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Post by Kensicle on May 7, 2012 3:16:37 GMT -5
How is the next part going, Lemona? I'm eagerly awaiting it.
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Post by Cafe SalMONAlla on May 7, 2012 3:26:53 GMT -5
Aww! Thanks! I'm loving being a writer with a public. You can expect it probably on the eighth or ninth, but I'll do a formal announcement at some point. It's not a direct sequel to part the first - meaning that it doesn't follow directly on. It's merely another time of reflection for Esme.
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Post by Cafe SalMONAlla on May 8, 2012 4:51:13 GMT -5
Ok, formal announcement now. Because It's In: Reflections of Esme Squalor by Lemona Snicket Part the Second out later today[/center][/b][/color]
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Post by Kensicle on May 8, 2012 6:28:45 GMT -5
That came sooner than I expected, although if it's out later today, I'll be asleep. I'm intrigued all the same.
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Post by Cafe SalMONAlla on May 9, 2012 0:00:52 GMT -5
Because It's In: Reflections of Esme Squalor by Lemona Snicket
Part the Second:[/center][/b] Unless you are a latke who has jumped out of a pan of boiling oil and run down a boulevard making loud vocal sounds, you probably have not experienced the kind of intense heat that surrounded the occupants of the Hotel Dénouement as the building went up in flames. As the wood of the building crackled and creaked, the masses of people pressed against one another as they attempted to flee the inferno. The majority of them were still wearing blindfolds, a result of a recent trial that had gone haywire – a phrase which here means “had been interrupted by a sudden outbreak of treachery”. As a villain and three youngsters escaped off the roof of the hotel in a wooden boat, Esme Squalor, the wicked ex-girlfriend of the escaping villain, was caught in the interior of the hotel along with dozens of other people. Esme had long been a slave to fashion, and the outfit she was wearing that day was particularly bad for being in the vicinity of a fire. Esme had fashioned a skirt and blouse out of paper, torn maliciously out of several books. In order to arrange the paper so that it wouldn’t slide around, she had applied origami – which is the name of a Japanese art of folding paper into fancy patterns to make decorations – though I’m fairly certain it has never been used to construct clothing before. Esme’s earrings were made of wire, twisted into letters, so that one ear spelt “I” and the other “N”. Such an ensemble must have been very in, but I cannot imagine who would design or create such things. Fire, as a close associate of mine said, is like greed, and as the flames screamed and roared around the mostly blindfolded crowd, it seemed the most ruthless and greedy thing any of them had ever encountered. Esme frantically grabbed hold of a wall and felt people pressing against her, as she hadn’t removed her blindfold. The horrible heat, noise and panic in the room were terrifying. A hand grabbed Esme’s wrist. In the mass of people, she hardly noticed it, until it began pulling her through the crowd. Unless you are a vehicle in an automatic wash, you have probably never experienced being pulled a distance through an extremely tight space. As Esme was yanked through a packed area of the building, she heard a crunching, ripping sound, like a much smaller imitation of the noise of the burning hotel, as her paper skirt tore away from her waist. Presently she felt hot, open air on her skin, and knew she must be outside, near the pond. She thought of Olaf, her ex-boyfriend, who – though she didn’t know it – was escaping the blaze. Although they had both had tempers so bad that most of the time they had been going at each other hammer and tongs – a phrase which here means “arguing fit to kill one or both of them” – and although she had often been cross when he had flirted with other women, she didn’t want to think of him being destroyed in a fire he had set himself. As the hands pulled Esme further, she found that her wedged sandals – a name for a particularly ugly kind of women’s shoe – were scraping against concrete, rather than the floors of the hotel. Esme’s long fingernails scrabbled at her blindfold. She unwound it with some difficulty, and saw a man who was her was her ex-husband, a man who had become an expert on injustice since Esme had last known him, a man whose last name she still possessed – Jerome Squalor. “Oh. I’m so sorry,” were the first words that sprung to Esme’s lips, as if she needed to apologise for being saved. Jerome smiled awkwardly, and patted her hand. Esme stared around her. They were standing about a block away from where the Hotel Dénouement was burning to the ground. Jerome must have removed his blindfold already. Esme realised that she must look like some kind of rag-doll, far