The Writing Thread

LesCanadiens...

AAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH U cant leave the story there..... when you finish it you MUST post it!!!

If please would help then I enclose a please too! :)



:scan: "The ealy bird may get the worm... But the second mouse gets the cheese!" :scan:
 
Hi, Synthshadow! Welcome to CFC!

Okay, I would post two stories, but...

The first, which is a remake of The Dragon Prince by Laurence Yep, is currently at school, tucked inside my portfolio. I'll probably post it on Monday, when I have the chance to bring it home. It's longer than the original and is told from a different point of view.

And the second, which I wrote a few days ago for the first part of my Language Arts examination, which also had to be written in under about two hours, was handed in. It was called Back to Europe, and it's a four and a half page story aobut a man who was exploring for the Spanish monarchy, back in the day when the Americas were relatively new to the Europeans. He was shipwrecked and had to get back to Europe. Fairly interesting, but unforunately, not in my possession currently. If I ever get it back, I will post it.

Soooo, I'll try to get those stories here as soon as i have the time! :)
 
QUANGO

Chapter One – It Was So Very Early In The Morning

A man knocked on a small suburban three bedroom, two up, four down, twelve to the side, semi-detached, slightly leaning to the left, house in Bishop’s Stortford in the South-East of England. Another man answered in his light blue dressing gown brought for him by his wife as a surprise present to announce the birth of her third cousin twice removed to New Zealand. The man who answered was in his dressing gown not because he was some tax-dodging student sleeping late as a means to avoid the morning; he was in his dressing gown because it was so very early in the day. The cat had not yet made a mess of next-door’s flower bed it was so early. The man who knocked introduced himself as…

The Man Who Knocked: “Hello. I am from MI5. I’m the man from MI5.”

The man who answered was a little taken aback by the way the man from MI5 had repeated where he was from. The man who answered thought that people who have the habit of doing that usually have an over-developed sense of importance and consequently are frequently rather annoying to talk too. However he was feeling quite generous owning to a particularly enjoyable previous night, and it being so very early in the morning, the after-effects had not yet made themselves known, so the man who answered decided to give the man from MI5 the benefit of the doubt, which was about as generous as an extremely wealthy man giving one hundred pounds sterling to save the Sparrows from the newly proposed A505 bypass. The man who answered decided that the proper course of action for him to take would be to introduce himself to the man from MI5 without any further delay.

The Man Who Answered: “Hello.

He began.

The Man Who Answered: “My name is…”

But before he could make the familiar (at least to him) noise that has been formally recognised by Her Majesty’s government as to mean his name, the man from MI5 interrupted him. Rather rudely in the opinion of the man who answered.

The Man From MI5: “I know who you are Mr Quadwich.”

This caused Mr Quadwich some concern for he was fairly certain that he had not mentioned his name during this brief conversation and further more he had never mentioned his name to this man or any other person from MI5 in any of the many previous conversations he had had in his decidedly dull life.

Mr Quadwich: “How do you know my name?”

Mr Quadwich asked rather reasonably considering the situation he found himself in and the time in which this situation was taking place, being as it was so very early in the morning.

The Man From MI5: “Why should it surprise you, Mr Quadwich? Does not the postman know your name without a formal introduction by you? Why not me as well?”

Mr Quadwich was knocked for six off a sticky wicket with a slight breeze coming from the nursery end, by this sudden but surprising attack of logic. Shocked, his brain summoned up all reason reservists it could muster to respond.

Mr Quadwich: “But you are not my postman.”

The Man From MI5: “No, I am not.”

Mr Quadwich was happy that his powers of deduction had not escaped him in his time of need. He pressed on with the renewed rigour of a man entering the last four miles of a marathon that he has not trained for and did not know he was running until just four hours before it began.

Mr Quadwich: “If you are not my postman then my original question still stands. How do you know my name?”

The Man From MI5: “A fine question and one that deserves an equally fine answer. However I fear my respond will my answer will only ever be considered adequate, even with a bribed East German judge on the front row of the panel. I know your name because we have a large file on you back at the secret office in the undisclosed location in the capital city of England, which I cannot reveal the name of. The system we have developed requires the name of the subject for one to access a file and I was told to access your file and hence I came to know your name.”

This answer could indeed only ever be considered as adequatebut since it was ever so very early in the morning Mr Quadwich did not feel it was proper for him to demand a better one. Also he was intimidated by the large quantity of words, many unnecessary in his opinion, and feared that any further answer would make that number pale in comparison and make him even paler. So he let it fly with a piece of dignified silence that befits a monarch or the stupid, or both, breaking this only with an occasional sound of approval and the related nod.

The Man From MI5: “However the purpose of my visit was not to provide adequate responses to your perfectly legitimate inquiries about my knowledge of you and your deeply interesting life. No, sadly, my business for appearing on this extremely fine doorstep is not nearly as pleasant. I come to your humble presence to request your person to join me in journeying back to MI5’s secret, very hush-hush, highly classified office.”

Mr Quadwich had not been expecting this so elegantly worded request at all. Yes, it would be very safe to venture the assessment that he was shocked by this request, maybe one could even go so far as to say he was very shocked, though some may feel that an overstatement.

Mr Quadwich: “I’m shocked. Maybe even very shocked.”

He said this with the matter of factness of a dung beetle describing his life as a big pile of crap.

Mr Quadwich: “I don’t know what to say.”

The Man From MI5: “Can I strongly advise you to say yes because I have been authorised by Her Majesty’s government under the Official Secret Act Concerning The Secret Activities Of Secret Organisations That Don’t Officially Exist of 1949, to do some rather nasty things to your naughty bits if you don’t.”

Mr Quadwich did not need the mental images his brain was in the progress of producing to know that he did not want any part of that and his part didn't either.

Mr Quadwich: “Okay. I'll go with you.”

He said with the haste of an illegal trespasser being chased by a pack of highly trained dogs with a penchant for soft squishy dandily human bits.

End of chapter one.
 
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