Hallo
Ok, so I have to amuse Erin for the next five minutes.
What the hell do I talk about? I have two options: I can do something really amusing and satiate her lust for my narrative powers, or I could bore her so she never asks me to do this again...
Alright. I've decided. I'm going, from now on, to devote this sacred space to an improvised Harlequin. I figure it'll make her happy. Ok, so where the fuck do I begin. There ought to be a chick. Her name can be...wait, let me ask Erin.
We have:
Erin Rosepetal Desdemona
Brandon Ashton-Bell (revision: Adam has officially said he shall not kill me for besmirching his name in my LJ, so our new hero is Adam Rochester-Clyde)
and our villan (and I swear this was not my idea),
Simon Morgraves
(I guess she isn't one to shy away from the roman à clef.)
***
FOR WHOM THE BELLE TOLLS
by Pamela Wu and Erin Liu
Chapter 1: Innocence
Members of polite society were of the general consensus that she was a girl who had been given everything, but who had been endowed with nothing. She had a quaintly pretty face that was not so much attractive in its ordinariness, the sort of beauty that the Romantics of the age lusted after as rustic charm, but sort of ordinary in its attractiveness, the type of thing that frankly was never all that in demand, and never shall be, thought it shall always as a rule be generally well-liked. She was neither brilliant nor quiescent. A somewhat sardonic but ultimately caring uncle once took a glance at her drawings and advised her secretly that she would be wise, if asked about what the subject of her artistic endeavours pertained to, to refer them to them as reasonable facsimilies of certain archeological discoveries on the cave walls of Lascaux. Her lack of quiescence was quite well shown through her unfailing tendency to flail her arms when angry, and, if she was close enough, to start shaking her opponent mercilessly. As to dress, she was somewhat careless - she wore whatever her nanny handed her, and should her nanny not hand her anything, or not be present to hand her anything, she would quite easily wear nothing at all. Nobody had a label that would suit her, except her parents, who simply referred to her as Erin Rosepetal Desdemona. A somewhat unromantic person for such a romantic name.
Now I sense I am beginning to lose the reader's attention. "What in hell kind of romance heroine is this anyway?" Erin may ask. "And OMG why did you give her my name?" To which I will respond, "It was your idea."
But I suppose she and the rest have a point. Surely this unromantic creature should have some traits to be recognized by a dashing, upper class, brooding man who is so posh he has a hyphen in his last name. I mean, to add to her picture of ordinariness it must be added that she did not have the moral sense to be the next Jane Eyre.
Come to think of it, there is one point on which her genius is undisputed. When she was eight, her parents had the immense foresight to hire a private piano tutor to dust off the antique 17th century pianoforte and guide their daughter into some fashionable daubbling in the fine arts. She took to it like a fish, but alas, she became restive at the tutor's nagging at her impoverished C#'s and shook her silly after the third lesson. Needless to say, the tutor quit in a huff and was never seen again. But many people through dark and winding detours come eventually to the lighted path, and this is exactly what happened to Erin, who though is ordinary, is still not without some character. She was determined that as long as she could hold out her fingers in front of her, she would by God learn that lesson to completion and play it as damn well as she could. A very commendable spirit, by and large, and her parents the Lord and Lady Desdemona were certainly much astounded to hear, several days after the loud resignation of the tutor, the tentative strains of Baa Baa Blacksheep lightly tinkling through the halls.
Indeed to this day there is not one in all of the Empire of Britain who can express the stirring triumph of successful shearing with the tender undertone of pathos for the immodestly exposed formerly woolly mammal with such depth and sincerity as Erin Rosepetal Desdemona. One evening when she was twelve her father was musing on the necessity of hats in any true civilised society, when the opening strains of THAT song knocked about his eardrums and for a second he was more strongly than ever tempted to finally do what had been festering in his mind for the last three-and-a-half years, which was to shove his right fist lustily into the damned instrument with the same passionate force that he ravaged his virgin wife on the night of their daughter's conception (but that is a different story). But this time there was a difference, a difference that forced Lord Desdemona to sit and abandon his train of thought about hats. Suddenly he heard Baa Baa Blacksheep played with a new and startling discipline; it was as if he was hearing it for the first time. Suddenly he understood the deep personal sacrifice of the lamb that was only mitigated by the inner desire to give. For that one moment he saw into the very eyes of God.
Of course Lord Desdemona did not express this to his young daughter, in fact he did nothing more than look at her a tad queerly over the dinner table. Thus, Erin could have no knowledge of her quixotic gift, and she knew nothing more of her piano playing than that she rather enjoyed it. She was quite naturally modest, as she had little in life to brag about that did not come as a direct result of her parent's income. Yes, she understood even at that tender age that Baa Baa Blacksheep was her limit. She was not robust enough for Old MacDonald, and the macabre nature of London's Burning sent her sensitive frame into such shivers that she would be forced to stop in the middle of the piece and hyperventilate. And unfortunately that old favorite Twinkle Twinkle Little Star required that child's unblemished purity that after certain unexpected transpirations occurring the year after, could never quite be recaptured by her again.
