Day 1

My name is Wren and I don't like writing, but I decided I needed a place to jot my thoughts down. My parents and doctor said this would be good for me in the long run. After all a guy who is friendless needs something to do/talk to. This isn't a diary.

                                                                                                                   -Wren

Day 1

My name is Greyson and I am starting a journal because I just moved to a new town. My last school wasn't a good fit. I don't remember much from my time there anyway. I have short hair and get teased a lot. That's okay it won't matter much longer anyway. I have no friends, but maybe that will change at school. I looked out the window and a boy was in the yard next door. He is taller than me. Dark hair falls past his left eye, but otherwise it's clean cut. His eyes look green--maybe blue. I cannot tell. Maybe he and I can be friends. Well, time to unpack and eat dinner.

Day 2

Wren here again. I never know how to write greetings. I saw a girl or maybe younger boy looking out the neighbors upstairs window. Mom says I should introduce myself. I don't really want to. What;s the point when you don't have much time? Pop says I need a haircut, but I don't want to do that either. Maybe if I go over then they will leave me alone about my hair. 

                                                                         -The guy who needs a haircut but refuses

Day 2

So the boy next door came by and said his name is Wren. He awkwardly told me at first that he thought I might be a boy (how typical). We both are the same age and actually attend the same high school (15 if you care). He doesn't seem to have a friend group so maybe I'm in luck. Not very many people want to be my friend or get close to me. It kind of sucks. I wouldn't tell him that though. Mom and dad are fighting again and per usual it's about me.

Day 3

So, Greyson is a girl. She is actually kind of cute and will be in some of my classes. She doesn't have a friend group yet, so maybe she'll hang out with me. She was pretty cool, but seemed to have a lot going on. We made plans, but her parents were kind of in the middle of something for us to really finalize. She said we'd talk later.

                                                                                                   -Couldn't seal the deal

Day 3

Wren asked me to hang out, he's the boy next door. We didn't actually say when and where-- that's a good sign right? Right?! I think he is really nice, but I'm just hoping that he won't look at me different after he truly gets to know me. Mom looked at me and cried after asking me a question. I guess she didn't like the answer? I told her I was going to go see Wren tomorrow afternoon.

Day 4

Oh, wow. Greyson and I finally hung out and she kind of freaked me out with starting off by saying, "I hope this doesn't make you think any different of me, but I had brain cancer (now in remission), but have been diagnosed with early onset alzheimer's." I had no idea what to say so she just kept talking about how she writes in her journal and reads it every day. She is sad that some days are more detailed than others, but she doesn't want me to think she will forget. She said if I didn't want to be friends with her then that was okay. I stood there like a dumbfounded idiot and let her talk and talk until she walked away. I guess I just didn't know how to tell her that I only have 7 months and two days to live. It seems like we are in a damn chick flick. Two tragedies destined to be tragic. You deserve better... Greyson deserved better.

Day 4

I came home crying and all I can remember is that it was because that stupid boy, Wren. I know I told him about me, but he just looked at me like I was a freak. I knew it was too good to be true to finally have a friend-- for someone to see me as just someone too. I tried. Mom and dad are getting frustrated with me or maybe with each other. I just hear my name a lot and how they don't know what to do with me. I'm starting to get tired of reading every day what I did the day before and looking at pictures of people I don't know. Mom said a few of them were me. How can I not recognize myself? Partially because one of them was a damned ultrasound picture. The other one was before they removed the tumor in my brain. The cancerous lump of destruction. I hope I can get over this and at least enjoy the first day of school.

Day 5

I walked with Greyson to school this morning and I started to tell her that I wasn't going to live for very long. I told her about my kidneys failing and how I didn't have a match yet. I told her about how I was so far down the list that I probably wouldn't see another kidney. She looked at me and said, "That sucks, I'm sorry." I smiled. Me too. We walked in silence. The principal greeted us and told us about our schedules. We had all the same classes. I was to help Greyson with her work. That works for me.

It seemed like days until the last bell rang. Greyson looked around confused and asked me if I had seen her parents. I told her no but that I could walk her home to them. She told me all about her day and the school she had attended before. Later she looked at me and asked, Wren? I started to be confused too. I guess she forgot me for a minute. Her eyes seemed to have this glazed look before she asked my name. Almost like she was lost in a different world, but the question snapped her voice and eyes back to reality. The feeling I got in my chest had me all messed up. I was in knots. I wonder if this is what her parents feel every day.

Day 5

I went to school with Wren. I had to ask mom what his name was again. He has every class with me and even walked me home. I was talking to him and he had a confused look on his face. He looked like he may be having chest pains or maybe a headache. I felt bad. We talked until I got home. I told him I would see him tomorrow.

He told me that he writes in a journal too and maybe we could let the other read sometime. He said maybe it will help me remember a little more since my entries fluctuate in size. I sort of agreed, but maybe I should change some of what I said before... I think I called him cute.

To be continued...

Most people who run away from their lives try to relocate in the Bahamas, not Mars. But, as my daddy told me, I’ve always been dramatic.

I’m not stupid. This entire trip, from the first moment I thought to volunteer for the Space Explorer 27 when I was eighteen with frizzy hair, a dirty mouth, and a caffeine addiction, has always been an escape.

So here I sit, my hands sweaty in my gloves, waiting to board. It smells like gasoline and desperation.

“Are you okay?” a girl with pink hair in the seat beside me asks. Her words force me from my thoughts. She’s wearing too much eyeshadow, and I wonder if she knows there isn’t a makeup refill station where we’re going.

“I’m fine,” I reply, smacking on a smile like a plastic glove. She, on the other hand, is pale and grips the sides of her chair.

“I’m not.”

