A Few Quick Notes: I don't own anything. Baz has it all *tear* Also, this
is my first fan fiction. Please deal with me while I find my 'creative
self.' Many thanks to everyone who wrote such great stories to entertain me
for countless hours, especially Madeline, who gave me the directions to
actually do this, Hindi Sad Diamonds, Casidy, and Mariclaire for writing my
favorite fics.
With all that said, please sit back, relax, and please review! *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* Christian James had never fit in London's aristocratic scene. After all, he wasn't the type to want to inherit the family's fortune and discuss money matters day in and out. Christian sought such things as friendship and artistic fulfillment. He supposedly found his destiny on his eleventh birthday, receiving a large black typewriter on which he was to type scholastic assignments. Yet he found much more that day. That day Christian James became a writer. "You, son," his mother would comment, after reading over his newest publication, "have much to offer this world." Young Chris wrote about everything. As a child it was mainly about dogs, family, and the dreary London weather. Yet as he grew older, the subject matter changed. And Christian wrote about love. Not only love, but about a love so strong the two people didn't need money. His father was extremely upset when he read this.
But he abided to his wife's wishes of ignoring the subject when it was to arise. What could not be ignored was Christian's longing to find belonging somewhere else. At the age of twenty-two, he heard about the Bohemian revolution occurring in Paris. How ever upset Mr. James was at the news of the latest composition, it was magnified quite a few times at the news of him moving to write about love. "Always this ridiculous obsession with love!" he would scream, the vein in his forehead pulsating with each syllable. It didn't matter to the young twenty-two year old. After all, all you need is love! So with a quick good-bye, a kiss to m(re, and promises to write letters frequently, the prodigal son was off. On June 5, 1899, Christian arrived in Paris. He was immediately taken aback by the bohemian passion for music, art, and, well, absinthe. It took everything inside Christian to prevent him from simply shattering from excitement. He knew that formally unbeknownst traditions and could fall straight into his lap. He knew that big things happen to young writers in Paris. But even a person that was not naïve or innocent had no idea how big. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* Thank you, thank you! That's the conclusion of my prelude to the Moulin. Please review; I'd love you forever!
With all that said, please sit back, relax, and please review! *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* Christian James had never fit in London's aristocratic scene. After all, he wasn't the type to want to inherit the family's fortune and discuss money matters day in and out. Christian sought such things as friendship and artistic fulfillment. He supposedly found his destiny on his eleventh birthday, receiving a large black typewriter on which he was to type scholastic assignments. Yet he found much more that day. That day Christian James became a writer. "You, son," his mother would comment, after reading over his newest publication, "have much to offer this world." Young Chris wrote about everything. As a child it was mainly about dogs, family, and the dreary London weather. Yet as he grew older, the subject matter changed. And Christian wrote about love. Not only love, but about a love so strong the two people didn't need money. His father was extremely upset when he read this.
But he abided to his wife's wishes of ignoring the subject when it was to arise. What could not be ignored was Christian's longing to find belonging somewhere else. At the age of twenty-two, he heard about the Bohemian revolution occurring in Paris. How ever upset Mr. James was at the news of the latest composition, it was magnified quite a few times at the news of him moving to write about love. "Always this ridiculous obsession with love!" he would scream, the vein in his forehead pulsating with each syllable. It didn't matter to the young twenty-two year old. After all, all you need is love! So with a quick good-bye, a kiss to m(re, and promises to write letters frequently, the prodigal son was off. On June 5, 1899, Christian arrived in Paris. He was immediately taken aback by the bohemian passion for music, art, and, well, absinthe. It took everything inside Christian to prevent him from simply shattering from excitement. He knew that formally unbeknownst traditions and could fall straight into his lap. He knew that big things happen to young writers in Paris. But even a person that was not naïve or innocent had no idea how big. *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+* Thank you, thank you! That's the conclusion of my prelude to the Moulin. Please review; I'd love you forever!