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i believe in sherlock holmesHe wasn't a man of strong faith, solid faith, nor any faith for that matter. He didn't believe in a god or multiple deities or pray to the heavens for rain, no. The world was vast and vacant, abandoned by whatever had brought about existence. What other explanation was there for the hopelessness that plagued him day and night, that infested his thoughts and made him cringe?
When he was a soldier on the Afghani battlefield, valiantly defending his Queen and country, any small remnant of faith that he might have cradled was shot along with his friends, his fellow comrades at arms. Seeing that much suffering, death, and despair damaged a person beyond words. He returned to the bleak streets of London a broken man, or at least he thought so. Something deep inside of him told him otherwise when he met Sherlock Holmes. (When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.)
Sure, the bloke was incessant. He was always saying the wrong things, constantly picking out flaws and consisten
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Can be interpreted as John/Sherlock if you want.
Warnings: Reichenspoilers. Really angsty.
Two weeks ago, hundreds if not thousands of people believed that Sherlock Holmes was the greatest detective the world had ever seen.
Now, that number has been reduced to four.
Lestrade believes that Sherlock Holmes was for real because he knew Sherlock as well as most normal human beings could, and because he had seen Sherlock working on cases. Having seen that, he knows that Sherlock cares little for the actual victims of whatever crime has been committed. But he does care, however he tries to hide it, about stopping whoever's behind it before they commit more crimes. Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade knows, cared too much about stopping villains to ever create one.
Mycroft believes that Sherlock Holmes was for real because he's known Sherlock since Sherlock was just a little baby. He's seen those mental powers develop, both in himself and in his brother. And
Love dA Lit: Issue 63Welcome to the sixty-third issue of my weekly news article, Love dA Lit! Every Sunday this article will aim to promote volunteer opportunities, various resources, prompts, challenges, and workshops, as well as highlighting various contests, interviewing various members of the literature community and spotlighting a specific group every week. This is by no means a complete list of all the literature going-ons, merely a tool to help you get involved and stay informed.
This weeks group spotlight is Expose-Lit!
LITplease's Community Portal
Expose-it, now officially launched, puts up some more guides: Critique, Write Better, and Competitions.
That Old LetterThe marching was steady and constant, boots thudding heavily against the hard packed ground. It begged for rain as it cracked under the soldier's feet, splitting in a million pieces like a giant puzzle made of the surface of the Earth. The weather beaten uniforms that stuck out from their ramrod straight bodies were covered in dust, sandy camouflage for the dry conditions. Bullet proof vests and heavy helmets protected them, guns as black as the death they brought held by shaking hands; some eyes were battle hardened and others wide with fear. In their ranks stood a boy just shy of twenty, his own eyes cold and expressionless. He appeared to be a natural born killer.
It wasn't long ago that he was sitting on his front porch with his best friend, griping that high school should be over by now. With foolhardy grins and wandering minds, the boys were often the center of chaos. But they were "good boys", according to their parents, at least. They had lived three houses
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More