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Lost-Chances
There's no such thing as a winnable war. It's a lie we don't believe any more.

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Brigantia (Unfinished)

Posted by Lost-Chances - December 24th, 2009


First half.

As promised, here's the unfinished novel I attempted:

Brigantia

Chapter 1: The beginning.

I

00:00 the only light in the room, besides the lamp which shone it's way from one end of the bed-room to the other, illuminating it. The only person in the house awake is Clare, reading through the text book. Her chocolate brown hair ran down just past her shoulders over the top of her white tank-top. She sat upon the white desk chair with a small amount of padding. As much as she hated sitting on such an uncomfortable chair, it was the only chair that was not too hard as to cause her arse to become numb and filled with pain after 20 minutes and not too soft as to make her just fall asleep (as she had done more times than she can count on her previous chairs of choice). She needed to be awake, and alert. Her English A-Level exam was only on Friday and it was Wednesday now.

She desperately tried to memorise a WW2 poem which, for some reason, she could never quite remember. She was fortunate she didn't have to memorise them word-for-word but she couldn't even remember the jist, the evaluation points and the history. "Ah, screw it!" she cursed under her breath, absolutely sick of trying to remember it. She left her seat, put a torch in her mouth and crept down stairs.

Luckily, she was wearing jeans instead of tracksuit trousers which made a racket when walking in them. She managed to managed to reach the bottom of the stairs while making no noise at all, her bare feet allowing her to keep grip on the wooden floor. She pushed the door into the frame pulled down the handle slowly, crept into the other-side and then closed the door carefully. Not a noise...She smiled at this. Clare walked into the kitchen, a bit more relaxed, and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. She turned the cold tap on, the water spraying a bit more than she had hoped. The student turned it down a bit, filled her glass up to near the top and turned the tap off quickly. She made two or three fast gulps, just to hydrate her, and then walked around the downstairs, her torch in the other spare hand.

Suddenly, she heard a noise. Something like a cat being murdered, except there was something else to it...Wasn't there? Clare quickly looked outside her kitchen window out to the garden, hoping to see why there was such a ghastly noise like she heard. Nothing...Just the pitch black. "It's strange how noises seem louder at night and..." Clare said and then was interrupted by a high pitch noise like someone scratching a chalkboard. Suddenly terrified, she bolted back to her room, being careful not to make a lot of noise but managed to make enough noise so her mother could ask from her bed "what's that noise...". She probably wouldn't get up, she never does, but being quiet always saved Clare from having to go into depth of what she did and why she was up; even as obvious as it was. Clare also noticed how her mother always never completely believed her, probably thinking in the back of her mind "pft, she's probably sneaking James into the house...".

Once she was back in her room, she let out a sigh and a breath of relief, at the same time. She was happy she was back in her room of safety, but her mother heard her sneak about. None-the-less, she needed to study a bit more. Just a bit more. A little bit more.

II

Clare's head jerked up from the desk. She looked around in total confusion, and then at the time. 06:00 glowed at her in red. She was relieved she hadn't missed college, but irritated that she was now tired. If she went to bed now, Clare knew she wouldn't be up before nine which was when her first lesson started. Finally, she got up, yawned and decided she would have a quick shower to wake herself up with. After that, she would grab some breakfast, maybe some last minute revision and then leave at 8:40 to walk there.

An hour later, she was now dressed in fresh new clothes. A yellow shirt with a panda which said "Everything's probably not be okay", a pair of jeans, black thin socks and a thin black hoodie. Clare was also eating a piece of toast, one which tasted like cardboard due to nothing being on it. She felt she could do with losing a bit of weight and was just cutting back on little things like butter on her toast and having little snacks. Would she cut back on coke? God no. Clare just couldn't imagine herself getting through the day without a boost of sugar and caffeine. To her, it was like reprieving a new born child from milk. Yet, at the same time, it was nothing like it and probably more like taking drugs from someone who was totally dependant on them. Well, caffeine IS a type of drug after all.

