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Name: Anemos | Gender: Male | Posts: 4 | Roses: 10
Old 04-22-2011 at 04:26 PM
Trumpeter's Lullaby
Wandering Child
Principle Trumpet of the Opera

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Roaming Dungeons
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The Darkest Serenade  Post [1] »


Well, after some thought, I've decided to try some "phan" fiction writing. Here is a sneak peak: [Video]

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Chapter 1
She was beautiful, yes. I saw that the moment I first laid eyes upon her. More beautiful, more extravagant, and more attractive than any woman I had ever seen before. It felt like a sin to even set eyes upon her, and all those buffoons who called themselves noblemen, those powerful fools, attempted to court with her, but their own fear struck them down.

I was not as appealing to the eye as her. It pained me to even think of letting her beautiful visage observe this loathsome carcass that is me. I hid, silently, in the walls of my grand fortress: the Paris Opera House. Inside the architecture, my skeletal countenance could be overlooked by all but those two yellow eyes. My eyes.

Who am I, you ask? I do not know, exactly. I have no true name. When I visited Persia, they called me “Trap-door Lover”. It was there that I picked up many talents that I would use later in my life to fortify and secure my empire in the walls. The little ballet dancers around the opera house call me “the Opera Ghost”. Their fear often amuses me, as their misguidance is rooted only in my appearance.

When I was born, my own mother screamed. Even then, my face was worse than that of death’s own facade. Lying only a few feet away was a knife. She grabbed it, wanting to kill this abomination that she had spawned. On some days I wish that she had gone through with it, but my father stopped her. He saw something in me that was worth sparing. He was a craftsman, and quickly fitted a mask to my face. My mask was my first unfeeling scrap of clothing.

As I grew up, my mother refused to look at me or touch me in any way. I do not blame her. My own body looked like that of a decomposing corpse. All the other children would look at me in fear. The only one who would ever talk to me was my father. He taught me everything he knew about craftsmanship. I loved to learn, even back then. Soon, I could do my father’s work better than he could.

The one building I seemed to flock to the most was the library. I taught myself how to read there. Reading was not the only thing I learned there, though. Books of mathematics, science, and architecture filled the shelves, and I read every last one of them. I wanted to know everything! I would only leave the library when I was satisfied with the knowledge I had attained for that day. It was usually at the approach of nightfall that I left.

As I walked home every night, as darkness fell, I would sing to myself. Unlike me, my voice was beautiful. It was magnificent. I could sing as loud as thunder and as soft as an angel. However, I would never let myself be seen, nor would I ever remove my mask. People would call out, exclaiming at the beauty of the sounds they heard.

“Oh, mysterious voice! Please bless us with your angelic presence!” they would call. But what was there to bless them with? What was there to see? A yellow eyed monster with the face of a death’s head?

When I was 12, I ran away. No one loved me. My parents refused to even give me a name. I ran until I found a circus. Lights gleamed from the tents, and I saw a sign. It read “Freak Show this way”. I followed it, not quite knowing what to expect. There, I met people like me: the ones people would declare “freaks of nature”. A large man with an exaggerated handlebar mustache was in charge of the show. His name was Fromafar. I asked him if I could join the show.

“Boy, you are too young,” he said. “You don’t belong here.”

I decided that he should know how wrong he was. I pulled off my mask, and he quickly changed his mind. I met Fromafar’s wife the next day. She was the fortune teller at the carnival.

“What is your name, child?” she asked.

I merely responded with a blank obliviousness. I did not know. She brought me to her crystal ball.

“Your name is inside of you,” she said. “The spirits tell me that your name is…Erik.”

Erik. I liked the name. It was something that I could call myself. It was mine. Thus was the beginning of my work with the circus. I was to be displayed as “Erik, the living dead boy”. People came from all over to see me. I became one of the more popular attractions.

I also learned from the other circus fellows. There was one man who could bend himself in knots, and escape from any chains that were used to bind him. He taught me how to do his act. There was a magician who could make things disappear and reappear. He taught me how to do his act as well. Soon, I could do anything they could. They all accused me of stealing their talents. I felt accosted by their insults, but it was worth it. If learning was stealing, then steal I would.
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Critique is much appreciated, as my two reasons for writing this are to show off and to improve my writing. So, what do you think?


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Name: Lilliane | Gender: female | Age: 24 | Posts: 17 | Roses: 10
Old 06-12-2011 at 10:28 PM
petit ange de la musique
Wandering Child
Beneath a Moonless Sky

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Roaming Dungeons
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 Post [2] »


i really like this i would love for you to conutine writing!
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Name: Anemos | Gender: Male | Posts: 4 | Roses: 10
Old 06-18-2011 at 11:51 PM
Trumpeter's Lullaby
Wandering Child
Principle Trumpet of the Opera

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Roaming Dungeons
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 Post [3] »


Quote:
Originally Posted by petit ange de la musique View Post
I really like this. I would love for you to continue writing!
Thank you!

