In the recent years, I have attempted to write a novel, something which I have not succeeded in completing but I thought I'd be interesting to share the drafts. To be honest, I'm quite impressed when I read the drafts because I certainly DID NOT expect my writing standard to be quite good. One thing that I'm really bad at is plotting so maybe that's partly why I started so many unfinished drafts. Without further ado, the drafts! (Just a little fun fact here: I wrote the drafts when I was 12 that's why it's pretty disorganised)
***
Miya
was always awake on the midnight of Christmas’ eve. She could not remember a
time when she wasn’t asleep on that day. To her, that night was a special one
for the clock tower only rang once a year, which was on the early morn’ of
Christmas.
Since
young, she had always loved the sound of the bells in the clock tower. Peering
out of the window, she would squint her eyes, making out the slightest shape of
the clock in a distance. Although she could not see the bells, let alone the
outline, she always could figure out which bell rang, ranging from the largest
to the smallest. At six years, she already had the tune ingrained firmly in her
mind. She could hum the tune as naturally as breathing, never tiring of it.
The
low and high sounds of the bells overlapped each other, forming what Miya
thought was a beautiful contrast. They mingled together, light and dark,
soaring into the air. It was always a lullaby to Miya’s ears.
People
thought it was eccentric of her liking to bells. “Bells? You like the sound of
the clock towers’ bells?” They would
say incredulously when she told them despite that it only rang once a year.
Miya would always smile, not a slightest bit offended. In fact, she liked the
fact that she was labelled eccentric for it.
On
her tenth midnight of Christmas Eve, after the last bell had sang, she left the
still-ajar window open and climbed to bed. She pulled her covers over her body
and stared out of the window. Snow, delicate and tiny, drifted by.
Miya’s
sharp ears suddenly caught a faint tune. It was so soft and very faint that it
could just be a figment of her imagination. She blinked. No doubt it was there.
Furrowing her eyebrows and holding her breath so that all was silence, she
concentrated on it. It seemed to come from outside.
Throwing
her covers aside, she crept towards the window, the cold air starting to fill
her lungs. She shivered slightly in cold. Pressing her ear against the open
slit of the window, the tips of her ear freezing, she focused intently on the
distant tune. She could hear the hollowness in it. Perhaps a flute? Miya
scanned the area around her, doubting that she could find the source from her
flat that was dwarfed by several skyscrapers. She sighed. That was the only
reason why she didn’t like living in the city.
Miya
still could not detect the music source after a long time of thorough searching
although it was really only a minute.
+++
On
the midnight of every Christmas’ eve—technically on the morning of Christmas—the bells of the ancient clock tower rang when the hour
and the minute hand reunite, its chimes echoing through the city of Lysta. This
was not unusual. It had been that way for as long as anyone could remember.
After
the last bell had rung, a beautiful haunting tune of a flute could be heard,
faint and fragile as if it could be broken with a whisper of breath, floating
from the clock tower. On this night, most people would be awake, not wanting to
miss this lovely melody.
It
was a mystery of who the player of the melody was. Word was that the melody was
played by a ghost. Some laughed it off, claiming that a ghost couldn’t play but
no one could be really sure. Some claimed to have seen the player, a dark
silhouette against the moonlight, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. Some
said to have sighted nothing, only the dark night, when the melody was played.
The undeniable thing was, the melody came from the clock tower.
The
clock was eventually named Hozaii Cozae, Haunted
Clock, for every attempt in finding the player was nothing but a failure. All
they could find at the top of the tower was clock’s mechanics, the click-clacking of the chains working
while the melody echoed eerily around the tower, a little more defined and
louder than usual. They could not find anything else and fled from the tower,
never wanting to step in the tower ever again. It was a terrifying experience,
they claimed.
Till this day, it still remains a mystery, never
solvable.
+++
Miya always got creeps whenever she heard this story.
She had an uncanny feeling that it was all true but she refused to believe it.
However, she could not deny what she felt to the melody.
The melody, to Miya, was more than just beautiful. To
her, the tune seemed to breathe life although it may seem like death to others
with its creepy tune. If she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she could feel it, like it was writhing, moving, alive, inside her. As if it seemed to
hold life in the tune, all hopes and promises, happiness and dreams. But it
also held an undeniable melancholy in which Miya thought was what made this
melody more divine. They mingled
together, hopefulness and sorrow like light and darkness, consuming her
thoughts. Unconsciously, she would sway, as if hypnotised.
Her eyelids flutter open when the soft tune finished
and she was left in a daze. No doubt this melody was celestial. Then, she would
come down to earth, the reality. It was all too painful. A melody was just a
melody, only to please ears. How could she ever feel with such a thing? It was
all nothing.
Music to her was all just an entertainment for
mankind.
+++
Miya DeLezze was a born musician. She learned both the
piano and the violin fast and could compose a considerably fine song. At the
age of eight, she was already performing in an orchestra, her as a soloist. Sometimes,
a composition of hers would be performed by the orchestra. These works were
tremendously complimented by many.
