Submit Contributions - CLOSED

[Christmas Chief]

Submit your contributions for Daniel Handler's birthday: fanfiction, fanart, music, or poetry. Just remember to keep it within reasonable boundries! The deadline for submissions will be February 25th.

[Emma “Emmz” Squalor]

Behind Her Crimson Smile

Written by Emma Squalor and Dedicated to Daniel Handler[/center]


It[/i] wasn’t being stuck inside a submarine that was getting underneath the skin of the fashionable villainess. It wasn’t the incessant complaints of the Snow Scouts as the hook-handed man had whipped them with the tagliatelle grande that was making her want to grind her teeth. It wasn’t even the look Olaf had given her outside the gas station that morning, after Carmelita had decided to embellish his car in silly-string that was causing Esmé Squalor to pout like a spoiled child.

No, it wasn’t any of these things. All of these things were superficial in comparison to the feelings of a woman whose external surface was equivalent to an icicle. In short, it was Esmé’s birthday, and yet Olaf hadn’t even bothered to get her a card.

She supposed his selfishness shouldn’t come as any real shock to her. After all, the only thing that man cared about—besides himself, of course—was that blasted sugar bowl. He didn’t care about being fashionable, or their newly adopted child, or…or her.

It had been a long time since anyone had cared about Esmé. Fernald had cared, but she’d pushed him away. Jerome had cared, but she hadn’t let him in. Her parents had cared, but they were dead. Who else did she have left besides herself?

In spite of her grim circumstances, Esmé had to smile. Smile because this was not where she’d pictured herself ending up thirty years following her arrival into the world. She wondered what her parents would think, to learn that their lovely daughter who’d once loved books and dressing up in her mother’s clothes had grown up to be the villainous girlfriend of a notorious criminal?

Esmé was forced out of her self-pitying state when the metal door of the storeroom suddenly creaked open and Carmelita was thrust inside. Esmé watched from where she sat perched on a small wooden crate as the red-haired child lashed out at the door with her foot.

“You can come out once you finally decide to behave,” came the voice of the hook-handed man, and Esmé heard the door lock from the other side. “Until then, brat, stay put.”

“You handicapped cakesniffer!” Carmelita shouted boldly. “You can’t keep me locked in here forever! Countie will—”

“Let you out?” Even though the door was shut tight, the hook-handed man’s laughter filtered stridently into the room. “Have you forgotten who gave me orders to lock you in here?”

“Then Esmé—”

“Carmelita?”

The abrupt voice caused Carmelita to jump before whirling around, her plaid skirt swaying in perfect unison with her movement. Her azure eyes locked immediately with Esmé’s sky-blue ones, and for the first time all day the villainess put forth a smile devoid of sarcasm.

“Esmé,” Carmelita said. “Esmé, what are you doing here?”

“I needed a quiet place to think.”

“Oh. I thought maybe Hooky stuck you in here, too.”

“He wouldn’t dare. He knows full well that I outrank him.” Esmé’s voice suddenly softened, as it so often did each time she spoke directly to Carmelita. “What about you, darling? What are you in here for?”

“Countie’s still mad on account of what I did to his car back at the gas station. He says I can come out once I’ve learned my place, whatever that means.” Turning toward the door, Carmelita tried the knob. When it didn’t budge, she glanced back over her shoulder at Esmé. “It looks like we’re gonna be in here for a while.”

“Then we might as well make the best of our situation,” Esmé suggested, and stood up from the crate.

“And do what?” Carmelita gazed uninterestedly around the empty room, with its groaning pipes and windows looking out into the black, bleak waters of the ocean. “Watch television?”

“Look over there, Carmy.” Raising her long, slender arm, Esmé used one red, long-nailed finger to indicate a far corner of the room. Soon enough, Carmelita’s eyes came to rest on the very object she’d first seen in the trunk of Olaf’s long, black automobile high atop Mount Fraught. The object in question was the villain’s disguise trunk, but of course she was unaware of what it contained. And so, being a child of just ten years old, she permitted her curiosity to lead her toward the item of her desire.

Squatting before the trunk, Carmelita laid her palms on her knees and peered with concentrated inquisitiveness at it. “It looks like a treasure chest—like the kind pirates have. Is there treasure inside?”

“Perhaps,” Esmé replied, her voice that of a mother whose child has just asked what the brightly colored parcels underneath the Christmas tree contain. “You’ll just have to open it and see for yourself.”

“I’ll bet it’s diamonds. And rubies.” Extending her hand, Carmelita placed her index finger and thumb against the latch at the front of the trunk. After flicking the latch upward, she placed both hands on the sides of the lid and pushed it forward. “And emeralds. And—”

But she never finished. The final word stuck in her throat and was quickly forgotten, her eyes scanning over the treasures that were neither diamond, nor ruby, nor emerald.

“Costumes!” she exclaimed. “These are way better than some dumb old rocks!”

