Novelization Draftwork

[Seraphim Falling]

Like Jonny, work on my project has been forced to take a new direction as a result of the many stresses of school. As a result, I will be continuing my work in novel form for the foreseeable future, as this reduces the time requirements of animation and the like. I still plan to produce artwork to compliment the storyline, but visual media will no longer be the central focus of the work.

That said, I have started writing the first chapter, and would like to post my progress to help keep both the project and forum alive. Please get back to me with any feedback that you may have, though I am aware that the progress here is rather brief. Enjoy!



Prolegomena: "Blindness"

A shrink once told me that neurotics are people who live in castles they’ve built inside their heads. They retreat into themselves to avoid facing the real world, and soon enough these sanctuaries become their prisons.

I, on the other hand, am no neurotic. I think it’s important that I voice that now, because the way this story goes is likely to come across as the ramblings of a basket case. All told, it’s hard for me to believe some of this myself; but often enough, we see truth can be stranger than any fiction. My name is Desten Bryant, and recently, I have found myself spending a lot of unwanted time in an imaginary ‘castle’ of my own. Of course, there are two major divergences between my case and the typical neurotic’s. The first is that my fortress is actually an abandoned warehouse; at least, I honestly think it’s a warehouse. There are a lot of shelves, anyway. As for the second major discrepancy – which you might have guessed already – I’ve been held here against my will. You might have also figured out by now that this is where everything begins.

What triggered these vivid hallucinations is totally beyond me, but they first entered my life about a year-and-a-half before everything else started to fall apart. At first, they only came about at night when I was already asleep, but as time waged on, I found myself harassed more and more often – even in the middle of the day. It wasn't only their frequency which began to change, either. Where the room had originally been dark, more light seemed to fill the voids of darkness each time I reencountered the mirage: lighting up the room and revealing more of the dust-caked, vacant storeroom. Then came the voice.

As usual, I'd come to my senses, or at least some of them, in the same sinister space. Unable to move, I'd sat for what could’ve been hours without focus. But then it spoke to me in a sort of echoing, formless hiss, which chilled me to the bone and woke me from my trance. Now, I know what you're thinking. Voices, right? Sounds pretty schizo, if I do say so myself. But it really wasn't like that, I swear. It didn't tell me what to do or distort my sense of reality – It just asked questions like an intrusive personal counselor: the kinds of questions you don’t really want to answer.

"Why do you sit there, all alone?" it said. I didn't like the condescending register it used or the fact that I couldn't see the speaker. I tried to answer that I really didn't know how I'd gotten there in the first place, but was interrupted by a sudden surge of images flashing through my head. For a couple of seconds, all I could discriminate was an ocean of white noise, but then suddenly things started to come into focus. There was another room, this one white and unfurnished, and the walls were soaked in blood. There were no people to be seen, but something about the atmosphere was shockingly familiar. Before I could place it, however, I was back in the warehouse with my head buried in my hands.

"You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. These images, they bother you, don’t they?" spoke the voice, “but, what are they, Desten? Memories? Dreams?” I sat there for a moment in silence: my own curiosity sparked by the voice’s accusations and the fact that it referred to me by name. None of it was of any use, though, since I had no idea where I’d seen that room before, and even if I had remembered, wouldn't have had any reason to talk.

“I have no fucking clue, and you know it,” I said, my frustration and fatigue now taking their toll on me. “Maybe you should be the one telling me just what the hell all of this is about.” The voice responded without even a second of hesitation, speaking in that same, unwavering air of false serenity that made my blood boil.

“That’s simple; I’m here to help you remember what you really are.” Then the room went black and I knew immediately that I was alone again.




Chapter One: "Collision"

Desten opened his eyes to streams of sunlight fluttering down into his eyes from a nearby windowpane. His face was pressed firmly against the surface of a student writing desk, with little bits of drool running down from his open mouth. Sitting up and stretching his back, he took a look around before piecing together exactly where it was he had ended up. It took only a matter of seconds, however, before he found himself readjusted to the waking world. This was his second period Literature class, he was sure of that, and, taking a look around, he understood exactly what he'd been doing there before experiencing his strange, narcoleptic episode. The students around him were focused quite intently on packets of paper laid out before them on their desks, pens ablaze. It was only when Desten looked down into his lap that he discovered a lofty stack of paper – all his own – with bold letters across the top which read simply, "mid-term assessment."