END OF CHAPTER 1.
What the hell do I talk about? I have two options: I can do something really amusing and satiate her lust for my narrative powers, or I could bore her so she never asks me to do this again...
Alright. I've decided. I'm going, from now on, to devote this sacred space to an improvised Harlequin. I figure it'll make her happy. Ok, so where the fuck do I begin. There ought to be a chick. Her name can be...wait, let me ask Erin.
We have:
Erin Rosepetal Desdemona
Brandon Ashton-Bell (revision: Adam has officially said he shall not kill me for besmirching his name in my LJ, so our new hero is Adam Rochester-Clyde)
and our villan (and I swear this was not my idea),
Simon Morgraves
(I guess she isn't one to shy away from the roman à clef.)
***
FOR WHOM THE BELLE TOLLS
by Pamela Wu and Erin Liu
Chapter 1: Innocence
Members of polite society were of the general consensus that she was a girl who had been given everything, but who had been endowed with nothing. She had a quaintly pretty face that was not so much attractive in its ordinariness, the sort of beauty that the Romantics of the age lusted after as rustic charm, but sort of ordinary in its attractiveness, the type of thing that frankly was never all that in demand, and never shall be, thought it shall always as a rule be generally well-liked. She was neither brilliant nor quiescent. A somewhat sardonic but ultimately caring uncle once took a glance at her drawings and advised her secretly that she would be wise, if asked about what the subject of her artistic endeavours pertained to, to refer them to them as reasonable facsimilies of certain archeological discoveries on the cave walls of Lascaux. Her lack of quiescence was quite well shown through her unfailing tendency to flail her arms when angry, and, if she was close enough, to start shaking her opponent mercilessly. As to dress, she was somewhat careless - she wore whatever her nanny handed her, and should her nanny not hand her anything, or not be present to hand her anything, she would quite easily wear nothing at all. Nobody had a label that would suit her, except her parents, who simply referred to her as Erin Rosepetal Desdemona. A somewhat unromantic person for such a romantic name.
Now I sense I am beginning to lose the reader's attention. "What in hell kind of romance heroine is this anyway?" Erin may ask. "And OMG why did you give her my name?" To which I will respond, "It was your idea."
But I suppose she and the rest have a point. Surely this unromantic creature should have some traits to be recognized by a dashing, upper class, brooding man who is so posh he has a hyphen in his last name. I mean, to add to her picture of ordinariness it must be added that she did not have the moral sense to be the next Jane Eyre.
Come to think of it, there is one point on which her genius is undisputed. When she was eight, her parents had the immense foresight to hire a private piano tutor to dust off the antique 17th century pianoforte and guide their daughter into some fashionable daubbling in the fine arts. She took to it like a fish, but alas, she became restive at the tutor's nagging at her impoverished C#'s and shook her silly after the third lesson. Needless to say, the tutor quit in a huff and was never seen again. But many people through dark and winding detours come eventually to the lighted path, and this is exactly what happened to Erin, who though is ordinary, is still not without some character. She was determined that as long as she could hold out her fingers in front of her, she would by God learn that lesson to completion and play it as damn well as she could. A very commendable spirit, by and large, and her parents the Lord and Lady Desdemona were certainly much astounded to hear, several days after the loud resignation of the tutor, the tentative strains of Baa Baa Blacksheep lightly tinkling through the halls.
Indeed to this day there is not one in all of the Empire of Britain who can express the stirring triumph of successful shearing with the tender undertone of pathos for the immodestly exposed formerly woolly mammal with such depth and sincerity as Erin Rosepetal Desdemona. One evening when she was twelve her father was musing on the necessity of hats in any true civilised society, when the opening strains of THAT song knocked about his eardrums and for a second he was more strongly than ever tempted to finally do what had been festering in his mind for the last three-and-a-half years, which was to shove his right fist lustily into the damned instrument with the same passionate force that he ravaged his virgin wife on the night of their daughter's conception (but that is a different story). But this time there was a difference, a difference that forced Lord Desdemona to sit and abandon his train of thought about hats. Suddenly he heard Baa Baa Blacksheep played with a new and startling discipline; it was as if he was hearing it for the first time. Suddenly he understood the deep personal sacrifice of the lamb that was only mitigated by the inner desire to give. For that one moment he saw into the very eyes of God.
Of course Lord Desdemona did not express this to his young daughter, in fact he did nothing more than look at her a tad queerly over the dinner table. Thus, Erin could have no knowledge of her quixotic gift, and she knew nothing more of her piano playing than that she rather enjoyed it. She was quite naturally modest, as she had little in life to brag about that did not come as a direct result of her parent's income. Yes, she understood even at that tender age that Baa Baa Blacksheep was her limit. She was not robust enough for Old MacDonald, and the macabre nature of London's Burning sent her sensitive frame into such shivers that she would be forced to stop in the middle of the piece and hyperventilate. And unfortunately that old favorite Twinkle Twinkle Little Star required that child's unblemished purity that after certain unexpected transpirations occurring the year after, could never quite be recaptured by her again.
END OF CHAPTER 1.