Friday, 20 February 2009
12:35:54 AM (GMT)
This is a novel I am working on called "Eve of Never". It had to be written in first
person, had to have drama and action and I could receive some extra credit if I added
romance. I then decided to go with a tragic romance.
It's rather long, even with a bit of the introduction going. It is required to be at
least 75 Word Document pages long, and I'm on #8. So thanks for reading it and tell
me what you think when you're done! =D
PS: I have most of the typos written down and when I go back into construction again,
I will edit them. I don't mind hearing about them in the comments- but don't go like
"HOLY CRAP YOUR WRITING SUCKS. YOU FORGOT THE 't' IN THOUGHT ON ACCIDENT, SO I'M
GOING TO HATE IT NOW. Pay attention to symbols and possible ideas that may arouse
further on. ;] You all are lucky enough to read this excerpt of a novel that may be
Her eyes, oh how they dazzle. Take a pool, natural and serene, hidden away in a grove
of twilight. When a lone cloud passes through, unveiling the stars that glitter like
jewelry in the vast black abyss, return your eyes to the pool of spring water and
compare them to the eyes of your lover. I apologize, but nothing in the world
compares to that extraordinary view of landscape- nothing, except the eyes of my
It’s an uncanny possibility that you happened upon this work, one that was kept in
my fantasies and desires for quite some time; shaded by the hopes and dreams of my
one true desire. This is a tragic love story, and I apologize for that. If you
aren’t searching for a heart-shattering tale about two lovers meant to own the
destiny foretold- they who instead were woefully murdered by their own concept of
reality, then I highly encourage setting this paper down and look elsewhere. Is this
story, perhaps, based on true events? Inspired by actual travesties that have taken
shape in my life? I am but a writer, dear friend and reader, and a writer is nothing
but a kind synonym for “liar”.
However, I digress…
I’m going to overcome this, I’m going to overcome this, the words continued to
plague my mind- rotating through until even the very ends of my nervous system could
no longer bear it.
“I was never good at goodbye,” I breathed. It sounded slightly like the gentle
breeze floating towards the heaven, only to be intercepted and jumbled into a dying
cry when it wafted through old oak branches.
I kept the body, damp and cold as it was, on the still colder concrete floor.
Gathering my instincts and thoughts, I lifted myself back upon my feet. My eyes took
the last glimpse of an old lover, one that would have never counted as more than a
mere acquaintance. Her eyes closed, and a quaint smile plastered across her pale and
dead face. Would I miss her? No, definitely not. I am not a lover boy, per say.
Rather, I am but a dreary young lad who was destined for the disease of solitude.
Girls just ten to get a little carried away when I was concerned.
Emily was her name, the very name that would light a smile across my face only weeks
ago. However, a small mishap had led me to call it quits just recently. Considering
the mood and tone of my explanation, you can guess what had happened.
It made no difference any longer. This was not the first time a lady took her life
because she couldn’t have me. Just the experience of such a woeful occurrence has
left my soul numb and cold- ready to be frozen over for an eternity.
It was approximately 1360 or so; I do not know nor care. I definitely knew it was
the age of carrying about a blade of sorts, where your feet carried you. If you were
not strong enough to fight off some of the thugs and rebels that littered the
streets, you were dead. Being a strong, young man during this time and age- my target
was only twice as large. No matter, I was the apprentice of a Rebel knight, and I
always attempted to learn some new tricks so I can hide them up my sleeve.
My steps faltered slightly as I walked away. My only obligation taken care of and I
leave you to your imagination on what happened. If it’s any consolation, I did not
arrive on the scene until post-suicide; after she met the ground going faster than a
horse in a lancing tournament.
My persona went unnoticed while I waltzed, nay crept out of the small knothole of an
entrance and made my way back up the musky streets of cheap side, London.
Wisps of air exited my mouth, smoky tendrils that vaporized into the cold and dry
night. My body quivered in the late winter frost. It might have been mid-December by
now, not that I necessarily care. I’ve grown learning to live by the week and by
the moon; when the new moon appeared, wait seven days and a paycheck was sitting at
your job. I never learned much; swords, swords, axes, maces, more swords, and an
occasional battle were really all I knew. I tend to be a little romantic, but when
your once-loved takes her life like the rest of them- romanticism tends to go out the
stable door with the rest of them.
