Post by gerbilgirl311 on Jun 23, 2007 7:29:51 GMT -5
Snicket Writing Competion: By gerbilgirl311
As violet leaned over the seat of the boring Mr Poe's car, Her skin brushed, With Klaus's. "Erm..Sorry" He carried on looking for his book of signals. "No," Violet annocued, "It was nice" Klaus's face became soullen. "Really?" "Yes" There eyes contacted, looking at eachother. There lips loosened. They stared in silence.Their heads moved closer, they both leaned in. Violets lips clasped on top of Klaus's. Klaus's arm wrapped around her perfect figure, They were now leaning down on both the passenger and drivers seat.
Afterword: I always thought Klaus and Violet liked eachother.I dont mean to affend anyone with that writing.
Post by gerbilgirl311 on Jun 23, 2007 9:42:40 GMT -5
Hello, and welcome to mine and my friends story about two people in the snicket books who fall in love, thanks Enjoy! Written: by gerbilgirl311 and Kirsty123 (she aint a member on 677)
Me and Klaus were sitting smoothly in Mr Poe's old-fashioned car, waiting for him to return. Sunny was in the shop enjoying Mr Poe's company. We were very tired and needed our family near. I was sat in the old run-down passenger seat and Klaus was sat in the back seat. "Sit here" i annouced. Klaus looked at me, his eyes glistening, "Sure" he repiled sweetly. As he clambered over the seat i felt a fizzle through my body. Mr Poe was going to be a while. There was hardly any room, So both of us wiggled around trying to get comfortable. I leaned over to turn the blaring radio down, Klaus's eyes followed me, He was watching me. As i looked over to him, his eyes burrowed into my head to see if I was thinking the same thing. "Violet, It's pretty cold, do you want to get into the back and snuggle up?" I didnt hesiate. "Yes, i would love that." As we climbed into the back, the tension build. I giggled freely as his cold muscly arms touched mine. "Is this ok,"he asked,"Are you still cold?" "I wont be for long" I repiled winking at him. Slowly his arms wrapped around my cold exitced body. Finally the moment we had both been waiting for had come. Our heads ducked, and our lips closed in. His lips were warm and loose. Our lips broke off. He looked at me, "That was," He paused, " Great!" "I know" i repiled. "I know it was wrong but it felt so right" He read his mind and mine. As i gazed into the shop, Mr Poe was still waiting for service. He looked over and waved. We waved back giggling. "I am getting too hot" he excalmiped. He reached the bottom of his jumper and pulled it over his head. His flesh was showing through his tight top. He asked me "Violet would you?" Of course i will" I repiled. I touched his tight top and thrushed it over his head, His brown hair getting scruffier. His flesh was hot and ready for action. His arms once again burrowed around me. He was now on top of me. I checked for safety in the shop. Mr Poe wouldn't be back soon. "Dont worry, it will be ok" He pressed on the top of me. Klaus knewn what i was thinking earlier. Mr Poe didnt return till twenty minutes later.
Post by thistledown on Jun 23, 2007 19:19:36 GMT -5
LOVESONG A short-story by thistledown.
Life. Love. Hatred. Death. They flow together, muddled, a mess of color and sound, creating something far from perfect--a human being. But without contact with other humans, these four components of a man become dulled, to the point where life is not worth living. Where love and hatred have become one. And where death seems an embrace, a shield, from the harsh pain of life.
The building struck up from the pavement like a steel spike, glinting and eager. It was an old building, full of memories both good and bad. And, on the thirteenth floor, in a nondescript room, resided something that was also both good and bad. It was a man. Not a young man, but not an old one either. A man that had no remarkable traits and, should he have stood in a crowd, would be nearly impossible to find. And, on the odd chance that you did, indeed, pick him out, he had a face that was forgettable. This J. Alfred Prufrock of a man had at his disposal such an array of seemingly unintentional disguise--from his normal mouth to his normal dull beige trenchcoat and tophat--that one almost had to wonder if it was intentional. If this man wanted to be forgotten.
Whatever the case, he resided alone, of late. Unlike his fellow tenants, who brought home women and friends and drink, to play the night away like a game of cards, usually losing more than winning, this mysterious man would sit, solitary. And by the warm orange glow of his antique lamp he would read and write and pour over various maps and blueprints and inspect moth-ridden and dust bespeckled costumes, recording his findings in a large blue notebook that he kept on his person at all times.
He had a name. In fact, he had several. Ranging from the aforementioned Prufrock to Vonnegut, from Buchanan to Gatsby and from Denver to Baby Suggs. These he wore like snakeskin, shedding it when it became hazardous or inconvinient. But he was born with the name Lemony Snicket. And it did not matter how many times this name became hazardous or invonvinient, it was always the true name beneath the shroud of other, sometimes more appropriate ones, and he could not shed it like the others. No, that was not possible until all records of his life were gone or forgotten.
And they nearly were. Burned in various fires all over the world until only one record remained. The Snicket File. But he had given up hope of ever seeing that again a long, long time ago. Around the same time he gave up on the Sugar Bowl, believing it forever lost to the living, as it were.
Mr. Snicket had given up on many things. And he regretted that every moment of his life.
But if he had to choose, say, what he regretted most about his life, he would utter but one word: Beatrice. That is not to say he regretted the love he had for her or the wonderful times they had spent together--they had been the best moments of his life! No...he regretted the loss of her to another man, he regretted the fact that he had done nothing to win her back, resigning, instead to his sad and lonely fate among molding books and yellowing pages.
Lemony Snicket sighed, leaning back into the hard wooden chair. He would not allow himself the comfort of a cushion. Not now. Not after all he had done. He did not deserve it. Just as he did not deserve to answer the insistent letters that had been plagueing him for days now.
