The Purple Eyed | My Current WIP

[-GRCR-]

 

*creates new topic for my wip, shaking from great nervousness*

Hello all. Greetings from Burne. Today is—

I think it’s been almost a year since I’ve posted any writing here on KP related to my WIP, but I really really want to start again, so here I am. *opens arms wide and squeezes eyes shut*

I’ll answer any questions about my novel here too as well… so feel free to ask anything!

I don’t want to tag anyone who isn’t interested… so I’m not gonna tag anyone on this topic at all. And I hate tagging! I’m sorry, I just really do. I don’t wanna bother anyone. Just tell me if you want me to keep you updated or not, and then i will tag you when i share more chapties.

I did have a topic for my book (actually I had two lol), but i’ve decided to create a new one anyway. Posting on the ones from when i was still kinda learning to ‘write’ just ain’t gonna cut it. So yeah. A new one—sorry if you’re reading the first few chapters for the billionth time.

I’ve finally finished a good portion of my book, so I’m expecting to share chapters sooner than I used to post, but it still might be something of while…. basically, I’ll post each after my mom edits them.

Anyhow, here it is! TPE. The Purple Eyed. The bit of junk that I will be calling my lifetime work. (kidding, but it has taken me a really long time already—three years, I think. you won’t want to know how many times i’ve started over with this book :’P ).

*exhale*

Here is my prologue.

(I’m very open to criticism… so yeah. 😁 don’t worry about any line-by-line critiques… but do mention it if something sticks out like a sore thumb, ya know…)

 

 

 

 

 

Hundreds of weapons lined the walls of the training center. Swords, axes, large hammers, and spears along with the honor badges and photos of Extroit’s warriors from the past—neatly framed and hung. An air conditioner shook silently, blowing a cold breeze into the large conference room where two people sat. The first person was a man whose name was Emrys Gretchen, and the second was his twelve year old son, Blaine. Emrys was a warrior—and one of the most well known warriors in Burne. He worked non-stop, and most people wondered if he ever went home.

Emrys closed his computer and stood up. He walked to one of the large windows of the training center, and stared outward at the shimmering city in the far distance. He processed his tasks for the morrow—attempting to forget the memory that haunted him. Three years ago, his wife—Elia—had been in a car crash, and slipped into a coma for two years. Those years felt like an eternity. As she entered her third year, she’d passed away—leaving ten children and a heartbroken husband. The loss had an effect that rippled through the family and created unseen struggles.

Emrys turned away from the window. The lights of the city reminded him of those three depressing years. He looked up, noticing Blaine quietly wandering down an aisle of chairs to admire the clean weapons on the walls. He waited for one of his older brothers to pick him up so they could return to Needslight—the large neighborhood they called home.

Blaine was dreading going there—home to the district of countless sorrows and endless horrors. He hated living there. People feared walking down the streets, and break-ins happened often. The worst part was the struggle for basic living. Most were poor, many were hungry, and some homes were dirty. Fighting could be heard in the streets, arguments that were never made better by tired, hopeless words. He knew things didn’t have to be the way they were, but as far as he could tell, nothing was being done to make a change.

Blaine’s family wasn’t rich at all, but they weren’t the poorest, since Emrys worked so much.

Blaine paused at a badge on the wall and stared at its red and green stripes.

“That was my first Badge of Honor,” Emrys slowly coming from near the window, to Blaine’s side, “I received it when I was about your age, Blaine—when my uncle began training me and my friend, Harlen. We were both so enthusiastic about helping around the community wherever we could. I received that badge after we’d helped an old farmer harvest his field in exchange for food to feed as many people in our district as we could.”

A slight smile formed on his lips as he thought back to the memory.

__________

Emrys and Harlen walked down a dusty country road. Fields of lentils sat on either side of the road, waiting to be harvested. They were too short and dry to be swayed by the early autumn breeze, and thin weeds had grown in some places. In one of those two fields, a middle-aged man sat on his knees, pulling up lentil plants.

The two boys walked down to the man, and Harlen called, “Live well, Mr. Wallace.”

The man looked up towards the two boys. He squinted a moment, and then a bright smile lit his wrinkled face, “Live well, boys!”

“What are you doing Mr. Wallace?” Harlen asked, squatting down beside Wallace.