Don’t get me wrong, my dreams normally haunt me very well with the occasional
silhouette of a young lady- my age. She seemed to have wavy, long hair that danced in
the wind like a thousand ballerinas. I could never tell colors of this picturesque
woman; all I knew was that I loved her and that one day I could possibly take the
silhouette off. During my dreams, I would sit and strum on an old five-string,
watching her sway and rock her hips to and fro with the steady beat. After that was
finished, she would come up to me and whisper inches from my lips something that I
could never understand. That was the furthest those dreams have ever gone. Once
before our lips met, but I woke up sweaty and scared- as though it was a nightmare.
I pulled a key out of my left pocket and slid it into the chasm that kept the
armoring station safe from prowling losers. Twisting it to the left, I pushed the
door open only to see the same old trashed store. “Ahh, Mortimer,” I chuckled to
myself locking the door behind me. The old drunk was probably through his third or
fourth bottle of genuine rum by now- leaving me with cleaning the shop up for
Mortimer’s Swords and Shiite was a fun, popular shop that many amateur knights and
rebels adventured into on a daily occurrence. Knights were not welcomed as much as
rebels, but you would probably guess why. It was cheap side. It was where the poor
and the needy live, just a wart in His Majesty’s left hand. He ignores it when he
can, but when something comes up- he tries to cut it off.
Mortimer himself was a Rebel “knight”, one who occasionally went on raids into
the major cities and looted for food and gold that was then dealt out between the
very needy people of this town. We look out for ourselves here, and we are all
brothers and sisters. I myself have never left the small channel that separates us
from the rest of the area, but sometimes I would sit on the roof and try to see some
of the lancing tournaments in the stadium only a hundred yards away. It was a
delight, and I occasionally fantasized about being a knight. However, a Rebel knight
was not a “true” knight in His Majesty’s eyes. Instead, we were abominations
and were better off killed by real knights than anything else.
Cleaning was normally pretty drably, but I learned to live with it. Just put the
swords in their sheaths on the walls, throw the axes into the crate, hang the maces
on the wall with each accompanying hooks, then sweep the floor of any loose particles
that someone had dropped. Every once in a while, I could come across a couple of
pennies- but I did happen upon a silver Florence once upon a time.
This time, however, I wasn’t blessed with a tip of change. Instead, I was tipped
with a newspaper clipping that probably a knight had dropped onto the dusty floor. I
was always enticed with the world outside of me. Wars with France, Italy, the rest of
the world; none of them would end- in my opinion. I flip to the backside of the
article and gasp ever so softly:
Miss Jocelyn Defies Family Once More- Denies Marriage to Count Renaldo
In a sweeping account of misfortune across the rich Jocelyn and her parents Sir
Richard of Wellington and Sophie, daughter of the Prince Edward’s uncle William-
Jocelyn once again denies a marriage to a Spanish prince. This planned marriage was
set-up by the King himself in order to make a peaceful treaty between Spain, Italy,
France, and Britain. It looks as though this fair maiden would much rather see more
death and suffering, than marriage with a Spaniard.
Ah, Miss Jocelyn. One of the fairest ladies I have ever heard of. Occasionally, when
I stepped into a pub trying to find my master- talks of her would be whispered with
the softest of voice. Even the burly men who could kill a man with both arms tied
around their back wouldn't dare speak anything other than kind words. Who was this
woman? I had often marveled this inside my own mind. Some in cheap side say they have
witnessed her themselves, but I believe that is a load of rubbish. Only the royal and
the lucky ones who were able to see the grand tournaments were able to catch a
glimpse or two of this lady.
However, I still do not disown some of the descriptions made of Jocelyn. Some say
she is as beautiful as her name is; and if that is so I believe that she must be
exceptionally beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't help but sometimes
day dream that the veil that shrouded my silhouette lover was really this Jocelyn.
I folded the news clipping into four crisp sections and slid it into my back pocket
for safe keeping. If Mortimer ever saw it, I'm afraid he'd take it from me and use it
as fire starter. My head felt weary, my limit was reached, and I felt the dreadful
need to finish the day. I left the window curtains open, a cardinal sin according to
Mortimer, and I walked upstairs to my hay-bed.