They were signed Beatrice Baudelaire, but, curious though he was, he knew it to be a lie. Beatrice Baudelaire was dead, along with her husband Bertrand and possibly their three children. He was certain that this new Beatrice Baudelaire was an imposter, probably sent to murder him. Yet still, that name offered him hope. A light, as it were, in his dark life. A candle to guide him.
Because there was always a chance that she was alive. And there was always a chance that it was one of the Baudelaire orphans, trying to reach his attention through that name.
Lemony Snicket paused in his musing, pushing the thoughts out of his head, concentrating on the old map of the city, the one that had come from the special box that could only be opened by a special key that had been given to him long ago. Sighing, he scribbled a word into his notebook: FIRE.
It was both a beginning and an end, giving birth to mythical creatures like phoenixes yet also chemically changing substances forever, making them irrevocably different.
Just as he had been irrevocably in love with her...
No! He would not allow himself to think of! to tarry on! to want! the sound of her name.
A slow grinding noise brough him out of his head. Out of his Mind and into Life.
It was the sound of a small saw, drilling a hole through his ceiling. Near the whirring fan.
He waited with baited breath, looking apprehensively upward, wondering what terrible fate would befall him this time. Knowing that he would have to run. Again. And find a new old building full of unobservant individuals, with a thirteenth floor and a nondescript room he could call his own--for a time, at least.
And then, quick as a bullet, a tiny square of folded paper landed on his desk. And on the front of it was his name, and next to it, after the word From--the name Beatrice Baudelaire.
He looked up at the small, paper-sized hole that was now so very visible, searching in it for an all-too-familiar and much beloved face. But nothing, just the push of wood as the removed plug of ceiling was stuffed back into place, sealing off the black portal forever.
The writing was young, childish almost, with a hint of maturity, for his sake, probably. With a deep breath, he receeded back into his Mind, resolving within to open the note and read what was meant to be read, finally.
He traced her name with a trembling hand, and, as his fingers delicately opened the paper, he knew, even before reading the first line, that the note contained within would change his life forever.
His chest was blood-soaked, and I could barely look. I didn’t take well to blood; it made me squeamish. The rich, dark shade of red glistened from the warm and viscous mess flowing from the wound, and I thought I was going to vomit. It had been a while since I had even spit up--I was growing up. But this was among my smaller concerns, and I was not about to let my mind wander for comfort. He looked up at us, at Kit, gulping the air as though it were sudden rains in a draught. Kit, too, was breathing heavily. She wouldn’t last much longer. I swallowed my tears before they came.
Olaf appeared to be on his last limb. Klaus, Violet, and I were helping Kit deliver her child, but I couldn’t watch him die. Despite everything he had done, despite the pain, the tragedy, the death of our parents, the despair that had befallen everyone around us because of him, he was still a human being. Perhaps that is what we forget most in the world. I made my way carefully over to the dying man.
“Sunny, what are you doing? Kit needs us!” Klaus cried. I paused a moment and looked him straight in the eye, then doing the same to Violet--peering into their thoughts, searching for their intentions.
“Nobel,” I told them plainly, but I am not quite sure they understood. I didn’t bother to wait and find out, but continued on the short journey to Olaf. He looked at me curiously when he noticed my presence, but his pain was sharp in his eyes. He tried to lift his head, but couldn’t. Unsure of what to do, I gently pet him on his forehead, moist with sweat. He smiled a little. Encouraged, I looked at the wound in his chest. For goodness sake, I was little more than a baby, but I had gained more than enough common sense throughout our trials. The cut did not look deep, but it had been bleeding for a while. I tore off long strips from the bottom of my dress and pressed them against the wound. As Violet and Klaus delivered Kit Snicket’s daughter, I stayed with Olaf, finding water for him and using the little medical knowledge I had to begin healing him. Not too long before, I myself had been near death. If one can save a person in need, one must, I had discovered.
Long hours passed, and Olaf was asleep. Though his brow was still furrowed in pain, he was healing, and he would likely survive. I smiled and brushed a few tears off my cheeks as I hurried back to Kit. The baby had nearly made its way into the world, and my siblings willingly accepted my help. The dying mother screamed as her daughter was finally born, and at last, she held her in her arms. Kit looked at the three of us and smiled weakly. Then, gazing at the child as though trying to convey all her love and knowledge in a single instant, she leaned back and closed her eyes on the world forever.
We wept for her that night, rocking the child in shifts all the while, smoothing its motherless transition into the world. The baby, named Beatrice, didn’t know she was an orphan, of course. We saw this as a ray of hope. Misery was not hereditary; Beatrice had a chance. We intended to help her make the most of it.
The morning brought welcome fresh sunlight. Beatrice was healthy, we could see, and had survived her first night. We all ventured over to Olaf together, deciding to be civil. Treachery, we knew, was like the plague, and we would not be helping by spreading it. Olaf sat up when he saw us, considerably stronger than when I had left him. Strips of my dress were still wrapped around his chest, but the blood on them was dry. He was healthy, and I grinned, for I had done something good.
No good deed goes unpunished, of course.
Olaf rose before us. “Happy, orphan?” he asked me. His eyes were shining ominously; it was as though nothing had happened at all. My mouth opened in bitter surprise, then closed, then opened again to speak.
“You’re better?” I asked him, pointing to his chest.
“It wasn’t that bad after all,” Olaf replied, and in a swift, unexpected motion, he seized Violet’s arm. “But now you orphans are going to pay for this.”
“We-we didn’t hurt you, Olaf,” Violet said, trying to sound calm and confident. Her voice shook. Olaf growled.
“Not this blasted wound,” he hissed. His spit his words like fire, each syllable a spark, a flame, that lit the sand before him. “Everything. All the time I spent after your fortune! The henchmen I lost--my friends. Fernald! Esmé! Carm--well, Carmelita was a blessing, but it’s the principle! You orphans cost me more than I could ever begin to explain!”
Klaus looked up at him in horror. “Olaf, haven’t you any idea what you’ve done to us? None of this would have happened if you hadn’t pursued us in the first place!” he insisted.