However, where the typical college student would meet this realization with trepidation, Desten was unusually calm, even stoic about the matter. In all truth, he cared very little about continuing his education or about anything else for that matter. He was an athlete, a rebel, and a fighter, but by no means a bookworm or honor roll student. Books were best left to those too weak to force change with their hands, he believed with conviction. So, instead of rushing to compensate for lost time, he took to doodling on the test paper, making the occasional crude remark in the margin of one of the questions. When time was called, he scribbled his name and turned the curtailed test over to the teacher’s open hands without a word.

Sitting back in his chair with a coalescence of confusion and sick satisfaction, Desten was startled to his wits by a firm grip on his right shoulder. Spinning around in his chair, he found himself face-to-face with Aiko Mitsuda, a longtime classmate and constant nuisance.

“Sleeping during a test?” she scorned, “that’s low, even for you.” She was a slender girl, about a foot shorter than him with a round, rosy face and short black hair that had been bleached then died pink toward the ends. She had always possessed a strange sense of style, and today sported an intricate silk scarf the color of lavender over her school uniform. Looking down at him with an assertive scowl on her face, she was ultimately unable to mask the weak, melancholic twitter in her eyes. Desten paid this no attention, of course, as it was not in his interest to risk entanglement with the girl by taking her for anything more than face value.

“Well, I have to enjoy a little rest when I can get it – away from you and your constant bitching. Besides, why weren’t you minding your own business?” he said, still not entirely awake.

“I-it’s not like I was staring. I glanced up to check the clock, and couldn’t help but notice you and your obnoxious snoring. That's all, I swear."

"Oh, of course," he replied, with more than a hint of sarcasm." She was blushing now, and it amused him to see how easy it was to make her squirm.

"Then again, I guess you wouldn’t have the slightest clue about time management,” she responded finally, struggling to regain control.

“Oh,  I know enough to realize what a waste of time talking to you is.” He pulled himself to his feet and turned his back to her, hoping to make for a quick escape. before he could make his getaway however, he instead made a head-on collision with another of his classmates: the freshman prodigy, Auria Page. Desten’s height and stockier build had kept him on his feet during their impact, but Auria had been less fortunate, tumbling backwards onto the tiled floor. She was shorter and less developed than Aiko, which caused her school uniform to flood her tiny frame as she sat there, looking up at him with embarrassment. Her hair, which cascaded into her eyes in strands and fell untamed about her shoulders, was the color of burnt umber, and her eyes caught the stream of sunlight with an unnatural indigo hue.

“I-I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, worried that she’d upset him. “I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going, and—” She was cut off by Aiko, who extended a hand to help the younger girl up.

“It’s quite alright. He wasn’t paying attention either.” There was a slight contempt to the way Aiko had emphasized the word he, but Desten chose to ignore it. Auria, on the other hand, seemed further embarrassed by the added tension between her classmates and continued to insist on her own responsibility for the accident. Then, glancing absent-mindedly at the clock, she gave a startled jump.

“I have to get to class,” she stuttered quietly. “Please excuse me.” With that, she moved swiftly to the door and vanished into the bustling west corridor. Desten and Aiko shot each other a brief glance of confusion, as if to ascertain that the girl had actually been there in the first place. Once Desten had confirmed that they had in fact witnessed the same brief encounter, he again turned his back and made to leave the room.

"I've got someplace to be, too, if you don't mind," he called back over his shoulder. The sarcasm in his voice was made obvious to Aiko, who despite herself could not help but feel slighted by his frank composure. She was not finished with their conversation, however, and overstepped his attempt to shake her off by scurrying to walk alongside him. Her true motive in speaking with him actually had almost nothing to do with his poor work ethics, and in retrospect she found his habits to be characteristic, even endearing to her. What actually bothered her was that his name had been pulled that morning for the roster.

The roster was a sworn secret entity of which every student in the Soletta Academy was highly aware.  It was one of the few catches for receiving a free education at the school, in a time where only the most privileged were given the opportunity to be educated. Being selected for it was also the single most dreaded responsibility for a student to be given.

