Solomon Asa Davies
October 01, 2011 9:12 PM
The Death of Roberto Del Cavalier by Solomon Asa Davies
It would have been a normal Saturday (normal Saturdays were waking up at a reasonable hour, turning over in the bed to see the time, turn back to stare at the ceiling, close eyes, sleep for another few hours, wake up at lunch time) if Solomon's mind hadn't been plagued with thoughts all week. Lessons, moments in time he was actually usually focused for, had passed in a hazed blur. The polite greetings he usually gave (a whole year of "Hello"'s, "Good mornings"'s and "Good night"'s culminating in him knowing everybody's name, face, and forging the deepest of shallow casual acquaintances) were paused in favor of him biting his lip, wandering around, balled up fist knocking occasionally on the side of his head. Then Saturday came, an abnormal Saturday, because he was up on time, for once experiencing just how busy Cascade Hall could be for a regularly timed breakfast. With the conversations thickening the air, providing a shelter Solomon could hide underneath, he stared down at the parchment, ink, and quill he had assembled for him. Writing was a different kind of nourishment that was oftentimes more satisfying than real food. Dabbing the quill tip in ink, Solomon got to work.The DEATH of ROBERTO DEL CAVALIER
Solomon sat his quill down proudly, for a moment just staring at the awesome title he had created. It spoke of drama, it spoke of horror, it spoke of death (obviously), passion and love (subtly, for those who would understand that with a name like Roberto, there of course would have to be passion and love). There were scenes playing out in Solomon's mind of this Roberto Del Cavalier; a dashing hero who leaped over rooftops, a sword slung over his hip while his wand sent sparks flying over the city of Paris - or was Roberto Del Cavalier a more Spanish sounding name? Solomon couldn't really remember a city in Spain, so he stuck to Paris. Roberto Del Cavalier had a mustache, a goatee, and women. Lots of women. And enemies. Evil men who were trying to bring ruin to the city of France. Roberto fought them off, always winning, and how could he not? Dressed as he was all in black, with a fedora decorated with a red feather, leather black gloves, boots, and a cape that swept around his heels, thrust back by his hurried motions up the winding staircase to save the poor witch being carried off by the evil sorcerer. Obviously, the title spoke of all that, but still Solomon felt compelled to go on writing the story. Adjusting himself in his seat, he picked up his quill and went back to work.
The DEATH of ROBERTO DEL CAVALIER
A novel by Solomon A. Davies
In the winding streets of Paris there lived a man whose real origin nobody would ever know. It was assumed he was a gentleman because of his impeccable manners, style of dress, and broadened education of the world. Roberto Del Cavalier was his name. When he first emerged in Paris he seemed to keep his distance from society, though his company was much desired and sought after. People began to regard him as a snob, and when on the street they would turn from him. But, what they didn't know was that Roberto Del Cavalier was cursed!!!!! When in a duel in his youth, Roberto had lost to a dark wizard much more powerful than him. This dark wizard cursed Roberto into becoming one of the undead. Because of this, though Roberto still breathed, and ate, and drank, could talk, and could think, he wasn't really able to fit amongst the living. Then, one night, another day passed of people perceiving his rudeness and him wandering around lonely and unable to connect with anybody, Roberto walked up an alleyway where he saw
Solomon blinked, arm bent uncomfortably, suddenly aware that he had gone off the parchment, his quill scratching the surface of the table. He glanced up, happened to catch somebody looking, and then bent down, dark skin heating up, and peered down at the words he'd just written, committing them to memory before wiping the ink off with the sleeve of his robes, and copied the words down on the paper. His words now were a little neatened, not like the hasty scribbles above. Solomon wet his lips, hand lifting to rub at his blue eyes, pushing the thick black glasses up and out of the way. He felt very exposed, being accidentally woken from his daze of writing; now he was aware of the sleep caught in the corners of his eyes, the long black dreads that weren't at their neatest, his robes that hadn't yet been pressed. He looked back down at his writing, arm circling the parchment as if he was protecting it and himself. Quill to ink, ink to parchment, and he was writing again, gradually forgetting his surroundings, sinking back into the story he was creating. 'Reality is only where my body is.'
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Solomon Asa Davies
The Death of Roberto Del Cavalier
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Solomon Asa Davies
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