Within moments, Esmé had made her way over to the trunk and was kneeling beside Carmelita. As the two of them sifted through the vast collection of disguises, memories of Esmé’s days as a noble individual filled her mind. She recalled how, as a small child, she’d enjoyed dressing up in her mother’s clothes. This was a consent granted to Esmé only on rainy days, when the dirt roads of Paltryville transformed into rivers of mud, making it impossible for children to ride their bicycles and for adults to drive their automobiles. But Esmé never minded. Unlike many children and adults, she had embraced rainy days. Embraced them because it meant being able to don the beautiful gowns left over from her mother’s first marriage to a wealthy man she had not loved. These gowns had been sealed in plastic covers and were stored in the far back of her parents’ closet. But every time it rained—and occasionally when Esmé was ill—her mother would remove a few of the gowns from their covers, so that her daughter could participate in a game of make-believe.

Esmé was getting ready to brush back some of the curls that had fallen past Carmelita’s shoulders, when the child let out a sudden squeal of delight. The sound startled Esmé, and her hand hovered briefly in the air, before lowering to lightly grip the rim of the trunk.

“They’re beeee-autiful!” Carmelita gushed, as she produced from the trunk a frilly pink tutu and a pair of fairy wings. Her azure eyes sparkled like sapphires, as she gazed upon the items she now held in her hands. “And pink just so happens to be my favorite color, too!”

“I thought they might appeal to you,” Esmé smiled. “Especially the tutu. And look.” Pushing some garments aside, she uncovered two more items: the first was a large pink crown, adorned with pale pink ribbons and pink flowers of a darker shade. The second item was a long, pink wand complete with a dazzling pink star at the top. “There are even a crown and wand. You can dress up as a fairy princess.”

Carmelita’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “Maybe. But I can’t be just any old fairy princess. If I’m gonna be anything, then I’ve gotta be the very best there ever was. Because I’m the cutest, prettiest, innest girl in the whole wide world!”

“Of course you are, darling.” Taking the crown from its spot inside the trunk, Esmé placed it in a suitable place of honor on Carmelita’s head. “But you’re right. If you really want to fit the definition of in, then you’re going to need more than just a crown, a wand, a tutu, and fairy wings.”

“What else is there?” asked Carmelita curiously.

“Well, let’s see what else is hiding in here,” Esmé suggested, and Carmelita watched her adopted mother begin to sort through the trunk once more. Eventually Esmé came across a stethoscope, a small plastic bag containing pink puffballs, and a pair of mismatched tap shoes. She thought a moment, and then smiled as an inspiration struck her.

“What?”

“Fairy princesses may be in,” Esmé said. “But so are tap-dancers and veterinarians. So instead of being just one thing, why not be a combination? That way, you’ll be three times as in.”

Carmelita grinned, showing her perfect, pearl-white teeth. “I like being three times as in. It’s very…smashing.”

Esmé smiled at the way her vocabulary appeared to be rubbing off on Carmelita. “You can wear this stethoscope.” She held up the object to indicate. “I know it’s a bit plain to look at now, but if we glue some of these pink puffballs onto it, then it will make a very in addition to your outfit. I’ll even do your makeup for you if you’d like. Do you still have that container of glittery eye-shadow and tube of pink lipstick I bought you at the drugstore last week?”

Carmelita nodded enthusiastically. Sliding her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she brought forth the items her adopted mother was inquiring about.

“What about you, Esmé?” Carmelita asked. “Aren’t you going to dress up, too?”

“I plan to later on. There’s an outfit I’ve been working on that’s just about finished. But for now, let’s focus on giving you a new and fabulous look. All right, darling?”

Carmelita beamed with excitement. “You bet!”

“I used to enjoy doing this sort of thing with my mother,” Esmé continued, as she used the lipstick to stencil a heart around Carmelita’s left cheek. “Well, perhaps not the makeup part, considering how she didn’t approve of me using her cosmetics. But the dressing up part was something she always encouraged. Every time the weather was bad or I was stuck inside with a cold, she would always let me dress up in her clothes so that I wouldn’t be bored.”

Bored. The final word struck a familiarity in Esmé. As dull and boring as she’d found him to be, there were things Jerome Squalor had said that made a lot of sense. In particular during one conversation they’d shared, which had taken place shortly before they decided to adopt the three Baudelaire children. “‘A child’s love has the power to make up for decades of loneliness,’” Jerome had told Esmé, who was dead set against the idea of ever having children of her own. “‘Imagine for a moment your life being on the brink of despair, or that you’ve just gotten home after a terrible day at work. All you feel like doing is going to bed and pulling the covers up over your head. But before you can even make it through the front door, your son or daughter comes stampeding toward you and throws their arms around you. Before you know it, you feel the cause of your distress begin to fade like clouds after a storm. And the only reason you don’t wonder where those negative feelings went is because you can no longer remember what they were. That, my dear, is what makes children such a blessing.’”

For a moment Esmé was almost sorry she’d ever left Jerome, who underneath his dimwittedness was unremittingly wise. The villainess dropped the tube of lipstick she was using, letting it roll across the metal floor unnoticed. As difficult as it was to believe, behind her crimson smile, bizarre outfits, and villainous ways, there was a little girl crying out for love. Before she could stop herself, Esmé threw her arms around the child in front of her: perhaps it was to stop herself from having to recall her own lost childhood, which had ended prematurely at the tender age of twelve upon being separated from her parents; or perhaps it was to fill a void somewhere deep inside, which so many childless women experience at some point in their lives. Whatever it was, Esmé Squalor felt it now, and she needed something to cling to before she plummeted down, down into the abyss of her own loneliness.