After she finished the last slice of toast, she poured some coke as though to spit in the face of the idea of giving it up for dieting. "Yeah, take that diet plans" Clare mumbled to herself as the coke neared it's self to the top of the glass and she stopped pouring.

"Did I just hear something about James?" Clare heard a voice behind her say. She turned around casually just to watch her mother walk through the kitchen door wearing a black turtle neck jumper, jeans and a pair of pink fluffy slippers. It was mostly inquiring, but Clare could pick up a slight twang of humour beneath the tone of accusation. She had a white mug with the black text "Mean bitch" written on it which white smoke was steaming from it. If she was trying to achieve irony, then Clare knew she deeply failed at being ironic. She was probably drinking coffee, two sugars, no milk, as she always did after she's woken up. How her mother managed to make herself some coffee without Clare noticing was something she was astounded since there were only two kettles: one in the kitchen and study; and the study kettle made enough noise to wake the dead and anything else sleeping underground.

"No mum" Clare said with a faked tone of annoyance. To be honest, in a weird way, she was pleased to have her mother around since she still felt shaken after last-night's noise. Clare's mother approached her and said between kisses on her cheek "You." Kiss "Know" Kiss "You" Kiss "Can" Kiss "Tell" Kiss "Me" Kiss "Anything!".
"Muuumm! Nothing's wrong, just a little...Shaken up.".
"Why?"
"Just some...Strange noises last night.".
"Well don't worry dearest, nothing can get in...Unless you let it in. Spooky spirits can easily sneak in while you're sneaking your boyfriend in". Clare's mother imitated a ghost, badly "WhooOooOOooOOo!". Clare lightly hit her mother, yelling "Mum!" in a faked sound of annoyance, it becoming increasingly impossible for her to make it believable as she started to smile and laugh under her breath.

Clare looked up at the time, the large round clock pointing to 7:50am, roughly. Just in time to revise for a little while. Her only lesson was 9am which allowed her the rest of the day to talk to her friends and maybe meet up with James at some point.

She managed to squeeze in revising two chapters and a little bit of the third chapter of a fictitious book based on real events called The Road To Hill 39. While she also didn't need to remember everything in the book, she felt that the more English literature based in WW2 she read and revised, the more she could talk about in the essay on Friday. It was then 8:30, it would probably take her 10 minutes to get out the house. She got the very few books she now needed which were scattered all over the house, shoved it into her rucksack, grabbed her phone, chewing gum, MP3 player (which she tucked between her hoodie and t-shirt into her pocket) and pen; then said bye to her mother and left.

III

After a twenty five minute walk, including the train gates going down on the way there, she got there just after the school bell. Luckily, rule of thumb, she could get away with being up to five minutes late without technically being late. She quickly got into her only lesson and revised on essay techniques and the seventh chapter (which no one fully got, including Clare) of the book The Road To Hill 39. Some things were cleared up, like why Pvt Johnson didn't want to kill the German but others felt a mystery still like why Sgt Pettersfield tied the French civilian up. Oh well, Clare thought, she'll be able to work it out later today.

She managed to talk to Sarah and Luke after class, to see if they could shed some light on things she was struggling on and to see what they were doing during the holidays after the exam. Sarah was going to Spain for a week or two about a week after the exams and had no other plans. Luke was going stay with his long distanced boyfriend, who lived in Cardiff, for the majority of the holidays. Clare on the other hand, had nothing. There was also not much happening around Chichester to her knowledge, just some interesting films and maybe a gig if she's lucky. Although she had a feeling James may be camping which, while Clare mostly hated, was better than doing absolutely nothing and would ask to come along. It would let them get intimate without others interrupting; hopefully.

