Furman University

Dr. Russell Mann, a journalism professor at the University of Louisiana, Lafayette, began collecting Holmes themed materials in the 1990s. After more than 20 years of collecting, Mann donated his diverse collection to LSU in 2016. The Russell Mann Sherlock Holmes Research Collection contains a wide array of materials, including comic books, academic journals and anthologies, three-dimensional collectibles, and the papers of John Bennett Shaw, a Holmes scholar. Some of the collection items date back as early as 1966, while others are as new as 2014. These materials can be found here

Russell Mann Sherlock Holmes Research Collection

Davis, Catherine, \u2724

English

Improvising Copyright

Carter, Aria

The Echo a 22
Fingers of a Flautist
Aria Carter
Studio Art


Fingers of a Flautist

Chinn, Andrew

The Echo a 43
I Want Pizza
Andrew Chinn
Photography


I Want Pizza

Shutze, Ava

The Echo a 42
3:06
Ava Shutze
Photography


3:06

The Echo a 36
Here is how it begins:
         With a long train ride, a drag of a suitcase down the steps, across 
cobblestones. Into a lobby gilded with shimmering lights. A ceiling of 
mirrors, swinging seats covered in cow fabric. At the brass table and neon 
signs.	At	the	first	meal	on	trays	and	white	marble	tables.
         This is how it begins in Kentish Town. At the Lion and Unicorn Pub 
where cucumbers distorted largely in the glass jar and in the bunkbeds we 
would always hit our heads on. At the beginning of time itself.
 
How loud the tracks that lead you to where you’re supposed to be.
 
The Northern Line:
         At an angel’s wings, Camden’s lock, locket — lock it away forever, a 
treasure buried in Borough. At the bridge forever falling and the embarkment 
of nine elms and morning crescents, hearth and heath. Where you cherished 
the sound that pierced your ears, the rats on the rails, the white tiled tunnels 
and swimming crowds to a busker’s echo. The Thameslink overground to 
my internship, the cold breeze as I wait outside. The kings and charings now 
cross.
 
This time when the train is late, it’s okay because we have more time than 
we’ve ever had.
 
The clock reads: infinite
 
We traded roads to row:
	 At	Cambridge,	living	a	past	life.	Where	they	first	split	the	atom,	
where bikes become wings, where quarter manors become waxing moons, 
and where bridges sigh. Where the line at Fitzbillies for a chelsea bun, a cur-
rant now currently adored, runs out the door.
Red Letter London
Nonfiction		z  Ava Shutze
The Echo a 37
 In another life. In another life.
 The grounds were still frosted, everyone bundled into their coats 
and scarves. Smoke billowed out of chimneys, the King’s College courtyard 
glistened in the sun, and nothing was afraid of shadows.
 We punted across the river, through Queen’s and Trinity, under 
bridges and over and under and over. Scoring through every breath. Plaid 
blankets and frozen dreams thawing.
 If only I could dream long enough.
 
Savour, saves her, savior.
 
A place where canary is not just a bird or a color. Lines not just shapes. Kews are also 
queues. And hide is where we seek.
 
Starburst:
         Mirages blend into a thousand splendid suns. Paintings in bursts of 
every shade, kaleidoscope, milky way. An orange tiger, berries, plums in the 
streets. Pine and lemon loaf, strawberry marbled lanes, honey rivers. Neon 
blue	benches,	Pembroke	purple,	citrus	rains,	sequin	tunnels,	stitched	fine	
boots. Monet and Donatello yellow, creamsicle currents and stark stone slab. 
The milk that swirls into tea and vanishes as never once there.
This	time	when	the	train	comes	and	we	find	our	seats,	I	look	out	the	
window for hours and I hold this moment forever. The velvet seats and the 
table between us, the guys playing cards next to us, the people sleeping. We 
live in time.
 