“Enough! Silence! It doesn’t matter now whose fault it is. Kit is dead, and you three are paying,” Olaf roared. His voice cracked on the last word, but he pretended not to notice. We followed suit--he still held Violet.
“Let go of Violet,” I commanded him. He didn’t, of course. He looked her carefully in the eye and pressed his lips against hers.
“That’s what was robbed from me when you didn’t marry me,” he growled. Violet stumbled backwards, spitting on the ground. Olaf’s grip on her remained firm, and he broke into a sudden run with her. She screamed, but there was no one left to hear her but the two of us. We ran after them with all the power we had, but we were younger and slower, despite Olaf’s injury. Before we reached them, we were caught in a seaweed and vine trap made by the islanders before their departure. It was something of a fishnet, and there was no way to escape. Klaus rose his hands to heaven and cursed Ishmael. Seeing the words “Call me Ish” carved on the tree that held our trap, he let out a cry of defeat. I was silent. This was my fault. No matter what good one tries to do, evil will creep its way in, like the winds of a winter night through your bedroom window cracks. Violet was gone to us. Klaus and I held each other and wept that morning, unsure of her fate, but certain it would be dismal. I couldn’t bear being the cause of this. I bit my hand over and over, scraping the skin with my teeth, until the taste of blood was sickening. Klaus said nothing about this being my fault. He said nothing at all, which was perhaps what was most frightening.
After a few hours, Olaf found us in the trap. His eyes were shining brighter than gems. “Let me help you down, orphans,” he said. He pulled a small knife out of his pocket and cut the vines of the trap. The gleam of his eyes reflected off the blade.
“What have you done with her?” Klaus demanded. He held my hand, his grip nearly cutting off the circulation of blood in it.
“With who?” Olaf said with a fabricated innocence that he knew was fooling no one. He began strolling nonchalantly in the direction he had taken Violet, and we followed. Before long, we found ourselves in a quaint fortress of trees. It was cool and peaceful, and the shade darkened the area in a way that was almost comforting. More overwhelmingly than everything else, however, it was dreadfully silent. We checked over the surroundings quickly and found nothing suspicious. All looked natural but a candle burning a slight distance away from us. Klaus and I moved towards it, certain that Olaf’s intentions weren’t good. The man himself said nothing, but watched us as we carried our worries to the light.
The burning candle itself was soothing and gentle, but we as we looked to see where the wax was dripping, we found that it rested in a human skull--Violet’s. I screamed when I saw it, bit my own hand. Klaus yelped as well, falling to the ground. What quick work he had made of her! I couldn’t begin to think of the method he had used to murder her and come away with her skull in such a way. The top of the skull was cut off and lying beside it. Olaf joined us at the site, lifted up the cut-off part of the skull, and put out the candle’s flame. His eyes flickered with light as the candle’s died.
The thought of my sister--strong, quick-witted Violet, always sharp and ready when it mattered, nearly our parent--being dead was unbelievable. And it as my fault. My mind exploded with emotions I hadn’t known existed. I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t see. Olaf, shining brightly in his own world, was quite content with himself.
“I told you that you would pay, orphans,” he said, and I did not need to look at him to know that he was grinning in triumph. Even if he didn’t realize it then, it was hollow triumph, for what success is there in killing a teenage girl? Anyone, for that matter. I wondered what it would be like to lack a conscience and feel victorious, even for a moment, for such an act.
Klaus and I remained silent. He was holding me now, and we cried quietly with each other. Olaf was making his way towards the other side of the shaded area. He came back in a few moments with Violet’s dress. “You can have this back,” he snarled, and thrust it at us. Klaus picked it up carefully and examined it with as much respect for our sister as he could. The dress itself was in rather good shape, considering the circumstances. However, in the sleeves of the dress, our sister’s arms still remained. Klaus yelped louder than before and cast the dress away. Olaf threw his head back and laughed. The breath he exhaled was like poison, and I couldn’t stand to be near him anymore. I grabbed Klaus’s hand.
“Leave!” I cried, and we hurried back to the shore of the island. Olaf didn’t bother following. He had won, for the moment, and was human enough to let us have time to mourn our sister. Upon our return, we saw the tiny body of Beatrice. In the horror of the past few hours, we had forgotten about her. To our relief, she was unharmed, and we cared for her as we discussed our options.
“We have to get off the island,” Klaus said, with the most focused attitude he could muster. I nodded; he was stating what was obviously true.
“How?” I asked. Klaus frowned, dismayed.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He really has won this time.” He was beginning to cry again, and I patted his hand. He smiled sadly at me and shook his head. “This is the end, Sunny. There’s nothing more for us to do.”
“Violet--little engine,” I insisted. If she were still alive, after all, she would have tied her hair up in her ribbon long ago, inventing a way to sail to safety. Klaus nodded, but still frowned.
“Why don’t you see what Olaf is doing now? If we are going to survive, we need to know his plans,” Klaus said with a bit more hope. “You’re small and quiet; he won’t notice you if you are careful. I will stay here with Beatrice.” I smiled, saluted my brother, and set off for Olaf’s new lair.
Olaf was sitting now on a large rock. I crouched behind a bush as I watched him. The rock was pushed towards a larger boulder, set up like a table and chair. He was talking to himself. “Yes, boss! I’ve got the orphans, boss! Is it safe to eat raw toast?” The voices of his associates--some dead, some never to be seen again. He repeated their words to himself, even imitating the pitches of their voices. He squealed with laughter. I was both shocked and horrified. Olaf was insane. I wondered which was more dangerous, a sane villain like him or an insane one. With Olaf, it was difficult to tell.