However, Clare couldn't see James anywhere on the school site and no one had seen him so she just figured she'd talk to him tonight over the phone. So she walked home the long way due to the gate being locked and she never was good at climbing it (there were also rumours about how the school put anti-vandal paint across the top of it to discourage students in year 11 and below bunking). On the way home, she walked by a tramp sat between Marks And Spencers, which Clare noted made delicious lunch, biscuits and tea, and HMV with a cardboard sign which read "Lost job due to it being outsourced, need money for food". However, judging by the bags next to him and the ragged mess he was, she doubted he would use all the money on food. Hell, Clare wouldn't be in much of a surprise if he used it on drugs as well as alcohol, as he sat there on stained cardboard boxes. He, and the boxes, reeked and were filled with stains, one of which ran from around his penis and slowly crept down one of his legs until about half way down his shin. His face was filled with scabs and scars, his wild black hair was held down by a black beanie hat with a NY sign on it. His long black hair connected with his long black beard which was equally messy and filled with random things. He may have been a victim of society's fragile economic situation, but he was too far gone to be saved.

IV

Clare arrived home and tugged the handle of the back-door down with no luck. "She must be out" she thought, which was strange to her as her mother was always home these days. After father...Went away, she just fell apart and was now in a semi-okay state but still incapable of working. The idea of responsibility just...Left her in a bad way every time. The girl dipped her hand into her rucksack and fished out her house key from the front of her bag. She shoved the key into the lock and gave it a turn. Clare let out a smile at the corner of her face as it clicked and turned all the way around. Her hand pulled down the handle this time, with a lot more luck as this time it went all the way down.

She walked into the house and dumped her rucksack on the table. She had to revise, but decided it would probably be an idea to just take a five minute break. All the stresses of homework was piling on her somewhat. Clare felt tempted to take a bit of vodka or some wine from her mother as she drunk enough these days to not be sure how much she had exactly drunk these days. However, Clare knew that she wouldn't be able to get a hold of her concentration again for a good few hours if at all today. Sure alcohol alleviated stress, it had a tendency to let the stress come back three times harder as they realise the exam was only tomorrow. "Ah, what the hell" she shrugged and got a wine glass from the cabinet. Clare felt rough, which was probably a light way to put it. She wanted to leave the relaxing until after she had done the final exam, but Clare's brain felt like it would split open or it would cave in just because of how much stress she was under.

After searching for any open bottles, she found one. A white wine...She weren't a big fan of white wine but she could imagine her father telling her "beggers can't be choosers". Although she didn't imagine the best of actions following those words. What her father may of done, she couldn't say, but it seemed too-desperate for her likely, too similar to the tramp she saw earlier today who would probably drink wood varnish if he could afford it or get his hands on it other-wise just to get drunk. She was right, "beggers can't be choosers" indeed, but it never made it okay.

Clare shrugged her shoulders and pulled the half-emerging cork out with her right hand while holding it with her left. She pulled as hard as she could with seemingly little luck, but after putting the bottle between her legs and pulling it, it came out with a loud "pop". As Clare poured it, the white wine made a calming noise as it went into the glass and seemed to curl around at first, before the wine just poured in. The bottle was nearly empty, and there was a temptation to finish it, a temptation that seemed to always follow her when she was close to finishing something. However, if she finished the entire bottle, it would only leave Clare's mother wondering what happened and a lot of scalding about drinking alcohol during the week; especially with the last exam the following day.

Clare also managed to "stumble", as if fooling herself it was purely accidental, on her mother's secret chocolate collection and took a quick dip. "No one will know..." she said, smiling to herself as she took three squares. Clare sat down in the lounge to consume her things while watching another generic mid-day game-show.