Dust settled down, finally. It was as though the eye of a storm had just landed on
that certain spot. Maybe it'd stay that way for quite some time, maybe it wouldn't.
The dust around this perimeter still rose fierce and strong, as though a billowing
mutinous wind had laid siege on the desert-land nearing France's borders. Two men
limped, their walk strained by gory wounds that appeared all across their bodies. One
began to slump.
“Raven, don't die on me yet.” One whispered. His hair was frayed and the tips
looked quite burnt- but his head was lifted high and proud.
“We are dead already, don't you see?” Whispered the other. His voice was hoarse
and his head was dangling further with each walk. He wouldn't last much longer.
“Look, Raven. When we meet with that medical unit we were told about, we will be
fine. Now trust me,” his voice became more proud and rose about ten decibels,
“Sir Raven Gimsly of Prague.”
“Damn it, Ramsey,” Raven breathed. His legs quacked and then gave out; he
stumbled to his knees- taking his comrade with him. “This is my dying place, my
resting spot.” his eyes looked dazed.
“Look at me Raven. Look at me!” Ramsey cried out.
“God love you, Ramsey.”
“No. I won't let you die, Raven. Stay awake. Look at me.”
-Look at me, look at me, look at me, look at me-
The hay flew about violently, my hands twisted about smacking walls and yelling. I
finally quit. Once the debris settled down I lifted my head slowly, feeling a small
pain in the bang. Damn, must of hit it against something in my sleep.
I've been having these weird dreams as of late. Just one every once in a while. None
used to seem so depressing or dreary, but over the past few I have been discovering
further and further the relationship between two Knights fighting in France for
Britain's Army. I have seen many a great battle take shape in my head, the dust
rising up far higher than the clouds as many infantry units and soldiers murdered one
another under the blood red sun.
It's been all in the name of religion lately, which is why I don't go anywhere nor
pray to any one God. I pray to a higher being, as though he his myself. I believe
that my soul is this higher being- attracting positive and negative energy while it
lets off positive and negative energy. How else could we explain bad days, bad luck,
or misfortunes? Anyways, enough preaching. I believe that all war is, is money.
Religion is a good thing, sure, but when it comes in and tells a bunch of men who
have lives worth living to go die for “religion” when it's really money- that
itself is blasphemous to their “God”. If “God” was such a loving, caring,
spirit- would He really allow all this bloodshed to take place in His name?
I have always told my friends when I was younger, that if I was to ever fight as a
solider- I would fight for myself and my honor. Never in the power nor hands of a
I sniffle slightly, moving my hands around my eyes trying to wipe sleep away. It was
probably around dawn by this time, the shop would open in another hour. No sleeping
in today, I guess. Grabbing onto the balcony, trying to steady myself, I finally make
my way into the “cozy” bathroom. There I attempt to wash up while trying not to
bang my head on the ceiling.
“There you are,” Mortimer's voice boomed when I made it past the second highest
stair that always creaked. “I've been waiting for you to come down, and I was
getting worried with all those loud bangs and pops going on. Were you having your
damned nightmares once again?” he sneered a little, but his voice compensated for
how non-intimidating he really was. Standing at about around five and a half feet
tall and weighing probably less than half of me- Mortimer was still a large man. His
pride was large, his voice was large, but above all else, I have come to learn that
his temper, however, is largely short.
“’Ello, sire.” I muttered half to myself. Mortimer was sitting on a rusty bar
stool, masticating on a bowl of oats and barley. “How’s it going?”
“Going? I don’t even remember half of yesterday. Did you clean the dingy piece
of slime was call a store up when you got home?” he snorted into his bowl. He was
still completing his final stages of a wonderful hangover remedy- but he’d be a
grouchy rat for the rest of the day.
“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t leave the place looking as though we experienced a
battle.” I nodded, brown-nosing. It was the best way to receive some extra pay.
“Aye, Tryst,” another snort ensued from the disgusting man. My eyes winced, and
I could feel a glowing pride materialize around his aura. He knew I hated being
called by my real name; Trystram Gabriel Barcasse, to be complete. My father was
Gabriel Barcasse, son of Phillip II. I once was told by my master that this very same
Phillip was a Duke of Wellington, making me slightly royal.