I looked for Violet’s skull with the candle in it. The candle was burning again. I shuddered. As I watched the flame, Olaf stood up and walked toward it. “Little Violet, what a pretty face,” he said to the skull, and laughed again. He picked up Violet’s dress, which was still lying where Klaus had thrown it in terror. He stroked it a moment, and then lit the edge of it with the candle’s flame. I couldn’t withhold my scream. Olaf snapped his head in my direction, startled. I was frozen with fear. Olaf dropped the dress, which was quickly being consumed by the fire. He glared at me for a moment, and then charged toward me. However, with his withered sanity, he forgot about the dress, and tripped over it. His filthy trousers caught fire. He stared at them in disbelief. Still unable to move, I thought about all the disguises I had seen him wear that I had wished would catch fire. How many lives would have been saved if he had been dead? Would my parents be alive? Would we spend cheerful time with Uncle Monty? Would Jerome Squalor have a faithful wife? Would the Quagmires be safe? Would Hotel Denouement be standing?
He was too dumbfounded to attempt to put out the flames. They rapidly consumed the rest of his clothing, scorched his skin. He did not scream, but closed his eyes and let the fire devour him. I couldn’t watch him die. I ran back to the shore where Klaus and Beatrice were waiting.
When a bee stings its victim, it spends a few moments in victory. It has claimed its prey and won, and celebrates its triumph. However, when it releases its weapon, it finds that the weapon is precisely what it needs to survive. By injuring another, it kills itself. Olaf’s fate was similar. His greed for human flesh destroyed Violet, but destroyed him as well. If justice is sometimes delayed, it is not scarce.
I reached the shore quickly, and Klaus looked at me anxiously. He could tell something had happened, and eagerly inquired. I took a deep breath, for it was beginning to set in. Our series of unfortunate events--for now, at least--was over. “Olaf is dead.”
Last Edit: Jun 24, 2007 13:23:19 GMT -5 by Libitina
Post by queequegcaptain on Jun 24, 2007 13:43:16 GMT -5
More to Widdershins
"Good fortune! Aye! Good journey! Aye! Good-bye!" Captain Widdershins called to his daughter and his three newest crewmembers, Klaus, Sunny, and Violet Baudelaire. The captain listened for the distant clanging of the closing valves, signifying that the children had made it safely put of the submarine, and then raced to the radar screen. Phil Anthropy, head (and only) chef of the submarine, followed him with an optimistic skip, of course.
They sat in a tense silence for several minutes. Captain Widdershins would squeal in distress every time one of the little neon dots on the screen would become jostled or separated from the other three dots, fearing that it would be his precious Fiona. Phil said, "No worry...see, they're all back together now," or, "They'll survive a few waves, Captain." But these remarks seemed to bounce off the worried stepfather.
When Captain Widdershins started to bit his nails, Phil decided to change his tactics. "Hey, I think it'll be Violet's Birthday tomorrow! Yes, I distinctly remember her mother, a few years back, of course, saying that she needed to pick up a... what was it now? Ah yes! A 'Vanilla-Free Dessert' for her daughter. She has the same birthday as R, you kn-” Phil cleared his throat, not wanting to bring the woman who had caused Widdershins so much pain over the years into the conversation.
"So, let's decorate!" Phil concluded, clapping his hands together in feigned enthusiasm. Captain Widdeshins gave a jerk of his head and a gurgle of disapproval, his eyes still glued to the screen. "Fiona wou-ahem-will be so proud of you, remembering a thing like that," he said quietly.
That was all the coaxing the Captain needed. He stood up from his chair and marched into the kitchen. "Aye!" he shouted, returning to his usual self." We'll need a cake. Aye! We'll need cupcakes. Aye! We'll need donuts. Aye! We'll need a certain cookbook entitled the Joy of Cooking. Aye! We'll need to write our own cookbook! Aye!"
"Um, Captain?" Phil timidly said. "I think I've got a recipe idea. We'll need eggs, flour, sugar, cream of tartar, and baking soda." The captain retrieved the ingredients from behind the stacks of gum. "Oh, and coconut," Phil remembered. Captain Widdershins stopped.
"Coconut?" he asked. "I was kind of saving it for a special occasion." "Well, we are gonna meet Q in three days, to compile the statistic prior to the court date. What kind of occasion were you planning on having between now and then?" countered Phil. The captain sighed, but recognized defeat, and so pulled out a bag of coconut shavings from behind his poetry books.
The Crew of Two worked together in silence; Phil baking the cake, and Captain Widdershins stringing decorations in the main hall. The oven "dinged" and Phil went to place his concoction on the table. When he entered the Main Hall, however, he was dismayed to find the captain staring at the radar screen. Widdershins was slumped over in his seat, sweat pouring down his face.
"Captain," Phil began, filling his voice with false cheeriness. But before he could begin his pep talk, the Captain rasped, "It's coming towards us." One hairy finger was pointed at the radar screen. Phil rushed to examine it, and confirmed that there was indeed a USO (Unidentified Swimming Object) that was coming towards them.
Indeed, another neon dot had appeared in the screen. It was very close to the little green Q, and very far away from the four children. "Shut off the steering devices," he said, dangerously quietly. "Secure the valve. Close the blinds. I'll take care of the rest."
Phil hurried off to do his part, while the Captain scurried to do his. Ten minutes passed, and then a shrill scraping noise shook the entire submarine. Phil and the captain, both scared out of their wits, huddled around the table. Suddenly, the screeching stopped. The silence was followed by a loud ‘pop.’ The valve opened, and a cascade of water rushed in. A woman in a shiny green wetsuit who had come in in the torrent of water picked herself up and dusted herself off. She looked at the Widdershins’ expression of utter amazement and smirked.
“What? Thought that you could keep me out? You weren’t I’s only favorite. He taught me tricks, too.” The cabin continued to flood. “I suggest you close the valve. Before the sub sinks. Again,” The pale woman added maliciously.
The captain, at a loss for words (or action), remained rooted to the spot. Phil scurried to do the task instead. When he came back after shutting the valve, however, Widdershins was still in disbelief, staring at the pale woman before him.