Obviously, I want to say. But I don’t say anything. I don’t tell her what I’m thinking at all. Apparently, my vendetta against falsehood does not extend beyond the boundaries of my mind. Quiet, I run my thumb over my knuckles. We wait seated and uninformed and terrified in a line; me and the rest of us explorers. There’s a man who’s kid died last year. There’s a woman who never married. There’s an old man who talks with a constant lisp and a man younger than me who checks his cell phone when he gets nervous. Then there’s the pink-haired bubble gum girl. And then there’s me. These are the Explorers.

That’s what they call us.

Daring adventurers. Valiant heroes. Braving the darkness of eternity.

I know the truth.

We aren’t sacrificing by leaving the planet. I can see the question in everyone’s eyes when they see us. What sort of person leaves their planet forever? I’m not a scientist. None of us are. This isn’t the first batch of people to shoot off. We are Explorers 27.

But we’re not just explorers. We’re runaways.

At least I’m honest, though.

Self- honesty is the only thing I’ve got going for me. Not making an excuse for my behavior is my self-inflicted punishment. I will spend every waking moment rawly aware of exactly what I am doing and what I have done.

I shudder, and my throat is as dry as a sidewalk in the summer. Achingly dry. I remember skidding my knees on the ground as a kid on such a summer. My palms slammed into the concrete. Shouting? No, I didn’t shout. That was my mom. I was this little thing crumpled on the pavement like a discarded newspaper clipping. My blood dripped up my arms as I hugged those knees to my chest and whispered bad words Daddy taught me, and Mommy didn’t want me to say.

Shaky, little me stood and blinked away watery vision. Dust rose behind the retreating back of a blue pickup truck. Daddy’s truck.

I used to chew bubble gum in that truck. Me and Dad when he was trying to quit smoking. Together we blew bubbles. We’d roll down the windows and scream Green Day to the wind.

After that day on the sidewalk, I did not see the truck until I was seventeen. I spotted him, and I remember thinking he looked old. Arms crossed. Gritty. Leaning against that stubbornly running pickup. I made permanent nail marks in my textbook. He said he missed me. He had a place in Brooklyn. I could leave with him. Right now. Forget stupid kids who didn’t understand anything. Forget my pathetic attempts to finish school and get a job. Forget mom and her jerk boyfriends.

Forget all that and come home with Daddy. Daddy misses you. Daddy hasn’t been around for years.

And so I forgot. For a bit.

Does that make me a horrible person? This, right now, is not the first time I’ve run away. Not by a long shot. Distance, space, miles from the things I can’t handle, that is comfortable.

Traveling with Dad was good for a while if I didn’t think too hard. It was almost like him leaving never happened. “Let’s fly, Cherry-pop.” He winked and murdered the speed limit as if we were invincible.

Right then. Just at that moment, I swear we were.

I’m not sure what he wanted out of me, really. But I figured out the jist of it eventually.

I put space between us.

I did it again.

And again.

Back to Mom. Off to school. Off too… I don’t even remember at this point.

And now I’m here. In this waiting room. On the other side of the doors, there’s a contained crowd with questions, and the shuttle; my home from now on. There is no further to go after this. I’ll never see their faces again; my mom’s screaming for Dad to come back, or my dad’s sweaty, red one as he stumbled, drunk, into his apartment and cast me a Cheshire grin. All gone.

Space would be comforting like it always was, I said to myself. A cushion. A buffer. My problems are impossibly insignificant in comparison to the size of the universe.

The door opens soundlessly and a rat-like man who still stutters around girls even though he has to be at least thirty-five pokes his head in. “It’s time, folks.”

I’m moving in a disjointed dream state, numb. One moment waiting we’re, the next, we’re on the walkway in the hot sun. The suit is scratchy on my skin. Mom is in the crowd. I don’t look at her but I can practically feel her gaze. Is she crying? Should I care? Do I care? Yes, I care. The next moment, I note my feet are stepping over the border into the shuttle. Booted. Armored against elements I was not made to exist in.

Why is Mom even hear, I lament to myself? Wasn’t she the one who told me to let her live her life? So I am, I note bitterly. Giving her space. I think, perhaps, this isn’t what she had in mind. Maybe that’s why she’s here.

It is cool inside. All of us adventurers are going to breathe this same air forever now. Inhale, exhale.

One after another, we file to our seats. The door still stands open. In this part of the shuttle, there are a number of seats, each with a window. Sitting down now is the hardest thing I have ever done.

But there I am, staring blankly out the window at the runway and the sun beating down on the concrete. The ground is hot just like was that summer. Except, this time, I am the one riding away.

Screwing my eyes shut, I grip the armrests. When I open my eyes, and my gaze flicks back outside, my heart suddenly bubbles into my throat.

Because there he is.

On the edge of the crowd, he stands to wave his arms almost frantically. He is not deluded like the rest of everyone. He knows we are not adventurers. We’re runaways. He knows. Even from this distance, I can see the raw terror on his face. He doesn’t just look old. He is broken. Tired. Finished. Like that old truck that finally gave out. I stare at him in shock. He opens his mouth, hands cupped, and shouts something I can’t hear. But it doesn’t matter. I’m back to being seventeen again.

We can make ourselves a bit of space, yeah? You and me against the world, Cherry-pop.

All the oxygen rushes out of me to be replaced by waves of aching loneliness. Hurt. Hope? Anger.

My lip quivers. With a rush of fury that surprises even me, I bite down hard on my lip.

I could leave. Just like he did. He’ll know what it’s like. Every stinking day after this one. My victory. His punishment. The piece I never got. I get a rush of vicious pleasure, and the shuttle charges up. Sweet victory. Sweet, sweet…

I clench my jaw. Who am I kidding? That isn’t victory, and it isn’t sweet. With each exhale, I am a little bit lighter. A little bit emptier.

