The wind whistled softly through the grass atop a hill. Scattered across
the hill were stones. Gravestones. Newer ones shone with a cleanliness,
which contradicted the sadness of a cemetery, but occasionally an older
stone was hidden behind dust and moss. How depressing to think that we
will someday become such an abandoned heap of dirt. Sure, we'll be visited
in the beginning, but soon enough our surviving lovers will die as well,
and so the cycle turns. But that is irrelevant. What use is it to bemoan
ourselves like this?
A young boy walked among the stones, glancing and lowering his head humbly at each one, as if passing lords and their ladies at a banquet. Finally, he stopped at one, falling to his knees. Brushing aside the dirt and clearing away the creeping moss, the boy placed some wildflowers before it. He grasped his hands together, whispering words of prayer. With a tiny finger, he traced the carved words on the rock, slowly and carefully, like he was writing them himself. Then, he stood resolutely, bowed to the grave, and walked away quickly. But, at the bottom of the hill, he turned back as the breeze stopped and silence surrounded him. As his legs gave way under him, he crawled back to the top of the hill, back to the grave he had just visited. He stared at it, pulling his cape closer to him as a chill ran down his back. How heart wrenching it was to look down on his grave!
Suddenly, his gray eyes filled with tears, and, sobbing hysterically, he threw his arms around the stone, the air filled with his grief-stricken cry. Even the hardest heart of all would've felt a wrench as it listened to these screams. They echoed forever on the hill, and if the passed persons of the burial ground had ears they might've risen from their eternal slumber. Louder and louder the boy's bawls rose, but it was no use. If only, if only, we could bring back the dead. Soon, he collapsed, weak and limp, next to the stone. But the tears didn't stop. They were a small comfort to the yellowed grass, as blood is useless to the battlefield.
As his heart seemed to separate, so did the clouds, and the sun's rays shone down on the boy's soft blonde head. He looked up at them, it's warmth dancing across his face and drying his ever-flowing tears. With his hand he touched the beam, letting it twist and turn around his fingers. Like an artist with a brush of solace, the sun painted lines of red and gold over the child's body. He grasped the ray gently, and it lifted him up to the heavens. He felt as light as the wind itself; his breath caught and his lips pursued, kissing the clouds. Floating along the sky, his life flashed before his eyes, and he matured with his thoughts. A child of five, then eight, and then twenty. On and on he soared, until, with a final sigh of satisfaction, he dissolved into the night, for it doesn't take just a minute to live your life again. His soul became part of the stars, his mind the moon, and his heart the sky. Back on earth, the boy's deerstalker cap lay strewn across the grave of Sherlock Holmes.
Note: Hmm. I do wonder what color Holmes's hair was. Anyway, on with the first Origin story! PS I hope you "catch" the method Joseph used in the Naval Treaty! And there's also the pocketknife from The Abbey Grange? . Well. They're just references. I'll continue this as soon as I figure out what Holmes' nanny would call him. She wouldn't be affectionate enough to call him Sherlock, and she's to be a harsh, mean, cold (ok, think female future Holmes) person. Please hit me with your suggestions.
A young boy walked among the stones, glancing and lowering his head humbly at each one, as if passing lords and their ladies at a banquet. Finally, he stopped at one, falling to his knees. Brushing aside the dirt and clearing away the creeping moss, the boy placed some wildflowers before it. He grasped his hands together, whispering words of prayer. With a tiny finger, he traced the carved words on the rock, slowly and carefully, like he was writing them himself. Then, he stood resolutely, bowed to the grave, and walked away quickly. But, at the bottom of the hill, he turned back as the breeze stopped and silence surrounded him. As his legs gave way under him, he crawled back to the top of the hill, back to the grave he had just visited. He stared at it, pulling his cape closer to him as a chill ran down his back. How heart wrenching it was to look down on his grave!
Suddenly, his gray eyes filled with tears, and, sobbing hysterically, he threw his arms around the stone, the air filled with his grief-stricken cry. Even the hardest heart of all would've felt a wrench as it listened to these screams. They echoed forever on the hill, and if the passed persons of the burial ground had ears they might've risen from their eternal slumber. Louder and louder the boy's bawls rose, but it was no use. If only, if only, we could bring back the dead. Soon, he collapsed, weak and limp, next to the stone. But the tears didn't stop. They were a small comfort to the yellowed grass, as blood is useless to the battlefield.
As his heart seemed to separate, so did the clouds, and the sun's rays shone down on the boy's soft blonde head. He looked up at them, it's warmth dancing across his face and drying his ever-flowing tears. With his hand he touched the beam, letting it twist and turn around his fingers. Like an artist with a brush of solace, the sun painted lines of red and gold over the child's body. He grasped the ray gently, and it lifted him up to the heavens. He felt as light as the wind itself; his breath caught and his lips pursued, kissing the clouds. Floating along the sky, his life flashed before his eyes, and he matured with his thoughts. A child of five, then eight, and then twenty. On and on he soared, until, with a final sigh of satisfaction, he dissolved into the night, for it doesn't take just a minute to live your life again. His soul became part of the stars, his mind the moon, and his heart the sky. Back on earth, the boy's deerstalker cap lay strewn across the grave of Sherlock Holmes.
Note: Hmm. I do wonder what color Holmes's hair was. Anyway, on with the first Origin story! PS I hope you "catch" the method Joseph used in the Naval Treaty! And there's also the pocketknife from The Abbey Grange? . Well. They're just references. I'll continue this as soon as I figure out what Holmes' nanny would call him. She wouldn't be affectionate enough to call him Sherlock, and she's to be a harsh, mean, cold (ok, think female future Holmes) person. Please hit me with your suggestions.