Welcome back to the final Teaser Tuesday featuring the authors of An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
Is it a bit egotistical to interview myself? If so, I kinda don’t care. See, I love this book, and I love my story in this book. And I want you to buy this book and read my story. So I’m going to talk at you. My tale is titled Worlds Collide, and as it implies, I bring the past to the (Victorian) present and confuse the hell out of our favorite detective.
THE IMPROBABLE AUTHORS: S.H. Roddey
1. What drew you to submit to this particular anthology?
Part of it is the editor, but mostly I love the concept of Sherlock Holmes. He’s a brilliant madman, and he brings with him a whole list of psychoses I’m dying to explore. I’ve always loved the stories and the various visual retellings, and I never thought I’d have the opportunity to do what I’ve done here.
2. Tell us a little about your story.
I like to complicate things (as any of you who know me know very well). It started as kind of a let’s see how easily I can run Lexxx up the wall type thing and ended up taking a turn into completely weird. Sherlock finds himself stumped on a murder investigation and reminiscing after a visit to a fortune teller. The old gypsy woman leads him down roads he didn’t expect and into a twisted scenario where past and present collide. And they say no one lives forever…
3. Who’s your favorite Sherlock?
As with my contemporaries, I love Jeremy Brett…but my favorite Sherlock is definitely Benedict Cumberbatch. I love the way the BBC characters interact. The on-screen chemistry is fabulous between Sherlock and Watson, and I’m in awe of the updated storylines.
4. What else (if anything) have you written?
Take a look in the side bar. You’ll find more than enough to keep you busy.
5. Where can we find you online?
Right here. Also on Facebook (AuthorSHRoddey), Twitter (@draickinphoenix) and at http://www.SHRoddey.com
THE IMPROBABLE TRUTH: WORLDS COLLIDE
I never expected Sherlock Holmes to agree to going back for a second visit to Madame Felicia, yet at 6:00 PM sharp, I found myself standing between he and Mary, staring up at the garish sign. Since our last visit, the gas lamps on either side of the door had gone out, presumably using up the supply from their hidden tanks, and the curtains in the window to the right of the door had begun to fray along the bottom edge. Sherlock turned to me with a put-upon look about his face.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, and I half expected him to stamp his foot. “An utter waste of time.” Chuckling, Mary bypassed me in favor of taking his arm and leading him up to the door.
“Come on, Sherlock,” she persuaded, tugging at his elbow, “humor me. If you believe she has information you need, simply use your talents to uncover it.”
“No buts. Come on,” Mary ordered, and pulled him up the step and inside. Just before the door fell closed behind them, I reached out and placed my hand against the jamb, affording me the opportunity to slip in behind them without turning the latch again.
The building was decorated in a gaudy, garish manner. Tapestries and scarves hung from every surface, and beads jangled against one another in the door frames, caught in the draft creeping in from the top of the stairs. I shivered against the chill and followed diligently along behind my fiancée and her unwilling yet oddly complacent victim. We were led to the same room as before: a tiny, cramped area with a round table and a glass orb on a rusty tin base. In this room, as with the rest of the space, brightly-colored scarves and linens decorated every surface, and cobweb-covered beads hung from the dusty sconces along the walls. Mary guided Sherlock to a seat opposite Madame Felicia, then took the seat beside him, putting me between her and the fortune teller. From his very posture I could see how uncomfortable my flatmate had become, but I said nothing with the hope that Mary’s foolhardy plan would remove this inconsolable frustration from his head.
I took my seat in stony silence, fighting the urge to curse as my fingers slid against the rough surface of the table, catching a rather large splinter in the process. Irritated by this happening, I jerked the offending plank of wood from the side of my hand and flicked it into the air, where it landed somewhere near the old gypsy’s feet with a noticeable clatter. Mary glared at me across the table as I dabbed at my bloody hand with my handkerchief.
“You have returned,” the withered woman said, her voice thick with Slavic inflection. Sherlock immediately leaned into the conversation, his whole attention focused on her.
“I need to know more,” he said. “Tell me where I can find the killer.”
“Sherlock,” I growled in warning, but Mary laid her hand over top of mine, attempting to quiet the ire growing in me. From that point on I kept my mouth shut and listened.
“When past and present collide, only then shall you find what you seek,” she said. “You are drawn to the unfamiliar, the unexplained, the impossible. It is not the answer to the question you crave, but the hunt itself.”…