from the appearance she usually upheld. Her hair had flattened in several places, and frizzed in others, her paper blouse looked even more crumpled than it was supposed to, and she had lost her skirt. Jerome spoke finally. “I’m sorry I saved you” – it was an odd choice of words – “but I couldn’t stand to see you burnt”. Many, many things have been taken from Jerome Squalor. Becoming an expert on injustice does not protect you from the effects of it. And even Esme, though she had gained a lot as a villainess, had lost her life as a noble person. Many things are taken from people all the time, because that is the wicked way of the world, but I will allow these two people, a villainess and an injustice expert – or a former husband and wife – something so many authors take from people, and that is privacy. Four years onwards:If you have ever travelled into the Mortmain Mountains – and I hope you have not – you will remember the unfriendly square peaks and the hostile mountain air, and I cannot blame you for not wanting to return. But you will know, if you have seen these unnerving mountains, that they are a private place, for the simple reason that they are the last place anyone wants to go to, besides perhaps a dentist’s office. Therefore, the mountains are the ideal place for two people, running from the city, to escape to. There are people who survive in the mountain ranges, and the Squalors were two of them. It was the eighth of May, 1982, and Esme and Jerome were standing together in the front of their makeshift home. It is difficult, in mountainous terrain, to have a safe place, but they had managed to construct a kind of shelter where they could sleep, and where Esme had given birth to their daughter, Emma. It was early in the morning on Emma’s first birthday, and they were talking quietly so as not to wake her. “Esme?” Jerome asked his wife, “do you ever regret coming out here?” “No, Jerome,” Esme began to say, but stopped herself. The Squalors trusted each other, so there was no point in not being honest. “Not very often. It’s much harder to be noble and quiet, but it’s worth it most of the time. I don’t miss the city so much as I thought I would. I think perhaps I associate it with… what I was like. I still do try to look my best, but I don’t feel like I’m being judged. I don’t quite know, though, if this is the best life. Should we be so cut off as we are, Jerome?” “Maybe we can return to the city at some point. Emma shouldn’t grow up so isolated.” “Yes, I suppose so. Jerome?” “What?” “No noble person has ever taken notice of me, besides you. I was seen as nothing but villainous.” “Oh,” Jerome said softly. “No one has ever taken notice me at all, besides you.” “We met because of my wicked plans, but I didn’t recognise you then as what you could be like now. Am I making sense?” “Oh, yes,” Jerome Squalor said, turning towards the entrance of their home in an attempt to hide a small onset of tears. He disappeared inside and reappeared with a little tea set, and poured Esme a cup. “Emma will be awake soon, and she will be year old now. I think we’ve found a safe place.” The morning air was fresh and cold, and the tea was bitter and hot. The world is a harum-scarum place, and two people who had both had countless unpleasant experiences in it had found a small piece of justice. ~ OK. I hadn't written any fanfic for ages before I did this, but I'm glad I've done something. ;D
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Post by Dante on May 9, 2012 2:18:45 GMT -5
I think you did an excellent job, Lemona. Just on stylistic terms, you had some excellent definitions in the first part, and you're proving excellent in terms of description as well, noticing little details about people and places. I find it interesting how the future you posit for the Squalors reflects that of the Baudelaires. Maybe everyone who escaped the fire felt the need to undergo this kind of private self-assessment, this retreat to rebuild themselves. Good Esmé costume, too - it feels like it could have been canon.
All in all, a great exercise in fanfiction, Lemona.
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Post by Cafe SalMONAlla on May 9, 2012 2:25:47 GMT -5
Thanks so much, Dante.
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Post by Kensicle on May 9, 2012 3:32:13 GMT -5
To quote Akbar, this is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. (Did I spell that right? I think so.)
Indeed, this is very Snicket-y. Like Dante said, Esmé's attire could be canon. The whole thing could be Chapter Fourteen of TPP, almost. This is a fabulous fanfic, Lemona! Hopefully, we can see some more of your writing in the future.
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Post by Cafe SalMONAlla on May 9, 2012 4:02:33 GMT -5
Thanks so much, Kensicle! I do have another fanfic project in the works, but the idea's only in infant stage so far.
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