After what felt like about an hour, she heard movement in the kitchen and quickly tucked the wine glass just between the sofa and the wall, giving the impression of her mother being mildly careless about washing up after her. Her mother walked into the lounge and said in a neutral voice "oh, school wasn't on long then?". Clare turned to her and told her "eh, one lesson".
"Fair enough then".
The ageing woman began to walk into the kitchen and then quickly turned back to Clare "Oh, by the way! Your uncle Rick, wanted to know if you wanted to spend a week or two at his castle".
"I'll think about it".
To be honest, the idea of spending a week in York in a castle actually pleased her somewhat. She didn't have much opportunities as a child to even visit there, let alone stay there. Uncle Rick was from her father's side and even while Clare's father was still around, him and Uncle Rick weren't always on good speaking terms. However, they kept up with each other every so often, even after the death and he was kind to her. Even bought her a few things which may of seemed expensive and wouldn't of managed to get otherwise like her television which always looked like to her it must of cost more than the television her mother has. The more Clare thought about going to York, the more the idea appealed to her. Even more than that, it was something to actually look forward. There was just one thing though...
"Could I bring a friend along?" Clare shouted to the kitchen. "Probably" she heard a weak voice shout back. Clare would check later if James would be busy, and maybe pop the idea of going to York, hopefully, and then hope Uncle Rick allowed her.

V

Some readers may be wondering why and how Clare's uncle has managed to own and live in a castle. "This is unrealistic!" some people may be squawking like dying pigeons who may of ingested too much bicarbonate soda and are just releasing their death call. Their death rattle. Truth be told, not even this poor author is entirely sure. It's unrealistic and I, for one, agree whole heartedly. Sure, I'm not the type to be screaming for blood or laying the book to rest with a slight feeling of bitterness and anger, but neither am I the type to allow things to flow without explanation.

I can not say, dear reader, you or I will ever know. Is this just me pulling deux ex machina over your eyes? I hope not, at least for myself, for an author has truly run out of ideas when the only reasoning behind certain important events is "IT'S MAGIC!", and that is the only way a writer who knows how to write a story from A to B to C, may truly fail. As far as I am aware, and I do not write this like someone holding a pack of cards shielding it from his opponent in a game of poker trying to outwit him, but rather someone who puts his hands up in surrender and somewhat pleads the reader to, just, carry on. It's a sin in the reading world, but it's a sin every reader takes once or twice. To read a book not because it's enjoyable from beginning to end, but rather reading a part just to get to something of some quality, and quality will come like the rains. Sure, I can not guarantee you're not just wondering into the middle of a desert, but I can guarantee that I'm doing my best to steer you towards a jungle of some kind where it rains the majority of the time.

Oh well, fingers cross, we may even end up with something worth it's weight in gold or silver.

VI

That night, Clare rung James up, soon after Clare's mother had received the conformation that she could, indeed, bring a friend along. The student couldn't put her finger on it, but her mother could verbally put quotation marks around "friend". As much as the thought of proving her correct was a sour sensation in her mouth, she did want to spend some times with James, badly. Ever since the exams started, she had probably only seen him twice and spoke to him five times, which troubled her a little bit. "Whatever" she thought mentally, gave her more things to talk about.

