J-Jay-Jack

Jack often wondered if he ought to regret the path he'd taken in life. If he should have changed his ways while he had the opportunity. He could have been great - he could be someone that was worth more than... more than what he was. He could have respect, and adoration. The edge of his mattress sank down abruptly, and Jack kept his eyes shut, grinning to himself as a tiny frame curled against his chest. Several blond curls wedged themselves in his nose, but it had long since become endearing as, like clockwork, his nine year old visitor arrived at the crack of dawn each morning, driving away all unpleasant thoughts Jack might be inclined to

Jake, in all his seven years, had never wanted a mother quite so much as he did now, with mud riding up his cheeks as he crouched beneath the chicken coop and watched his father's furiously pounding boots cross back and forth inches from his dripping nose. Hot desert dust flew into his face and he stifled a sneeze, trying hard not to even allow his cheeks to flinch on contact. Stillness was his goal. Like any respectable boy, Jacobi did try very hard to follow the Good Book (as Miss Bess, who lived just a mile away, called it) and love his daddy. He was an old hand at turning the other cheek, and certainly did not raise objections when that

It was a well known and undeniable fact that Clopin Trouillefou and La Esmeralda got along better than a house on fire. They rarely argued, despite having vastly differing opinions on the way of the world. It was almost as though they cancelled each other out on almost every issue. Oh, there had been rare confrontations between the two, particularly when Esmeralda(and Clopin) had been younger and considerably less intelligent. They frequently shot banter back and forth. Lately, however, their once-amiable relationship had descended rapidly into the darkest pits of the abyss. It had started during the Feast of Fools, and the humiliation of Qu

T'was the season to be merry. Or, in this case, merrier than usual. That included, thus far, singing exceptionally loudly at unseemly hours of the day and night, dancing rambunctiously throughout the streets, stringing up an innocent cow with festive ivy and holly, donning his most atrociously bright outfit, and generally creating such a pandemonium that several people had thus far attempted to murder him – or at least shut him up for a few hours. It was, in fact, a celebration that would carry on until the Feast of Fools. Two weeks of festivities, followed by perhaps a month of city-wide recovery. Personally, Clopin thought it was, in

He had known well in advance that something was going to go wrong. The moment that filthy blonde soldier and that lumpy… Quasimodo had arrived, the air had thickened in anticipation. They were young – too young to realize the implications of saving a damsel in distress. Quasimodo was too naïve to know the workings of the Judge's mind, and Phoebus had to work hard to get basic processes through his blonde hair. But Clopin had known immediately what was coming. His mind, he regretted to say, worked on a similar level to Frollo's, and he knew that there were no soldiers coming at dawn. They would take the opportunity as it arrive

Even among the considerably famous and significant figures of the world, there are those very few days in one's life which begin and end on a note so sour, there seems very little reason to have risen at all in the morning. Though Europe-wide glory has a hand in making such occasions few and far between, it would be a grievous error to believe they cannot or do not crop up. Sherlock Holmes, of course, was no exception. I entered on a dismal and foggy morning to see him sitting at the table with an expression that rang of nothing less than extreme vexation. Having spent some few years in his company, I thought it wise to remain silent, and s

"Really, Watson. Can we not trust you to do your own shopping?" "Don't fret, John. It's not… that bad." "She lies, Doctor. I can hear your poor buttons squealing in agony. Really, however did you get your own measurements so convoluted?" John Watson was a tried man, indeed. He had so far forfeited what amounted to almost his entire wardrobe on the orders of his wife and best friend, both of whom were thoroughly enjoying themselves despite his discomfort. He imagined Holmes was only in so buoyant a mood because whatever he and Mary deemed unsuitable for Watson's closet would undoubtedly relocate to his own in the near future. Mary, on