I find myself short of blog material this week, due mostly to poor planning on my part. Since what I was going to post is only half written, and I'm going to be at Scare-a-Con this weekend and unable to finish it, I offer you instead a story. It originally appeared on TheStoryside.com, and it's about a writer struggling with the same old tropes. See how many classic novels and movies you recognize . . .
That Sounds Familiar
by Stacey Longo
by Stacey Longo
“It’s all been done before!” the great writer, Sherlock Frankenstein, lamented. He tamped his pipe and slammed down his notebook and pen. He pushed his wheelchair away from the window, where he’d been observing the tenants in the apartment building across the street through dusty binoculars. “How can I call myself a writer? I don’t have a single idea in me that someone hasn’t done already!”
He wheeled into the hallway. “Where’s my dinner?” he called to Aibileen, his maid. Perhaps a hot meal would help him come up with a story idea.
“Sorry it’s late, sir. Here you go.” Aibileen set forth a platter of eggs and ham. The ham was fatty and the eggs looked slightly discolored.
“Green eggs and ham? I thought we were having rabbit stew?” Sherlock roared.
“We were, but the stew was burned.”
“Burned? By whom?”
“The butler did it,” Aibileen said with a shrug, and left Sherlock to his gangrenous meal.
Sherlock had been orphaned as a baby. Shortly after he’d given a hungry hobo his leftover gruel one day outside of the orphanage, a mysterious benefactor stepped forth and paid a full scholarship for Sherlock to attend Hogwarts University. He’d been happy there, and when war broke out, he’d made a few dollars on the side as a blockade runner. Eventually, though, as he watched men both older and younger than he join the armed forces without hesitation, he felt guilty enough to enlist. His southern girlfriend, Scarlett, had been quite upset when he’d planted a sloppy kiss on her and left her abandoned on a bridge—he’d never known a woman with such a fiery temper! A bullet in battle had put him in a wheelchair, and he’d fallen in love with the nurse who’d attended his wound. Catherine Barkley had been blond, beautiful, and spirited, and Sherlock had forgotten all about his Southern belle. After an evening during which Sherlock had consumed an entire bowl of rack punch singlehandedly, he’d proposed to Catherine. He’d sent her on to Ithaca ahead of him to prepare the house before he arrived, and his subsequent journey home to her had been quite an odyssey. He’d traveled far and seen amazing things, including a magic school bus, a celebrated jumping frog, and even a talking pig named Napoleon, before he finally made it back to her side.
They’d had quite the love story until she’d died of cancer.
Now it was just Sherlock and his daughter, Harriet, a boisterous girl who loved to spy on the neighbors as much as he did. She was always out mucking around the neighborhood, though lately she’d complained to her father that a murderous alien clown was living in the storm drains, trying to kill her and all of her friends.
Clearly Harriet was insane. He’d have her put away in a sanatorium if he didn’t feel so damn sorry for her.
Sherlock finished his meal with a sigh, and rolled himself over to his desk. His computer was on, and he started to type a few words, paused, and read aloud what he’d just written.
“‘The knife came down, missed him by inches, and he took off.’ God, what was I thinking?” He turned the desktop off without saving his work, and rubbed his eyes. Aibileen came in to take his dinner plate away.
“Oh, I’m done for, Aibileen. Every idea I have has already been written by someone else, and better than I could ever hope to. What am I to do?”
“Well, sir, not that I know much about novel-writing, but I know I always enjoy a good murder mystery,” Aibileen offered as she pulled out a rag and began dusting his Maltese falcon.
“No, no. The murderer always turns out to be the wife’s lover, or the grown son nobody knew the victim even had, or an orangutan. No, I need something different.”
“What about a romance? Maybe it could be about you, and that nanny you hired to watch over Harriet last year,” Aibileen said. Her deft feather duster cleared away the cobwebs, the letters SOME PIG disappearing with a swipe.
“Maria? That would never have worked out—she was always flitting about and singing. Or did you mean Mary Poppins? I’m not even sure what happened there; she left so suddenly.” Sherlock sighed at the memory. “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood to write a romance.”
“A ghost story, then,” Aibileen said sternly, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Guess I should’ve seen that coming,” Sherlock muttered.
Harriet rushed into his room in a tizzy, and climbed onto Sherlock’s lap. “Father, did you hear? They’re going to hold a lottery on the green, and everyone in town’s required to be there! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Let me guess. Everyone will be entered, and if your name’s called, you’ll be stoned alive?”
“Oh, Father, that’s so 1948. No, if you’re selected, you have to fight 23 other kids to the death for no apparent reason. Isn’t that wonderful? If I’m not picked, I think I’ll volunteer.”
“You would,” Sherlock sighed. He’d thought Harriet had only been slightly crazy, but now it was evident that she’d completely flown over the cuckoo’s nest. He’d have to have her committed. Tomorrow, perhaps. After all, tomorrow was another day.
“Come on, Father. I told Pippi, Piggy, and Huck we’d meet them on the bridge to Terabithia before the lottery.”
“That’s it. I can’t stand it one moment longer!” Sherlock shoved Harriet off of his lap, and found that he could suddenly stand on his own.