Clare first rung up at 5pm, to find out he was eating and figured it would be better to ask him after. Made him sound less like he was desperate just to get away and would make talking easier. She rung up an hour later and caught him just before he was going to go out. It would make the conversation a bit more uncomfortable than she hoped, but figured it'd probably go well enough.
"Hey James".
"Hey, how are you?"
"Okay, just a bit bored, figured I'd ring you up about the holidays. Doing much for them?"
"Well, no. I was going camping, but the guy who was arranging it told me he didn't have enough funding to afford the food, drink and transport he was going to provide. Either we made our own way there with our own food and drink or it weren't happening and I had no way of getting from here to the New Forest so I pulled out. Why? What are you doing?"
"Well, nothing much myself really, although I may go and stay with my uncle for a while. I was wondering if you wanted to come actually."
"To be honest, there's...Uh...Nothing at all to do during the holidays. I'd have to ask my mum (it came out as "I'll ask me maam" which made Clare smile a bit to herself) to see if she's okay with me coming along. She probably would be. Where is it and where are we staying?"
"York, and my uncle's place so there's no need to pack any food and drink. We'd probably have to take a train up there but I'm sure it wouldn't cost much". Clare's voice slowly rose in pitch as she said this, becoming increasingly nervous about if James could come. While she could always invite her other friends or even was happen to go on her own, she was really desperately hoping for James to come along with her.
"Where abouts is York?"
"Just a little above Liverpool, just find it on a map. It's a nice place".
"Hhhmm, is it okay if I let you know tomorrow what my mum says to it? She's a little busy and I'm sure you don't need to know by tonight"
"Not at all, it's totally fine. Not sure when we're going up anyway. I'm not even sure if you can come (Clare could sense James cringing a bit at this), but you probably can. My uncle's really nice."
"Do you know if I'll need any money at all?"
"Probably, but it'll only be for doing a little bit of shopping while we're there. The town centre there is really nice apparently and they sell all sorts there."
"Even children?"
"Oh yeah, probably, and probably black people as well who all know how to play the piano for you." They laughed a little to themselves at this. Clare imagined an actual picture of this, and it came up pretty much how she expected her uncle's castle to be like but older fashioned (she assumed that Uncle Rick didn't have balls similar to ones they had in Elizabethan times or even Victorian times which were catered by black slaves who played the piano to provide the music).
James and Clare talked a little longer about what they were planning to do in terms of what university and what to do there, in terms of the relief it was to get away from all the bad little things they were happy to get away from which Clare managed to lead the conversation easily to friends as she was pleased not to be around his friends who were, to her, pigs who treated women like second-classed citizens and drunk beer at every opportunity, something she wished she was exaggerating somewhat.

She then said her good-byes to James, him promising her for him to ring her up tomorrow at about 5pm. Clare just hoped that she wouldn't be busy at that time eating, since her mother always cooked the meals and always felt hurt whenever she would have to eat alone, even for a short time if Clare had to grab a drink or tell someone to ring back. It was one of many small little insecurities she had to deal with ever since her dad left them. The idea of it not being his fault was something she tried to tell herself whenever she thought about it, but there was always that niggling little voice that said otherwise like that scab you can't help but pick even though it'll hurt you or that mouth ulcer you can't help but tongue at whenever even though it'll only lengthen the amount of time it'll take to heal. That idea that it was entirely his fault, that he made it happen and should be in hell burning for eternity for how they left Clare and her mother, let alone any other crimes against humanity he's committed. Clare rubbed her right eye a bit and made her way to her room with a drink, telling her mother she was revising. She couldn't bare to lie to her, but just chose to not say anything about why her eyes seemed a bit red or wet. It'd be best, probably, just to leave her out of any reminders of her ex-husband.

After what felt like two hours of crying, and five minutes of sleep (and was probably, in truth, the other way around), she settled down and begun to revise as hard as she could on English. According to her mother, Uncle Rick was more than happy to allow any friends to come along to the castle, even special friends, just as long they didn't leave an absolute mess. At first, she thought she wouldn't dream of it, and then realised what her mother was hinting at and laughed a bit to herself. Clare also found out that she would go to York as soon as she wanted, which she figured "why not Monday?". Gave her the weekend to pack and prepare herself to go up there for a week.

