Hello beautiful readers! It is truly a thrill to be writing a fan fiction for my all-time favorite book, "The Great Gatsby". I do not own anything from the "The Great Gatsby". I can only truly thank author, F. Scott Fitzgerald for all inspiration and many characters/characteristics of this story. Sorry for any errors in this fan-fiction for I am still a beginner on the path to perfecting the art literature. Please enjoy!
The Glittering West Egg
The beach house was such a cute little thing. The little adorable cottage, surrounded by freshly cut grass and a sprinkle of pale marble bird baths, drowned under the refreshing sunlight that blessed West Egg. Flowers of multiple colors blossomed around the building of buttery wood and gray stones, as me and my parents stood on the path to the slice of Long Island paradise. My father's strong hand gripped the silver key with a look of cool, mellow satisfaction glowing around him. My blond mother ran her soft, lightly blushed hand through her ocean of curls. She stared down the sweet area with huge, electric blue eyes with relaxed approval.
"This area is just lovely, would you not agree, my sweet darling?" My mother gave off an elegant smile formed with her painted lips, glancing over to me. She had a way with her voice. She spook as if she were pouring out honey and gold off her soft, graceful, royal tongue. Her electric blue orbs could capture the strongest, hungriest of armies and wrap them in a sea of velvet. I nodded my head, exactly like any other obedient young lady would. My response radiated a flow of prestige, discipline, and total agreement.
My parents were members of families that swam in heavy stacks of wealth. Due to the fact of their obvious money, their families did everything in their power to speed up the process of the highly significant fall into the arms of the two. My mother and father spent years being tossed into romantic sail boats and shipped across the sea, their mothers biting their nails until the two returned to shore, announcing their long awaited engagement. Both families were the mighty creators of industries from Virginia. Their businesses multiplied as the years got older. The metallic kingdoms divided into a long range of categories, from high producers of war materials to glossy consumer goods. The two empires merged with the marriage of my parents, making the already highly successful brands go soaring into a sky of everlasting gold. My father was the handsome Eugene Baudin who graduated from Harvard University with honors and a highly admirable Football-playing reputation. My mother was the angelic Viola Bissette who was destined to join the Baudin family. She spent her life being trained to be the perfect social butterfly. She swallowed heavy hours of learning the art of hosting extravagant parties, swooning at sports tournaments, drinking tea with gossiping women in feather-covered hats, and shopping at expensive boutiques with America's finest of superiors. The two were a match made in heaven, their gathering in holy matrimony set in stone from the moment of birth. With Viola's overflowing contact book and Eugene's passion for law, the two created a law firm that served the gems of society. Eventually the couple would have two children, me as the youngest of the duo.
"Lucy," my father said to me as he opened the doors of the two story vacation home, "It's truly a great pleasure to have you join us for the rest of the year until you run off to France in the spring." He spoke each word with such charming grace that I couldn't resist smiling in reply.
Being a young unwed woman of the age of nineteen, I discover myself craving to step away from the security of my parents and pursue my passion of painting. Growing up my mother called art tutors over to our castle in Virginia to teach me the ways of canvases and ink. For the longest of time, it felt like a desperate cry from my mother to sooth my loneness. During my childhood, I found a bit of a void in our empty, gigantic home while my older brother, Arthur, was locked away at his rich, extremely strict boarding school that was at least eight cities away. But the tones of desperation began to disintegrate right after noticing my mother talking to my teachers. She would speak to them with such respect and understanding, dashing her long eyelashes whenever an exceptional drawing had been presented. Her calls over the telephone were not actually made out of distress for the loneliness I suffered in the absence of my oldest brother, but to create a new way to inspire me. Painting became my paradise when growing up; sadness practically became ineffective as I hid under the covers of creativity in every moment of negativity. Many nights I spent cuddled on cottony lounge chairs, while my mother smoked cigarettes and fed me chocolates by the fire place. We spent long, enjoyable hours in that comfortable position while she told me stories of her modeling career in Paris, France. For what has felt like an eternity, I've wanted to live in my Aunt's palace. Her home stood amongst a village of rose gardens within the romantic, artists' heaven in France. There I dreamed to dance amongst the late children of the revolution, making art with the professionals that play as angels in my fantasies. Of course, I've been to the most prettiest of sights in Western Europe on family vacations. But never have I fallen gleefully into the world of beauty and creation that thrived beyond the blazing parties I indulged in. I pray that in this not so distant future that I may no longer live by the title of an artistic woman with a beloved hobby, but as a professional female artist whose masterpieces shall flood the galleries of Europe.