The clock reads: love (of my life)
 
This is where time becomes love. These trails we weave, awake in a dream. Awake in 
a dream.
Walking in a dream:
         Walking for groceries or the forty minutes for my lunch break at my 
internship was as grand as any palace or garden. The mile long gated
The Echo a 38
graveyard and horse drawn carriages. I wondered if people thought I lived 
there. Even this too: foxes, standing in line at Tesco’s, the Ritz crackers I 
could	only	ever	find	once,	winter,	the	timbers	of	glimmers,	the	waiting	be-
coming being becoming loving becoming thanking. As much as anything and 
everything.
 
Will it ever feel the same?
 
The countryside:
         The grass is greener here, like I could never really see it before. Every 
hour	golden.	Moss	covered.	Crowns	unthorned.	Roses	unthroned.	Saffron,	
Walden, Oxfordshire. Shadows of trees bare yet never so whole. A horizon 
eclipsing, pink forests and lanterned wind.
         Evergreen. Timeless.
                     Time less, less time we have.
 
Edinburgh:
									 We	ride	over	cliffs,	blur	of	sheep	in	a	grassland	over	a	blue	ocean.	
Only ever seen on words on a page. Where we sleep in jeans till they crack 
into our skin. An electric green manor, Tollcross, echo and burn cloud and 
cloud and sky. Every mile royal. How we went to St. Andrews, stood on that 
bridge, we jump and never fall, and if only I could play golf.
 
This time when the train stopped working and we had to take a tram and 
we had to pronounce the name of the town to get back but we couldn’t. And 
we’re stuck. And we’re stuck. A mother helps us ask the driver about the 
place	and	we	are	somewhere	off	the	map	and	it’s	dark	and	we	make	it	back	
and we make it back and we make it back.
 
This time when the train rail was shut down and I had to get to class so 
walked to another station, but everything was slow and nothing was coming 
fast enough.
 
The clock reads: halfway
The Echo a 39
What if this is what’s holy? Not the cathedrals or wishing wells but everything in 
between, everything seen and not seen, even the wind, even the being without being.
 
Moments like these:
									 When	the	building	flooded	and	I	had	to	borrow	my	boss’s	key	to	
go out to lunch and when she made us pancakes. How you couldn’t believe 
your eyes. How this is the only time I’ve liked raisins. And belonging. And 
loving. And staying. The prime meridian where even there we couldn’t stop 
time. When it snowed, the French school, blackberry tea, the BFI Flare festival 
and	our	class	trying	to	figure	out	a	video	game	cramped	into	a	small	corner,	
windmills that spin forever. Cadbury chocolate melting, boiling pasta, a leaf 
falling, a wish. Invisible things too, our tracks in rain, steadfast love, rowing, 
crumpets and jam, boots, jacks, Bens. And how grateful I was all the time.
 
We’re at Leadenhall Market. A sign reads: If you do it right. Once is enough.
         Could this once ever be enough?
									 South	Bank	field	trips	where	we	all	fell	asleep	in	the	theater.	The	
horror. Pink screen, red velvet seats. Banshees, Keoghan’s “there goes that 
dream.”
         Indeed, there goes this dream.           
                                 Don’t let it go.
                                             I AM TRYING.
         People die from love. I was beginning to know why.
 
Isle(s):
         I’ll remember this. I want to remember everything. I’ll write it down. 
I’ll take thousands of pictures. I’ll see everything, do everything. I’ll come 
back, I’ll promise to make it last, I’ll enjoy every second. I’ll rewind the clock.
         Rewind the clock.
                                 R e w i n d t h e c l o c k , rewind, rewind, rewind
                                                                                 I already tried
	 Back	to	January,	where	even	on	the	first	day	I	began	to	miss	the	screech	of	
the underground and the crowds and the blue light in the evening as it was all hap-
pening. As if I knew someday it wouldn’t be.
The Echo a 40
Windermere:
									 How	did	we	end	up	here?	A	poet’s	haven	with	sonnets	and	rhyme	
in our wake as we trail up to a new place after booking one hours away. 
Driving a boat over still waters, blue upon green upon blue until they meet. 
Orange crunch and pitch glow.
         A bell chimes in the distance, time and time. And time in time. And this is 
the last time.
 
This time when the train stops and it’s late and we don’t know when a re-
placement is coming and the underground might close. We stand still in time, 
and I want it to stand still too, just a bit longer. If only we had just a bit more 
time.
 