She was suddenly aware of the sensation brought on by Carmelita’s arms as they slipped around her, and she made no effort to resist. It felt nice, being held like this, even if it was by someone who wasn’t Olaf, and even if it wasn’t the sort of affection the villainess was used to.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a lousy day after all. If Esmé was honest with herself, she might even say it was turning out to be a very smashing birthday indeed.

~The End~

[/b][/i]

~


~Drawn by Dilustro / Orwell~

~

I do hope you enjoyed my little rendition of two of your finest characters, and that I did them an adequate amount of justice.

Happy birthday, Mr. Handler!

All My Best,

Emma Squalor <3 <3

[Dante]

[Just registering the fact here that I have a fanfic for the package. It's too big to post - an indulgence that it's far too late to undo.]

[Christmas Chief]

---
Utterly Alone
Lemony Snicket sat in the cold, watching the snow fall around him in icy flakes. He’d gone numb some time ago, and was now in the perfect condition for his latest disguise. Caked in white, icy, flakes, he slowly made his way to the bank where he would put his plan into action. His footprints were immediately covered in new snow, masking his tracks. He very rarely interacted with civilization like this- unless it was to buy milk from the Not-So-Supermarket. But today was essential. Nothing could fail. If it did... well, if it wasn’t snowing you could say everything would go up in smoke.

He carefully made his way into the banking district. He’d worked there once as a Venus Fly Trap, forcing himself into a green suit and attaching thorns to his head to help the bank with their insect problem. Overall, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. He continued to the door of the bank, which was fully covered in white, except in this case it wasn’t snow, but a more interesting and in some cases more deadly substance- paint. He opened the door and was rewarded with warmth and a crowd of voices. No one seemed to notice the man under the thick layer of snow.

“How much will it cost?”

“Is there going to be much money involved?”

“One thousand dollars! Can you believe it? One thousand dollars!”

“That could be pretty pricey.”

“Be careful, with the economical and financial difficulties of today’s society, you could end up in serious debt...”

The voices surrounded Mr. Snicket, and many more. He could hear the sound of the telephone, a harsh ring, happy sounding, somehow, and very irritating.

“Hello, banking service. What- a birthday? Sir, we are a professional business, not a clown service, Mr.- What is your name? You’ll have to speak to our handler! I have no time for such matters...” As a man rang up another phone.

Lemony was surprised at how much they talked about money here, but kept his distance. The snow covering him was slowly melting away. He didn’t have much time. With the speed of an experienced dramatic critic, he whipped out a pair of chopsticks and began his search. It was critical he find it. He had to. He just had to.

After being dismissed as a snowman by a few busy employees, he walked to the end of a long and treacherous-looking hall, that reminded him of a novel by an associate of his- The Corridors of Power.Except for the fact the book had very little to do with corridors. Nonetheless, he continued down the seemingly never-ending hall, where a silver safe with a black combination awaited. It was three digits, but that was all he knew. It seemed rather insecure to Lemony, to have a sequence of digits that required only three numerals, but he presumed it was one of those things so simple no one would guess it- a form of reasoning that had never made much sense to him.

Using the chopsticks, he contemplated possible combinations, and carefully entered the numbers 0-0-0 and yanked the door. Nothing. He tried again: 1-2-3. Again, nothing. After several desperate attempts, he heard voices at the end of the hall. The snow had completely melted now, and he was drenched from head to toe. He hastily twisted the dial into a sequence he’d hoped never to come across again, wishing he’d bought latex gloves instead of Chinese utensils, as it was rather difficult to turn it with two thin kitchen implements.

Heart pounding, he tried the door, and to his supreme excitement and utter dismay, it opened. And to his supreme excitement and utter dismay, the object he’d been looking for lay neatly in the dim cell of the safe, and he quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into a secret space in his hat, an object he’d wishes he’d had during his time as a Venus Fly Trap.

The voices drew closer, and he hurriedly hid himself in the only space he could think of: the safe. The voices came very, very, close...

“Get a custodian down here. The floor is soaked.”...and then left. Lemony let out a breath of relief, and went to open the safe door- to find himself locked in it. He panicked, thinking of himself trapped in here, with only an extremely important bowl that was of no use in this box with him. Utterly alone. And as he wallowed in his predicament, it dawned on him that the numbers that trapped him in here were dreadfully ironic: 6-6-7.
---

[Invisible]

This is an extract from a story entitled Darling, Dearest, Dead. It concerns the fictitious years of Lemony Snicket’s adolescence, where he gets involved in a physical fight with Olaf which lands him in Prufrock Military School. There he befriends a number of people, including budding musician Stephin Merritt and the heir to the Winnipeg fortune. I hope you enjoy this delightfully depressing excerpt, even though it’s not my best work, and I hope I don’t make your birthday any more melancholy than it already is.


After school, R, Jerome and I were having a fun game of I Spy in the playground.

“ I DID NOT DO IT!” Jerome bellowed. He paused to search for something that interested him, “ Something beginning with…I DID NOT DO IT!”