She was a famous girl, well-known throughout the city,
possibly out of it too. Travellers from miles away would come to hear her
perform. They sang her praises of
wonder, gave her enviable gifts.
But to her, music was all a chore. Composing a piece
was tiring and learning a piece was just a mundane task. She did it to please
people. It was wonderful to receive compliments.
When she was twelve, her parents died in a fire that
had broken out at an opera house. A tragic, they all said for her parents were
both excellent musicians, perhaps one of the best in the world. The people of
Lysta gathered on a cold wet rainy day, mourning for the loss. When the
couple’s coffins were sent away, they were all silent.
Miya was no exception. She had expected to weep her
throat sore but she did not even spill a single drop. All she felt was this
numbing sense of loss, dull and heavy in her heart. She badly wanted cry— anything
to rid that unbearable numbness that laid in her. Calling it numbness
wasn’t right too— she did feel pain
but it was a numbing one.
A few days later her grandmother, a widow, came and brought
her back to her hometown, Milzei.
+++
The first thing Miya did when the carriages entered Milzei
was to admire the picturesque surroundings. The trees were stripped bare of
their leaves from the chilly winter and they glistering snow adorned their bare
branches. Fresh pristine snow covered the ground, animal foot prints deep in
them. She sniffed and found the air scented of bitter-cold winter.
Miya’s
mind was blank as her near-lifeless hands sawed robotically at the violin. The
tune the violin emitted was dull and flat. Even scales sounded much more
melodious than the sonata she was playing. Well, there wasn’t much to hear from
a person who lacked any emotions.
Miya
gripped the bow tighter, knuckles turning white. The tune became somewhat like
the squeal of a slaughtered pig from the pressure of the bow as she willed her
mind to shut up. She didn’t want to think about her parents’ death. At all.
“Youch.”
The
voice, clear and musical like a pixie’s laugher, seemed to come right behind
her. Surprise and fear jolt through Miya and instinctively, she brought bow and
whacked her whoever was behind her. Then, she pushed herself off the tree trunk
she had been leaning against when playing her violin and whirled around, her
heart beating erratically. Embarrassment flooded her, turning her face into the
colour of tomato when she found her trembling bow pointed unsteadily at a boy.
Casually as she could, as if she hadn’t tried to smack they boy with her bow,
she it drew back. A hint of amusement glinted in his blue eyes, so light they
looked like ice. He looked about her age, perhaps a year or two older, with a
wavy dark chocolate brown hair that fringe his face and nearly hid his eyes. In
contrast to his dark hair, his skin was pale, nearly the colour of the first
few flakes of snow.
“I’m
pleased,” The boy said.
Miya
blinked.
“What?”
“That
you have stopped murdering the song. I’ve been sitting there,” he gestured to
spot below a tree that was stripped bare in the winter, its branches like reedy
skeletons, “for quite a while.” When Miya looked closer at the spot, she
noticed that it was, indeed, disturbed. The weeds looked flattened and the snow
around it had melted. The boy continued, “Unfortunately, all you did was to
make my poor ears bleed.”
“Really?”
Miya’s eyes widened in mock-horror. She placed her bow on her left hand, along
with her violin, so that her right hand was free and covered the few steps that
separated them. Then, she reached up and yanked the boy’s ear down as hard as
she could and peer inside, pretending to examine it. She felt a smirk
threatening to materialise on her lips when the boy grunted.
“Don’t
worry. It’s not bleeding. There’s no blood,” she informed him, snickering as
she released her fingers. The boy rubbed his ears, which had gone slightly raw
and red, and he looked up. Instead of the dirty look she had expected, he gave
her a broad grin. “Thank you, docta.”
He said, still grinning as he swept a playful bow.
“My
pleasure,” she replied, playing along. As if she had suddenly remembered, she
asked, “And by the way, what is your name?”
The
boy stared at her curiously. “Do you not know? Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I
know you! Your grandma is Malory Baker, aye?” He looked at her, as if prompting
her to agree with him. He couldn’t have been more right.
“Are
you a psychic?” Miya asked in disbelief. The boy scoffed. “Naw. Word around
here always spreads fast. Besides, Malory is a good friend of my family and
when she left a few days ago, she told us it was for you, her granddaughter.”
He explained.
Miya’s face darkened, not because of the memory of her
grandmother picking her up, but because it reminded her of her parents. As if
he noticed the change in her demeanour he changed the subject. “Dear me, I
forgot. My name is Jesse. Miya?” He guessed, extending his hand warmly.
She woke up, her heart pounding and
sweat beading her forehead. At first, she couldn’t make out where she was.
Then, she heard the chugging of the train’s wheels and the comforting bump bump bump of it over the tracks.
She suddenly became aware of gazes on
her.
She also realized that her
grandmother’s hands were on her wrists.