My father was known to be His Majesty’s Knight even today. I would never pledge my
life to a fat beast such as Charles II; then again I would never pledge my life to
anything. I would be a Rebel when I turned eighteen, but I might just stick around
and see what happens. Being a bum in cheap side might turn out to be a risk I would
I walked over to the table and sliced up some rye bread that was strewn about across
the table in a rag-tag manner. Taking a piece into my mouth I nibbled cautiously,
attempting to avoid the rotten parts of it. Sooner or later in this story, I won’t
have to tell it to you- but we are still in the beginning. Cheap side meant poor. We
are the poorest people in all of Britain, most likely of all Europe- so a little
rotten rye never gotten to us.
“Aye, Tryst,” my master muttered after a few awkward moments, “I came across
some tickets from a few traveling salesmen who needed a place to sleep last night.
These and a pair of nice clothing will get you and that Emily of yours into the next
tournament coming this weekend.”
Spirits rose. Oh rapture! I have never been to a tournament, and even though my
master was a grumpy, cantankerous old fool, I was always spoiled every here and
there. This was by far the most spoiling, yet wondrous. However, Emily was able to
watch from the heavens anyway.
“Emily?” I chucked softly with my mouth full. “Emily ith deuhd.” Bits of
crumbles flew out and across the table. I couldn’t help but show my excitement.
“Ahh. Yet another suicide, young one?” he asked thoughtfully. There was a sound
of disappointment and despair in his voice- but I rule out most of the tones that
come from people anymore.
“Aye, sir. Her parents are both dead also, so there won’t be no funeral
“Very well then, Tryst. We’ll both look about for our nicest clothes and in
three days time- you’ll make your first adventure out of cheap side.” He chuckled
at his own pride at giving such an unfortunate soul as myself something special,
“It’s quite a feat for someone of your age. Seventeen soon, aye?”
“Yes sir. Seventeen tomorrow, in fact,” I answered with a smirk across my lips.
Half of this seemed at the time a little bit more than a coincidence.
“Excellent, my boy. Consider it my birthday present to you then, yah?” he
finished his bowl and stood up, “Now, we’re a bit late for opening shop I
The street was filled with people ready to come in.
The days passed by with mocking slowness, or at least in my opinion. Each day seemed
to go slower by the minute, until I would watch the sun barely move inches across the
sky for hours at end. It was as though time had stopped altogether in mockery of my
anticipation! I spent most of the time writing small poems and stories, etching out
images of Jocelyn in my journal and fantasizing of what she would be like. Some of my
drawings depicted her as a tall, shrill looking woman with the most powerful and
striking eyes that you’d ever see. She was beautiful in these etchings, of course,
but a black rose is also beautiful. Doesn’t a black rose mean death?
Other drawings and sketches I would create of this woman made her look as a fair and
gorgeous looking woman. She didn’t seem like a powerful position in government, or
an expensive prize that knights fought in tournaments for. She was an exquisite
looking woman who looked like she may venture into cheap side on occasion.
Whatever drawing I made of her, whether it be a pompous looking woman glazed with
jewelry- or a warrior looking woman with weapons for eyes- she always warmed my heart
when I gazed with this tight little smirk I could never stop drawing.
Using this, I was able to build myself a crucible or sorts against the pressure and
anxiety I was feeling with the approaching days. The tournament was only a night away
by count of the days. This has been the only time I have ever counted days while
worrying about something other than payments. This was quite an event!
The streets were beginning to feel the same tension that has been pulling on my
nerves finally. Different shops were sporting their favorite knight and his insignia,
while other shops like Mortimer’s Swords and Shiite was selling weapons to hopeful
amateurs. Tomorrow a giant parade of the knights would prance about a small section
of cheap side, while the hangings and beheadings took place in the plaza square right
next to it.
It was nearing dusk, and I use “it” in an objective meaning such as “the
sky” or “the time” for some of you who enjoy some extra meat to their
paragraphs, by the time I returned to Swords and Shiite. I pulled open the door,
holding it for a couple burly men to exit. Closing time was coming soon; I could see
it by the purchases men were making. When it wasn’t tournament time, men would come
in to settle a fix for the next day or next week on their equipment around