“Harvesting these lentils, sonny. I’ve got to pull all these plants up before winter,” Wallace squeezed part of the plant and rubbed it in his work worn hand, then opened to show the boys several little, round lentils, “My tractor broke on me, I’ll need to get it fixed, but all these pulses will go bad by the time I have the money to do that. Well, sometimes you’re left to do things the old fashion way, ain’t that something.”

Wallace laughed loud and jovially, and then went back to pulling the plants out of the ground.

“That’s an awful lot to harvest,” Emrys looked around. He glanced at Harlen, then turned back to Wallace, “We’ll be right back, sir.”

Emrys and Harlen left, only to return an hour later with a group of boys and girls from Needslight. The group didn’t look like much, but a look of determination and zeal to do some good in the community made them stand tall. They were going to be heroes today, and they would prove their worth. They came into the field and worked hard, with grubby faces and nails filled with dirt.

They laughed and joked as they worked, making the work more enjoyable. When a container was filled, a few would carry it off, and Mr. Wallace would set them in a shed to dry some more.

Emrys carried a container into Wallace’s shed. He set the container on the ground and looked around and stretched his back. He took the last container from Harlen at the entrance of the shed, and called to Wallace, “That was the last one, Mr. Wallace.”

“Wonderful,” Wallace muttered. When he’d finished setting the new lentils to dry more, he stepped out of the shed, just before all those children were leaving back to their homes. He called, “Wait! Come back children!”

They slowly came back over to the shed, and Mr. Wallace signaled them to come in. He pulled down bags of lentils that had finished some time ago, and handed one to each of the youths that worked in his field. When each of the boys and girls had a bag, they thanked him and started back to Needslight—each bag of lentils enough to feed their families for half a winter.

__________

“That was one time when joy filled Needslight, like no one has ever seen before,” Emrys smiled, coming out of the memory.

Blaine couldn’t imagine. The current state of Needslight made it hard to believe anyone could have been happy there. He shook his head in disbelief, but somehow felt awe.

“It’s late now,” Emrys came back to the present, his smile replaced with the same grave expression he had before he began to tell the story. He walked back to the window, “Your brother should be here soon to take you back home.”

“Are you gonna come?”

“No,” Emrys let out a sigh, “There is much work to be done here.”

Blaine looked around at the never-ending work, and then up at his father, “Dad… I want to be a warrior.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Blaine turned away from the long red banner he stood near, and sat down in a chair, “I want to start a warrior team.”

Emrys groaned a little. He walked to a sword on the wall, took it down, and polished it—without taking his eyes off the weapon, Emrys asked, “Why do you want to start a team?”

“I want to because,” Blaine stood up, “I want to bring a change to Needslight. I want it to be a better place for the Burnish. I don’t want people to walk around fearful, angry, and hopeless.”

There was a long moment of silence, as both father and son sat thinking. After a short while, Emrys sighed, “Warrior teams are made of more than one man, Blaine. Do you have friends who want to join you?“

“I—I don’t know…” Blaine replied.

“You’ll need to find some friends to train alongside you,” Emrys said, “We’ll talk again when you find those friends. Okay?”

“Okay,” Blaine nodded. He continued to stare out the large window. A small car pulled up outside, and it parked—waiting for Blaine to get in. Blaine said goodbye to his father, walked outside, and sat down in the passenger seat next to his brother, Bryson. The ride was entirely silent.

Blaine stared out the window as they made their way through the city and finally down a street called Tregartha. This road was traversed often, and was known for its frequent accidents. It connected the Needslight residents to a well-lit liquor store—which was the only business in that area, and it did very well. Ironically, it was the only thing that lit the dark street.

The car parked in front of a small house. Home of the Gretchen family—they’d lived there for a long time. Blaine walked up to the door of the house, opened it, and stepped inside—where he was greeted by his youngest brother, Blaze. As he passed through the kitchen, he grabbed a jar off the counter and a remnant piece of paper. He scribbled down the date and his new mission, shoved the paper into the jar, and then carried it to his back yard.

Blaine hid the jar amongst the overgrown bushes. He turned around and began to go back inside, but paused outside the door. He could hear his neighbors yelling and their children crying. An intoxicated man’s voice yelled several harsh words at a woman and the couple tussled over the man’s bottle of liquor. There was a loud crashing sound as the bottle smashed against the ground, and the man became enraged. The woman screamed as the man’s fist were raised in a threat to hit her—causing the children to cry louder.