After a long, awkward silence, she said, “I’ve come to collect you,” in a very condescending tone. “Collect me?” Widdershins asked, whimpering.
“The both of you.” She corrected, nodding towards Phil. “You are needed elsewhere. Now. Let’s go,” and she began to walk towards the valve.
"Fiona," the captain whispered to himself. Then he stood up, wearing a defiant expression, and lumbered after the woman.
She called out, "Yes, that’s it. I thought you might have wanted to retrieve your personal belongings, but I’m sure that there is nothing here worth salvaging.”
Widdershins turned to face her. “I’m not going with you. I’m going to go get me daughter. Aye!”
“You will do no such thing. Look at where they are!” she cried indignantly, pointing to the radar screen. Indeed, the rest of the crew was as far away as they possibly could be. And still be on the screen.
“Me only daughter,” Widdershins replied. And made to open the valve.
“I thought that you had learned from your mistakes Widdershins. Your previous hesitations caused us the deaths of W, R, and L, and eventually led to the schism. The Great one. I thought that you would have the brains not to make the same mistakes twice. But I see that you would rather save this precious daughter of yours than some faithful members of V.F.D. who are in a rather sticky situation.”
The captain hung his head in shame, and allowed himself to be marched out of his submarine.
Mr. and Mrs. Poe of number thirteen Lenore Drive were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last persons you would connect with mysteries and magic, because they didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Poe worked at bank by the name of Mulctuary Money Management. He was a large, self-important man with a constant cough. Mrs. Poe was a nondescript woman who only knew how to cook boiled food and who doted on her two spoiled sons, Edgar and Albert.
Mr. Poe normally spent his days happily engaged in rapid-fire telephone conversations, but today was different. In the middle of the morning he looked out of his office window and was startled to see four brightly-cloaked figures shouting and cavorting in the street.
"They must be circus clowns," Poe thought. "I must see if I can get tickets for Albert and Edgar."
But before he could place a call to inquire about tickets, there was a rattle from his telegraph machine and a telegram spit out: "BAUDELAIRE HOME BURNED STOP. PARENTS DEAD STOP. COLLECT CHILDREN AT ONCE FROM BRINY BEACH STOP."
The two eldest of the three unfortunate Baudelaire children were indeed at Briny Beach at that moment. Before you read on, I must warn you that you would do far better to read a happier tale than to read of their misadventures.
Violet Baudelaire, sixteen, was skipping stones into the misty ocean, pondering how she could create an invention to bring the stones back automatically after she skipped them. Klaus Baudelaire, a little older than twelve, was cataloging the flora and fauna (a phrase which here means "plant and animals") which he found in the tidal pools.
"It's not as much fun without Sunny," said Klaus. "I've found several seashells I'm sure she'd enjoy biting."
Their baby sister Sunny was an excellent biter, as good at biting as Violet was at inventing and Klaus was at research.
"I don't understand why Mother and Father didn't let us take her with us today," said Violet. "They've been quite overprotective since we moved to our new mansion last week."
"They claimed Sunny had a fever, but I don't think she really did," said Klaus. "Something strange is going on."
Their speculations were interrupted by a coughing sound from the fog as Mr. Poe approached.
"It's a nice day, Mr. Poe," said Violet politely.
"Yes," said Mr. Poe with a sad cough. "I have some bad news for you, children. Your home has burned down and your parents are dead."
The children stared at him in shocked disbelief.
"B-but what about Sunny?" Violet finally asked. "She was at home, too!"
"My telegram didn't say anything about her," said Poe.
"I don't believe that telegram," said Klaus. "We have to go and see for ourselves."
"Very well, we'll go in my car," said Poe. "But you'll have to tell me how to get there. Your parents moved recently and nobody seems to know their new address."
For a moment Klaus and Violet struggled to speak. Although they had both memorized the address on pieces of paper their parents had given them, they had trouble getting the words out. Finally, it was as if something released their tongues to speak a secret that it was no longer any use to keep.
"G-Godric Hollow," said Klaus.
"Number 1224 Godrick Hollow," said Violet.
When they arrived there, Poe said, "I will wait in the car. Breathing in ashes and smoke would be bad for my cough."
It was a terrible sight. The library books, with which Klaus had spent many happy hours, were burned to nothing. They found Violet's microscope fused by the heat. Worst of all, there was no sign of Sunny.
"Sunny! Sunny!" Violet called in despair.
A white-bearded old gentleman stepped from behind a ruined wall, carrying a large covered basket. "Ah, there you are. I was expecting you."
"Who are you?" Klaus asked.
"Never mind that now," said the man. "The important thing is that your sister lives. Here, take good care of her. As long as she makes her home with you, her blood relatives, she will be safe."
He handed the basket to Violet. She tore back the covers and there was Sunny!
"Sunny! You're alive!" Klaus shouted.
"This is wonderful," said Violet, "But who...how..", she looked up to ask the man more questions, but there was nobody there.
"You're not even scratched, Sunny" said Klaus.
"Voldie," said Sunny, which meant, "Well, there is a little tiny scratch."
