The Sinning Magpie

So one of my friends has been nagging me since forever to blog something new of my own. And the night before a history test and two days before a huge A&P Exam, of course, is when I decide to write a post. 

Needless to say, this post will probably be about one of my fandoms. Today, it shall be about BBC's TV show, Sherlock. For those of you who haven't seen the show or haven't read the books (I haven't either, it's ok), there is Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and James Moriarty (consulting criminal).
I want to focus on Moriarty for a few minutes. I feel as if it's appropriate to let you know that he is, without a doubt, my favorite character in the entire series.

Yes, he has killed people (through the people who work for him of course)
Yes, he has threatened many people
Yes, he is a criminal
Yes, he probably doesn't have a working moral compass
Yes, he is the "bad guy" in the show

BUT

I still like the way his character is portrayed in the show. James Moriarty is the type of criminal that hates boring things, ordinary things, and for some reason that's the thing I love most about him. While I disagree with most of his actions, I can't deny that it always excites me to see what he will do next. That's the biggest difference between how much I like an antagonist and a protagonist. The main character of the show, despite any ridiculous choices s/he makes, in the end it's almost always a choice that will solve all the problems. The villain, on the other hand, is unpredictable. While his/her choices will usually result in  another problem, there's no telling what type of problem or the severity of it. Plus, the bad guys are usually 100% sass masters. There are really no words I can use to describe why I like Moriarty aside from the fact that he's like an enigma; no one knows what's going on in that head of his except for himself and that in itself makes him a puzzle I want to find the pieces to.

I Will Burn The Heart Out Of You

Hey guys! Been almost a month since I last blogged and I feel a good way to blog again is give you a small Supernatural ficlet I wrote recently for my school's literary magazine. It's really (really) short but I liked the way it turned out. Leave your suggestions below please? I'm thinking of doing some imagines as well so if you have any ideas for that, I'd love to hear them too :) Meanwhile, enjoy this gif of Castiel that describes my entire existence

I Will Burn The Heart Out Of You

The lights in the motel room flicker on, illuminating the two figures standing in the doorway. The taller of the pair relies heavily on the door frame to keep him upright. His brown hair was matted down in places with swatches of dark red, the same color of the medium that was smeared across the light switch in areas his finger touched. The man next to him, considerably shorter, staggers into the room. The duffel bag in his hand weighs him down. He reaches into his pockets, pulling out a stack of dusty IDs – each decorated with a different name – and throwing them carelessly onto the bedside table. There seemed to be no significant features that would label the two men as brothers except for the same hollow, faint, burning remnants of humanity clouded by the dark that lingers in their eyes.

            “Who’s taking the bathroom first, Sammy?”  The older one grumbles. His fingers fumble with the zipper of the duffle bag, frowning when it gets stuck on a thread.

            “Guess I will…” ‘Sammy’ moves away from the door. Don’t let the nickname fool you. Gordon made that mistake once and almost got his head chopped off. It’s Sam. He would say. Only Dean gets to call me Sammy. But even Sam, as hard as the name is, didn’t begin to convey the monster that he could be. Dean was the soldier, the ruthless brother, the one with the Mark of Cain, but Sam, Sam, he was the reckless one. The one who has everything to lose, nothing to lose, only Dean left to lose. The two combined forms a vicious flame. The constant pulling and pushing and flickering of the fire never leaves them. The fire will not, cannot, exist without the two. As Sam closes the grimy bathroom door behind him, the cheap yellow light decreasing in the room, Dean tugs off his shirt. He grunts, tendrils of cotton tugging painfully at the dried blood that seemed to be burned onto his skin. 

The air is weighed down with the nightmares they see, thick, choking tension burning their lungs until they fall asleep, until they can fall asleep. And then, and then,  Sam, resting his forehead against the cold tile as red burns the water swirling around at his feet, and Dean, bloodied and burnt and broken and bruised and his jaw set as a needle threads through his skin, know, know, that in their world,

       in humanity, 

                    in the universe, 

                    something

                    must 

                   always 

            B U R N.