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Chapter 2
I crept down the passage, silently, watching as Christine, the beautiful new soprano, walked toward the rehearsal. She had managed to obtain a minor role despite her perfect audition. I could hold back my fury. I knew that the current diva, La Carlotta, was not to be argued with. There were certain taboos that everyone seemed to understand without being told, and denying La Carlotta her star role was one of them. For now.

They were doing “Faust” again. I knew I would not be able to stay to listen to Christine today. The pain of being forced to listen to Carlotta was overwhelming. On some days, I wished Mephistopheles would bring her back down with him to that place deep in the earth where he resides. It would be the perfect place for Carlotta. My palace in the cellars, though of a similar depth in the earth, was at least splendorous.

I really hoped I would hear Christine sing, but I could not stand Carlotta. I would have to leave. Or perhaps, she would…

I got to work immediately. Making my way to Box 5, my box, I passed Madame Giry. She looked at me for a second, and then asked, “What might you be doing around here in the middle of the day?”

“I’m merely fixing…a problem,” I replied.

“Monsieur, please don’t do anything too horrible,” she pleaded. “We still need someone to play Marguerite, and for now it has to be Carlotta.”

“They will have a Marguerite,” I countered. “Albeit, a new one.”

I walked on, not stopping to listen to her warnings. When I was in Box 5, I projected my voice so that the walls seemed to speak to the performers.

“Carlotta will be stepping down from her role today. Christine Daae will be playing Marguerite. All opposition will be dealt with accordingly.”

As usual, my announcement was followed by excessive screaming from the ballet dancers. Madame Giry’s daughter, Meg Giry, dutifully called out, “He’s here: the Phantom of the Opera!”

Meg was a good girl and a talented dancer. She was pure of mind, too. In fact, the chances of her becoming a prostitute, moving to Coney Island, and attempting to drown a child named Gustav were minimal.

I remember the first time I ever went somewhere far away from where I lived. It was not Coney Island, though. It all started the day the Persian came to the circus. The Shah had heard of me, and wanted me to work for him. The Persian, who called himself Nadir, said that he was there to take me to the Shah.

Fromafar argued that I was under a contract for him. He did not want me to leave. I believed him to be this mysterious thing that the other children used to speak of when I was young. I think they called it a “friend”. The other carnies thought differently, however. I had “stolen” their talents. They wanted me to leave. Nadir pulled me aside when no one was looking.

“Why do you not want to come with me?” he asked. “They hate you here!”

“Fromafar is my friend,” I said feebly.

“Friend?” he replied. “HA! He’s made a fool of you. He displays you everyday to terrify people. He knows you scare people. That’s why he likes you and keeps you here. You are simply a device by which he makes money!”

I stood there, staring blankly into his eyes. Could it be true? Could my “friend” truly just want me there to make him money? Was greed at the root of his kindness? I felt a terrible anger at Fromafar. Would he do such a thing?
I left that day, never to return. It was the day that I learned that friendship could never be trusted. Friendship was like a false mirror – there is always something on the other side.

When the Shah saw my face, he decided I was perfect. He gave me a tour of his palace. In my opinion, it was horrible. The walls were, for one, not showing off the Shah’s power. Covered in a dry, stale pink color, I had to wonder exactly what led to such a horrendous catastrophe. The supporting structures were also a calamity. It was a miracle that the entire palace had not collapsed upon itself already. Thus, when I had seen the entire place, I said to him, as politely as I knew how, “This palace is awful!”

Within three seconds, I had ten scimitars at my neck.

“What…did you say?” the Shah asked precariously.

“I said, sir, you have an awful palace.”

“And what makes you say that, boy?” he asked, looking even more dangerous.

“I’ve studied architecture. Your palace is quite unstable and, if I may add,” I explained, “boring.”

They all laughed. They did not believe me.

“If you can plan me a better palace by tomorrow at first light,” the Shah said, “I’ll build it.”

When morning came, I presented my plans. The extensive string of events that followed could be summed up in three simple words: He built it.
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Name: Lilliane | Gender: female | Age: 24 | Posts: 17 | Roses: 10
Old 06-19-2011 at 02:07 AM
petit ange de la musique
Wandering Child
Beneath a Moonless Sky

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Roaming Dungeons
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 Post [4] »


haha!
'Meg was a good girl and a talented dancer. She was pure of mind, too. In fact, the chances of her becoming a prostitute, moving to Coney Island, and attempting to drown a child named Gustav were minimal. '
i actually love LND i went and watched the first show this year and nearly cried myself! Love you're writing skills and story hope you continue! i must work on my own but got excited when i saw yours posted! :p
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