It’s not too late.

I can run out there now. Back to him and smell the bubblegum in his pocket as he puts me together again.

I breathe in. I could stop. I could change this. Right now.

For a moment like an eternity, I hang on the edge, holding his desperate gaze. He wants me to come back, and he can’t come closer because of crowd control. But he tries. He tries.

He’s scrambling forward and falls. Hard, on his hands and knees on the hot concrete. But Dad is back on his feet in an instant, waving his hands again. They’re red. Red hands. Red knees.

Want some bubblegum?

Feet off the dashboard, kid.

Get us some space…

Daddy misses you.

There is Pink again, watching me. “You sure you’re okay?”

I pin her with my gaze like she’s a bug on a wall.

But my energy leaves me all at once, and I slump. This is a victory. This is revenge. This is justice. This is what he deserved.

I look her in the eye. Honesty. That is my curse. My punishment. My words echo dully in my chest and clink against my ribs.

“No, I’m not okay.”

I don’t think I ever will be.

~

Title: Space Between Us

Genre: short story

Age range: Young adult

Word count: 1577

Author name: Timerie Blair

Why your project is a good fit: This is just an example of my writing ability. I have several other short stories and a novel written.

Hook: Most people who run away from their lives try to relocate in the Bahamas, not Mars. But, as my daddy told me, I’ve always been dramatic.

Synopsis: A young woman contemplates her life choices as she takes the final step in her continual escape from her family. She is going to leave on an exploratory ship to Mars, never to return, and her family is desperate to convince her to stay.

Target audience: Teenagers who enjoy sci-fi

Your bio: My name is Timerie Blair and I love writing and reading and creating art and I want to make a difference in the world.

Platform: Tumblr Blog owner and Inkitt.com contest winner. I won first place in their horror short story contest Nevermore with my short story Anomaly. I have also o twice in local library short story contests.

Education: Currently attending college for Graphic Design and planning on continuing to finish with an English degree two years from now.

Experience: I have written thousands of pages of writing, non-fictional and fictional and have won several contests. I have a finished novel.

Personality/writing style: I tend to write in first person (but not always) and have a quick, modern style of writing that has been described as similar to Veronica Roth's writing style. I am a quiet individual who enjoys her time alone with a cup of tea and a notebook.

Likes/Hobbies: Writing, reading, drawing, painting, playing piano, listening to musicals, going on picnics. 

Hometown: Columbus Ohio

CHAPTER 1

Let’s begin with that familiar phrase – no, not once upon a time, but the other one: It all started when . . .

It all started when… #1: I suppose it really all started when our family got our first computer – I was only five or so years old. It was a Tiger PC and it sounded like a chainsaw whenever we turned it on. We had to put pillows over it to drown out the noise.

     Despite its faults, I loved fooling around on that thing. We didn’t have Windows though; my dad morally objected to it during Microsoft’s monopoly days. So we did everything through dos (the command prompt, or terminal). Through this, I became proficient in computer code. By my eighth birthday, I had a greater command of the language of coding than I did of English, which, looking back, probably led to my social awkwardness. I didn’t have any friends in elementary and middle school. And when I say I didn’t have any friends, I mean it. I’m talking about sitting alone at lunch and no hanging out after school and definitely no spending the night at someone else’s house. That changed in high school, though. But I’ll get to that in a second. Back to computers.

     When my dad noticed my increasing mastery with coding and such, he began teaching me about hacking. He had been some kind of covert hacker for the government (he could never give any real details) for several years before settling into his intelligence analyst position, and thought it would be good to impart some of his knowledge onto me. It wasn’t black hat (criminal hacking) or anything. Rather, he brought home old computers to hack into for fun.

     And fun it was. Especially when he finally let me do some real-life hacking during the all-night mission he set up for me when I was in sixth grade. He booked me a room on the Chattanooga Choo-Choo, which was the famous train sung about by the Glenn Miller Orchestra (yeah, I don’t really know who that is either, but everyone tells me it was a huge hit). The train was parked in the middle of downtown Chattanooga (Chattanooga, Tennessee – the city I’m from) and was repurposed as a hotel, a pretty nice hotel, too. He put me up in one of the train cars-turned Victorian guest room, helped me set up a computer work station, gave me a sheet of typed-up instructions and left. Me. Alone. The night was a blast.

     The instructions were pretty scant – I was to complete three related hacks, wipe any evidence that could be traced back to me, and last the night in the hotel room without getting caught. The three hacks were serious, though. Break into the video systems of the Big River Grille, Bijou Theater and the Chattanooga Lookouts stadium, and stream to their feeds the SpongeBob Squarepants episode saved on your computer.

     The jobs were pretty difficult – it took me a couple of hours just to get into the Lookouts, and once I did, I hacked into their security feeds as well to see the fallout. The night game of minor league baseball kept going, the players oblivious to the cartoon on the giant scoreboard, so I shut down their lighting system. Even though hacking into the security feeds and shutting down their lights weren’t in the directions, it was fun watching the confusion on the crowds and players’ faces, and the subsequent scrambling of the crews to regain control of their systems. After watching the scene for the duration of the SpongeBob episode, I relinquished control back to the proper owners. I then moved on to the Bijou theater (now a hipster rock climbing gym) and hacked all of their screens and played the same episode. I felt kind of bad for ruining the movie-goers’ experience . . . for about twelve seconds. As confusion reigned, I moved across the street to the Big River Grille and interrupted the basketball and baseball games on the various TVs behind the bar and surrounding the pool tables.

     After I finished, I deleted all my logs as my dad had taught me and shut down the computer. I lay down on the four-poster and attempted to go to sleep, but my mind was still buzzing. I was tempted to keep hacking. I knew I had the power and capability to have as much fun as I wanted, and I gave in to the temptation. But in less than ten minutes after I turned the computer back on, someone pounded on my door. I expected my dad to be on the other side. I was wrong.

