Post by orinocoflow on Nov 10, 2010 17:49:10 GMT -5
Okay, I tried posting this a while back but didn't like it.
It is now in the completed thread, but here is my new version.
First part is the same, but I changed it up a bit when Paul wakes up in the new time.
hope you like it!
Dodging to the left, Paul slipped out of a pair of hands wanting to grab his arm to hold him in for a picture and maybe an autograph. A step forward, two back, two to the left, and then a quick four to the right and a sharp sprint forward.
Safe.
Paul let out the breath he was holding, and smoothed his shirt.
“I thought we’d lost you there, mate,” came Ryan’s drawl as he clapped Paul on the shoulder and led him deeper into the sanctuary of the bus.
Leaning on the wall of the bus, he looked out to where a mob of fans was walking away, dejected that they had not caught a photo with any of the lads, but happy that they had gotten to meet at least one of them closer than from the audience. Shaking his head, he collapsed on his bunk, wondering what the next tour location would bring. Around him, the others were doing the same.
Paul woke up around seven the next morning, and since they were at their next town, he walked out for a morning stroll. The weather was beautiful: a bright sun high in the sky even at this hour, warm yet not too hot; a crisp, fresh breeze; a few wispy clouds floating around.
Too bad the others are still asleep to miss this place, he thought, but then, Good thing they’re not—I could use some time alone.
After a long time, Paul finally sat on a bench beside a small, quiet pond. He sat there, thinking back to what his life had been like before he had become as famous as he was now, as he had been for years. High school had had both its ups and downs, both to the extremes of each. Even so, asides from his childhood, he could not remember a time he had felt that…free.
“If only I could be in high school again,” he murmured softly, staring into the transparent pool. As a leaf fell into it, it cast ripples on the smooth surface, and Paul suddenly remembered a pond almost exactly like this one that had been on the campus he was at. Blinking, he laughed to himself, amazed that he would be thinking about that at this place. Coincidence, pure coincidence, he told himself, standing up. Even so, a slight chill ran up his spine. Shivering even in the warm sunlight, he briskly strode back to the bus.
The next morning, Paul woke up to bright light shining on his face. He grumbled, rolling over, away from the sun, his arm covering his eyes. Someone prodded him, and when he mumbled some more, they poked him hard in the side.
“Damien, stop, seriously! Let me get some sleep!”
There was a pause as Paul realized that his voice sounded different. Frowning, he rolled back over onto his other side and looked at whoever had shaken him awake.
And gaped.
The kid that stood there was not dark-haired and blue-eyed, but had blonde hair and vivid green eyes that sparkled with mischief. He was shorter, about Ryan’s height, but was built like an experienced rugby or American football player. Rolling his green eyes, he snorted.
“Great, now you’re calling me names. Last time I checked, I was Marc, short for Marcus. Do you need me to tell you today’s date and year, too?”
Paul blinked, not sure he had heard right. Grimacing, he nodded sheepishly. “I think I need to know what country I’m in, too.”
Marc stared at him for a second, and then tilted his head to the side. “You okay? You look a bit pale. Matter of fact, make that really pale.”
Paul was not sure how to answer, but he was positive that he was indeed pale. “What’s the date? Humor me,” he added quickly at the worried look in Marc’s eyes.
“September seventh, 2010; you are in Homeland High School in California, which is a state in the USA on the planet Earth of the Milky Way Galaxy; also, your first period starts in half an hour, so you might want to get ready for class.” After a moment, he continued. “You have Mr. Robinson in Room C202 for Calculus AB.” When Paul still did not seem to have understood, he said, “You sure you’re okay? Do you want to call in sick? Oh, and I’m your roommate, by the way. In the dorm. We share a room.”
Paul smirked. “Thanks for that. I could never have figured out what roommates would be sharing. Who ever knew it would be a room?”
Marc grinned. “Now you sound more like yourself,” he said with a laugh. Then he got serious again. “Dude, you sure you don’t want to take today off?”
Paul started to nod, but then stopped. “Okay, I think I’d better take today off. Is there anything going on?”
