Craaven

After getting kicked out of his home, eleven year old Edgar Craaven, is transformed into a raven by a crazed nature alchemist and is forced to survive with the help of his friend William Tuck. But after an almost deadly plane crash, Edgar finds himself thrown into a land that seemingly doesn't even exist. Now he's forced to survive in a strange world while at the same time falling head over heels for a beautiful young girl. However when she is murdered, Edgar begins to struggle to keep his sanity together.

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1. Prologue: Day 1 Watford England 1977

Day 1: 
My Dad finally gave in to letting me get a new journal. It's been a while since I last wrote so I'm expecting the grammar I knew then would be different now. Two years have passed since I last picked up a pencil to write, and as I write this I'm thinking of leaving to go to the park and clear my mind. Especially since my Dad just got home a few minutes ago after hours at the nearby pub; he's been drinking alot more since my Mum left four years ago.

The park is a lovely place. It's a woodsy place that's filled to the brim with plant and wildlife. When one enters, they are immediately greeted by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and birds chirping melodies to their mates; this sound is amplified by a silence that is absolutely golden. The smell that accompanies is the fresh scent of pine leaves and freshly cut grass, with a hint of wet sap. All around, one sees only trees and bushes for miles, and occasionally they will see a deer or a family of foxes rummaging through the grass in search of food. But, like all good things, nothing can be perfect. All things have their downsides, and in the park's case; it is a creepy old man named Charles Hawkins.

This man must be in his ninetieshe's so old looking. He has long, thin, silver hair that goes down past his shoulders, and in some places on his scalp, hair is missing. He has weather-beaten skin dappled with liver spots and scars. The tired look in his faded chestnut eyes is enough to tell someone how much history and pain he's seen.

The man props himself up on an elaborately carved metal cane. The cane is carved into a dragon's claw with abstractly engraved scales. The talons at the end of the cane grips a large, spherical, purple jewel. I have to admit, despite Hawky's strange personality and even stranger appearance, he does have nice accessories, and on occasion I'll draw them. Some of these drawings include the cane he has, a few knives I've caught a glimpse of, and a bird necklace I've seen only once. This necklace was made of bones but it still looked nice.

One time my old friends and I actually discovered where he lives; it's an old decrepit cottage right next to an old willow tree. We tried to spy on him whilst he did some strange incantations. My friends thought he was just crazy, I thought he was legitimately trying to do something (while also being a loon). Unfortunately we couldn't stay too long; we got caught and were sent home. That was the scariest night of my life and because of it, Dad rarely ever lets me outside. He even nailed the windows shut to keep me from sneaking out.

However, a few times when my Dad wanted me to run an errand for him, I would encounter 'ole Hawky. Usually he just stares at me from across the street or passes by me with a harsh bump on the shoulder; sometimes he'll say some provocative words at me if I look "suspicious" to him.

I honestly don't know what I ever did to Hawkins; this grudge he has is absolutely ridiculous. It all started when Mum brought him in to give him some food when I was only three; I could barely speak or walk so I don't know what I did that was wrong.

Speaking of Mum, she was the kind of woman who was caring, loving, and would help anyone in need. When one saw her they immediately felt at home and comfortable. She was no stranger to anyone, which is exactly why she took Hawkins inside to have supper.

Mum had always loved Dad. But ever since she brought Hawkins over, Dad started losing his returning love for her. Dad is the jealous type; so every time he saw her helping another person, he assumed she didn't love him anymore and was looking for a new special someone.

Before the divorce, Mum and Dad fought over who would get custody over me. I was too young to understand the process of divorce, so the only decision I had in my mind was to stay with Mum... but unfortunately, Dad won custody and Mum won visitation rights that allow her to see me every weekend.

I don't know where Mum went after the divorce. I waited for several years to see if she would come back... but she never did. So I eventually gave in to the logical conclusion that she was dead. But even to this day, there is still that glimmer of hope that she is alive, just somewhere else.

I often think about running away and finding her. But then I remember the fact she could be anywhere in the world... or nowhere at all. I don't have much to remember her by; I've almost completely forgotten what she looks like. I mean I know she exists and I know I lived with her, but now she is more like the memory of a dream; you're not sure if it happened or not but either it existed at some point in time. All I have is a family photo on my desk, taken when I was just a baby. This is the only thing that helps me remember the time when our family actually smiled and the times when we were happy.

But now those times are past and now only Dad and I remain. Now I'm eleven, and I'm brave enough to fight back and smart enough to cry in secret.

Day 2:

To me, it seems kind of awkward that I write in a journal when I'm a guy. Usually, I would be made fun of; but when you're me, there's no one to make fun of you, in fact, my friends actually ask if I can write them a short story and pay me five pence. I tried to stop writing one time and push myself towards drawing, but I just won't stop, I actually found myself writing about stopping writing that same day, so I just gave up and called myself an author. It kind of relieves my stress. Sometimes when I write, I get ideas for new stories in my head and pretty soon I'm writing the beginnings of a novel in a journal. But of course, I never continue these stories.

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