The clock reads: one day
 
This is where I leave you:
         At the corner of McDonalds, at the shock of a door, on the second 
level of the double decker, on Juliet’s lips, secret gardens, picking up thank 
you	flowers,	with	strawberries	and	the	twiglets	we	share.	In	a	Rothko	Red,	
on a train over and under, my favorite part, lost in a kingdom, with Victoria 
and Albert and the stolen marbles.
         At Bath and York, ghosts in the shambles, at every delayed depar-
ture, in minding gaps, in the gap of where we are now, at zebra crossings, 
a knotted hill, at curtain down, at the place of Tolkein and Wonderland, in 
three hour lectures, in hot cross buns and crossings and retracings, in staying 
only because of leaving.
 You’re standing outside for the Thameslink, a train passes by, you 
think you see the lights from the lobby, the red circles of the lines, but it’s just 
the	reflection	in	the	windows.	On	your	walk	home,	in	a	bush	you	think	you	
see the last of the mini egg bar your professor brought for the class to share 
in	the	bus	ride	to	the	white	cliffs,	the	paper	slip	of	a	ticket,	the	final	remind-
er,	the	reminder	that	this	is	final,	the	checks	for	dinner	you	hunt	down,	the	
beginning of memory itself.
         In the sky setting right when you are about to swipe your card into 
the lobby, you think you see the postcards you bought at Kew, the Irish 
The Echo a 41
words that linger, the scent of orange and chocolate, the swirls of time itself. 
In a dream somewhere far out, somewhere always close by.
 A carousel of every moment you never want to leave behind.
         You’re at Heathrow. You buy three books with your remaining cash. 
You run into people in your class. You stand in the middle of all the gates. 
You blink and time stops. You see your whole life ahead of you now behind 
you now about to be below you. You don’t know how you could ever leave. 
You know you can never really leave. But time begins again.
 
This time when the train comes, this is it.
 
The clock reads: thank you z
 
 


Red Letter London

McLean, Stephen

The Echo a 47
A siren’s song calls from deep
Below the surface of the waves. Her voice— 
Somber, soft,
Suffocating	as
The weight of the water, all
Around you. What are you doing here, lost 
Soul, lonesome
Sailor,	this	far	down?
Stay with the sun, where the light 
Surrounds—brilliant, dazzling, glorious. 
All here is
Best left to the brine,
In this salty, murky void,
Hope abandoned in its inky black depths. 
No breath stays,
Only salt water
Prying	you	open,	filling
Your chest. What hurts more, the pressure 
Or	the	fear?
Of pain, of dying
Alone, chasing the last point
Of	contact?	Foolish,	drowning	sailor,	know	
Her song calls
The loneliest deaths.
Riptide Chorus
Poetry  c  Stephen McLean


Riptide Chorus

George, Melina

The Echo a 65
Lion’s Den
Melina George
Photography


Lion\u27s Den

Ozburn, Carter

The Echo a 77
We don’t have to go 
Anywhere at all
It runs together anyway
 
White teeth hide 
Behind	your	flat	lips
 
Keep my life for you
I follow in alien footsteps 
Pacing my hills and valleys
 
I found you in moments 
Glistening shard of future 
Fallen	off	your	mirror	
You left me to make sure 
You’re alive
 
Is this world in our head 
Caught in the midst of storm 
Penciled clouds shade the sky 
I sketched you without trying
 
You look like your mother
Summer rain soaking your hair 
Light falls from your cheeks 
Blankets the ground around us
 
Another	flash	we	fade
	Off	a	canyon	into	gray
I feel like I’m falling still 
Falling down into still water 
Lazy pools of little depth
You	find	me	in	the	bed	
Sunk into the earth like ruins 
My	ancient	fingers	upturned
You chase me through the streets 
Sprinting through falling rubble
It rains still in my head 
Running rain through houses
Ripping in gusts across your face 
When	you	find	me	don’t
Don’t
Poetry  c  Carter Ozburn


Don\u27t

Timbes, Anna

The Echo a 80
MELINA III
Anna Timbes 
Photography
