#fretfullyfrank

Violet had tried so hard to find Frank once they arrived on Briny Beach. Her brother had helped her research where he had gone since the fire at their hotel. The Baudelaires could not help but feel horrible for what happened to Dewey. It may have been an accident, but they were a part of his death. Violet sat down to write a note to Frank, which she sent to the address last associated with him.

Dear Mr. Frank Denouement,

My name is Violet Baudelaire. My siblings and I have been searching to find you since the fire at your hotel, and I hope this letter finds you at the addressed we discovered under your name. I was hoping we could meet to talk. Please let me know if there is a day and place that works best for you.

Sincerely,

heights don’t bother beatrice - they never have. frequently within the carnival she’s taken position of working as an aerial artist if madam lulu is otherwise taken - but she has zero experience with tightropes of any sort. which is precisely how beatrice has found herself in the position with her partner for this particular venture - though frank seems to be handling it far better than she is.

     “oh, i wasn’t even thinking of it.” she says, fingers curled tightly around the rope; she’s grateful for the gloves but even still, her hands already ache with the struggle of keeping herself aloft while trying not to jostle the rope - the last thing she wants is to launch frank off it and put him in a similar situation. then there will be no hope at all. 

   but she trusts frank. and she trusts dewey. two out of three. s she holds on fiercely, and doesn’t look down - instead she watches him as he inches across toward her. 

   she glances over at the man. the voice she knows, recognizes, but it’s difficult to ascertain which of the three it belongs to without a clear look. beatrice has always been able to distinguish between them with relative ease, but in the dim light of the ruins of the hotel, she cannot tell if it is friend or foe that lingers. 

     the last safe place. it sounds bitter in her mind and tastes like ash on her tongue, much like the ash that still seems to coat the air and the ground and everything that isn’t the surface of the pond. her hands clench into fists briefly, frustrated and angry that again, she is steps behind where she needs to be. 

Dewey had managed to drag himself to Room 613; mercifully without being noticed. It was almost a miracle that no one had noticed the blood seeping through his uniform - once again he was thankful that they had gone with red as the hotel’s base color. It would have shown up vividly on anything else. It was also perhaps a minor miracle that the pain hadn’t kicked in yet - Dewey could almost consider himself among the most blessed. 

Inside, he fell onto the bed and dialed for assistance from the manager, being sure to add the extension 361 - the hotel’s private code for Urgent - Come Quickly.

      CRIME  BASED  SENTENCE   PROMPTS  .

“Today alone I have checked in a number of guests–noble, sinister, and otherwise; taken out the two o’clock dry cleaning; and oversaw the weekly window washing.” 

And Ernest may have planted a note under the banana palm leaf for an associate and friend, but his brother did NOT need to know that. He would compromise in matters, and some matters are too PERSONAL for family business. 

Send 🥪 and my muse will give yours some food! 

“Do you and your brother even take time to cook for yourselves anymore?” Sure, she meant brothers, but you never quite knew who was listening. Placing down a plate of pasta puttanesca, she nodded to Frank, a faint smile on her lips. “Eat up.”