Most homes in Needslight sounded like this one, but not many people paid attention to it. People had learned to tune out and mind their own business.

Blaine clenched his teeth as it began to rain. The rain mixed with the his tears and sorrow struck his heart as he struggled to catch his silent cries. Wiping his face, he quickly walked back into the house. He hugged Blaze, and then walked to his bedroom and laid down on the lower bunk bed. The rain picked up, but through it he could hear sirens in the wealthy neighborhoods. Sirens that meant safety for those thought more important.

Blaine rolled over, only to find himself facing Blaze—who had followed him in. He scooped the four year old up and held him close, “I’m going to start a team, Blaze—I’m going to help people in Needslight.”

“Really?” Blaze replied as he drifted off to sleep.

“Really,” Blaine whispered.

 

 

___________________

Aight.

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[Potato reporter]

@grcr

You can definitely keep me updated!

I don’t want to tag anyone who isn’t interested… so I’m not gonna tag anyone on this topic at all. And I hate tagging!

Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have tagged anyone…😓… uhhh… maybe I can get off with a warning? because it was y first time making a WIP topic…? 😣

 

Moral of the story, "always listen to a carrot cake when it screams at you."

[-GRCR-]

@the_lost-journal

Alright! I will!

Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have tagged anyone…😓… uhhh… maybe I can get off with a warning? because it was y first time making a WIP topic…? 😣

No no no it’s fine!! It’s just my personal feelings. 😅 It’s good to tag people or else they won’t know, and it usually doesn’t bother anyone!

I’m just crazy.

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[-GRCR-]

Alright, gotta go. *fades into air*

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[-GRCR-]

A moodboard I made for my book…

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[Esther]

@grcr

I’m already committed to reading two other people’s WIPs, but I don’t care I’m still subscribing to this topic!!! One day I’ll get around to getting everything read *sigh* 🤣

Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende

[-GRCR-]

@Esther-c

I’m already committed to reading two other people’s WIPs, but I don’t care I’m still subscribing to this topic!!! One day I’ll get around to getting everything read *sigh* 🤣

Lol! 😂 Yay! 😄

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[-GRCR-]

AHHH Oh no, um… I may not be able to post a lot here. I might be taking another break from my novel… We’ll see idk… ugh.

*grumbles*

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[Potato reporter]

@grcr

…?

Moral of the story, "always listen to a carrot cake when it screams at you."

[-GRCR-]

I’ve shared this chapter a lot on here. But here it is again, in its close to final state.

 

 

CHAPTER I

It was a beautiful spring day in Burne. The clear sky and bright sun alluded to summer. Flowers bloomed their pretty faces amidst the grassy neighborhood yards, and the wind whispered to the trees. The world displayed no favoritism to the Burnish people, despite their social divides. The divide was most evident in the city of Fremir, which was broken into three social classes: the poor who lived in Needslight, Greencoin was made up of the middle class, and the abundantly rich lived in Burnswell. Everyone knew about the divide, but no one new what to do to change it.

Our story starts in the neighborhood of Burnswell, a district that housed the wealthy descendants of Walt Jefferson II, as well as other rich and influential families. While they never suffered from financial issues, the relationships in their homes were distant and broken, they often looked down on other people, and lived superficial lives. To understand the people of Burnswell better, we will focus on the most prominent family in Burne, and that is the Jeffersons.

 

“…The life of a rich fellow, living in a mansion tall and grand.

He has carriages and horses, and his wealth is in his hands…”

Sitting in the window of his room, a teenage boy read the poetic words from the small brown book nestled in his youthful hands. His eyes stared at the words on the page, while his mouth silently shaped the expressions as he read and re-read each sentence. He would spend the whole day devouring the writings like a starved person. They were a comfort to him on rough days, and his favorite books were the ones given to him by his great-grandfather.

Thirteen year old Walt Jefferson XXIII was the only son of Belle and Walt Jefferson XXII. He looked unreservedly like his mother, and people often wondered what of his father’s genes he had. His nose held the signature elf-shoe shape that all the Jefferson family line had in common, and was the only feature he inherited from his father. His mother referred to him as Ira—and that was what everyone called him.