Soletta Academy was highly atypical for two reasons, the first of which being the highly selective nature of its admissions process. Only gifted, dedicated students were selected to attend the academy, while the other key requirement was that alumni also be without living family connections. While disguised as a charity ploy, their patron's true incentives for this second, unusual criterion actually had far more to do with his organization's second distinguishing characteristic, or, more aptly described, its alternate purpose. The other aspect which set Soletta aside from other schools was that beneath the surface, it was in fact a fully functional revolutionary body: the orphaned pupils made into underground terrorist soldiers in exchange for the honing of their various academic abilities.

Now Desten had been selected as one such soldier – a necessary casualty so that the remainder of his peers might build for themselves a brighter future. Just thinking about it was enough to make Aiko’s stomach churn. So she walked with him, wanting so desperately to reach out, to hold his hand, and bring to him some small comfort. Yet she knew deep down that she lacked the nerve, and that even if she possessed it, Desten would only be annoyed by her sentimentality. Instead, she could bring herself to do little more than walk with him to class, biting her tongue and holding back her tears, until finally she found a moment of impulse and freed inhibition as they passed the main lobby, and threw herself in front of him, blocking the path.

“I hope you don’t plan on using death to escape the emptiness in your life,” she said, trembling slightly, “because right now, you’ve got no one who will cry for you. Give yourself better than that.” Drained of energy, she stepped away from him, and, turning the corner down a separate hallway, at last allowed her tears to flow.

Copyright (c) belongs to Zachary Foster (Seraphim Falling)

 

[Jonny]

I think this is an excellent idea.  I always thought your work felt more like a novel.    Besides, I love your writing style!

I want to wait for more before I give feedback, as there isn't much to form an opinion on.  When can we expect more?

[Seraphim Falling]

I should get more done this weekend if all goes well. ACT was today, so that's one less stressor on my plate.

Glad to hear that you back the idea, though, as such a massive change in media will mean a great deal of new obstacles on the horizon.

Here's to the success of wherever our work may take us,




~SF

[Seraphim Falling]

Chapter Two: "Fountainhead"

When third period was released, the students headed into town for lunch. Auria was not particularly hungry however, and decided that she would rather spend the time beside a large decorative fountain in the east courtyard. It was a beautiful August day and, stepping out into the sunlight, her nerves quickly dissolved into the ripe, late-morning air. Having always held a particular fondness for the native fauna of the island, she was captivated by today’s especially vivid array of perennials and deep foliage; each petal and leaf glowed vibrantly in the sun’s warm embrace.

Taking in the sweet aroma of freshly pollinated fruit, she walked slowly to her destination before sitting tentatively on the fountain wall. She’d chosen a spot in the shade where she had a clear view of the school’s clock-tower, and could sit comfortably without losing track of the time. While for the most part she was a girl quite obliged to schedules and routine, Auria also possessed a habit of frequent daydreaming which posed a threat if not carefully monitored. She really did try to control herself, but more often than not, the inclination still managed to get the best of her; today was no exception.

On this day, however, she had reason to be preoccupied. Like Desten, Auria’s name had been selected for the notorious mission roster, but Auria carried the additional anxiety of being far less adept to battle on the front lines. Where Desten had been enrolled in martial arts and gunmanship classes from the time of his enrollment four years ago, Auria had taken only two years of first aid courses. She could not even operate a gun, yet alone use it effectively. She was as good as deadweight to the mission objective – no matter what it was – and this realization terrified her to the core. The grades she had worked so hard to maintain, the countless books she’d submerged herself in for most of her life, and the creative writing she’d so desperately held as an ideal career path: all of them were virtually useless now, as life-and-death scenarios took control of the girl’s life. She’d always known the risks that were involved in attending Soletta Academy, but this was the first time it’d become a reality to her.

There is nothing I can do, She thought. More people are going to be hurt – even die – because I am useless to help them… Before her thoughts could as much as trail off however, she had closed herself to them and succumbed to the smooth cadence of nearby water. There was nothing she could do to change the harsh truth, and thus little use in thinking about it: not when the world around her resonated so strongly of peace and the very essence of life.
 