She pointed to her forehead, which had a fresh scar in the shape of a lightening bolt
Last Edit: Jun 26, 2007 0:03:35 GMT -5 by RockSunner
An evil laugh could be heard from above. One that seemed familiar, but was as terrible as if I had heard it for the first time. I waited until everything was silent, then emerged out of the secret underground bunker. It was as I feared. Everything had gone. Even the Very Fancy Doilies decorating the dining room table had gone too. Everything lay in ashes and ruin. I clambered over a few beams, and soon the great aroma of smoke filled my nostrils. I had been lucky to escape with my life. I hurried over to the fridge to see if any of my comerades had left me a message in time. They had. Looking at the Verbal Fridge Dialogue in haste, I knew I had to get down the mountain quickly if I was ever going to reach the meeting in time. However, my thoughts instead turned to more laughter on the top of Mount Fraught. I knew that it came from a terrible villain, who in the past used to stand with along - side me. That is until the schism happened. Then I heard a cry which could only have come from the littlelest Baudelaire. I wept in agony, for I couldn't save her, but I couldn't leave her. In the end I had to. However, as I was going back into the ruins I stumbled upon something which had survived the blaze. A letter from Beatrice. As I took the fragile letter in my hands, I read:
I'm afraid all is lost. Not with me, though, but with you. If everything was not so terrible and unfortunate in the past I would have married you, however, due to unforseen circumstances and your baffling disappearance, I had no choice but to marry another. I wept when I heard that you were alive, as well as crying with joy. You are being watched and are in great danger. DO NOT go to the meeting in the Valley of Four Drafts! For I have heard word that the enemy have discovered our hiding place! If you survive, don't go to the meeting at the Hotel Denouement. Instead, spy on the activity by disguising yourself as a taxi driver. Also, dear Lemony, if you see my children, please let me know. This has been enough of a burden for them.
Remember though, that even though I have a husband,
Then it ended. The rest was torn off. I wondered about a seemingly useless piece of paper, but now everything made sense. I took it out of my coat pocket, and it fit. Now it read:
Remember though, that even though I have a husband, in my heart, I still love you.
As I stuggled to get down the mountain later that night, I noticed a cave, where I wanted to shelter. However I could see that it was occupied. As I was about to leave, though, I noticed two children in the corner of the cave, away from everybody else.They seemed familiar, even in the darkness. As I got closer I noticed it to be Violet and Klaus, sleeping peacefully beside one another. I was so tempted to wake them up and tell them everything, but I could not. They must not know what evil there is in the world. They will find out over time, I thought as I got up again. Then I noticed a piece of parchment was sticking out of Klaus' waistcoat, and I realised that it was the last page of the Snicket File. My heart leapt, for I knew that it would be safe in the hands of the Baudelaires. I got up to leave, but as I did so, I saw a torch light flash four times at me. I looked up through the Vertical Flame Diversion and spotted a brilliant photographer waving at me. I flashed back at him with my torch in morse code, a phrase which here means: A code where series of long and short flashes indicate a message. He understood that I would speak with him later. I looked back at Violet and Klaus once more, and hurried away into the night.
Last Edit: Jun 26, 2007 3:25:55 GMT -5 by klaus1000
Post by Page Turner on Jun 26, 2007 9:58:00 GMT -5
A famous person once said, "If you don't know where you are, then go someplace else." I admit this bit of advice to anyone to whom it may concern. On this Blog are things too horrible to mention such as harassing headlines, disagreeable documents, and ridicules (a word which here means "full of ridicule", rather than "silly" or "outrageous") reporters.
Wednesday, May 25 The Daily Punctilio
THE DAILY PUNCTILIO Breaking News! The award winning author, Leramy Snickat was reported dead by several spectators whose names are the following: Constance Noring, Paige Turner, and the Rita Story. Rumor has it, that Paige Turner has told a falsehood by reporting to the Daily Punctilio and the other two so-called witnesses about the death of Leramy Snickat. Paige Turner may have bribed Rita Story and Constance Noring to confirm her lies to the Daily Punctilio, about the author's death. Rita Book and Constance Noring were all too pleased to be mentioned in the famous Punctilio. So, in fact, Leramy Snickat may not be dead after all.
To Eleanora Poe, at the Daily Punctilio:
Dear Madame STOP. Perhaps I should refrain from contacting you via telegram STOP. You don't ever seem to answer any letters I send you STOP. Even so I would like to comment on yesterday's headline STOP. I know no one by the name of Leramy Snickat and so cannot claim that he is dead STOP. I was not bribing Constance Noring and Rita Book, I was trying to escape from them in the middle of the night down a fire pole that was slippery with horseradish from my evil relative Rita Book, who, even though she is corrupt, has read just as many books as I have STOP. If there is anyone named Leramy Snickat who died I have nothing to do with the matter STOP. I need to end this communication now, not only because it is getting very expensive, but also because my enemies are right outside this motel where I am telegraphing you STOP.
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Tuesday, May 31 Daily Punctilio
Another false article by the Daily Punctilio:
The Daily Punctilio
The stories of Extraordinary Citizens By Esme Squalor
When Carmelita Spats was born, she was the prettiest baby in the whole wide world. Her parents, Edward and Jemima Spats were delighted. She grew to the age of seven months, then began to talk in sentences without saying, "MAMA!" or "DADA!". She said things like, "May I have my chocolate milk now?" "Are you a cakesniffer?" Then she grew and grew until she was six years old and got to go to school. Her parents said they were sad that they couldn't be with her during the day anymore, but she answered, "I'm going to school so I can be popular, and so I don't have to be around you two twits anymore!" She was so persuasive that her parents had to agree. In school she learned all sorts of good things, how to make cotton candy, how to tie her hair up in an "In" way, and how to shop for the right clothes. All her teachers adored her, and each day, she skipped home from school, happy and joyful, with a ribbon bouncing in her hair. Her parents would ask what she'd learned that day, and she'd tell them with excellent grammar in her sweet little voice. Then, when she turned eleven, her parents had an urgent business call and had to send their little girl to Prufrock Preparatory School, where she first met the Baudelaire murderers. They hadn't murdered Count Omar yet, but they did a terrible job in their studies, and yawned all the time. Carmelita was appalled when she met them. Then, after the Baudelaires murdered Count Omar, she went to a club called the Snow Scouts. That's where she met me, Esme Squalor. Then I adopted her right then and there because she was so cute, adorable, and pretty.
Tuesday, July 05, Conspiracy? To my kind friends,
As you have heard, I have come out of hiding again. For how long, I do not know. My enemies are hard to keep track of, seeing how many there are. Still, I have my sources.