“ Um…” R thought hard and deep. “ Ooh! Monkey bars!” she cried, when the monkey bars came into her sight. She had grown accustomed to Jerome’s unusual mental state over the past couple of weeks – she understood him completely! “ My turn!” she shrieked with a wide grin, displaying much happiness. She looked around the playground to pick something and sang the old song of, “ I spy with my little eye, something beginning with...L!”

“ Me,” I said dully, without hesitation.

“ Correct!” she cried and rested her frizzy head on my shoulder. My face was throbbing, glowing a bright pink colour. Just then, all three of us spotted Stephin running toward us, holding something in his fist. Once he had caught his breath, he gave me an envelope that had familiar handwriting scribbled on it.

“ From a girl, named Kit,” he wheezed. Then he chuckled. “ You have loads of girls chasing after you! Lucky!” When he said this, R edged away, shifting her eyes from right to left suspiciously.

“ Kit is my sister.” I informed him, in an irritated tone. I loved Stephin but I wished he talked about something other than girls.

He gave me an odd look. “ OK, whatever floats your boat,” and with that, he took his leave.

“ Open it!” R said enthusiastically.

Trembling, I ripped the envelope open carefully so not to ruin the paper inside.


Dearest Lemony,

I forgive you.

With All Due Respect,
Kit

PS: Look up.


I looked up. There she was; her short dirty blonde hair in tight pigtails, her red-rimmed glasses askew, a smile on her red lips and a tear dripping off her slender nose. I dashed up to her and we were in each other’s arms in no time. A hug from my dear sister was undoubtedly the greatest thing I had ever experienced.

“ I’ve missed you,” I whispered in her ear, my voice shaky as I tried not to cry.

“ And I you,” Kit answered.

“ Do you forgive me?”

“ Yes.”

“ How is Olaf?”

I shouldn’t have said those last three words because just when I uttered the name of her one and only true love, she burst into tears. I held her again. I squeezed her and whispered comforting things in her ear. I comforted her in a way only a brother could. I kissed her on the cheek, ever so gently. She pulled away.

“ He told me he loved me!” she sobbed. “ He said he wouldn’t love anyone else in the way he loved me! I was stupid enough to believe him!”

“ What did he do?” I asked, my voice deep in concern.

“ He wanted to marry me; that’s what he did!”

“ That’s not so bad.”

“ You don’t understand!” Kit’s green eyes met mine. “ He was using me! He just needed me to have access to our fortune.”

As I clenched Kit in my arms, something came over me. Tears blinded my eyes as I stared into the black abyss of fury. I was trembling all over. I always knew he was up to something. Of course, Kit was too smitten to listen to me before the incident.

“ The next time I see him; I’ll kill him.” I promised in an angry hiss.

“ There’s something else I haven’t told you.”

“ What is it, sister?”

“ I’m pregnant.”

“ Does he know?”

“ No.”

“ How are you…going…to…?”

“ I’m not. I’m going to give it up for adoption.”

“ Are you sure?”

“ I have never been so sure in my entire life.”

Gently, ever so gently, I placed a hand on Kit’s belly. I was just getting over the fact, whether I liked it or not, that I was going to be an uncle. As my fingers scanned the smooth skin, I found a firm patch. I broke down, sobbing bitterly. I couldn’t believe that there was an embryo growing inside her.

[thedoctororwell]

Saladsniffers
by Dilustro / Orwell



Not an Illustration
by Dilustro / Orwell

[Liam R. Findlay]

~The Ersatz Elevator~

~Meeting the Squalors~

[cwm]

I'd like to contribute something but exams are coming up and my mother is throwing a hissy fit every time she sees me doing something other than revising. I could cobble together a small poem - it may interest you to know that I am in fact a published poet, insofar as I have had one poem published in an anthology book - before the deadline. I hope so.

EDIT: Here we are:

Dear Mr. Handler,
Aged forty you now are.
I got that from Wikipedia
you famous literary star.

The rhyme scheme in this poem
Is really quite erratic
A man as charismatic
As yourself deserves much more.

All of us at Dark Avenue
Wish you a happy birthday, through and through
You have given us a fantastic series
Even now we have new theories.

This poem is of such low par
you might wish to burn it from afar.
Please enjoy the rest of your day
Birthday wishes, we all convey.

[Cafe SalMONAlla]

Lemony Snicket: A Victim's Account
By Lemona

Dedicated to the Master of Misfortune – Daniel Handler

This article is a work of fictional fact, regarding volumes of perfectly factual fiction.
Any resemblance to codes, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Please be aware that the following tale causes a heightened state of distress, and can induce weeping.

[/i]

My tale begins years ago, in the days when I was innocent and undistraught, and specifically begins on my very last day of living in such a state. In the late evening, as I wandered though the oddly deserted streets of my town, I took a turn down a small alley that I had never set foot in before. I was bored and looking for new places to see – youth and innocent curiosity. This alley somehow appealed to me, and disposing of the wrapper of my cookies-and-cream chocolate bar in the nearby trash receptacle, I took my first steps toward despair.

At the end of the narrow alley I found a structure that would change my life forever: an old abandoned library. Normally, I would not have entered, but the entrance door had come off its hinges, and therefore looked incredibly inviting; and, as I said, I was bored. I stepped through the doorway and peered around me. I was surprised to see that most of the shelves were well stocked with books, almost as if the building had been abandoned in an emergency of some sort.

