Hello, and welcome to another chapter of "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing", written by the one and only insane Ginny Baudelaire!
Anyways, to all my reviewers who read or don't read my responses, I'll just put them up here anyway:
Zavi: Yeah, Ol' Lemony doesn't tell us much about Duncan's personality. I tried to make him objective and angsty, I hope it worked! And I'm glad you enjoyed that paragraph, as I enjoyed writing it. I just love writing really meaningful, thoughtful stuff!
ChoFrog09: I thank you for your sympathies concerning my iPod. What's worse is, my sister's iPod was stolen, so she got the really new iPod Nano! Grrr… And of course I'll do Fiona! And of the ones I have written, Isadora is also my favorite.
Mistress Spyzeh: OMG, You're right! Now whenever I see it, I'll think of Charlie's Angels! That reminds me, I know a girl who was going to be Charlie's Angels with her friends this Halloween, but that's just from the Ginny Baudelaire Memory Bank of Randomness. And I love cheesy poetry! XD
Proud shipper: Yeah, I found the last line appropriate. It just sounds a lot like Duncan to me, I don't know why! And I also enjoyed just writing angst without fluff, it was a nice break. Although I'm sorry to say that fluff may be necessary in this chapter! (cough Violet cough Quigley)
Klaus-Izzy Girl: Ah, you have unfortunately been subjected to the many faults of AOL. This happens to my mom sometimes on there. Anyway, thanks, and I hope you enjoy Quigley!
Nicoleb: I'm glad you liked Sunny! And of course I'll do Olaf! I have more on that at the end of this chapter.
Worthy: I've mentioned it. I can't go into too much detail, though.
SnicketSister: Thanks! More on the characters at the end of this chapter.
Dizzy Izzy: Glad you liked it!
Starryeyedlooser025 (all 5 times): thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!
Ekilow lettyion: Here it is!
Deep Within: Yeah, I was aiming for a more mature Klaus. I guess he's in his late teens then. Also, the correct grammar would be "sisterly" and "brotherly."
Jessica01: I wonder that sometimes too.
Superbrain: Here he is!
And, finally, the disclaimer: Do you really think I own it? …cause I don't! (man, that was lame)
And now, the one and only Quigley Quagmire!
To everything on earth, there must be a beginning, middle, and end. Everything must have an explanation, everything has to be proven, for me to ever have any chance to believe it. Everything had to happen for a reason, I used to think.
You see, in my life, I need to have everything proven to be at peace. I need to be sure what tomorrow will bring, and why, and what will happen because of it, to feel remotely safe. I never feel really safe, though.
To you, I may sound insecure. Maybe I am. You may ask me why I am this way. And I am writing this to tell you.
It all started with the shattering of glass. I have always hated when glass is broken. It is yet another disaster, yet another reminder the world isn't perfect, and that unfortunate things occur constantly. In this instance, the glass broken was a window in my parents' house.
The next thing I knew, I was under my house in a dark passageway, shut out from the world and my family. My mother told me I would be safe there.
I didn't feel safe, though, and I never have felt safe since.
But there had to be a reason she thought it was safe. There just had to be.
And so I walked. I don't know how long it was. It could have been one hour, two hours, half a day, several days. I kept walking down that endless dirt path, my eyes never adjusting to the infinite darkness that crowded around me, the loud silence only broken by the soft clunk of my shoes growing heavier by the second, one by one, step by step. I became unaware of my exhaustion, my increasing hunger, even my confusion, as I was enrobed in complete and utter darkness. I thought it would never end.
But it did come to an end. It ended when I was surrounded by the very thing that started my journey: glass. The glare of the light outside hit me full force, as did all my questions. Why did the path lead me here? Why were all of the cages deserted?
And one question kept haunting me: what happened to my family?
This was answered the next day, but not the way I had expected it. No one came to tell me, no one seemed to be looking for me. I, as any stranger would, read my parents' grim fate in the morning paper. And that my brother and sister were sent off to a boarding school.
I just didn't understand it. How people could be so merciless as to sensationalize the death of others, how they couldn't feel guilty making a profit out of it. I now understood what Duncan meant about journalism more than ever. Sometimes, it does seem to be all about money.
But in spite of this, I knew that there were also good, sincere people that just wanted to find the truth. My siblings were proof of that. And so, I decided that there must be sincere people who could help me along the way. It never occurred to me that I probably wouldn't make it alone, or that it was ice cold outside, or that I could be spotted and reported, since everyone thought I was dead. But that's how I felt: dead to the world, in many ways.
And so, I haphazardly packed and was on my way, but I then ran into the voice of reason, in the form of Jacques Snicket.
Jacques Snicket, in a way, was a mixed blessing. He had the answers to my questions, and lifted my hopes up so that I could even forget all the fires, all the misery. And yet, he never had time to answer my questions. He didn't drop my hopes, though – he just left them hovering, caught midway, always searching for the answers, but never finding them.
But Jacques Snicket showed me that I wasn't alone. There were so many others who had families torn apart, friends who betrayed them, promises not kept, all because of the simple battle of good and evil. He even showed me pictures of these families. All of these people were different, but they all had the same eyes: eyes that had seen pain, eyes that had no laughter, eyes whose countless tears had gone unnoticed.
But certain pairs of eyes intrigued me, and made me want to know more: The Baudelaires' eyes. More specifically, Violet Baudelaire.
I am sure you have heard the phrase, "a picture is worth a thousand words." I, myself, have never liked this phrase, since, as I have said, things need to be proven and make sense for me to believe them. But in the case of Violet Baudelaire, this adage that I had grown to hate made perfect sense. Violet has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, but there was much more to them than beauty, much more than a camera could ever capture. At the time, I was too young to understand what that thing was.
