#I hadn't read the Sherlock one in years and I'd forgotten all about it 😂

[atlantic-riona]

modern Helen and Penelope, Sherlock, and Tempest Mac? (If you don't feel like doing all of these, please just pick your favorite--I'm just intrigued by ALL of these.)

ooh you managed to pick all the older ones! I am quite fond of these still, so I’ll do all three!

putting it all under a cut because it got quite long:

modern Helen and Penelope was a modern AU (as the name suggests), but there were still gods and magic and heroes, plus a bunch of other mythologies were included as well. basically, the plot sort of revolved around Helen, who’s going to be in an arranged marriage, deciding to abscond with Paris, which kicks off a whole bunch of other things (I don’t quite remember the details anymore, but I do distinctly remember that the Irish heroes got involved somehow, and the...uhhh...well, some other heroes got involved too but I never wrote any of their names down, so 😅). but it also revolved around Odysseus and Penelope falling in love, which I’m a sucker for. in honor of that, here’s the part I wrote with Odysseus:

Her heart skips a beat as she realizes who she’s looking at, and she hastens to finish before Helen catches on. “With—what’s his name, Odysseus, I think.”

“The island king’s son?” Helen sounds disinterested, and Penelope silently thanks any gods listening. “I can’t remember—is he one of the good-looking ones? They’ve all become a blur.”

“He—” Penelope’s tongue, usually so nimble, stutters to a halt. All she has to do is say no, and her cousin will move on. But she can’t bring herself to lie. Not about him.

Helen watches with growing interest as Penelope makes a few inarticulate sounds before subsiding into a blushing silence. “You know what? Maybe I should refresh my memory. Come on, cuz.”

She strides away, moving with easy confidence as Penelope, her stomach filled with dread, follows. 

Her cousin has the ability to be seen or to be Seen. In other words, there are times like now, where the two of them pass through crowds with barely a second glance from anyone, and then there are times when Helen is the center of any room she walks into. And she can switch back and forth with ease.

Odysseus and his friend are bent over a table covered with hastily drawn maps and pretzels acting as soldiers. Someone nearby laughs, loudly, and her heart pounds in her ears. Odysseus is shorter than the other boy, but has broader shoulders. Recklessly, Penelope decides that despite the other boy’s good looks and easy smile, Odysseus has a far better smirk. Neither of them look up as the girls approach.

“So you see, the king really ought to have placed his troops there.”

“Ah, but have you considered,” says Odysseus, picking up another pretzel and eating it, “that the river was too exposed for a stand against the invaders? At the time, the forest seemed the better option.”

Helen leans over to look at the maps. “Goodness,” she says airily, as if the very sight of the battle maps are too much for her, although Penelope has played enough strategy games with her cousin to know that Helen would wipe the floor with anyone at this table, not including Penelope herself. “All those pieces look so very lonely. Surely you cannot win a war with so few soldiers?”

“Well, they represent battalions, not individual soldiers,” says Odysseus absently, and then he looks up.

From the way that he and his friend become still, it’s clear that Helen wishes to be Seen. They’re transfixed, the way one stares at a comet or tornado. Penelope might as well be the air, for all they see her.

In a fair world, Penelope might have been considered beautiful.

In that world, Helen would have to not exist.

As it is, Penelope contents herself with being considered wise beyond her years, although wisdom seems a poor consolation prize in moments like these.

“Helen,” Odysseus says finally. He clears his throat. “Aren’t you supposed—”

She reaches out and covers his hand with her own. “Oh, that. Being cooped up all day is no fun, I tell you. So I convinced Penelope to take me here with her.” Odysseus’ gaze drifts to Penelope. He has very lovely brown eyes. Helen clearly doesn’t care for the shift in his attention, for she laughs prettily and Penelope does not exist again. “Let’s keep this our little secret, shall we? And by that I mean don’t tell my father.”

Odysseus nods slowly. He looks around, up, down, and finally settles on asking, “Won’t you sit down?”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtful,” Helen says, and promptly does. The other boy does as well, which leaves only the one seat—Odysseus’. 

“You and Penelope will have to share,” Helen observes, sharp gaze trained on her cousin.