     Two police officers greeted me with a high-beamed flashlight to my face. They asked me a couple of questions about what I was doing by myself, and what I had been doing the previous few hours. I stammered out a couple of pitiful lies. They didn’t believe me, of course, especially when they saw my computer station set up on the desk behind me. They cuffed me and stuffed me into the back of their squad car. I stifled tears all the way to the police station. Okay, I bawled my eyes out. Pleaded for mercy. When they walked me up the concrete stairs and through the opaque windowed double doors, my dad was waiting for me with a scared and disappointed look on his face. They started booking me – fingerprints, mug shot, the whole deal. Before they put me in a cell, however, my dad comes up and says, “Alright boys, I think that’ll be enough.” It was all an elaborate prank. “A lesson,” my dad said. I had to be careful and patient when hacking. I had to know when it was enough and when it was too much, too far. I had gone too far, and the police tracked me down. Or rather, my dad had been monitoring my computer the whole time and, as soon as I turned it back on, sent in his buddies from the force to apprehend me. Lesson learned. Sort of.

A small part of me wanted to kill my dad, but I was a good sport about it. I mean, it was a damn good prank and a damn good way to teach me an important part of hacking. And I still got to do some cool hacks along the way that I was proud of. But the most important thing I learned was that I had a dad. I was young, but not too young to know how rare it was to not just have both parents in your life, but to have them actively a part of your life. Unlike Jake, whose divorced parents screamed (literally screamed) at each other during school functions. Or Matt who had never known his dad. And so on. So, despite my youth, I had the capacity to appreciate things like my dad not just simply taking an interest in me, but loving me in a tangible, active way. And I don’t want to neglect to mention my mom. She was great, too. But, for the purposes of clarity and concision (and respect), I’m leaving her out of most of this story.

     Now, back to hacking. One summer day a few years later, when my parents weren’t home, I, like most youth of any generation, did things I wouldn’t normally do when my parents were home. No, I didn’t snoop around their bedroom looking for my dad’s porno mags (if he had any), or try on my mom’s underwear (hey, some kids explore their sexuality during this time of their lives). Rather, I decided to take my hacking skills back into the public domain. The temptation again poked its head up into my mind, and I again gave in to it. I picked our local bank down the street. Now, before you get the wrong idea, I didn’t hack to steal money or anything (I wasn’t that much of a degenerate [not then, at least]). I just wanted to see if I was good enough to crack a more advanced (than a restaurant’s) security. I was.

     When the five ’o clock news reported a security breach at Regions Bank, I knew somehow that I was screwed. My dad didn’t say anything at first, but he went to our office and, even though I deleted my logs, somehow found out that it was me. We had a long talk that night, or at least he had a long talk and I had a long listen. It was serious. It wasn’t a game like before. Thank goodness, though, he wasn’t barbaric like the other dads who took the belt to their children, leather on bare back. But the thought that I had disappointed him was painful enough for me. Looking back, I see that this was one of those defining moments in my life that you hear so much about. More so than the lesson I learned when I got fake arrested, I realized the potential power resting in a few keys, just a set of mindless movements of my fingers. It was a force, an agency of change for myself and others. It wasn’t simply about not getting caught. My decisions affected others as well. Too bad temptation has the innate ability to turn black and white into gray and make someone forget about possible/probable consequences. Rationalization is temptation’s first cousin.

It all started when… #2: Besides that talk I had with my dad, one of the other big moments in my life was during first period on my very first day of high school. It was the day I met Allison Rutherford. I remember her first words spoken to me, partly because of her magnetism, but mostly because she was the only person to approach and speak to me voluntarily.

     “Hi. I’m Allison, but you can call me Al,” she said.

     I’m pretty sure I confirmed the “love at first sight” theory. Too bad she didn’t have any corresponding feelings. She friend-zoned me for the next four years. But that wasn’t all that bad. Because my maturity level was ahead of my contemporaries, I very much appreciated a friend. And since I loved her, I thrived off every moment we spent together.

It all started when… #3: Hacking and love being established as a foundation, I now want to build off them and get to the crux of our story. Throughout our entire senior year of high school, Al and I made plans to move out west to go to Colorado University in Boulder. We chose that because A.) we both wanted to get out of the mosquito-infested, hades of the South. Chattanooga is beautiful, or so everyone says. But it’s mostly a tourist city. We have the Tennessee Aquarium, “One of the largest freshwater aquariums in the world!” and the world famous Rock City on top of Lookout Mountain. No seriously, it’s world famous. Have you never seen the red and black painted barn with “See Rock City” written on it? I once saw a picture of a birdhouse that was a “See Rock City” barn. The picture was taken in Iraq. I digress. B.) We decided that we were both travelers, nomads at heart. So naturally, we wanted to explore the world, and Colorado seemed a good place as any to start. Plus the Rockies seemed much more majestic than the foothills of the foothills of the Appalachians. Yes, I did just say ‘foothills of the foothills’ – the city is that insignificant. And C.) there weren’t any good colleges in Chattanooga. There was UTC (University of Tennessee at Chattanooga) where everyone from high school with decent grades went. There was Chatt. State (Chattanooga State Technical Community College) where all the people who didn’t have decent grades but still wanted to make something of their lives went. There were a few religious schools where all the future priests/ministers/theologians, etc. went. And then there was Crockett State. The 13th grade. It was the cheapest school in Chattanooga, so anyone who wanted to extend the glory days of their high school years could just go to Crockett. Crockett did have a good football team, though. The best in the South, actually. But that just added to the typical school hierarchy: jocks on top, me and Al on the bottom. I mean, Al didn’t have to be on the bottom rung, but she valued friendship over popularity. Dang, I loved her.