As there was, of course, no librarian to question my recent behavior toward my mother, I simply wandered between the high shelves, hoping to receive a message without assistance. I approached the very back of the building; I inhaled the musty smell, and bent down to read the spines of the books on the lowest shelves. I noticed a small, thin-spined, hardback book. The spine was dark blue, and felt slightly soft to the touch. It was clear there had once been white embossed writing on it, but the letters had faded so that they were almost unreadable. I squinted at them, pulled the book off its shelf, and looked at the cover. Chills ran up and down my spine as I read it: “A Series of Unfortunate Events, Book the First, by Lemony Snicket, The Bad Beginning”. I instantly sensed trouble.

I carefully opened the cover of the book, and a small, handwritten note fell out. I picked it up, and was disappointed to see the quality of the penmanship. Finally, I made out what was written – “Read something else. With all due respect, L. S.” I frowned over the note for a moment before placing it, and the book, in my flowered bag, and leaving the library. I must have been a glutton for punishment, even then, because I was planning to read the book that night, and find out what was so intriguing about it.

That night was a dark day. I sat up in my bed, and opened the book at the start of the first chapter. “If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.” Fascinated and horrified, I read late into the night, and when I finally put the book down, I hardly slept at all, I can tell you. I was – as Mr. Snicket often predicts his readers will be – up for most of the night, weeping, and tearing out my hair.

The next morning I made a firm decision – I would immediately return to the library the distressing book that had caused me sleep deprivation. This turned out to be easier said than done. In the late morning I managed to slip out into the centre of town. Unfortunately, I simply could not find the alley again. I’m sure I searched everywhere, and yet the alley must have been more secluded than I had first thought. Finally, in despair, I left the disturbing book on the street, and charged back to my apartment, trying not to think about what a completely irresponsible thing I had done. “Completely irresponsible”, as I was soon to learn, is a phrase which here means “no one would be able to prove I did it”. And indeed that was so.

For a long time after this experience I never encountered the distressing Mr. Snicket in any of my reading, and was very thankful. However, over a year later, I was forced back into despair, in a most unpleasant way. The full details are too dreadful to recount, but I will say, though my tears, that I was involved in a strange hostage situation in a bookstore, and that it concerned treachery, misery, deceit, and matches. In short, I was forced to read one terrible volume – Book the Eighth – and it rekindled my distress.

From there on, things only got worse. Several times, I tried seeking medical assistance, but most people said that, although Snicket-induced depression was becoming more and more common, and frantic research was being done to find a cure, there was no known solution.

For quite some time, I had no more particularly remarkable encounters with Lemony Snicket. Certainly, I encountered him, but it was always just the usual: encounter, weep, recover, encounter again, weep harder, recover again, etc.

But one time I had an encounter regarding my hairdresser that was far more devastating than usual. During a haircut my hairdresser was raving to me about a music album. I didn’t catch everything she said, and so when she offered to lend me the disk, I agreed without thinking. You’d think my unfortunate life would have taught me something. Only when walking home from the salon did I have the opportunity to read the album’s title, and when I did I closed my eyes in despair and horror. “Songs from A Series of Unfortunate Events, as executed by The Gothic Archies, The Tragic Treasury”. I wondered what to do. I considered leaving the album on the street, as I had done with the copy of Book the First, so long ago. I considered suing the hair salon. I considered contacting Nonesuch in a rage, or in tears. None of these ideas seemed practical, so I simply walked home, trying to remind myself of Mr. Merritt’s other, less devastating, musical escapades. All is not lost for him, I told myself. The Night You Can’t Remember from 69 Love Songs was stuck in my head, as it is certainly that kind of song. I fondly remembered the time when I used to call it The Night You Can’t Remember, The Song I Can’t Forget - due to its repetitive nature - a time when I was unaware of the fact that its writer was in the power of Mr. Snicket. I was sure that, very soon, other, far less pleasant music by the same artist would take this love song's place in my head.

I was right. As I grimly turned on my stereo, ignoring the screen cheerfully reading “hello”, I sighed. I slipped the disk in and waited. Sadly, I did not realize how startling the beginning of the album was, and therefore had not lowered the stereo volume at all. I jumped a mile as the sound of an accordion blared from the speakers, followed by “The Count has an eye on his ankle, and lives in a horrible place…” I dove for the volume control before anyone in my apartment building became deaf. When the track finally finished, I dared to look at the track listing, and found that I was in for fourteen more dreadful songs. Judging from the first track, it was going to be a long day.

I shall now describe to you, as best I can, what was probably the worst of all my terrible Snicket-related experiences. Indeed, it was so utterly horrifying that I am certain I shan’t be able to describe the event properly. But, to keep my record complete, I must, at least, say a few, sad, sentences on the matter.

The fact is simply this: I attended a launch for the final installment of Mr. Snicket’s work – The End. It was held in a bookstore, and although I have had many awful experiences in such places, this was by far the worst. I honestly didn’t know what had hit me. I came to the conclusion that it was some kind of Handler-induced tornado. Or perhaps Hurricane Handler. At least I was finally able to see who had written these distressing tales, and I could understand – if this truly is the man behind the lies – why the alleged Lemony Snicket’s alleged work is so unnerving.

