Disclaimer: Nothing, not the movie, not the characters, nothing belongs to
me. Neither do "Don't Speak"(No Doubt) or "The Sound of Music"(Julie
Andrews: from the movie 'The Sound of Music').
Note: 'Penelope' is the bird's name, I was recently informed. Also, italicized words are being sung. Underlined words are lyrics, but they are not sung. **************************************************************************** *********************** "The what?" I asked with rage brewing in my heart. "The show must-" "I don't give a bloody rat's ass about 'the show'," I said with hate and anger pouring out with each word. "It's just a saying, I mean, you have to-" Toulouse started, but I could not let him finish. "Don't say it," I begged him, "Please, don't speak." He started again. I interrupted him, " I know what you're what thinkin', I don't need your reasons, don't tell me cuz' it hurts." Then I handed him my book, as I felt the very same cool breeze pass by me. I wanted to look around but, "Is this," he said taking the book out of my hands. "Yes. I wanted you to be the first one to read it. I wanted all of you to-" "Aaahh!" Shouted the 'unconscious Argentinean'. He was being attacked by a flock of pidgoens. It was what woke him up. "Birds!" he yelled furiously. He started waving his hands madly through the air. Then, I felt the breeze once again pass me, it felt as though it caressed my face. The birds also left, shortly after. It was as though they stayed longer to annoy the Argentinean. Doc gave a weak chuckle. I don't think he was laughing at the Argentinean, though. I had a feeling that he had some absinthe, just before. "Christian," Satie started as Toulouse flipped through the pages of the story I had just handed him, "I-you see, do you remember 'the hills are alive' and all that? Well, we were wondering if you could finish that story? We were thinking of, of-" "Rekindling the spirit of the children of the revolution!" the Argentinean butted in. "And what better way than with a play!? A play written by the same enchanted boy who wrote 'Spectacular, Spectacular'?" the Doc added. A tear from my heart started to fall from my eyes. Oh how I remember that play. That night. That story. That ending. I looked up at the three. They could see my pain, or a glimpse of it. They remembered what I remembered, also. And I had just handed Satine and my's story to Toulouse for all of them to read. Toulouse was staring at me now, just as the others were. There was an awkward silence humming all around us. I broke the silence. "Sure," I said, then very quickly racked my brain for lyrics to add on to the song. "The hills are alive, with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years," I started as that very same breeze passed by me once more, and I started to remember Satine, and our time spent together, "The hills fill my heart with the sound of music, my heart wants to sing every song it hears, My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds that rise from the lake to the trees, My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies from a church on a breeze."and as I sang these inspired words, birds from every which way came, a few attacked the Argentinean, but I didn't care because that breeze felt as though it passed me, but to get to the other side of me to hold my hand. I turned my head, expecting to find Satine, and I found, "Satine?" I said half-mad and half-hopeful as I saw a whisp of a vision of Satine. A ghostly image, almost, like the breeze was her. Then when all turned from the Argentinean to look at me, she turned back into a breeze, just as I blinked. And the breeze did not blow away, no it stayed. Satine stayed, lingering around us, I trying desperately mad to find her around me and the others, shivering a bit, and looking at me as though I was mad, and pitying me at the same time. They knew Satine was gone. They knew I knew. But they also knew I was in-love. And they, as the leaders of the children of the revolution, knew that love drove you mad. But was I? Mad, in-love I was, but mad? "Satine? Love, is that you, where are you?" I asked desperately with hope fueling my 'madness'. "Christian?" Toulouse asked sympathetically. "He's gone." whispered Satie, ".mad."
Note: Please r+r, is this chapter good, or did it suck? Thank you, and suggestions and corrections are always welcome!
Note: 'Penelope' is the bird's name, I was recently informed. Also, italicized words are being sung. Underlined words are lyrics, but they are not sung. **************************************************************************** *********************** "The what?" I asked with rage brewing in my heart. "The show must-" "I don't give a bloody rat's ass about 'the show'," I said with hate and anger pouring out with each word. "It's just a saying, I mean, you have to-" Toulouse started, but I could not let him finish. "Don't say it," I begged him, "Please, don't speak." He started again. I interrupted him, " I know what you're what thinkin', I don't need your reasons, don't tell me cuz' it hurts." Then I handed him my book, as I felt the very same cool breeze pass by me. I wanted to look around but, "Is this," he said taking the book out of my hands. "Yes. I wanted you to be the first one to read it. I wanted all of you to-" "Aaahh!" Shouted the 'unconscious Argentinean'. He was being attacked by a flock of pidgoens. It was what woke him up. "Birds!" he yelled furiously. He started waving his hands madly through the air. Then, I felt the breeze once again pass me, it felt as though it caressed my face. The birds also left, shortly after. It was as though they stayed longer to annoy the Argentinean. Doc gave a weak chuckle. I don't think he was laughing at the Argentinean, though. I had a feeling that he had some absinthe, just before. "Christian," Satie started as Toulouse flipped through the pages of the story I had just handed him, "I-you see, do you remember 'the hills are alive' and all that? Well, we were wondering if you could finish that story? We were thinking of, of-" "Rekindling the spirit of the children of the revolution!" the Argentinean butted in. "And what better way than with a play!? A play written by the same enchanted boy who wrote 'Spectacular, Spectacular'?" the Doc added. A tear from my heart started to fall from my eyes. Oh how I remember that play. That night. That story. That ending. I looked up at the three. They could see my pain, or a glimpse of it. They remembered what I remembered, also. And I had just handed Satine and my's story to Toulouse for all of them to read. Toulouse was staring at me now, just as the others were. There was an awkward silence humming all around us. I broke the silence. "Sure," I said, then very quickly racked my brain for lyrics to add on to the song. "The hills are alive, with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years," I started as that very same breeze passed by me once more, and I started to remember Satine, and our time spent together, "The hills fill my heart with the sound of music, my heart wants to sing every song it hears, My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds that rise from the lake to the trees, My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies from a church on a breeze."and as I sang these inspired words, birds from every which way came, a few attacked the Argentinean, but I didn't care because that breeze felt as though it passed me, but to get to the other side of me to hold my hand. I turned my head, expecting to find Satine, and I found, "Satine?" I said half-mad and half-hopeful as I saw a whisp of a vision of Satine. A ghostly image, almost, like the breeze was her. Then when all turned from the Argentinean to look at me, she turned back into a breeze, just as I blinked. And the breeze did not blow away, no it stayed. Satine stayed, lingering around us, I trying desperately mad to find her around me and the others, shivering a bit, and looking at me as though I was mad, and pitying me at the same time. They knew Satine was gone. They knew I knew. But they also knew I was in-love. And they, as the leaders of the children of the revolution, knew that love drove you mad. But was I? Mad, in-love I was, but mad? "Satine? Love, is that you, where are you?" I asked desperately with hope fueling my 'madness'. "Christian?" Toulouse asked sympathetically. "He's gone." whispered Satie, ".mad."
Note: Please r+r, is this chapter good, or did it suck? Thank you, and suggestions and corrections are always welcome!