Authors Note: Well since I only got one reply to my question of whether I should post this, I will. And is still stealing my spaces, so I'll just have to make do. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Really wish I did, but I don't. Sucks to be ne.
I watch as he smokes his pipe, pacing,
as I try to sew a straight line,
like Mrs. Hudson showed me.
I'm not very good at it.
I don't even know why I'm still here,
other than that I amuse him,
and that he likes my stories.
They're not even stories.
Just truths from another time.
Also, I don't think he has the heart
to turn me out on the streets.
There's not much I could do.
I have no money, few skills that would be of use
here and now.
Balancing chemical equations
and calculating velocity
or dissection symbolism in Shakespeare
isn't much use in Victorian England.
Most people would have tossed me out,
dismissed me as crazy,
or useless,
but he's not most people,
and the few predictions I've been able to make
have come true.
So he keeps me around.
And I suppose I'm a help
to Mrs. Hudson, for what I can do.
She needs all the help she can get.
He stops and turns to face me
as I inspect me ragged seam,
better than before, but not good enough.
He asks me a question,
and I answer.
The next thing I know, I'm telling
what I remember
of a story I read years ago,
about Robin Hood.
I'm running out of stories I can
remember clearly.
I'll have to write them down,
so I can remember more.
That's how we spend the night-
the detective, the doctor and
the girl.
If this were a story, I expect I'd be
the comic relief,
swearing and blushing and generally
not being a Victorian lady.
A glorified secondary character.
They don't get the guy,
or save the day,
or catch the bullets.
But we're good- useful.
And this isn't a story, is it?
I'm posting twice in one day- be nice and have a present waiting for me the next time I check my e-mail? Like a review?
Please?