I applied for a job at a certain "bread store" a few months ago, and I contacted them today. They said they wouldn't be needing my services. They must have figured out who I am, or who I was. I'll look into it. Meanwhile, I might go to work at a purified water company...or is it a dairy farm? I'm not sure. I shall find out on Thursday.
If any of you happen to bump into me, please remind me that I need to contact L as soon as possible. He needs to know about O, and why he is a Count. It is so hard to communicate with L. He's always moving about. Of course, so am I.
I must return to changing my telephone number, and finish packing my suitcase.
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Saturday, June 06
Secret Mission To my dear friends, and U:
I will have to stopp communicating with you via miy V.F.D. blog. My eneimies (a word which here means "Rita Book, Constance Noring, and their troupe, Allen Gator, his girlfriend Liz Erd, Anita Bath, orr Knot A. Mused have been tracking me, and I fear that theye may discover this communication board.
Therefore, I wil disappear for 3 weeks, starting tomorrow at 4:00. I will finnd you during that time, to make sure you are safe. I count the days correctly, so if yoiu see me soon, don't be surprised. Until then, I must maake hastte to collect my things. If I do I will not be found. Goodbye for now, dear friends. And keep safe.
With all due respect, Paige Turner P.s. "The World is Quiet Here" P.p.s. Do not overlook mistakes. They may be deliberate.
Thursday, July 14, Excerpt from, Would you like to Volunteer Fair Denizen? CHAPTER 12 1/2
Joe's mother came into his room, to tuck him into bed. She smiled, and said, "Would you like me to read you your favorite book, 'The Littlest Elf'? We haven't read it in almost a month!" Joe frowned, and declined. He didn't like that book at all. "Mother, what was that noise outside?" Joe's mother raised an eyebrow, "Nothing." "If there's nothing out there, what was that noise?"
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Monday, July 25,
THE DAILY PUNCTILIO A Bad Deed Wrongly Done by Geraldine Julienne
This morning, The Daily Punctilio's star reporter, Geraldine Julienne was on the side of the road on her way to interview an important banker's sister. She was on the roadside, because her car broke down. A wart-faced man pulled over to her and asked if she was stranded. She replied that she was.
He decided to help her, and drove her back to the car so he could see what was the matter with it. The man discovered that her car had been sabotaged. Her variable frequency drive was broken. He kindly gave her advise on how to fix it, accepted a small amount of cash to go buy a new one, and drove off. He didn't come back. Geraldine Julienne says that he must have been kidnapped and robbed by The Daily Punctilio's former star reporter, Leramy Snikot.
If you see a wart faced man, or Lemony Snicket immediatly contact Geraldine Julienne, or if you can't reach her, the police.
Friday, July 29, First letter I will be gone for a week:
How I Do Is Nothing Great.
with all due respect, P
Wednesday, August 31 Old School Photo
I was easily and safely searching shuffling through my old photo album, eating some tasty cinnamon popcorn, and I found this picture. I know where all but one of my classmates are. I would appreciate your help to find the missing one. But I must warn you: It won't be easy, safe, or cinnamony (a word which here means "tasty"). The child circled in blue is me, so you need not try to find her. If you recognize anyone in this picture, (especially the one circled in red, who's face you cannot see) please contact me via email, phone, or pigeon.
I will be at the nearest store that sells cinnamon popcorn if your pigeon needs directions.
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Monday, August 15 Dictionary I recently visited a home for the elderly, and I found a dictionary. I wanted to find out the meaning of several words, so I looked them up. This is what I came up with:
ADULT: A person who has stopped growing at both ends and is now growing in the middle. BEAUTY PARLOR : A place where women curl up and dye. CANNIBAL : Someone who is fed up with people. CHICKENS : The only animals you eat before they are born and after they are dead. COMMITTEE : A body that keeps minutes and wastes hours. DUST : Mud with the juice squeezed out. EGOTIST : Someone me-deep in conversation GOSSIP : A person who will never tell a lie if the truth will do more damage. HANDKERCHIEF : Cold Storage. MYTH: A female moth. MOSQUITO : An insect that makes you like flies better. RAISIN : Grape with a sunburn. SECRET : Something you tell to one person at a time. SKELETON : A bunch of bones with the person scraped off. TOOTHACHE : The pain that drives you to extraction. TOMORROW : One of the greatest labor saving devices of today. YAWN : An honest opinion openly expressed.
Obviously, someone has been selling these dictionaries to people. If you are approached by anyone selling dictionaries in the next year and three-quarters, do NOT buy them, but run away as fast as you can, or if they are a door-to-door salesperson, slam the door in their face.
Thursday, August 09
This morning I was awakened to the normal discouraging but arousing sound of my clock radio. I had left it on all night, fearing that I would forget to set it before I fell asleep.
I made my way to the shopping mall, where I entered a certain store that specializes in selling very thin, under-sized clothing for teenage girls. As I looked for the coded letter underneath some skimpy blouses, someone bumped into me. I turned to apologize, but I recognized her, so I quickly left the store.
I was unable to secure the letter, so I switched to plan "B" (a word which here means, "a second strategy reserved in the event of plan "A", (a word which here means, "the original plan) failing to be carried out".). I went to the second hiding place in the shopping mall. As I approached it, I checked my pockets for coins. I produced a quarter, and put it in the slot. The crane closed on the giant cricket, I glanced around. No suspicious activity met my eyes.
Later, when I got back home, I opened the cricket up, and found another copy of the letter I was searching for. It's all I can do to hope that the woman I encountered at the shopping center didn't find the original copy, or all hope would be lost.
