Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Mary Sue.

Mary Sue was of an indeterminate age –she might have been seventeen, she might have been twelve (though she especially favored nineteen), but she was usually around fourteen. But that was a moot point. She was of nondescript physical appearance, though it is said that she was rather plain to look at, but that, too, was a moot point. Of the rumors we’ve heard, we can only be sure of this: Mary Sue was none too bright.

Little Mary Sue had many interests. She enjoyed the cinema, favoring "Pirates of the Caribbean", "The Day After Tomorrow", and anything starring Julia Roberts. She also had an especial fondness for musical theatre, or so she said, though in truth she had only ever seen one play in her life. She never admitted this to her contemporaries –lest she appear uneducated or uncultivated- and preferred to include every musical she had ever half-watched on PBS in her cultural repertoire.

The one show in question was "Les Misérables". Mary Sue was enthralled by the obviously flowering romance between Eponine and Marius, cut short by a National Guardsman’s bullet. Yes, their undying love for one another was conveyed in subtle shades (Mary Sue *knew* that Marius only pretended to like Cosette to make Eponine jealous), but it did not escape Mary Sue’s keen eye.

She was further amazed by Eponine’s womanly ability to keep her hair looking so glossy, despite a.) the fact that she lived in abject squalor and, b.) the fact that she hadn’t had a bath in probably the last six years. Toothbrushes eluded the beautiful Eponine, and still she had a mouthful of fine teeth –immaculate in their pearly whiteness. Imagine that!

In addition to her alleged theatre-going, Mary Sue also had a penchant for French Romantic literature. Specifically "Les Misérables". She enjoyed the presence of the formidable book on her shelf, as the bulk of the fifteen-hundred pages, sandwiched between her old copies of The Babysitter’s Club series made her feel very sophisticated indeed. Occasionally she carried the book around school, so people might see her with it, and marvel at her otherworldly intellect. This, too, made her feel important, though here again, she had only ever scoured the pages for mentions of Eponine, The Romantic Heroine, and skipped the Waterloo section entirely.

When asked about the philosophy of the novel, Mary Sue grew petulant. She did not care to discuss Hugo and his paltry romantic musings! No, rather, she enjoyed dwelling on Eponine, reveling in her heroic and heartfelt sacrifice, made entirely for the love of her Marius. Even though Mary Sue insisted that Eponine would have been better off paired with Enjolras, since he was, like, way hotter than Marius.

One of Mary Sue’s many favorite pastimes was writing. Granted, she only scraped by in English class with a ‘D’, but all of her friends assured her that her compositions were "like, really, really good". She considered them reliable critics, and incomparable literati, having tackled the entire Harry Potter series and such gems as "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants".

Thus, it seemed completely natural to Mary Sue that she should take it upon herself to write her own "Les Misérables" fic. But canon characters alone did not satisfy Mary Sue. She noticed an oversight on the part of Monsieur Hugo, and that was the absence of a stunning teenaged heroine. Yes, Eponine was *the* romantic heroine, no doubt about it, but she was in love with Marius, and that left Enjolras all alone. What to do? Pity that someone so hot should die a virgin.

Luckily, Mary Sue knew how to correct this.

She fashioned a character (loosely based on her own appealing qualities). She was nineteen years old, with a body slim and supple as a willow, skin fair as finely crafted porcelain, cascades of thick, curling hair, dark as a raven’s wing that tumbled elegantly over her white shoulders, a perfect oval face, stunning azure eyes framed with thick, dark lashes, a Grecian nose that might have been chiseled from marble, a flattering, girlish flush to her cheeks and bosom, and a smile that suggested she was something more exciting than your typical 19^th century French beauty. In addition, she had fine hands, roughened by years of work as a laundress (after her parents succumbed to scarlet fever, and she was left to raise her thirteen brothers and sisters at only the tender age of eleven) but not at all diminished in beauty. Despite her poverty and complete lack of upbringing, she was no stranger to society, dressed herself in silken gowns she stitched by hand, read any quantity of revolutionary treatises, was possessed of a scintillating wit, could swear with the best of the men, played the piano, sang like a nightingale, spoke English, French, Mandarin, and Haitian Creole with effortless fluency, smelled of a curious mixture of rosewater and lavender, published her own columns in the papers, was studying to become a lawyer and a doctor simultaneously, rejected all forms of organized religion, knew healing incantations, suffered a slight cough and occasional dizzy spells, (which rendered her a victim to her innate femininity, and saw her sometimes collapsing in a dainty heap amidst her frothy skirts, a handkerchief pressed to her pert lips, her noble brow beaded with sweat) and would not hesitate to hurl herself –in a final, heartbreaking gesture- before her lover, her body shielding him from an assassin’s bullet.