     So we were headed to Colorado. But then (in case you didn’t know, the words but then signify a particular change of events that will alter the course of things, throw a wrench in our plans, if you will), my dad’s pay got cut in half, and Al’s dad left her and her mom. What did this mean? It meant that neither of us could afford to go to CU. Al’s mom had bad credit, so she couldn’t get a loan, and my dad refused to take out a student loan for me for some reason (every time I asked him why, he began spouting out big tax terms that I didn’t understand). This made me quite upset at him. And when I say quite upset, I mean really pissed off. I didn’t show it, of course. I like to stuff my anger. But what was worse than not being able to go to Colorado was that we both were forced to enroll at Crockett State, the most affordable option, the only affordable option. It was going to be a shitty year, but I was determined to not make it four years, or even two. I was going to save up money, or get a scholarship in something, anything, to get to Colorado, my dad and his pay cut and his taxes be damned.

     If you’ve paid attention so far, you’ve probably done the math, added things up. If not, let me spell it out for you: take the fact that I’m a very skilled, yet temperamental computer hacker, I was in love with my best friend, but neither of us could afford to go to our dream college. What do you think happened? That’s what this story is about. Mostly, anyway. There may also be this thing with another girl, and oh, some good ol’ deep and dark family secrets thrown in here, too. But enough with all this backstory and hinting at what’s to come – let’s jump into the real story.

CHAPTER 2

Orientation was a drag-party. No, not that kind of drag. The kind of drag in which a hulk of a man has your wrists knotted together and is pulling you along by a rope, dragging you. He’s walking so slowly, but for some reason you can’t keep up, so you fall to the ground, but he just keeps dragging you. So if you can imagine being dragged along face first on the ground by a big dude, let’s say your own dad (or mom), then you can know what college orientation feels like. At Crockett, anyway. I imagine it would be more interesting at CU.

     We skipped the “Discovery Week” of orientation and opted for the one day intensive. So instead of a week-long event of touring the campus, staying up all night making s’mores and listening to that one d-bag play his acoustic around the campfire, and sleeping in the decrepit dorms with “potential lifetime friends”, Al and I, plus my mom and dad and Renee (Al’s mom) spent eight hours in a lecture hall suffering a slow death-by-powerpoint. I decided that eight hours was better than an entire week, so I tried to stay positive.

     After learning about the exact incline of the wheelchair access ramps around campus, we wrapped up the lectures and began the official tour, which was pretty dead. Literally. Just like the rest of Chattanooga, the grass was crispy and dangerous to walk on barefoot, while the cicadas screamed (some idiots say they sing) in the giant furnace we locals like to call “outside”. I always wanted to do a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the face of the numb-nuts who says “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity!” How about both, you dumb-ass?

     Anyway, the tour was pretty dead outside, but once we made our way to the main quad in front of the Student Activities Center (SAC, or Sad SAC, as Al called it), things livened up a bit. A fountain with about a 12-foot spray was the centerpiece of the quad and a few students waded in its overflow. In front of the fountain, a handful of guys were playing Cornhole, with the bean bags making loud thumps as they hit the slanted wooden boards.

     Inside the Sad SAC was even more lively. We were immediately greeted by girls sitting behind tables surrounded by poster boards and signs. One table was labeled IJM, another posted a sign that said “The Arts – Music, Theatre, Literature” with a subtitle of “A Wonderful Alternative to Engineering or Business”. The Sigma Deltas were grandstanding with kettle-bells next to the Crew team and their crew cuts, and to their right a pocket-protector was soliciting signatures to dissolve the Post Office. My head, instead of following the rest of my body, stuck to the Sigma Deltas in their black spandex shorts.

     “You’re ogling, Eli,” Al said.

     “No, I’m just . . . fascinated, I guess.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

At the end of the day, I was hacking my second-hand computer for the hundredth time as Al was lying on my bed reading some book way above my reading level.

     “I know I’ve asked this about thirty-six times, but are you still undecided?” Al said.

     “Yes.”

     “If you’re planning on getting to Colorado, you’re going to need focus – you need to show them that you have a plan. Why would they give an undecided a scholarship?”

     “Look, I’m just going to get my gen-eds out of the way, then I’ll tell them that Crockett doesn’t have the same level of education in my major-specific courses as CU does,” I said.

     “That’s actually not a bad lie,” Al said.

     We were silent for a few moments. I already knew she wasn’t going to change her mind on double-majoring in Art and English and double minoring in French and Religious Studies, so I didn’t return the question.

     “What if I don’t get to go to Colorado, and you do?” Al said.

     “Why would that even happen? If anyone can get a scholarship, it’s you, not me.”

     “Okay, hypothetically, then. Would you go to CU without me?” Al said.

     At that moment, a feeling of bitterness towards Al (not a completely new thing) rose up inside me. She seemed so selfish and thoughtless. Of course she couldn’t bear to lose her best friend. But she couldn’t see how much being around her was killing me. I loved her and loved to be with her, but it was tiresome as well – wishing for more than friendship, wishing she would finally see me as more than her “bestie”. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to get out of Chattanooga: if she came with me, maybe a new environment could bring a new life for us together – actually together. But I was beginning to think it would be just fine if she didn’t come. I could move on with my life and find someone who loved me as much as I loved them.

     But I couldn’t tell her that, of course. “Not a chance,” I said.

I TOLD YOU ELI OXLEY, complete at 58,000 words, is an Upper YA Contemporary. My target audience is ages 15+. The story is geared toward both young men and young women.