Distressed author’s footnote:
I have had, as you can see, many unpleasant and unfortunate experiences regarding Lemony Snicket, most of which I have never recovered from. I have never stopped wishing things had turned out differently. All the events I have described to you took place a long time ago and, even now, years later, as I sit in my small study, staring at the rusty typewriter, I cannot help sighing. I stand up, and walk to the large bookshelf at the end of the room. I run my hands over the spines of my books. My fingers brush The American Way of Death, Invitation to a Beheading, and A Century of Horror before I come to the start of my Snicket collection. I notice a small tin lying in the bookshelf and, remembering to never refuse a breath mint, carefully insert some of the tin’s contents into my mouth.
With all due respect.



I sincerely hope that you did not find this piece too long, Mr. Handler - I realize that it is quite lengthy. However, I wanted to give you as much as I could, and I think this article shows my utmost appreciation. I tried to write it dramatically, and use humor, and so I hope this has given you a laugh or smile from me for your birthday.
Enjoy the rest of this gift from 667 Dark Avenue; we want to show our gratitude.

With all due respect,
Lemona

[MyKindEditor]

Dear Mr. Handler,
I thought I’d write (as it’s your Birthday and 667 told me to) and say,
I love your books, I read them every day.
(Actually, that’s a lie because that would be border-lining obsessive and a bit sad.)
Anyway, that was beside the point.
Seeing as it’s you birthday this is the point where I wish you many happy returns.
Or something.
I think.
And, seeing as this is a letter from a fan to a writer of some very good books, I have to reinstate the fact that they are very good I think. Well, I know they are very (very) good because I have read them. In fact, I might even stretch to amazing, which is high praise, from me.

(To be honest this was going to be a poem. But I failed, evidently and can’t write poems to save my life.)

I think I probably should have said previously that I am talking about your ‘Series of Unfortunate Events’ books which I hope you would have gathered from the related fan fictions all around this and the fact that the website which sent you this package is dedicated to analysing and scrutinising them to the last little detail.

As you can see, I didn’t draw or write any fan fictions. I just thought I’d write letter (after the said poem fiasco). But I expect you are bored of them. Sorry.
Now I am going to annoy you and say why I love your books, because really, I bet you don’t even care. I like them because they are different. Only the most literate of readers understand all the clues and connections. I like this because most writers don’t do that. And you do. This, in my humble opinion, makes you, as a writer, amazing. My favourite character is Jacques, I don’t know why so don’t bother asking (not that you were going to). And, since reading them I have been in various states of sorrow and dismay which is a great way of getting free lollipops.

Here I have run out of things to say. Other than to wish you a perfectly wonderful Birthday and a happy new year (hang on...wrong celebration- sorry).

-MyKindEditor, 667 Dark Avenue member.

P.S My mother says to apologise if I have appeared rude or a bit mad in any of my comments. I was merely trying to be amusing.
P.P.S. I am feeling left out so I am going to write a (very) short fanfic. I bet you hate them. Sorry.

The life (well, not all of it) and lies of Ishmael (call me Ish)

“Ishmael! Don’t touch that!”
“Moth-er, call- me- Ish.” With each syllable I stamped my foot. That got the message across nicely.

“Your name is Ishmael, Ishmael. I am not calling you Ish.”
Ok, maybe I hadn’t got the message across; this would have been a good time for a tantrum. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough room so I had to settle for sulking. This really wasn’t my day. I glowered at my mother. Firstly I had been dragged away from my library, secondly my brothers weren’t allowed to come and thirdly we didn’t even go in the motor car to get here.

Although I wasn’t sure where ‘here’ was. Some kind of waiting room. Or something. I wasn’t really sure. It was a small room with three chairs, dark wooden floor that creaked upon contact and deep read walls. I gave up on my sulking, it had gotten boring. Instead I pulled my socks up to my knees, pushed my glasses up my nose and stared at the walls. They were covered in photographs, of people, places and fires. There were diagrams of machines and spectacular drawings of Eagles and Lions, claimed to be done my a mysterious 'O' In the centre of the wall facing the chairs, above a low table was a rather large picture of an eye. I shivered. It was watching me. Either side were two shiny spyglasses, mounted on brackets. I peered closer, at the top near the lense was inscribed: V.F.D. There were news paper cuttings everywhere; upon analysis I noticed their common feature was fire: burnt buildings, places and dead people.

In the wall, to the left of the eye was a deep, arched, mahogany door. It had a thick, ornate frame and deep-set iron handle. Above the door, was written: ‘The world is quiet here’. I stepped back to get a better look at it and on doing so, I fell over my laces.

I heard giggle. Glancing up I saw a face peer around a book case. I flushed. It was a pretty face with deep red hair, pale skin and dark blue eyes. The face (which was attached to a body, of course) came towards me and held out a hand. I took it and a strong arm pulled me up. I dusted down my shorts because I knew my mother was watching. “Hello Ish,” said the girl, glancing at my mother “I’m Beatrice.” I smiled at her.

