned

Capturing those final shots On the eve of an execution I wonder what words Her lips do not speak I wonder, yes, but I do not ask Because I know In my shadowed heart That a look as blue as her eyes in that light Is an answer in itself. Casey Laine comes from a … Continue reading CASEY LAINE: Photographs of the Condemned →

KRISTA ROBEY: Birds of a Different Feather

Displayed in front of the Catholic school assembly, Lydia felt like an ostrich: swollen belly perched on teenaged stork-thin legs, dying to bury her head in the sand. Afterwards, the nuns expelled her. It was then she decided “pro-life” was a crow veiled in a habit, not an olive-branched dove. Krista Robey is an unapologetic … Continue reading KRISTA ROBEY: Birds of a Different Feather →


I’ve been collecting things since I was very small. Conkers, feathers, snow globes. Then onto stamps, butterflies, coins. It was only natural for me to progress to larger, more beautiful and precious things. Hard to find, harder to keep. People demand their freedom in a way that stamps never did. Charlie Swailes writes short and … Continue reading CHARLIE SWAILES: Assemblage →


Just keep breathing. Their seats are still empty. My mind immediately comes up with a thousand old tired excuses: maybe traffic is bad; maybe the car didn’t start. Holding out hope? Two more then I’m up. I look at their seats again, still empty. Disappointment and relief wash over me. Sophia Austin works in Marketing … Continue reading SOPHIA AUSTIN: Empty Seats →