I TOLD YOU, ELI OXLEY is a novel about guilt, money, hacking, temptation and family secrets. Set in Chattanooga, Tennessee, the story follows would-be nomad Eli, a brilliant hacker doomed to live at home and attend Crockett State University. Eli has never used his hacking skills for illegal purposes, but when he becomes suspicious of his father’s money problems, he decides to act, threatening the principles he once held dear, endangering himself, his family and his love, Allison.

Eli, though knowledgable with computers, is ill-informed in every other aspect of his life: he’s socially awkward, emotionally inept and sexually inexperienced. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to get out of the friend zone with Allison. But will he even need to when the hot, physically forward blonde, Kara is coming on to him? Or what about when Al finally reciprocates his feelings? Then there’s the intriguing hacker fraternity he joins who may or may not be acting in Eli’s best interest. And to top it all off, a family secret he can’t ignore that goes deeper than just missing money. Eli struggles with his feelings for the two girls while retracing his dad’s digital footprints, digging for both answers and money. Will Eli get caught hacking his local bank? Will he get caught cheating on Al? In the end, escaping Chattanooga might be the least of his problems.

I was born in Chattanooga, TN. I served in the Army for five years, where I worked with computers at the National Security Agency (NSA). I have an MFA in Creative Writing: Fiction and a BA in English. I am a writing professor at Saint Mary’s College of California in the San Francisco Bay Area. I TOLD YOU, ELI OXLEY is my first novel, and it recently won a “Watty” award on WattPad in the category of Best New Voices, and currently has over 100,000 reads. I am also writing a sequel to it.

I can be described as a perfectionist with my writing style. I will think slowly and heavily on every word I write, making sure each word fits into the greater puzzle of each sentence, and each sentence fits into the paragraph, page, etc. But my deliberation does not mean less production. My typical goal for each day is a solid 1,000 words.

Other than reading and writing, my hobbies include taking my infant daughter on walks, watching as many movies as I can and occasionally playing video games.

Thank you so much for your time and consideration,

Best wishes,

Chase Manning

twitter: @chaseman777

WattPad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/ChaseManning2

Trust us- we'll cut into your skin 

and then we'll play with what's within

all for the sake of appearances. 

And that's what this is for, no?

So the world can raise its standards?

So ugly kids like you and me can cease our twisted manners?

They say the world is pretty

well only after we're finished

demeaning girls and boys alike 

until everyone's diminished

And no one's really safe at all

all humanity is to blame. 

That cuts and kills and speaks false truths

and then eviscerates your name.

We take turns weighing scales 

and deciding who will win.

But the prettiest one we all revere

Is drowning in her skin.

Why magazines for bodies?

What happened to the mind?

Why do we all keep forgetting 

that we're alive inside?

We people like to judge

The weak and mighty, rich and poor

Like by casting lies and slander

we rise above what we abhor

I don't think "ugly" is what hurts us

And it's more than "what's inside"

See I think what really matters

are the actions bred from minds.

So don't take up your gavel. 

You are not the chosen one. 

You and me, we don't get to judge

when all is said and done. 

People tell me that being nervous is the same thing

As being anxious

"Oh, you'll be fine!"

"Just breathe!"

"Don't let it get to you."

"It's all...

In your head."

I don't have the heart to tell them how

Incredibly

Amazingly

Fantastically

WRONG they are

Being nervous. Adjective.

When you're unnerved or uncomfortable about the outcome

Of a specific action, like auditioning, turning in an essay

Or writing a piece of poetry.

Being anxious.

Anxious, anxious, anxious.

Even the word sends shivers up my spine

It makes me want to check the time

For no reason

Being anxious is like a race

A race where you're constantly last

When you look ahead of yourself and see the competitors

Crossing the finish line and you're just getting

Farther and farther behind

Anxiety makes you want to lock yourself up

In a mental dungeon when you have to make a phone call.

Walking in public and feeling every retina

Burning holes into your skin

Polka dots on your very existence

Convincing yourself that they can see every sin

Every flaw

Like only their eyes have the power to read your mind

With a single look, to study you like you're a book.

Anxiety isn't just in your head. It's inside of you

Squirming in your bloodstream like earthworms

Burrowing into your brain like maggots

It's when you feel yourself tied down to the thoughts you're taking a dive in

Thoughts that cloud your vision of thinking

And thinking and thinking and thinking

And thinking and thinking.

Resting on the couch, after a long day

Accomplishments settled into a nice little box in your mind

Suddently turns into thoughts

Buzzing like a swarm of killer bees and question marks

Swirling and swirling until...

It's like drowning.

Like an anchor of rattling thoughts pulling you down

Down further into darkness where nothing survives.

When the panic sets in

You can feel it

The fear rising in your throat like bile

Like demons clawing their way up your neck

Through your mouth

Threatening to spill like black ink over your lips

Threatening to let all horrors loose

How can nightmares be so easy to come by?

Anxiety is screaming brains, toxic pains, bloody viens,

Coffee stains, forgotten names, a fear of planes

A love for the sound when it rains

You let it define you

You let it control you

You let it consume you

Invisible to the naked eye of innocent passerbys

How can it be called weakness when you use so much strength for restraint?

How can it be called an illness when you can never see it

And yet it's always with you?

How can it be called "having anxiety" when it's not something you have

But more simply

Something you are? 

She falls: Into deep blue that should drown her but does not.

Instead: There lies her reflection, a mirror, illuminated by aqua strips all around.

Her hand brushes glass, she cuts her little finger.

A brume of red encircles the young girl’s form.

And she tries to fight it: The flow of the current.

And she pushes her legs, yearning to go up, up, up.

Feet as heavy as lead: She sinks.

In her dream, she is digested by the stomach of a whale, it smells of: Acid, people, decay.

When the girl wakes: She is in a box, in a room, all white, all pure. 

In the middle of soaked kitchen tiles a ball bounces, holding all the stars in the universe.

