Post by leiyinglo on Jan 5, 2009 0:50:39 GMT
Hello all.
A few years ago, I wrote a (tediously long) piece of fiction about another band for one of their forums and the posters there seemed to really love it...so I thought, seeing as I got out of work early today (yes, on a Sunday
) and I was bored, I'd give the Followills a crack. Of course, if it's met with contempt and disdain, I promise to delete it, hang my head in shame and never mention it again.
Ok...
Chapter One
Long, long ago in the year of our Lord two thousand and three, a young boy by the name of M'Attagnan lived a simple life in the simple village of Nashcony. M'Attagnan, however, had dreams and aspirations that far outreached his tiny world. For M'Attagnan longed for nothing less than to someday journey to ye olde London and there to seek his fame and fortune. For M'Attagnan wanted to be a Muskowill.
Then, on the morning of his eighteenth birthday, M'Attagnan kissed his mother goodbye, shouldered the guitar that had once belonged to his father and set off on the road to London. The journey was long and arduous but after a 9 hour flight, M'Attagnan touched down in L'Eathrow and breathed in his first lungfuls of English air. He was so close he could almost taste it. M'Attagnan closed his eyes, pursed his insanely pouty...sorry..ahem...lips and whispered, "Lond-agh!"
Sadly, M'Attagnan could not complete his inaudible prayer of thanks for he was struck across the back of the head by a Slapper Heureux, the scourge of many an English street. When he came to, he was lying in a small pool of his own blood and his father's guitar was gone.
M'Attagnan quickly wiped away his burgeoning tears and cursed himself for being so foolish. He picked himself up and set about finding the man who could introduce him to the Muskowills, Monsieur Johns.
London, it seemed, was even bigger and noisier than even his wildest imaginings had allowed for and M'Attagnan found himself daunted for the first time. And then suddenly, there it was. His father's guitar. Strapped to the back of a young man and heading down the street, away from him. "Stop! Thief!" he shouted before he could halt himself. The Slapper Heureux turned. He fixed M'Attagnan's gaze, smiled a wry smile...and fled. M'Attagnan gave chase. Through the thronging streets they flew, knocking over old ladies and the odd compulsory fruit stall. M'Attagnan's chest were burning but his need for that guitar, the need to prove he had what it took to be a Muskowill, kept his feet pounding one in front of the other. And then his feet were no longer in contact with the tarmac. They were flying over his head and M'Attagnan was falling to the ground with a sickening thud.
As he lay there on the cold earth for the second time that day, M'Attagnan heard the loud groaning of a gruff voice in his ringing ears. It took him a few addled seconds to realise the voice was not his own.
"My shoulder!" whimpered Calthos as he agonised a few feet from M'Attagnan. M'Attagnan rose gingerly and knelt over the man he had run into and sent sprawling.
"I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" he asked in a voice much smaller than he had intended.
"No I'm not alright!" snarled the supine man. "I've only just had this shoulder fixed and now, thanks to you, it's popped out again!"
M'Attagnan proffered his hand to his victim and suggested he assist him to the nearest apothecary but Calthos brushed M'Attagnan's hand aside angrily and staggered to his feet, unaided. M'Attagnan was taken aback. Where he came from, an apology was enough to warrant some civilty. He had done the man wrong, no doubt, but his offer of help should, at least, have been met with a modicum of gratitude. M'Attagnan found his voice once more.
"I apologise again, Monsieur. But at least, I see, you still have one good arm with which to sell your fruit."
"I am not a seller of fruit, you impudent runt. I am a guitarist!" His voice grew louder so all around them may hear. "And let it be known, I could still out-guitar any man here with but one good arm!"
M'Attagnan snickered. Calthos glared at him.
"You doubt me, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Monsieur, if you and your dodgy arm had not impeded me, I would now be reunited with my own guitar and I would be taking you up on that challenge."
Calthos found himself almost smiling at his assailant's audacity but he swallowed it masterfully and remained stony faced. "In which case, Monsieur, meet me behind the old Town Hall at noon. I will bring a spare guitar and I will put you in your place once and for all!"
M'Attagnan could not disguise his own smile so well. A guitar duel! He hadn't lost one of those since he was a small boy. He would beat this one armed blow-hard, claim the guitar in the spoils and get in some always needed practise before, once more, seeking out Monsieur Johns.
"Noon it is," he exclaimed with glee then watched as the injured man limped almost nobly away.
Despite the bumps and bruises his first day in London Town had brought him, M'Attagnan was in surprisingly high spirits and with an excited spring in his step he went off to get directions to the old Town Hall, for it was almost noon...