“Just the same old, boring lectures we hear every year. Nothing major. If there is, I can tell you.” Glancing at the clock, Marc groaned. “I gotta go. Stay in bed, ok? Don’t let the dean see you.” With that, he grabbed an apple and ran out the door, tugging his messenger bag over his shoulder.
Paul sat up in bed, but then lay back down, looking around the room. There was another bunk bed in the opposite corner, with a desk under the upper mattress. A pile of books and papers made it practically invisible, and pencils and pens all over and in between did not help the situation. A poster of a rock band hung on the wall over it, and several photos were clustered around it. Next to all of this was a mountain of clothes and bags; from that mass a bat was sticking out, drowning in clothes.
In the middle of the room was a couch and opposite that was a TV. In the third corner were a small microwave and a sink, with a trash can underneath, piled high with boxes from frozen dinners.
On his side of the room, it was as though someone had walked through a looking glass. It was clean and tidy: the desk had only a laptop in the middle, a small compact can of pens and pencils on the edge, and a neat stack of textbooks lay on the other side. A black messenger bag sat on the computer chair, and a pair of pants and a shirt were draped over the back of the chair. A poster covered half of the wall behind the desk, and around it were a few photos, but these were orderly and not overlapping by much. Behind the desk up against the wall was a CD holder stuffed to its limit, and on the shelf next to it were a CD player and an iPod.
Am I really this neat? Is there something wrong with me?!
Climbing down from the bunk, Paul slowly stretched, not sure what to make of this. Glancing down at himself, he realized that he looked much like what he had in high school—tall, lanky, with tousled light-brown hair and lean muscles. Not really much like what he was at 31. He looked 17, if anything!
And that was when he remembered that pond, and what he had wished for. Dread filling his chest, he got dressed and booted up his computer. When the password screen flashed, he stopped, and then keyed in his modern one, hoping that it would match. Miraculously, it did. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly began searching for an all-too-familiar website.
Twenty minutes later, he gave up.
Celtic Thunder did not exist. And neither did, apparently, the famous tenor Paul Byrom.
It is now in the completed thread, but here is my new version.
First part is the same, but I changed it up a bit when Paul wakes up in the new time.
hope you like it!
Dodging to the left, Paul slipped out of a pair of hands wanting to grab his arm to hold him in for a picture and maybe an autograph. A step forward, two back, two to the left, and then a quick four to the right and a sharp sprint forward.
Safe.
Paul let out the breath he was holding, and smoothed his shirt.
“I thought we’d lost you there, mate,” came Ryan’s drawl as he clapped Paul on the shoulder and led him deeper into the sanctuary of the bus.
Leaning on the wall of the bus, he looked out to where a mob of fans was walking away, dejected that they had not caught a photo with any of the lads, but happy that they had gotten to meet at least one of them closer than from the audience. Shaking his head, he collapsed on his bunk, wondering what the next tour location would bring. Around him, the others were doing the same.
* * *
Paul woke up around seven the next morning, and since they were at their next town, he walked out for a morning stroll. The weather was beautiful: a bright sun high in the sky even at this hour, warm yet not too hot; a crisp, fresh breeze; a few wispy clouds floating around.
Too bad the others are still asleep to miss this place, he thought, but then, Good thing they’re not—I could use some time alone.
After a long time, Paul finally sat on a bench beside a small, quiet pond. He sat there, thinking back to what his life had been like before he had become as famous as he was now, as he had been for years. High school had had both its ups and downs, both to the extremes of each. Even so, asides from his childhood, he could not remember a time he had felt that…free.
“If only I could be in high school again,” he murmured softly, staring into the transparent pool. As a leaf fell into it, it cast ripples on the smooth surface, and Paul suddenly remembered a pond almost exactly like this one that had been on the campus he was at. Blinking, he laughed to himself, amazed that he would be thinking about that at this place. Coincidence, pure coincidence, he told himself, standing up. Even so, a slight chill ran up his spine. Shivering even in the warm sunlight, he briskly strode back to the bus.