With fascination, she reaches for the spherical object: Yet, she is crying.

It is such a wondrous sight: However, her tears still fall.

Drippity drop onto the floor: But why is she crying?

Why am I crying? She wonders.

She looks to her toes.

An array of colors greet her.

The girl owns no more nails: They have all been replaced by shades of the rainbow. Shards of herself.

This does not frighten her. It is a natural cycle, the cycle of life. She thinks with a voice that is not hers. And then: Where did that voice come from?

She starts running, dragging her leg as if it were a paintbrush with wishes to reconstruct the room with her being, her soul.

It does not sting.

It does not hurt.

It is necessary pain.

The floor rumbles and collapses beneath her frail form.

She wakes again: To screams of loved ones.

To images she never wanted to see again.

Now: The box is black.

It’s interesting how time slows when you pay attention to it. A hum of applause radiates in the background as I make my way to the stage. Glancing down at my Ralph Lauren silk dress, a deep royal blue to match the hue of my eyes, I count the seconds as I walk up the stairs. One, two, three, four. I look up and stare into the eyes of the presenter, who greets me with one of the most genuine smiles I’ve ever been blessed to see and a cheerful, “Congratulations! You deserve this award more than anyone I know.” She doesn’t know what I’m about to do. I treasure the look on her face, so contagious you can’t help but feel a warmth inside your soul. It’s probably the last time I will see that genuine smile again.

My assistant, God bless her, catches me at the stage’s curtain before I make my way to the podium, and hands me what I need. She has no idea how thankful I am to have her at that very moment. She will be my crutch. I almost feel sorry for what I’m about to put her through. God knows she is going to be working even more hours than she already puts in for me.

I take the package and make my way to the stage. Rachel looks at my side and her glance questions the light blue box, but she ignores her suspicions and gives me a reassuring smile before letting me pass with the award.

I don’t realize how much my hand trembles until I try to place the award on the podium. It takes two hands working together to accomplish the task. I fold apart my neatly prepared speech that I wrote a month ago, long before everything happened, and begin.

“Thank you, Rachel, and everyone here tonight who thought I was deserving of such a prestigious, honorable award.” Applause ensues. If only they knew.

“I can’t begin to tell you how humbled I am standing at this podium today. I was told the reason I am given the award this evening is because of how courageous and brave I have been throughout my work trying to bring awareness to the poverty in Haiti.”

For the first time since beginning my speech, I look up. I don’t see much as the spotlights are trained on my every moment; however, something, or someone, catches my eye. I see him. Not HIM, mind you, but his attorney. He is watching my every move, and I know that this speech I so carefully constructed a month ago is about to be torn to shreds by him in court next week.

“You know, I used to think the bravest thing I ever did was get on a plane to Haiti for the first time by myself. Everyone asked me, ‘Are you sure you want to go there alone?’ ‘Do you know how bad it is there?’ I did realize the potential dangers, but I was also asked those questions when I traveled to Los Angeles. I figured that many times, people are usually afraid of what they do not know; what they do not understand.”

I take a deep breath and hold up the light blue package. “Some of you may have noticed that I brought this little package onstage with me. I must thank Leslie, my dear assistant and friend, for taking this last-minute request from me. Unfortunately, she will probably regret that after this evening is through. I came here tonight thinking this was a night I could escape, but if I have learned anything, it is that you don’t escape from domestic violence gracefully. You never can. If it was that easy, more wives, girlfriends, daughters, and mothers would leave. I thought this evening would be focused on this award, not the restraining order. But alas, the questions I received before taking this stand were regarding my face, my mannerisms, and the impending trial. You see, there is a man standing in this room who is watching this speech. He has seen me answer all the questions I received from the reporters while on the red carpet. He will take every answer I have given and will break them apart to be used against me in court next week. Every question asked of me will be mentioned in court. I know this because this is what I have learned throughout the course of this ordeal. So, if everything I am going to say is going to be torn apart anyways, I might as well say exactly what I want to say.”

I open the tab of the blue package and take a white, wet cloth. “For those of you who do not know, I began getting ready for this ceremony at 10:00 a.m. this morning. You may be thinking, ‘But the event didn’t begin until 8:00 p.m.’ I am fully aware of this; however, there were reasons. As you know from the police report that was released earlier this week, I sustained significant injuries from my soon-to-be ex-husband and was photographed to show the proof of the bruising. I thought to myself, ‘There, I did it. I showed the world what happened to me. Now, I can cover it up and enjoy an evening that is not about my relationship and abuse.’ Unfortunately, as many of you also know because I was asked these questions this evening, tonight was no longer about bringing attention to a cause near and dear to my heart. It was about my face, about my restraining order, and about my integrity and honesty. My integrity has never been in question to my face before; however, it is ironic that the physical abuse to my face is what caused my integrity to become in question. So, since my face is such a hot topic of discussion and cause for questioning my integrity, I would like to apologize to Angelica Simpson. For those of you who do not know her, she is my makeup artist, who came to my house at 10:00 a.m. and worked on my makeup for four hours figuring out a way to cover the hideous bruises the world has already seen because, apparently, since the world can no longer see them this evening, that means this must be a false claim I am making.”

I take the first cloth and wipe it across my brow. I rub it in full, wide circles, folding it to find a clean side and finish taking off the makeup to my brow. I hold it up to the audience and say, “Angelica, I thank you for the time and effort you put into to try and make me feel pretty again, to help try to make this evening more about my achievements than about my face. Unfortunately, we failed on that front.”

I take a second cloth. “The second person I would like to thank is Leslie. I know I thanked you before, but I want to thank you again for not blinking an eye when I told you to run to the pharmacy across the street and buy these cloths. You did it, knowing what I would do with them, and knowing how it would affect your job, and you still did it because you knew it was important to me. I cannot thank you enough for how much you have been my rock through this journey.” I rub the cloth across my right eye and right cheek. One swipe, fold, then swipe again. I know when the audience can begin to see the bruising on my right cheek because the murmuring and slow gasps start to seep through the white noise.