 

“…Little did he know, that his riches were a lie.

That all of his fortunes, would one day pass him by.…”

 

Ira glanced around his bedroom for a brief moment, and began tapping his feet on the smooth, black, wooden floor. His room was large, and could easily have been mistaken for the master bedroom. It had an empty airiness, and a white chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Ira sat in a small lounge chair in front of a large window that filtered the incoming sunlight.

 

“…His days of luxury, and opulence and ease,

Would soon become nothing, but distant memories…

The life of a rich man is fleeting, with no support,

His fortunes are gone, and his life is cut… short.”

 

Ira lifted his head, and sat up straighter. He ruminated on the poem for a long time before moving to another. He was deep in thought, and hadn’t noticed knock at his door, or the familiar voice that called to him, “Ira? Are you in here?”

“Oh, Shannon,” Ira said coolly as he slid out of his chair and stood up, advancing towards the door, “I was not aware that you knocked.”

“I can tell! You are always absorbed in a book,” A blonde-haired woman stepped into the room and put her hands on her small hips, “I might have to ring a loud bell next time!”

Shannon Palmer was Ira’s governess. He was in Shannon’s care, raised by her from the time he was weaned to relieve Belle of the pressures of motherhood. Shannon knew him well—she was his closest confidant and care-taker. His meals, routines, and ideas were first told to her before his own mother.

“Your mother has asked for you,” Shannon put her warm hands on Ira’s shoulders and walked him to his personal bathroom. Standing on the tips of her feet because of her short height, she pulled a gray suit out of Ira’s closet. She handed the clothes to the boy and stepped outside the door so he could put them on in private. While she waited, she informed him, “Your mother is in the kitchen’s lounge, and her friends are over.”

“Oh, no,” Ira murmured, his words hidden under a sigh. He wasn’t allowed to see his parents unless called for, and often that was when their small talk entertaining had run dry, and he would be the focus of their practiced “constructive criticism”.

“You say ‘oh no’ about visiting your mother?” Shannon asked, as she brushed a few fuzzes off of Ira’s broad shoulders when he exited the bathroom, “You rarely see her.”

“I know, but I really hate the shallow conversations,” He moaned, “I never feel like I can express my opinions or talk about deep subjects. I do not enjoy talking with her like I do you or great-grandfather… or even my tutor.”

“Really?” Shannon pulled a comb out of the bathroom vanity, and smoothed back Ira’s long, dark hair.

“Yes. My mother doesn’t talk about anything important, and my father won’t stop pushing our family history on me,” Ira continued, “I know it by heart. Walt II was a founder of Burne, Walt III named the first commercial district, Walt IV built the first mansion in Burnswell, and it goes on and on and on. Do they even know me?”

“Oh, Ira,” Shannon sighed as smoothed his loose black hairs down to the best of her ability, “Well, I’m sure they don’t mean to make you feel this way. Now, hurry on down to your mother. At least you can make her feel loved by being obedient to her wishes.”

* * *

“There you are!” Belle’s quiet, slow, tantalizing voice sent a ripple of irritation down Ira’s spine. She signaled for him to come sit down next to her by patting her gloved hand on the couch.

Ira smiled unenthusiastically and walked to his mother, glancing around the room before he sat down on the couch next to her. Several of his mother’s friends, unfamiliar to Ira, sat on the couches surrounding a coffee table. Some held glasses half-full of wine and others had their hands in their laps, but all of them watched his moves, smiling—at least as Ira perceived it—rather insincerely.

“Tell me, my friends, isn’t he such a fine boy? A pure reflection of his mother!” Belle laughed. Ira kept his eyes locked with his mother’s, cringing as all the ladies complemented his face and stature and smile. He wished he could escape this torment and run to his room, where all of his books would be waiting to be read. Where he could escape his life, and live in the stories that ended satisfactorily.

“Ira,” Belle looked into her son’s widened eyes, and shook her thick black hair that hung to her petite shoulders, “would you mind reciting a poem for my ladies? I told them all about your love for poetry, and they are longing to hear you recite it.”

Belle looked around at her friends and they all laughed at her exaggeration of their eagerness. Her thin brows dropped as she stared into Ira’s eyes, giving him a look that demanded obedience to her question-like command.

Ira took a deep breath and matched his mother’s cool request with an even colder, “Because you’ve asked.”