She was the kind of person whose illustrious persona and unquenchable charm and charisma made her instantly attractive to all who crossed her path. She was the only woman to ever be admitted to Les Amis de l’ABC. She was predisposed to a romantic death by consumption, assuming she wasn’t killed by a musket ball to the heart, and after her wrenching demise in the arms of her beloved, she would never be forgotten by anyone, who would remember her only with fondness, despite her occasional flare-ups of temper, and her well-known sharp tongue.

Her Christian name was Sophie-Anneliese-Gisele-Marie-Suzette de la Fontaine. But her nearest and dearest called her simply Marie-Suzette.

Mary Sue wrote pages upon pages of Marie-Suzette’s trials and tribulations. She wrote them frequently. She wrote them poorly. In the midst of her artistic toils, she saw fit to bypass that beloved institution known as "spellchecker". Indeed, Mary Sue’s opus was of such a high standard, that simple conventions such as proper grammar were below her. Thus, her fic, for what it lacked in integrity, was further sacrificed to negligent bastardization of the English language.

But so eager was she, in her rush, that Mary Sue never considered the problem this might pose. She logged onto fanfiction.net, and with a single click of the "submit" button, the damage was done.

The reviews began flooding in. One proclaimed, "tHiS is LiEk teh bEst Fic EVAH!!!!!111" Another lauded, "OMG!!!!!!!!!11 this is so amazing!!!!11 i was pracitcly crying!!!!11 pleeeeez update soon!!1" Yet a third complimented, "u r such a good riter."

Poor Mary Sue. She was so hungry for good reviews, she never realized that true art is a product of time, industry, and thought.

And then, one day, a review appeared in her inbox. By all outward appearances, it was the same as all the others: an incoherent string of "l33t" speak exhorting Mary Sue (seasoned by a series of deep, profound, unrequited romances) for her insight into the follies of love and war. She clicked the link with glee.

Nay, this review was different. Very different. As she read, Mary Sue felt an icy hand seize her heart.

"Congratulations, you have just broken every rule of good writing known to man. Next time try running spellcheck before you make yourself look like a moron."

A second scathing remark followed on the heels of the first:

"What kind of shit is this? Get a beta-reader, for the love of God!"

Mary Sue pressed a hand to her mouth in shock.

"It’s ENJOLRAS, not ENJORALES. At least spell the characters’ names right!"

Something must be done! Mary Sue began composing a response:

"look, i know alot of u dont liek my fic but its none of ur busness what i write. If u dont like it u dont have to read it. u shouldnt flame ppl just cuz u dont like there writing. it makes u look realy rude. this is a FICTION adn that means i can write whatever i want!!!!!!111"

Satisfied that her words should stifle the naysayers, Mary Sue anticipated a change in the reception of her work.

Mary Sue received only one more review.

"The fact that this is fiction isn’t an excuse for you to write garbage."

Were people really so cruel? So heartless? Did they have no sympathy for the anguish she had suffered in all her fourteen years of life?

Evidently not, as the next day somebody reported her for abuse (specifically her inability to check her spelling) and the accursed fic was removed. Everyone was happy, with the exception of Mary Sue, who denounced those who spoke out against her evil-doings in her public profile. Had she been a more complex creature, she might have been wiser for her experience. Alas, she remained, as before, one of many lovelorn fangirls who wasted her days listening to "On My Own" and fantasizing about Orlando Bloom.

THE END