Tell Me Where is Fancy Bred
By Jay Orin
Disclaimer:
I wished I owned this, But I don't Wish you'd pay me, But you won't I read a phrase that still rings true, "Me no own, so you no sue." (I only own Chocolate's daughters, Café au Lait, and Mocha)
For a writer, Christian, as of late had very few thoughts on his mind. His gorgeous story that he had written to celebrate Satine's life, The Moulin Rouge, wasn't selling, not that he expected it to, anyways. The duke had connections in very high places, high enough to keep the talented writer from success. The gang, Toulouse and the rest, were virtually keeping him, now. Not that he cared anymore. His thoughts were along the lines of drink, cry, and die. Every morning, he would drink absinthe until he got drunk. He was up to two bottles daily and was considering something stronger. Then he would cry until there were no more tears in his eyes. Then he would proceed to find new ways to kill his self. He tried hanging, slashing his wrists, gun to the head, poison, and sundry other methods, but because of the hole in his ceiling, he was always being watched over by his unofficial, but constant guardians.
This time, his attempt to remove himself from this earthly realm earned him a loud admonition by his pint-sized protector, Toulouse.
"CHRISTIAN! I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU! I AM TIRED OF WAKING UP AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING ONLY TO SAVE YOU FROM YOUR STUPID ATTEMPTS TO KILL YOURSELF!"
"There is a simple solution; don't."
That was a mistake. Christian had never noticed before that when Toulouse is angry, the artist turned an interesting shade of purple.
"DON'T?! DON'T?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT I SHOULD JUST LET YOU KILL YOURSELF?!"
Before Christian could reply with a comment that was sure to make poor Henri explode, there was a knock on the door.
"Hello? Is Christian Clairmont there?"
The question caused the tension in the air to evaporate as they all turned to the owner of the voice. At the door was a boy. His outfit was ten times too big for him. His mahogany hair looked like he had lost a fight with a pair of scissors. His skin was a yellowish brown, as were his eyes. He had an odd beauty to him, a chimera-like charm.
"I was told that I would be sharing an apartment with him."
Christian looked at the young man. "I am he."
The young man smiled at him. "Hello, I am Kenya Kuwait. The landlady said that all of the rooms were full, but that I may share a room with one of the tenants. She gave me your name and room number."
"Well," said Christian, "I am not sure that that would..."
Toulouse interrupted. "That is a wonderful idea, don't you agree, Christian?"
"I don-"
"Fabulous! By the way, I am Henri Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa. I am sure you two will be very, very happy together. If you need anything, I live right upstairs, just yell towards the hole in the ceiling. This," he gestured at the currently napping man, "is the Argentinian. He has Narcolepsy, so he will do this often..."
He looked into the face of the man that would be Christian's baby sit- urm, roommate, yeah, that's the ticket!- and just stared. There was something about this man, those near-golden eyes that held a hint of green. He didn't know what it was, but he wanted to find out. "Well, good night."
And with that, he left.
By Jay Orin
Disclaimer:
I wished I owned this, But I don't Wish you'd pay me, But you won't I read a phrase that still rings true, "Me no own, so you no sue." (I only own Chocolate's daughters, Café au Lait, and Mocha)
For a writer, Christian, as of late had very few thoughts on his mind. His gorgeous story that he had written to celebrate Satine's life, The Moulin Rouge, wasn't selling, not that he expected it to, anyways. The duke had connections in very high places, high enough to keep the talented writer from success. The gang, Toulouse and the rest, were virtually keeping him, now. Not that he cared anymore. His thoughts were along the lines of drink, cry, and die. Every morning, he would drink absinthe until he got drunk. He was up to two bottles daily and was considering something stronger. Then he would cry until there were no more tears in his eyes. Then he would proceed to find new ways to kill his self. He tried hanging, slashing his wrists, gun to the head, poison, and sundry other methods, but because of the hole in his ceiling, he was always being watched over by his unofficial, but constant guardians.
This time, his attempt to remove himself from this earthly realm earned him a loud admonition by his pint-sized protector, Toulouse.
"CHRISTIAN! I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU! I AM TIRED OF WAKING UP AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING ONLY TO SAVE YOU FROM YOUR STUPID ATTEMPTS TO KILL YOURSELF!"
"There is a simple solution; don't."
That was a mistake. Christian had never noticed before that when Toulouse is angry, the artist turned an interesting shade of purple.
"DON'T?! DON'T?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT I SHOULD JUST LET YOU KILL YOURSELF?!"
Before Christian could reply with a comment that was sure to make poor Henri explode, there was a knock on the door.
"Hello? Is Christian Clairmont there?"
The question caused the tension in the air to evaporate as they all turned to the owner of the voice. At the door was a boy. His outfit was ten times too big for him. His mahogany hair looked like he had lost a fight with a pair of scissors. His skin was a yellowish brown, as were his eyes. He had an odd beauty to him, a chimera-like charm.
"I was told that I would be sharing an apartment with him."
Christian looked at the young man. "I am he."
The young man smiled at him. "Hello, I am Kenya Kuwait. The landlady said that all of the rooms were full, but that I may share a room with one of the tenants. She gave me your name and room number."
"Well," said Christian, "I am not sure that that would..."
Toulouse interrupted. "That is a wonderful idea, don't you agree, Christian?"
"I don-"
"Fabulous! By the way, I am Henri Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa. I am sure you two will be very, very happy together. If you need anything, I live right upstairs, just yell towards the hole in the ceiling. This," he gestured at the currently napping man, "is the Argentinian. He has Narcolepsy, so he will do this often..."
He looked into the face of the man that would be Christian's baby sit- urm, roommate, yeah, that's the ticket!- and just stared. There was something about this man, those near-golden eyes that held a hint of green. He didn't know what it was, but he wanted to find out. "Well, good night."
And with that, he left.