Books 436-440

It was a dark and stormy day.

the rain rained down like

tiny droplets of water,
hurtling down to the earth
at reasonable speeds
from the lofty gray clouds
that overcast the land.

In his dark room,
Sherlock Holmes wondered idly
why he had let the landlady
paint the walls a dismal gray-green.

The color sapped his complexion
and the poor lighting made it difficult
for him to tell
whether he had found
a clean handkerchief
or not.
It looked a little like the one
he had used the day before,
but in the dim room
it was difficult to tell.

Sherlock sighed
and put the handkerchief back in his pocket.
It would just have to do for the day.

He opened the heavy curtains
and looked out the window.
Out in the harbor,
his lightning project
seemed to be going well.

The boat had been struck by lightning
so many times
it now glowed
like an obnoxious fluorescent light bulb.
A few more lightning bolts
and the ship would light up the town.
Night would seem like day.
No one would get much sleep that evening.

Thinking of sleep,
Sherlock remembered
the young viking
who had appeared in his dream
the previous night.

The boy had worn a helmet
with wings so large
he could barely hold his head up straight.
Sherlock couldn't pity a person who's
cape clasp looked like two googly eyes,
And when he refused to engage
in a debate
about the proper usage of the word
the boy had become angry
and rowed off in his cartoon-ish ship
toward the gray blobs lining the shore.

Sherlock considered writing
the dream down in his journal.

But the journal was blank
and it seemed a shame
to ruin that emptiness
with viking banality.

He put the book down and stood up.

It was time to pack.

There was a mystery happening
somewhere in Quebec.
Probably the old section.
Or maybe the new part.
He wasn't sure.
He wasn't very well-read up
on Canadian geography.

But there was definitely a mystery there.

He was sure of it.

And if there wasn't one already there,
he would create one
to solve.

After all,
what else was there to do on a rainy day?