My mother and father learned to live with my dream, but they preferred their only daughter to be a married socialite verses an artist fluttering around in the butterfly kingdoms of Paris. I made my plans to travel to my Aunt Angelette, and her constantly absent husband, in France with the mild support from my parents. But to spend my future painting verses strolling around by my parents' side for all eternity, an agreement had to be made. In order to go to France I would be tied down by my parents until spring. To relive old memories of the hot summers in houses by crystal blue lakes that rained upon my blissful history as a little child, my parents hunted down a house in the village of West Egg. West Egg was a flop of prosperous land in Long Island, New York. Members of the newly rich swam there to live by the refreshing bay in the newly arrived New York sun. There, young adults read books with long, industrial words in cottages, rolled around in the sun with mini sandwiches, and partied with gallons of bootlegged alcohol showering them. There, my family planned to spend long beaming days cruising through the city, attending extremely lavishing parties, swimming in the bay like bubbly well-dressed fish, and spending nights drinking scotch and warm tea. Despite my beloved plans being delayed, I still caught myself within a blanket of excitement. New York was booming with energy, liquor was being poured frequently in enormous silver cups, festivities cluttered every corner, and attractive bachelors strolled around in search for their first million. Here, I shall enjoy gossiping with fellow ladies on all the constant New York scandals, going wild at neon celebrations, and diving into the water with bachelors while sharing glasses of champagne.
"I wouldn't miss such a lovely chance," I assured my father as the doors opened, "This summer shall be much more fascinating than a short life on a steel boat to France." He grinned at me, doing little to hide his admiration for the words that slipped so comfortably off my tongue.
"Arthur should be joining us very shortly," my mother reminded as we took our first steps into the vacation home.
The house was a two story high palace surrounded by a wooden patio that was decorated by clay pots of lilies and cherry wooded rocking chairs. Through the archway and pass the butterscotch colored doors a huge airy space opened up. The walls were all painted in peachy shades that blended with navy velvet chairs and glass tables. The home proudly had a sandstone kitchen, an olive-themed dining room, crystal vases of light pink roses, classy hundred-dollar rugs, and filled up bookshelves that stood by open windows that fed of bits of forestry, sunlight, and the cooling image of the bay. Beyond the stair case rested a selection of grand bedrooms. The one I selected was a spacey plum of magenta Egyptian cotton and paintings of cherry blossoms wrapped in gold frames. Behind two glass doors covered by thin, white curtains, a stone balcony resided, overlooking the sandy beach and brilliant water. I stood on the balcony, feeling a breeze rush against my skin.
The calm wind gently played with my wavy, sandy brown hair as my long eyelashes fluttered in the confident glaze of the sun. My sky blue eyes darted at a castle decorated with towers that appeared to kiss the sky.
"Do you know who lives there?" I asked my mother, in reply to her graceful footsteps that grew behind me.
"Not a single clue," she answered, as her sight grew in awe of the enormous building that glowed throughout all of West Egg "The king of a man who could live at such a gem must be the bee's knees."
"Obviously, I've read in the papers that West Egg had been home to a man of extravagant festivities. That must be the lovely clump of orchids that everyone's always gossiping about," I assumed.
My mother just nodded her head, her gaze swarm into remembrance, "Oh, off course!" she purred, "Your father's precious pals from across the bay are constantly complaining about that over-the-top mansion," she stated, "They claim it to be a dirty pool of the crazed newly rich swimming in alcohol and a void of morals."
"Really?" I questioned sharply, "It's truly hard to believe that such an attractive place could ever be described so disgustingly."
"Well, my beautiful dear, that's how many citizens of East Egg view such extravagant places," she sighed, "they're members of old money, who live off clean reputations and hide in their aged wealth." I moved my direction over across the bay, where East Egg stood. East Egg was a well-polished village of tidy palaces and well-kept gardens. It was a place where people rejoiced with ice tea and horse-back riding. I thought of it to be nothing more than a platinum kingdom that hid behind curtains of country-club manners and supposed ultimate class. Those of such a clean place lived by glittering well-known family names. "Oh, and one last thing!" my mother jumped, taking her attention of the mysterious building, "I wanted to remind you that we're visiting the Buchanan household in an hour." She reminded with a wide, royal smile. I nodded as she turned away, her footsteps making clear, chirping sounds against the wooden floor.
My attention still laid on the glittering castle. The whole design of the glamorous building gave off an addictive aura of confidence, beauty, and festiveness. If my assumptions were true of the household, than that was obviously the garden of celebrations that cluttered the media. It was a well-known, blazing moth light where people from all over New York stuffed themselves into tiny vehicles to go rejoice. Right next to my happy Summerland lays a watering hole for actors, models, millionaires, and interesting people who lived beyond my imagination. "Mr. Gatsby," I whispered, the image of the mystic name from the newspapers floating in my head. For a second, as I watched the towers of mystique, I saw a figure in the window, watching down on me with as much curiosity as I had for the name Gatsby.