Chapter Three: "Augury"

When the knocking came to Leonard Barnes’ study door that evening, he had been knee-deep working on last-minute details for the big infiltration. He had spent months planning for this particular operation, and everything he’d worked so hard to establish at Soletta now hinged on the mission’s success. Failure would mean utter devastation for the revolutionary movement, and he subsequently handled the matter with utmost discretion. Thus, it was only natural that he found himself less-than-thrilled to be bothered at so late an hour. He was a busy man, and had no desire to argue with students about policy or listen to another teacher’s preposition for new textbooks. On the other hand, he could not have exactly refused to answer the door, either. He had two professions, as both a revolutionary and headmaster of a prestigious university, and thus took to both responsibilities with the highest of regard.

Pulling a pair of reading glasses from the ridge of his nose and placing them on his desk, then brushing the creases from his jacket to demand some semblance of composure, Leo bellowed for the solicitor to enter. He’d elected not to mask the irritation in his voice, and felt every bit entitled to his frustrations given all he put into this school. When a stranger entered the room however, he was surprised.

The air of mystery which surrounded the guest was impossible to ignore. His earthen face was solemn despite a crooked smile that was not his own, and he carried himself with what could’ve been panache or the flair of insanity. The long black coat he wore swept about him with an elegance, and innumerable thin braids of platinum-blonde hair danced about his face with a gypsy’s charm. He sat leisurely on the arm of a chair, directly across from Leo, and removed the glove from his right hand with his teeth: letting it drop into his lap and then pulling something from his coat pocket. He cast his eyes downward at the object, still smiling that strange, inhuman smile, before shooting his glance abruptly upward to meet Leo in the eyes.

“Do you know what this is?” he inquired, lifting the object from his lap and laying it flat on Leo’s desk. Leo could now establish that it was a single card: a tarot card, to be more precise. It was longer than the standard playing card, and bore the image of a skeletal figure garbed in dark robes not unlike those of the visitor himself. In the arms of the figure was a sickle or scythe, iconic of death incarnate.

“Is this some kind of threat?” Leo ordered of the intruder. What had been a mild annoyance had grown into a heated rage, and it took all of his self-restraint not to surrender to the red waves of anger which engulfed him. For all his charity, the middle-aged Barnes had long possessed an insatiable temper: the lethal variety which gave little warning and took no prisoners. It had been this same rage which had brought him to enter military service in the first place, and now it had become the fodder which heated his campaign against his own nation’s capital. Sitting across from the enigmatic blackmailer, Leo was itching for a fight. The only force which sedated him was his own curiosity, as the man in black had not yet disclosed the meaning of this cryptic threat.

“Vita… brevis,” came the rogue. “Life is short, my dear man. The card is – this card… is a warning.”   

“I appreciate the gesture,” Barnes erupted, “but if that’s all you want, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” His patience was spent, and he had no desire to waste any more time forcing conversation. As far as he was concerned, the man was no more than a vagrant fortuneteller with poor taste in summer clothing, and this was, after all, a place of business. The man did not belong in his office, or anywhere else on campus. Leo was drawing the line here. At least, he had intended to, until the man’s next words caught hold of his attention:

“I am most aware that you are a traitor, but you choose the life of an outsider in pursuit of a higher justice… do you not?” Leo was left somewhere between unwilling and unable to respond to the sudden allegation.

“I’ve heard much about you from beyond the veil, at least, much for a non-radiant like yourself. I would like to offer what help I may give, and that is why I’ve come to warn you. Certainly you understand,” he added with an added seriousness. He spoke in riddles, but did so with such conviction that he almost sounded sane. Ultimately, however, Leo was uninterested in either this veil or the radiant, whatever those were; what had struck him was the fervor with which the man had called him a traitor. It could have been coincidence, certainly, but anyone looking in from the outside would have thought him anything but the words this man had selected.

From what he was aware, any record in existence would maintain that Leo was nothing but an ideal citizen: one who had once held a prestigious position in the American army, and now, following an honorable discharge, was living out his retirement in the Hawaiian Islands. His criminal record was without blemish, he was certain of it. Yet here was a complete stranger, throwing around adjectives to describe him like traitor and outsider. This was definitely a bind for him. He could neither dismiss the fellow easily nor make sense of what he said. If the man knew the things he claimed to know, he was certainly a most amiable threat, and even if he was bluffing, it was crucial that he be silenced before his ramblings threatened Soletta’s reputation. Without much of an alternative, Leo decided that it would be best to play along for the time being. At worst, he would attempt to humor the madman while exploiting him for everything he knew.