For a while we sat on the chairs and discussed the things that 10 year olds with a new friend discuss while mother pretended not to listen. Beatrice told me that this was the waiting room to her father’s study and that my mother was waiting to talk to him, she said that they were here to talk about a schism, or something. She whispered the part about the schism, as though it was a top-secret. I was intrigued, schism was a new word to me and my fingers searched my jacket pocket for my commonplace notebook, I was just about to ask more when a man in a long, grey coat and a hat burst in. He looked pale and worried and whispered something to mother. Then he left. Mother had gone pale now. She took my hand and looked at me. “Ishmael,” she said, “There’s been a fire.”

(Told you it was short! Happy Birthday Mr Handler!)

[Tiago James Squalor]

With Love and Squalor

A fanfic by Tiago Squalor, dedicated to Daniel Handler

‘So he has breakfast everyday at 141 Dark Avenue, Veritable French Diner, huh?’ – Esmé Gigi Geniveve Salinger put down the letter from her reporter contact inside The Daily Punctilio. Esmé had been instructed to meet, seduce, and use whatever means necessary to gain access to the penthouse apartment of 667 Dark Avenue. She was determinate, and wanted to please her boyfriend and old dramatic arts professor. Esmé sat at the table of Café Salmonella, her favorite restaurant at the time.

‘This mission requires only the most in outfit, and make-up. I’ll have to do my hair too.’ – Esmé was a very attractive woman and she knew it. This mission was going to be piece of cake. That man, Jerome Squalor, would fall for her, right where she wanted. Esmé was a spider, and Jerome, the fly, trapped in the spider web. She surely was content to have contacted that silly reporter that was also president of her old fan club. She was a pain, but useful. Esmé knew The Daily Punctilio could be trusted. The infiltration idealized by that woman with hair but no beard and the man with beard but no hair had been a great success, and they could use the paper to destroy and hunt down those fool volunteers.

Esmé left for 713 Dark Avenue, the home of the House of In boutique, which was very in at the moment. Her fashion designing friends always provided her with the most in outfits, as Esmé was not only the city’s sixth-most important financial advisor, as she was also a famed actress, and it made the House of In look good in the fashion world.

‘So, what is in right now?’ – she asked her fashion designer friend.
‘Pinstripe suits. We have the best selection here at the boutique, Esmé, and we saved them all for you.’

Esmé bought many pinstripe suits and returned to her apartment, and decided to wear the in-est one to meet Jerome Squalor. She knew exactly what she was going to do, if the man was as Geraldine had told her he was. The next day, Esmé woke up, took a shower and got dressed. After applying her in make-up, Esmé took the elevator and told her driver to head for 141 Dark Avenue stat.

Veritable French Diner, 141 Dark Avenue, was a very in restaurant, and she appreciated that Jerome Squalor frequented the place, because that meant he was really rich. Only the richest people could afford to frequent it, and Esmé was satisfied to know that she was rich enough to do so, and that if her plan worker, she would be even richer.

Esmé entered the restaurant, and saw a handsome man drinking an aqueous martini, which Esmé really appreciated; aqueous martinis were very in at the moment. She decided to approach him right away.

‘Hello, Mr. Squalor.’ – she said, when she was standing next to him.

Jerome looked surprised to be approached by someone, apparently, he was always alone during his breakfasts.

‘Hello. Have we met before, Miss…’

‘Esmé Gigi Geniveve Salinger. I am the city’s sixth-most financial advisor, as you may know.’ – Esmé pointed to the Punctilio laying on the table. Esmé had a financial advisory column in the paper called Money is Always In.

Jerome gently shook hands with her and kissed her hand. Esmé was pleased; what man would not appreciate being approached by someone such as her?

‘I understand you recently purchased the penthouse at 667 Dark Avenue, am I correct?’ – Esmé sat at the table. She was a vision in pinstripe.

‘Oh, yes. A friend of mine insisted that it was once in a lifetime opportunity, so I did. Are you also interested in real estate?’

‘Yes, I am. I’d just love to take a look at your apartment, Mr. Squalor, if you would have me. I always wanted to see what the city must look like from all the way up there.’

‘Oh, of course. You can visit me anytime, I’ll be happy to show you around that place. It’s so big sometimes I get lost for hours.’
‘Could I visit…today?’

‘Today?’ – Jerome asked, a bit surprised.

‘Yes. Today. You see, Mr. Squalor…’

‘Oh please, call me Jerome.’

‘Alright then, Jerome.’ – Esmé then used her secret weapon, her trademarked seduction look. She slightly opened her mouth, and looked at Jerome as if he were the last bottle of cola in the desert. She demonstrated with every cell of her body what she intended to do. And Jerome perceived it, because immediately invited her over to 667 Dark Avenue.

The two spent the afternoon walking around the enormous penthouse. Jerome was the perfect host, and did everything to please his guest. Finally then they sat down in one of the many living rooms of the apartment to have wine and talk.

The next day, Esmé had succeeded. The two had spent the night together.She awoke next to Jerome, in one of the bedrooms of the apartment, and had to contain a shriek of triumph to not wake him up. She put on her robe and approached the window, overlooking the city, sixty six stories below. It looked peaceful, and Esmé was disturbed by this.

When Jerome woke up, Esmé brought up the subject of marriage.

‘Marry you?’ – Jerome finally asked after nearly choking on a piece of french toast.