* * *
The next morning, Paul woke up to bright light shining on his face. He grumbled, rolling over, away from the sun, his arm covering his eyes. Someone prodded him, and when he mumbled some more, they poked him hard in the side.
“Damien, stop, seriously! Let me get some sleep!”
There was a pause as Paul realized that his voice sounded different. Frowning, he rolled back over onto his other side and looked at whoever had shaken him awake.
And gaped.
The kid that stood there was not dark-haired and blue-eyed, but had blonde hair and vivid green eyes that sparkled with mischief. He was shorter, about Ryan’s height, but was built like an experienced rugby or American football player. Rolling his green eyes, he snorted.
“Great, now you’re calling me names. Last time I checked, I was Marc, short for Marcus. Do you need me to tell you today’s date and year, too?”
Paul blinked, not sure he had heard right. Grimacing, he nodded sheepishly. “I think I need to know what country I’m in, too.”
Marc stared at him for a second, and then tilted his head to the side. “You okay? You look a bit pale. Matter of fact, make that really pale.”
Paul was not sure how to answer, but he was positive that he was indeed pale. “What’s the date? Humor me,” he added quickly at the worried look in Marc’s eyes.
“September seventh, 2010; you are in Homeland High School in California, which is a state in the USA on the planet Earth of the Milky Way Galaxy; also, your first period starts in half an hour, so you might want to get ready for class.” After a moment, he continued. “You have Mr. Robinson in Room C202 for Calculus AB.” When Paul still did not seem to have understood, he said, “You sure you’re okay? Do you want to call in sick? Oh, and I’m your roommate, by the way. In the dorm. We share a room.”
Paul smirked. “Thanks for that. I could never have figured out what roommates would be sharing. Who ever knew it would be a room?”
Marc grinned. “Now you sound more like yourself,” he said with a laugh. Then he got serious again. “Dude, you sure you don’t want to take today off?”
Paul started to nod, but then stopped. “Okay, I think I’d better take today off. Is there anything going on?”
“Just the same old, boring lectures we hear every year. Nothing major. If there is, I can tell you.” Glancing at the clock, Marc groaned. “I gotta go. Stay in bed, ok? Don’t let the dean see you.” With that, he grabbed an apple and ran out the door, tugging his messenger bag over his shoulder.
Paul sat up in bed, but then lay back down, looking around the room. There was another bunk bed in the opposite corner, with a desk under the upper mattress. A pile of books and papers made it practically invisible, and pencils and pens all over and in between did not help the situation. A poster of a rock band hung on the wall over it, and several photos were clustered around it. Next to all of this was a mountain of clothes and bags; from that mass a bat was sticking out, drowning in clothes.
In the middle of the room was a couch and opposite that was a TV. In the third corner were a small microwave and a sink, with a trash can underneath, piled high with boxes from frozen dinners.
On his side of the room, it was as though someone had walked through a looking glass. It was clean and tidy: the desk had only a laptop in the middle, a small compact can of pens and pencils on the edge, and a neat stack of textbooks lay on the other side. A black messenger bag sat on the computer chair, and a pair of pants and a shirt were draped over the back of the chair. A poster covered half of the wall behind the desk, and around it were a few photos, but these were orderly and not overlapping by much. Behind the desk up against the wall was a CD holder stuffed to its limit, and on the shelf next to it were a CD player and an iPod.
Am I really this neat? Is there something wrong with me?!
Climbing down from the bunk, Paul slowly stretched, not sure what to make of this. Glancing down at himself, he realized that he looked much like what he had in high school—tall, lanky, with tousled light-brown hair and lean muscles. Not really much like what he was at 31. He looked 17, if anything!
And that was when he remembered that pond, and what he had wished for. Dread filling his chest, he got dressed and booted up his computer. When the password screen flashed, he stopped, and then keyed in his modern one, hoping that it would match. Miraculously, it did. Breathing a sigh of relief, he quickly began searching for an all-too-familiar website.
Twenty minutes later, he gave up.
Celtic Thunder did not exist. And neither did, apparently, the famous tenor Paul Byrom.
* * *