Violet's eyes were a mystery. Another mystery to add to the complex codes and passages of V.F.D.
Jacques Snicket soon left after he gave me the Baudelaires' picture. He promised he would be back. But I could tell, by his eyes, that he wasn't sure if he could live to keep that promise.
And so he didn't.
But I still waited. He had to come back, he just had to. In my naivete, I thought it impossible that he wouldn't come back. He made a promise, he would keep it.
But I realized, as I waited day after day, that Jacques would never come back. He would always come when I needed something, no matter what. Another person I had learned to care about had faded away, like smoke from a fire. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it.
Jacques had been my protector. But he was gone. I was alone, and defenseless. But I didn't care. I would find my siblings, no matter what. It was a promise I made to myself, and I had to keep it.
But as the first chapter of my journey ended, the second one began as the first: with the shattering of glass. Dr. Montgomery's hard work, like everything else, went up in a mere mist.
As I ran out of the burning house, my tears mixed with the dust, I believe that childhood ended, slipping away as quickly as my tears, and adulthood began. Whatever naivete I had that reassured me that everything would be alright, no matter what, was gone. I ran from the fire, not able to look back on the innocence, the protection that I had left behind.
I don't know how long I ran. I only remember when I reached Paltryville, a town that certainly lived up to its name. There, I finally regained my senses. No one was looking for me, and even if they were, it certainly wasn't with good intentions. I was really a volunteer now. I needed to fend for myself. In spite of myself, I felt a sort of pride in this new revelation. And this pride led me to a courage that I thought I could never have.
With this courage, I traveled through Paltryville and went countless miles, my determination only growing fiercer when I learned of the kidnapping of my siblings. I lived on my righteous anger as I survived as I felt a true volunteer could.
At times, I would pass rivers in my journey. I would always look in them, and see myself as I certainly hadn't looked before my tragic tale began. My eyes looked haunted, like the many others that had similar fates to mine. But this didn't dampen my spirits. Rather, it made me even more determined.
I admit, when I eventually ran into the Snow Scouts, I thought that it would probably be pointless traveling with them. But even the most accomplished of volunteers jump to conclusions, and I was no exception. I wouldn't call meeting the Baudelaires pointless, would you?
Violet and Klaus Baudelaire were like the eye of a hurricane for me. In this raging storm of The Schism that we were caught in, we were a sort of oasis to each other, where we could share our knowledge and attempt to solve our confusion. I even thought that, just maybe, things would go right for once after all.
But I was wrong. This third chapter of my journey began with a figurative shattering of glass, seeing the V.F.D. headquarters destroyed. There were fewer things more haunting than the lost beauty, the lost safety that had been in the midst of the mountains. I felt completely lost.
That is, except when I was around Violet.
I thought Violet's eyes were beautiful in the worn and torn picture that Jacques gave me that currently resides in a safe, along with my other valuables. But they were nothing, nothing, compared to her real eyes. I will spare you of every pondering I ever had about her beauty, how I viewed it, how I longed for her presence for so long. I will spare you of every thing I love about her, those little idiosyncrasies that one will only find if they have been thrown into the spiraling world of emotions and sense that is love. I both loved and hated this new feeling that I had about Violet, though I wasn't sure why.
But fate is cruel. Fate tore the woman I loved from me, fate threw me into the gushing ice waters of the Stricken Stream. Fate also threw me, however, into the path of Kit Snicket.
Kit Snicket reminded me of her brother in so many ways. She, too, had those same haunting eyes. She had also lost the one she loved most. We spoke the same language, on so many levels. I did feel safe with her.
But I could never feel safe while my siblings were in danger. Duncan, Isadora and I were linked only how triplets are. I felt and understood their feelings even more than I did Violet's. This, also, I could not understand.
However, as I was searching for Duncan and Isadora in the sky, I realized what that feeling was. It was the bonds of love and blood. And I now understood why I loved and hated it. Love was unpredictable, you couldn't plan it out like everything else in life. It took you to the heights of your emotions, and could drive you to be a person you didn't even know you were. You couldn't live with it at times, but you could never live without it.
And now that I have reached the end of my tale, I suppose you understand why I am insecure. My life has never been secure since my parents died. But that doesn't mean I hate it. My journey, if anything, has taught me to be a risk taker. And by risking my life, I saved it.
I know this chapter was long anticipated, and I hope I didn't disappoint you! I feel like Quigley's POV was a little too rambling, but you should try picking what to add and what to take out. I wanted to get this done before "Goblet of Fire" comes out, so that I would have plenty of holiday recreation time!
I had a wonderful Halloween! As Ron Weasley says, "seriously good haul this year!" I got lots of salty stuff too, including Doritos, which I am eating right now. Mmm, cheesy…
Anyway, guess what! I have HOMEWORK for you! Mwahahaha… aren't I naughty? But seriously, it's just two questions!
Firstly, the list of characters for the last seven chapters: Count Olaf, Esme Squalor (she is subject to change), Mr. Poe (he is too), Fernald, Fiona, Kit Snicket, and Lemony Snicket himself! The question is, who should I do first? I'm thinking Olaf, but it's really up to you reviewers!
Secondly, when I do write Count Olaf, there are two choices for the style of his POV. Should he be:
Hilariously unreasonable and stupid?
Or a misunderstood villain who we can identify with?
Again, this is also up to you! Please review!
Ugh! I have "Do the Hippogriff" stuck in my head right now…