‘But Jerome, we did already have our wedding night, haven’t we? I think we are destined for each other. It was destiny that led me to you, and I won’t let you go quite so easily.’ – she seemed decided.

‘Well, I don’t want to argue…’

‘So don’t!’ – she said.

‘Fine then. I’ll buy a ring and send a letter to the Vineyard of Fragrant Drapes, I heard it’s very in to get married there.’

‘Please ask them if they have a sugar bowl in your letter.’

‘A sugar bowl?’

‘Yes. Oh, Jerome, I’m so happy that we are getting married. I know we only spent one night together, but I know it will be the first of many more that are to come.’

Jerome blushed.

‘Really? Many more?’

‘Why, yes…’ – she caressed his face with her hand.

‘I’ll write that letter now, Esmé. I think you are the one!’ – and he quickly rushed out of the room, towards the adjacent office.

Esmé had triumphed. She grabbed the telephone and dialed that number she had memorized so well.

‘It’s done’, she said on the phone, and cackled like she never cackled before.

The End

[blakegriplingph]

I dunno, but this is what I thought of doing recently, so why not show it off to Mr. Handler?

[Michelle Denouement]

For Daniel Handler:

Masquerade
Rating: PG, for some drinking
Ships: Kit/Esme, Esme/Duchess R, Jerome/Esme
Summary: Esme meets Jerome at a masquerade party.


I was getting dressed for a masquerade party. Kit begged me to go, so I chose a swan costume, while Kit chose a butterfly one.

While Kit was gluing feathers on my face with spirit gum, I said, "Who's throwing the party? I forgot."

Kit replied, "Duchess Rosamund Ellis of Winnipeg."

Rosamund Ellis is the nicest person I know. When you meet her, your first impression of her is often right. She has a kind look to her, ivory skin, strawberry blonde hair, and pale green eyes. When her mom died when Rosamund was 19, she became the Duchess of Winnipeg.

At 7:30, Jacques, Kit's brother, picked us up in his Ford Mustang convertible. It was a balmy night, so he left the roof down. There was a slight breeze in the air, which was calming to me.

We arrived at the party at 7:45. We showed our invites to the door man, who was in a pig costume.

I immediately spotted Rosamund, standing by the drink bar. Rose was dressed as a cat and was holding a mint mojito. I said, "Hi Rose!"

Rose took a sip of her mojito and replied, "Hi Esme. I heard you almost didn't go."

I said, "Well, I just wrapped up filming Southern Belle in Mississippi. I've only been home for a week and I like to rest after filming movies. But Kit begged me to go."

Rose replied, "I see. Would you like a refreshment?"

I said, "A dry martini, please."

A minute later, Rose handed me a martini. I wandered into the crowd with my drink. Suddenly, a handsome man came up to me. He was 3 inches shorter than me, but that's because I'm in 4 inch heels. He was wearing a knight costume, so I couldn't tell what he really looked like. I nervously said, "Hello, sir."

The man flipped up his visor and replied, in a slight Georgia accent, "Good evening, miss. I'm Jerome Squalor."

I said, "I'm Esme O'Connor. Nice to meet you."

Jerome replied, "I think I recognize you! You were in Irish Heart, right?"

I said, "Yeah. Where are you from?"

Jerome replied, "I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia. When I was 15, my family and I relocated to San Francisco, where I live now. I work in LA as a TV and film producer."

I said, "I grew up in Petaluma. When I was 11, I was sent to Prufrock Prep. And at age 13, my parents died in a fire, so until I turned 18, I spent 2 weeks of summer break at acting camp in LA and the rest of the summer splitting time between Ireland and Wales. I graduated Prufrock Prep in 1992."

Jerome replied, "I graduated from Prufrock in 1984. You're pretty young."

I said, "I'm only 27. So that makes you 35."

Jerome replied, "Yes, miss Esme."

I said, "I like your costume."

Jerome replied, "Thank you. Your costume is the most beautiful in the room."

My skin flooded with color. I said, nervously, "I'll give you my phone number."

I dug in my purse for my notepad and a pen. I flipped open the pad of paper and wrote down my name and cellphone number. I handed the piece of paper to Jerome.

At 11, Kit and Jacques were ready to leave, so I left the party with them.

*******************

The day after, Jerome called me. I guess this is the start of a relationship. Friends and maybe even something more than friends.

Happy birthday, Mr. Handler! I hope you enjoyed my fanfic.

With all due respect,
Violet Marie

[EmptyElevatorShaft]

Dear Mr. Handler,

I’m writing this letter due to your birthday. Saying that I like the series of the man you represent would be wrong because those books are sad. Mr. Handler, you are being very brave when you represent Mr. Snicket, you are risking your life.
I wish you a happy birthday.
I wrote a little poem that I hope isn’t very dreadful.

Happy birthday
You might eat a cake
Beware of that
It might have a snake

One year older
Never any younger
One things is for sure
Your mind is getting stronger

Happy birthday
Happy birthday to you
For the rest of the year
Careful on what you do

Maybe that poem will bring you nightmare, I hope not. It’s my way of saying: “Happy birthday Mr. Handler”

With all due respect,
Emptyelevatorshaft
Member of 667 Dark Avenue

[Elle]

Because there needs to be a crazy Esme outfit for this...