With All Due Respect, P
Tuesday, August 11 The Daily Punctilio
I found this scrap of paper blowing in the wind while ducking behind a trash can that had the letters of the alphabet scrolled all over it:
THE DAILY PUNCTILIO A Day in the Life of Esmé Squalor
Today we will take our readers into a day in the life of a very popular finacial advisor. We will follow her around all day, to see what she does with her time, so the fair citizens can try to duplicate her actions into our droll lives. The first thing that Ms. Squalor does is go into her kitchen. The room is decorated very tastefully with magenta wallpaper, triangular picture frames, and very fancy doilies. She gets out her very "IN" bright blue cereal bowls, and has a grapefruit (also "in"). After that she tops her breakfast off with some chocolate sprinkles, and "digs in" on her "in" meal. The next thing on her agenda is shopping. We follow her around the mall (all the while taking notes on what's "in" and "out"), and she goes into many stores and reprimands the shopkeepers for selling "Out" clothing. As we pass a rack of skimpy blouses, a young woman in a green jacket bumps into Esmé, glances at her, quickly apologizes, and sprints out the door holding a piece of paper. "Some people don't know how to respect their betters," Esmé comments. For the rest of the day Ms. Squalor shows us the "in" spots of the town, and then allows us to take some photographs. She also makes us promise to send them to the modeling agency.
(article torn here) The rest of the article I couldn't find, as that day's newspaper was sold out.
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Thursday, November 10 Party Invitation (Greeting Card)
(inside of card)
(bell rings) A party is being arranged for my friends. Come, and a distant relative might be there to greet you. Who knows? An island party brings many people together. The dress will be casual, in case you were wondering.
Please come! If any friend of the hostess hasn't been invited, RSVP (if right here in our midst we had a Frenchman, he'd say, "répondez s'il vous plaît" of course, meaning "reply please"), and I will directly send them a greeting card like this one. You don't need to be troubled if you can not come. Many parties that have a sea theme haven't ended well. (bell ringing again)
With all due respect, Paige Turner
Tuesday, December 06 I received this message today:
All alone now... The holiday season is approaching. Cheerful, merry, frolicsome. And yet, the events of the past few weeks have left me baffled, woebegone, and disconsolate (congratulations to all of you who already know that woebegone and disconsolate mean the same thing).
My few friends who are already in quite a formidable strait have either been lost, squandered, or just decided that I'm not worth the trouble. Perhaps you aren't even reading this because of one of the predicaments I have just mentioned. If this is so, then I can't say I blame you. The Christmas season is a time for enjoying family, friends, and acquaintances (a commendation is presented to you if you also know that family and friends are also acquaintances), not looking out your window in search of hidden enemies.
So as I sit by MY window, in search of enemies who might be following me instead of you, I will think of how smart you are in not sending me a holiday greeting written, or even not written in code.
A camera thrives my hrs! or, HI! A marcher army's vest (encomium to all of you who knew that these also spell Have a Merry Christmas!)
With all due respect, ~Anna Grahm~
Friday, September 01 !!! I have no time to think of a title for this post. Therefore I have simply titled it "!!!" to express my great anxiety, a word which here means "fear that my enemies will capture me again". I am sorry for the delayed updates, but I have been forcefully preoccupied. My enemies have once again found my hideout and I am writing this from a computer owned by a relative, one who I am not entirely sure I can trust. Such is the nature of my danger. My relative no doubt thinks I am playing a game about a short mustachioed Italian plumber, that she provided for my entertainment during my stay here.
The information that I found while at the library several months ago has confirmed my fears: 1. There are less volunteers than I thought. 2. I have no fortune to speak of. 3. There are no onions for my deli meat sandwich 4. Not all librarians are trustworthy, even if they are well-read (or well-red in this case). 5. Those who have read this far-
I cannot continue. If I completed that sentence, I might put others in danger, perhaps even greater danger than I myself am.
I must go. If my second cousin sees this, I fear the worst.
WADR Paige Turner
Friday, October 13,
Journal entry 1112: Went to bookstore today. Saw (to my horror) stack of books of A Series of Unfortunate Events by L. Saw young man approach stack of books with interested/eager face. Ran to young man and attempted to apprehend the copy of book the thirteenth from his hands. Succeeded. Young man shouted. Ran for entrance. Young man was close in pursuit. Managed to lose him in store called "Big Bill's Bargain Building". Store was filled with useless things like manual juicers, computer disk cleaners, and sport lantern weather radios. Bought large pewter jug. Placed book inside. Walked outside. Taxi arrived to offer a ride home for a fee. Declined. Horse-drawn wagon arrived to offer a ride home for smaller fee. Declined. Helicopter arrived, carrying close friend and fellow volunteer to offer ride home for free. Accepted. Arrived home two hours later. Placed pewter jug on kitchen table. Removed book hidden inside. Sighed deeply. Climbed stairs to attic. Opened dusty crate filled to the brim with books written by L. Opened book the thirteenth. Snatched secret message written on slip of paper hidden inside between pages 13 and 14. Slammed book shut so as not to see any words from book the thirteenth. Placed book the thirteenth inside crate. Nailed dusty crate shut. Heaved sigh. Sneezed. Descended stairs to kitchen. Sat at kitchen table. Decoded secret message with blue pen. Went and hid under bed till nightfall.
Thursday, November 30 Questions Mr. Snicket,
Will you be writing more books about any subject(s) (like the story of the Baudelaire parents or Beatrice the second)? There are many unanswered questions floating around, and many answers to unanswered questions that might not be true answers to the unanswered questions that are floating around. I'm sorry if that sound redundant to you, but it's the truth. Perhaps you should answer a few unanswered questions, so the true answers will be floating around, instead of the untrue answers.
baudelaiire: how do i tag people in quick replies
Jul 2, 2020 20:06:25 GMT -5
Jean Lúcio: You must use @ before the person's username.
Jul 2, 2020 23:50:14 GMT -5
Jean Lúcio: Note that my username is jeanlucio10. you can check their username by clicking on their names when they are links. You can also go to the members page and search for someone (it is useful to check those who have been online lately).
Jul 2, 2020 23:53:11 GMT -5
klausfan1: what is the meaning of the "10"
Jul 4, 2020 16:24:21 GMT -5
Jean Lúcio: Mental Age
Jul 5, 2020 6:24:57 GMT -5