A few years ago, I wrote a (tediously long) piece of fiction about another band for one of their forums and the posters there seemed to really love it...so I thought, seeing as I got out of work early today (yes, on a Sunday
) and I was bored, I'd give the Followills a crack. Of course, if it's met with contempt and disdain, I promise to delete it, hang my head in shame and never mention it again.Ok...
Chapter One
Long, long ago in the year of our Lord two thousand and three, a young boy by the name of M'Attagnan lived a simple life in the simple village of Nashcony. M'Attagnan, however, had dreams and aspirations that far outreached his tiny world. For M'Attagnan longed for nothing less than to someday journey to ye olde London and there to seek his fame and fortune. For M'Attagnan wanted to be a Muskowill.
Then, on the morning of his eighteenth birthday, M'Attagnan kissed his mother goodbye, shouldered the guitar that had once belonged to his father and set off on the road to London. The journey was long and arduous but after a 9 hour flight, M'Attagnan touched down in L'Eathrow and breathed in his first lungfuls of English air. He was so close he could almost taste it. M'Attagnan closed his eyes, pursed his insanely pouty...sorry..ahem...lips and whispered, "Lond-agh!"
Sadly, M'Attagnan could not complete his inaudible prayer of thanks for he was struck across the back of the head by a Slapper Heureux, the scourge of many an English street. When he came to, he was lying in a small pool of his own blood and his father's guitar was gone.
M'Attagnan quickly wiped away his burgeoning tears and cursed himself for being so foolish. He picked himself up and set about finding the man who could introduce him to the Muskowills, Monsieur Johns.
London, it seemed, was even bigger and noisier than even his wildest imaginings had allowed for and M'Attagnan found himself daunted for the first time. And then suddenly, there it was. His father's guitar. Strapped to the back of a young man and heading down the street, away from him. "Stop! Thief!" he shouted before he could halt himself. The Slapper Heureux turned. He fixed M'Attagnan's gaze, smiled a wry smile...and fled. M'Attagnan gave chase. Through the thronging streets they flew, knocking over old ladies and the odd compulsory fruit stall. M'Attagnan's chest were burning but his need for that guitar, the need to prove he had what it took to be a Muskowill, kept his feet pounding one in front of the other. And then his feet were no longer in contact with the tarmac. They were flying over his head and M'Attagnan was falling to the ground with a sickening thud.
As he lay there on the cold earth for the second time that day, M'Attagnan heard the loud groaning of a gruff voice in his ringing ears. It took him a few addled seconds to realise the voice was not his own.
"My shoulder!" whimpered Calthos as he agonised a few feet from M'Attagnan. M'Attagnan rose gingerly and knelt over the man he had run into and sent sprawling.
"I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" he asked in a voice much smaller than he had intended.
"No I'm not alright!" snarled the supine man. "I've only just had this shoulder fixed and now, thanks to you, it's popped out again!"
M'Attagnan proffered his hand to his victim and suggested he assist him to the nearest apothecary but Calthos brushed M'Attagnan's hand aside angrily and staggered to his feet, unaided. M'Attagnan was taken aback. Where he came from, an apology was enough to warrant some civilty. He had done the man wrong, no doubt, but his offer of help should, at least, have been met with a modicum of gratitude. M'Attagnan found his voice once more.
"I apologise again, Monsieur. But at least, I see, you still have one good arm with which to sell your fruit."
"I am not a seller of fruit, you impudent runt. I am a guitarist!" His voice grew louder so all around them may hear. "And let it be known, I could still out-guitar any man here with but one good arm!"
M'Attagnan snickered. Calthos glared at him.
"You doubt me, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Monsieur, if you and your dodgy arm had not impeded me, I would now be reunited with my own guitar and I would be taking you up on that challenge."
Calthos found himself almost smiling at his assailant's audacity but he swallowed it masterfully and remained stony faced. "In which case, Monsieur, meet me behind the old Town Hall at noon. I will bring a spare guitar and I will put you in your place once and for all!"
M'Attagnan could not disguise his own smile so well. A guitar duel! He hadn't lost one of those since he was a small boy. He would beat this one armed blow-hard, claim the guitar in the spoils and get in some always needed practise before, once more, seeking out Monsieur Johns.
"Noon it is," he exclaimed with glee then watched as the injured man limped almost nobly away.
Despite the bumps and bruises his first day in London Town had brought him, M'Attagnan was in surprisingly high spirits and with an excited spring in his step he went off to get directions to the old Town Hall, for it was almost noon...
but in some freakish way i liked it! 
my good god girl are you high and stuck in some 19th century literary phase? that's a masterpiece! ok. maybe not. but it was actually quite touching and i did feel for, uhm, how do you spell? M'Attagnan <-- jst copied and pasted 