Penelope takes a deep breath. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

may actually pick this one up in the future, idk

Sherlock was a mini-play I wrote for my high school; they were doing a play (with Sherlock Holmes) that needed a “fake start,” one that was really ridiculous, so I wrote one for them that I thought might fit the bill. I have a lot of favorite ridiculous moments but here are a few:

SHERLOCK (abruptly): How’s Mary?

WATSON: //children...oh, Mary’s fine, she’s fine - so’s Henry’s two little sisters, Emma and Jane. Right terrors they are. Twin disasters, you might say. (He chuckles.)

SHERLOCK: Twins?

WATSON: How did you -

SHERLOCK: Your enjoyment in that atrocious and badly delivered pun gave up the game.

HENRY: The kids nowadays call that a dad joke.

---

HOLMES: You took your time slinking out from the woodwork again, my old enemy.

MORIARTY looks embarrassed. 

MORIARTY: I had to make tenure. My apologies for delaying our little games, Holmes.

HOLMES: Quite understandable. You cad.

MORIARTY: I deserved that one, I’m afraid. But not anymore than that, Holmes!

HOLMES: I apologize. I had to get it out of my system.

MORIARTY: Of course.

---

HOLMES: To answer your question…

He realizes that he doesn’t know her name.

HOLMES: ...er, dear, Moriarty is in fact about to offer us tea.

MORIARTY: Quite right. I put the kettle on before you woke up. Two sugars as usual, Holmes?

HOLMES: Once again you try to trick me, old enemy. You know perfectly well that I drink it black.

MORIARTY snaps his fingers.

MORIARTY: Foiled again, Holmes!

it was meant to be really bad, because Holmes (the real one for the play) comes out and demands to know what Watson (the real one for the play) is writing, at which point the actual play would start 😂😂

Tempest Mac is, I think, the only sci-fi story I’ve ever written?? it’s about this little girl in the future, in space, who’s Catholic and who meets an alien, while also solving important mysteries (like where the cookie jar went 😂😂)

that...was pretty much all the plot I had planned out, I think

but here’s what I had:

Someone had moved the cookie jar again.

Tempest Mac made a thoughtful face as she considered the scene of the crime. Then she went and fetched a tall stool, a flashlight, and a thick book detailing the customs and mannerisms of the Hazien people (which she was only a quarter of the way through, having only started at breakfast this morning). One never knew what might come in handy.

Just as she had gotten the book settled in place on the countertop, with one foot balanced neatly on the stool and the other on the book, and was peering into the highest cupboard with the flashlight, a shrill, startled voice rang out behind her. “Tempest! What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Finding the cookie jar, Aunti,” Tempest replied calmly, still shining the flashlight into the cupboard. In addition, they weren’t on Earth, they were on Haz—a few hundred lightyears away—so really, Aunti should have said, ‘What on Haz do you think you’re doing?’ but she knew when to let things go. “Somebody’s moved it again.”

“You don’t need a cookie right now, you’ve just had lunch,” her aunt scolded, lifting her off the stool and onto the ground without hardly any effort. “Wait until after dinner.”

“I don’t want a cookie, I want to know who keeps moving the cookie jar,” Tempest protested, but Aunti paid her no heed and sent her out of the kitchen to water the small garden out back.

Tempest Mac was six years old, small of stature, and what some people referred to as ‘precocious.’ Tempest gently argued with these people that no, she wasn’t precocious, she simply thought thoughts in a sensible way. Nevertheless, her grave eyes, quiet way of asking commonsense questions, and aptitude at reading far above her age level made the debate moot, as far as people were concerned.

Most people would rather chalk up things and people who don’t appear to make sense at first as anomalies, rather than investigate further. But then, this is because many people see the world like a black ink stamp pattern on a clean sheet of paper—easy, simple and pretty, in an orderly, bureaucratic sort of way. If the world is ordered and lovely in its organization, then so too can lives and people be the same way. If the world is a jumbled, chaotic, sloppy finger-painting done by an overenthusiastic four year old, then it is much harder for people to convince themselves that their lives may be ordered and simplistic. Such is life.

There’s a reason “Aunti” is spelled the way it is, but for the life of me I can’t remember why