“Miya? Are you okay?” Her grandmother
asked, concerned as she released her wrists. She let out a shaky breath and
said, “I’m fine, grandma. Nightmare.”
She must have thrashed around in her
sleep but she didn’t care. At least I
didn’t crash anything… she thought, not too guiltily. Her nightmares about
that fire came every day and she would get used to it.
**********************************************************************************
People say I’m weird, but that doesn’t bother me. Why should I care what
they think?
I’ve painted a window-sized window on my wall along with velvety
curtains and the view of rolling seas. I’ve painted the raging waves, the
bright sharp lines of lightning bolts stark against dark stormy skies. A lone
ship with the tiny dots of people, hands raised in horror frantic as the
towering waves rose above them, threatening to crash upon them.
But I painted a glowing, effulgent angel with astral wings above them in
the sky. I like to think that he came down to save them from their horrible
fate, but he could turn away anything. It was just an undetermined moment,
paused in time.
They don’t understand why I painted it. They think I do it for pleasure
but I don’t. Painting’s not even my hobby and I don’t learn it. I painted that
one and only picture because it reminded the people I’ve lost, especially papa
because the last few word he said were, “I’ll be there with you, Miya, even in
times of trouble.”
Except that when I said, “Always?” he didn’t reply.
He had already stopped breathing by then.
*
All I saw was fire. Hot merciless fire that burned and burned. It
climbed the walls, licked and ate the curtains until it was just poor miserable
tatters, no better than rags. Smoke filled my lungs, too dry and hot and I
coughed violently. Ashes stung my eyes and they starting tearing, blurring my
vision.
I wipe them away, determined to
get out of the building no matter what. I got up unsteadily into a crawling
position, my burnt and scraped raw wounds screaming in protest. I clutched my
papa’s hand possessively. He was the only living family member that wasn’t lost
in the crowd in the stampede to get out, nor was he stuck in the in a room with
no possibility of getting out like Coco. I could see the small crack of light
from beneath a door that wasn’t much further away. If only I could get papa out
there too…
With determination, I tried heaving him onto my shoulder. After all, he
was feather with his reed-thin bones, compared to other men. Unfortunately for
me, I’ve inherited his scrawny frame and could only sling one of his arms over
my shoulder.
I whisper a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be hurt much when I dragged
him across to the door. There were debris and shattered glasses littered on the
floor. It’ll be unbearably painful if it dug in to his wounded skin.
Papa groaned as I shuffled painfully towards the sliver of light, trying
not to collapse under his weight and pain. I gritted my teeth, nostrils flared
as I watch the flaming beam perch precariously right on top of the door. Careful, careful, my brain warned.
Taking a shuddering breath, I took the last few agonizing crawl steps before
laying papa down on the floor. I stood up and using the edge of my jumper, I
quickly twisted the knob before the metal could sting me and kicked the door as
hard as I could. It did not swing open.
A lock kept the door shut and there wasn’t a key in sight. Dismay and
frustration flood me and I was drowned in them for a moment. Why did it have to
be locked? Why?
“Miya.”
I turned my head. “The door is locked, papa! We can’t get out!” I say
frantically.
He took in a breath but sputtered and coughed violently instead. “Papa!”
“Get out while you can,” he managed to rasp.
“No, we can get out alive. I won’t leave you here to die,” I say
adamantly.
“Listen, I’m dying. Even if I did manage to escape this fire, I’ll die
soon too. I know it.”
Anger and desperation bubbled in me. “Papa! Don’t say that! Who’ll look
after me then? I’m only eleven!”
“You’re a strong and clever girl—you’ll find a way somehow.” He smiled,
lost in his world for a second. Then his focus returned. “Go, Miya.”
Helplessness overwhelmed me. No, papa can’t die. He can’t, he simply
can’t. My mother, sister had sacrificed their lives to save others. If he died,
I was alone. I don’t have any aunts or uncles. Grandma Eleanor was the only one
alive and she lived quite a distance from Colyetta.
As if he was reading my mind, papa says, “It’s okay. I’ll be there with
you, Miya, even in times of trouble. Even when I die. Don’t you feel me at your
side?”
I was silent for a while, still as a stone as I fought an internal war
of decisions in the burning ruins of the once-grand opera house. When I finally
asked, “Will you? Always?” his eyes were already shut, a ghost of a smile on
his face. He laid on the hard ground, unmoving. The steady rise of his stomach
had stopped.
Papa was gone.
Milan
A girl moved in with Mrs. Becker a few days ago.
She came walking up Mrs. Becker’s porch, her long black hair tangled by
the wind and her eyes glossy and unseeing. Mrs. Becker had her head bent,
whispering something to the girl but she seemed to be lost in her own faraway
land. In one hand, the girl carried an instrument casing, most likely a violin,
and brown patched suitcase in the other. Oh well, most likely be staying with
Mrs. Becker for quite a bit then.
I pushed the window wide open and yelled, “Hey, Mrs. Becker! Who’s that
with ya?”