Ira stood up. He couldn’t tolerate sitting while reciting poetry. His great-grandfather always told him that poems contained more dramatic power when delivered while standing.

 

“It’s a heavy weight within us,

A muscle to be flexed and honed,

Life throws punches we must accept,

As we become grown.

 

It takes form in steadfast bravery,

Glimpses of faith, no matter the stakes,

Nothing can stop us from achieving our goals,

If we have courage, we can’t break.

 

It’s the spark that drives us eagerly,

A reminder that this too shall pass,

We never know what the future holds,

But we must embrace the courage to bring change at last.”

 

Belle squinted at Ira, but then turned to the ladies around her, “Alright, my friends, my Ira is tired. Ira, come kiss your mother and you may go.”

Ira walked to his mother, kissed her cheek and exited the room, while the ladies picked back up their conversation about the pleasant, and well mannered children of Burnswell.

Outside of the door, Shannon waited patiently for Ira, and put her arm around his shoulders, “Oh Ira, what shall we do with you. You’ll make your mother a mad woman with your poems.”

“What do you mean?” Ira asked, a small smile lighting his face. It was a comfort to Ira, to be back in the presence of Shannon, far away from the emptiness of his mother’s conversations. Shannon’s chatter about some innocent little joy she had seen outside was far more delightful than the vain talk of the ladies in the lounge, but Ira thought both were annoying in the moment. Shannon followed him back to his room, where he sat down in the chair facing his window.

“Now, now, Ira,” Shannon said sweetly, as she folded some clothes that sat on his bed, “tell me. Are you feeling… alright?”

“Perhaps,” Ira answered coolly, lacking enthusiasm for anything, “I could feel better.”

He slouched in the chair, wrapped his arms around his legs, and stared out at the world beyond his large home. A world he hadn’t seen much of, but desired to view and experience. His tutor used to tell him about the world outside of Burnswell, but the topic was forbidden by Belle when Ira asked her to take him to Needslight. The memory frequently played in his head:

_____

“Mama!” Ira called childishly as he ran to his mother’s room. She was laying on her bed, admiring her face in a mirror, with a glass of wine on her bedside table. The five year old threw his 46 pound body into her lap, knocking the mirror out of her left hand.

“Ira, I am very busy!” Belle sighed impatiently as she placed him onto the ground. “What do you want, child? Can’t you go whine somewhere else? Where is your governess? Shannon!”

“I’m sorry, Mama. But please! I want to see the world!” His starry eyes filled enthusiasm as Belle stared blankly into them. She thought for a few seconds before she replied.

“Oh. And what part of the world do you want to see?”

“I want to see Needslight!” Ira laughed and let out a baby-like squeal of joy.

“Oh, no! Why, who told you about Needslight?”

“My tutor,” Ira said sweetly, with a lift of his right shoulder, “He always tells me about the places in Burne when I’m doing geography studies. He told me that the people there need help. Mama, why don’t we ever help them? Don’t we have the—”

“Oh stop, Ira!” Belle exhaled. She turned her pale face away from the child and said, “I don’t ever want to hear you speak of those… those people again! You tell your tutor not to tell you anything else about Needslight! Now, go find Shannon and tell her you’re bored.”

_____

“Ira? Did you hear me?” Shannon’s voice brought Ira out of his thoughts. She tucked the clothes she was folding into his drawers and said, “Well, I was thinking I could make some lemonade. Would that brighten the moment? I will bring you some, and maybe the blues will go away.”

“Thank you, Shannon,” Ira said thoughtfully. When Shannon left the room, he retrieved the brown book that he was absorbed in earlier, and resumed his reading.

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[-GRCR-]

@the_lost-journal

Umm… I need to figure some things out. My mom thinks I should use the book as a ref for a comic version of this story, and if I do that I may not need the writing to be edited too much, and if that’s the case then I won’t really be posting on here…… but idk…

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[-GRCR-]

@the_lost-journal @anyone @random-stalkers

 

Okay, uh, yeah. I’ve talked to my mom, and I’ve got a total change of plans. I’m not going to post my writing related to TPE on here. this topic can just fade into oblivion for now. heh… 😅😅😑😅

 

Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.

[Esther]

@grcr

No worries!! :))

Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende

[Author]

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