“I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about, sir. Those are some harsh accusations you’ve just made, and I’m pretty offended,” Leo tried his best to sound sincere.

“I know not the art of human deception,” spoke the man. “I would not try to deceive you, nor am I capable of it. You, however, speak words even now which deviate from the heart.” Again, Leo was taken aback. Was this man saying he could read his mind? Impossible. “If you choose not to accept my warning, however, I will have no choice but to leave you to your fate.”

“Not so fast. Who the hell even are you?” Leo said, unable to otherwise win back control of their dialogue.

“Etteilla, of Yggdrasil,” replied the man, still every bit as stoic. At this point however, the he was already rising from his chair and pulling the fur-lined hood of his jacket up over his head. He glided towards the door in small steps, before vanishing back into the night as the door shut itself silently behind him. As abruptly as he’d entered, the enigma was now gone. Leo ruffled his short brown hair in frustration, and lay his head within his hands. What the fuck was that? he pondered. The man had seen right through him, without a doubt, and this put the fear of God into him. As if that wasn’t enough to rob him of his sanity, this invasion of his mind had come hand-in-hand with a death threat.  This was certainly going to be a long, sleepless night.




Chapter Four: "Birdcage"

Far and away from the island of Molokai, where Soletta Academy had been founded, the capital city of the Neo-American Empire was situated in what had once been New York City. Now known as the Imperial City of Towers, it had been established as the heart of the nation just after the fall of the United States government seventy-three years prior.

The overthrow had been the work of one man and his followers: Chrétien Roslyn, who’d called himself the Marienkind and whose power of persuasion had charmed and ensnared the greatest skeptics of his time. Even now, his descendents held the highest office in the state, passed along the bloodline as rightful destiny much like the monarchies of old. Where earlier fascist regimes had failed to maintain lasting authority, he had moved close to a position of godhood, renewing America as a world power and bringing all who opposed it to their knees. From what could be seen, the Roslyn family influence was not going anywhere in the near future.

Today, the city of Towers remained every bit a metropolis. It was as busy and chaotic as it had ever been, with only the exception of its innermost core, where the most trusted imperial officers alone were allowed habitation. At the deepest crux of Manhattan stood Roslyn Palace, which contrary to its name was closer in structure to a spiraling skyscraper, piercing the heavens in true Babylonian fashion. It was here, in this spindling obelisk, that Raichelle Roslyn had spent the entirety of her life.

Raichelle, at nineteen, was currently the second in line to become Marienkind, preceded only by her own twin sister, Claire. In a position of such high honor, it was of little astonishment to her or to anyone else that she be confined to a life of private institution and isolated luxury. If she was lonely, however, she did little to show it, and instead had developed into a headstrong, difficult girl, who had far fewer friends than she had enemies.

As a result of her lacking social aptitude, Raichelle spent a great many mornings in the palace’s private library, and today had found herself quite encompassed in an anthology of old Shakespearean sonnets. She had an unusual love for the classics, and especially favored reading in the seclusion of this sacred place, far removed from the constant queries of the helping hands and serving-maids who hassled her so frequently besides. It gave her a sense of independence that she liked, and supplied her time to collect a wider perspective on the world that could not be found in her political schooling.

Her tutors held fervently to the notion that there was no place for poetry or art in society, aside from what was created in and for the sake of the American Empire, but she believed rather deeply to the contrary. Unable to convince her mentors, however, this private reading had quickly become the only outlet for her to lust after true art. This, and the weekly cello lessons she so vivaciously enjoyed. If politics where in her blood, art was in her soul.

Closing the cover on the antique tome, she stood and wiped the scent of aged paper from her palms onto the face of her skirt. While she could have stayed there forever if she had the choice, today she was inclined to share a luncheon with her sister. Claire had mentioned something to her earlier of an important announcement, and this had piqued Raichelle’s interest adequately to pry her from her poetic musings just long enough to share a few bites of cake and a cup of earl grey. The bard’s loyalty would not be assuaged in the meantime, she assured herself; the book would await her just where she left off.

(To be continued...)