“Oh, it’s a miracle, Father!” Harriet shouted.
“It’s an overused literary trope, Harriet!” Sherlock spat back. “I’ve had it. My whole life has been one cliché after another. When will this madness end?”
Suddenly, they were all eaten by a T-Rex.
He wheeled into the hallway. “Where’s my dinner?” he called to Aibileen, his maid. Perhaps a hot meal would help him come up with a story idea.
“Sorry it’s late, sir. Here you go.” Aibileen set forth a platter of eggs and ham. The ham was fatty and the eggs looked slightly discolored.
“Green eggs and ham? I thought we were having rabbit stew?” Sherlock roared.
“We were, but the stew was burned.”
“Burned? By whom?”
“The butler did it,” Aibileen said with a shrug, and left Sherlock to his gangrenous meal.
Sherlock had been orphaned as a baby. Shortly after he’d given a hungry hobo his leftover gruel one day outside of the orphanage, a mysterious benefactor stepped forth and paid a full scholarship for Sherlock to attend Hogwarts University. He’d been happy there, and when war broke out, he’d made a few dollars on the side as a blockade runner. Eventually, though, as he watched men both older and younger than he join the armed forces without hesitation, he felt guilty enough to enlist. His southern girlfriend, Scarlett, had been quite upset when he’d planted a sloppy kiss on her and left her abandoned on a bridge—he’d never known a woman with such a fiery temper! A bullet in battle had put him in a wheelchair, and he’d fallen in love with the nurse who’d attended his wound. Catherine Barkley had been blond, beautiful, and spirited, and Sherlock had forgotten all about his Southern belle. After an evening during which Sherlock had consumed an entire bowl of rack punch singlehandedly, he’d proposed to Catherine. He’d sent her on to Ithaca ahead of him to prepare the house before he arrived, and his subsequent journey home to her had been quite an odyssey. He’d traveled far and seen amazing things, including a magic school bus, a celebrated jumping frog, and even a talking pig named Napoleon, before he finally made it back to her side.
They’d had quite the love story until she’d died of cancer.
Now it was just Sherlock and his daughter, Harriet, a boisterous girl who loved to spy on the neighbors as much as he did. She was always out mucking around the neighborhood, though lately she’d complained to her father that a murderous alien clown was living in the storm drains, trying to kill her and all of her friends.
Clearly Harriet was insane. He’d have her put away in a sanatorium if he didn’t feel so damn sorry for her.
Sherlock finished his meal with a sigh, and rolled himself over to his desk. His computer was on, and he started to type a few words, paused, and read aloud what he’d just written.
“‘The knife came down, missed him by inches, and he took off.’ God, what was I thinking?” He turned the desktop off without saving his work, and rubbed his eyes. Aibileen came in to take his dinner plate away.
“Oh, I’m done for, Aibileen. Every idea I have has already been written by someone else, and better than I could ever hope to. What am I to do?”
“Well, sir, not that I know much about novel-writing, but I know I always enjoy a good murder mystery,” Aibileen offered as she pulled out a rag and began dusting his Maltese falcon.
“No, no. The murderer always turns out to be the wife’s lover, or the grown son nobody knew the victim even had, or an orangutan. No, I need something different.”
“What about a romance? Maybe it could be about you, and that nanny you hired to watch over Harriet last year,” Aibileen said. Her deft feather duster cleared away the cobwebs, the letters SOME PIG disappearing with a swipe.
“Maria? That would never have worked out—she was always flitting about and singing. Or did you mean Mary Poppins? I’m not even sure what happened there; she left so suddenly.” Sherlock sighed at the memory. “I’m afraid I’m not much in the mood to write a romance.”
“A ghost story, then,” Aibileen said sternly, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Guess I should’ve seen that coming,” Sherlock muttered.
Harriet rushed into his room in a tizzy, and climbed onto Sherlock’s lap. “Father, did you hear? They’re going to hold a lottery on the green, and everyone in town’s required to be there! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Let me guess. Everyone will be entered, and if your name’s called, you’ll be stoned alive?”
“Oh, Father, that’s so 1948. No, if you’re selected, you have to fight 23 other kids to the death for no apparent reason. Isn’t that wonderful? If I’m not picked, I think I’ll volunteer.”
“You would,” Sherlock sighed. He’d thought Harriet had only been slightly crazy, but now it was evident that she’d completely flown over the cuckoo’s nest. He’d have to have her committed. Tomorrow, perhaps. After all, tomorrow was another day.
“Come on, Father. I told Pippi, Piggy, and Huck we’d meet them on the bridge to Terabithia before the lottery.”
“That’s it. I can’t stand it one moment longer!” Sherlock shoved Harriet off of his lap, and found that he could suddenly stand on his own.
“Oh, it’s a miracle, Father!” Harriet shouted.
“It’s an overused literary trope, Harriet!” Sherlock spat back. “I’ve had it. My whole life has been one cliché after another. When will this madness end?”
Suddenly, they were all eaten by a T-Rex.
Sherlock, right before the Great T-Rex Incident.
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