VII

The next day, she got outside the exam room ten minutes early feeling a little ill. Her stomach felt as though she was packing stones in there. As much as she felt bad, she managed to push herself to flick through Road To Hill 39 fast, finding all the little important points that she had to remember. The Nazi torture scene, the abandonment scene and the stalemate scene were three among many she knew she had to recall. She managed to get half way through one of the important scenes just as the examiner called everyone doing the exam into the room. The room was one of the very few rooms she ever knew that no matter how clean it looked, it always had a smell of dust in the air as though the dust had been collecting for five years and they decided to shake all the dust into the air just before anyone went into the room. The room looked clean with aqua paint with shelves of careers advice which would be good reading material once she was done, assuming she was allowed to pick one of the books or magazines up; different examiners had different degrees of strictness. Some didn't allow her to leave early, even if she had half an hour to go, and had to sit in silence. Some would allow her to take out whatever book she had or to pick a careers magazine/book off a shelf and read that. Some would even allow her to leave early. Judging by how old the examiner was and the general facial look, her chances weren't looking good. Male, really old, very short white hair and his skin was basically falling off his face. No matter what expression he pulled, he always looked like misery personified. "I thought I had it hard" Clare thought to herself, thinking of all the things the examiner probably had to go through to get to that stage of misery. Mother and wife, separate people, she hoped, died due to a psychopath who tied them and him up and just settled with cumming in his hair and on his face, using his mother's dress as a cum rag to clean the last bit off the murderer's dick.

Another scenario she thought up was how he only recently was released from an underground prison which he was unfairly kidnapped and locked up in for no reason and was fed only bread and water for five or ten years. He looked old enough to be miserable after watching his friends be shot to small chunks in World War 2 and for him to lose his child-hood innocents while staring into the iron-sight of his rifle at Germans who were simply born in the wrong country at the wrong time and pulling the trigger. Maybe he could give her some insight of what it was REALLY like in World War 2. Were these authors correct? Was Saving Private Ryan close to the truth? It seemed suddenly very fitting for him to over-look the exam.

Once the papers were out, she raced through as quickly as possible. She didn't even plan, trying to save as much time as possible so she could write everything down. Every little idea running into her head to argue about World War Two stories. Trying to get her point across, without displaying opinion. In essay writing, her teacher always taught her, that to display opinion is as good as just insulting the reader out-right half-way through the essay. In the words of her teacher: "Conclusions are about logic, about comparison and reasoning behind thought. Putting "because I think so" has never been a good argument reasoning and this isn't any different. If you want to put your thoughts down so hard, you may as well just tell the examiner about how much you hate him or her, it's no worse and it will only lead to an F".

After what felt like several hours, Clare was done with the essay. She turned to the clock, with half an hour of her three hours to go as well. She checked through fast, and put her hand so her fingers were in-line with the top of her head. The examiner walked over, he wore a navy blue suit jacket and matching trousers but black formal shoes and grey-shirt underneath. She asked if she could leave and he only shook his head left and right as his answer, his skin swaying as he did. Clare sighed to herself in slight anger. Half an hour...What could she do...Just before the bull-dog faced man could turn to leave, she asked if she could read a book. He looked at her like as though she was trying to bend the rules, or as though she had confronted him with what she thought was his past. Finally, he said "fine. Let me get your paper in". He collected her paper and she walked over to her bag and removed the current book she was reading from the main section: The Green Mile. She was currently up to the part where the prison guards had to sneak John Coffey to a house to help cure one of the guards' wife.

And that's it. I'm sorry it was never finished. Out of my regrets in writing, maybe this is the biggest one. I'm not sure myself, I'm sorry to tell you. Oh well, this is my story in the flesh, and the only two stories I managed to bring myself to write.


Comments

This was not worthwile, nor was it thought provoking.

Can not provoke thoughts where there are none.

I figured that empty eternal silence in your head would of been enough of a sign to tell you that.

Using wits against those who lack it shall' prove nothing.

Forgive that above reply, I was butthurt from that time you owned my ass. The story was good, but lacked details that build an intresting story.

Bah, I got incredibly bored of it. I guess it's obvious why.

Were you a modfag at some stage?

Were you always a faggot wasting space on my internet, or were you once a being with a connection to intelligence?

Damn, for every creation of writing you made. I always appreciate every word of it. Thanks for giving your own time to create such touching stories.

I can really relate to them.

You should become a writer, trust me. You have so much potential! :D

Thanks a ton, but I wouldn't.