I take a third cloth. “The third and last person I would like to thank is my mother. Gwen, my dear mother, thank you for telling me I was making a mistake for coming forward. Thank you for telling me that the world would never believe me. Thank you for telling me I was destroying my career. Thank you for telling me that I would never work in this town again. Thank you for telling me I deserved the fallout from coming forward because it would mean you would not be able to have the monthly allowance I’ve given you. Thank you for telling me this was my fault, and that if I had just listened to him, this wouldn’t have happened.” With that, I run the cloth over one last time over my left eye. “I’ll need two cloths on this side since Lance’s fist made contact with both my eye and my cheek, so Angelica had to add more concealer to this side. Excuse me for a moment while I get another cloth.”

The murmurs continue as I wipe the cloth across my cheek. A huge gasp comes from someone in the front row, and many people begin talking as my bruises become more noticeable. I figure once the voices become louder that another cloth is not needed.

“I am receiving an award for bravery this evening. What better way to show bravery than to stand in front of my peers, my critics, my rivals and confidants, and the attorney for my soon-to-be-ex-husband, than to take away the concealer, the makeup, and actually accept this award as I am: a battered wife who is trying to seek justice in an unforgiving, judgmental society. Thank you.”

For the first time since I began wiping my makeup off, silence combs through the audience. I bow my head briefly in another silent node of thanks, and I hear applause to my left. The presenter is applauding me, with tears in her eyes and that genuine smile brighter than ever.

"Could you buy me those shoes?"

No "please."

No "...if I work...could you loan me..."

Just deep, dark green eyes that stare blankly though my own bright blue eyes. The chestnut brown hair that I so lovingly combed when he was a child falls across his forehead, matted under an old baseball cap.

His left hand instinctively moves toward the front pocket of his jeans. Jeans that are so tight that the outline of his ever present iPhone has worn a rectangular shape into them.

I shift and glance at my weary husband before I return my attention to the conversation at hand.

Is he going to answer that right now? In the middle of a conversation? Why?

Imperceptible; the feeling that tore him away from his demand, but I could feel it.

I knew the phone would go off.

Just as it had countless times before.

When we had been arguing. When he told me that his father and I were the worst, that we were ruining his life. That he couldn’t stand us. That we were nothing to him.

But that doesn’t happen anymore; the screaming matches.

He has once again retreated into that screen. The world of likes, shares, and controlled emotions on display.

A glimpse of white, and the slightest hint of a chuckle escape from my son. My attention toward him falters, and I look to his father who too has perked up at the sound of our only son’s first display of happiness since the accident.

He’s on the mend, I think to myself. Good. I’m glad. It’s time for us to both move on.

But just as quickly as it came, the smile disappeared and my son looked up from his phone and tucked it into the same spot in the same pocket without a second thought. He looked to my husband. My husband quickly withdrew his wallet from a similarly worn back pocket and handed it to our son without a word.

My husband clung to his wallet like my son clings to his phone.

A wallet is a different sort of crutch for the suburban man who had grown up in the rural south. A man whose calluses from working on his family’s farm caused him to have trouble completing his school assignments on his mother’s beat up type writer as child. A man who had received a scholarship that funded his collegial education— a man who decided that his wife and child would not want for anything.

As he watches our son walk into the store to spend an obscene amount of money on sneakers that he doesn’t need, and will only wear with matching t-shirts, I look at the bags under his eyes and my gaze falls to the haphazardly tucked in shirt that now has an abundance of room for the belly that is no longer there. The belly which I had previously encouraged him to exercise away for so many years.

Now he was becoming gaunt. The accident was slowly killing him.

I can do nothing but watch him wither.

Our son walks slowly back to where we both wait for him. The cell phone in his right hand, stealing all of his attention. He wordlessly carries his bag and my husband’s wallet in his left hand. When he gets near to his father he wordlessly hands the wallet to my husband without taking his eyes of his screen.

The two turn swiftly and pass through me as though I am not even there. And as far as they know I am not there. As far as they are concerned I am drifting at the bottom of the lake which they have to pass over each day. On the way to work, on the way to school, even on the way to this mall.

Each day they have to pass over the bridge with the mismatched concrete where my car broke through.

The memory of my accident haunts them daily…no wonder they have changed so much.

I find when I can't write, I just write about writing

and the relationship I have with my words

but when it's a writers block I find that its 

not that the words won't come, but rather

it's too many words

Its like my brain is stuttering and it 

doesn't know which way to go

"Do I write about this?"

"Do I write about feelings,

a scene or both?"

And so on and so on...

Writers block to me, 

is a case of indigestion

of the brain

something wants to come up or out

but doesn't quiet have the gas

to get to its destination

So my ant-acid of choice

is to simply, write about writing

and the way the words would flow

as if I am talking into a mirror.

Or remember a simple pair of blue jeans

on a great set of hips...sooner or later,

the words flow...like thread to a loom

and then I am to work...to work with 

too many words...floating aimlessly

but with purpose

He stared back at it and it stared back at him. His imagination imposed itself on the blank page, where characters, settings, and worlds seemed to breathe and live and die every millisecond and then were surpassed by the next. The room was cold and he liked it that way. A long time ago a fellow writer had told him that the cold was the best place to write and to be inspired because the cold was oppressive.

“And in this oppression, a mind either succumbs or rebels, and in rebelling creates something beautiful,” he had said.

He was succumbing.

His eyes rose to the old clock that rested on the wall above him. The face of it was slightly yellowed and the numbers that circled it were ornate and meticulously done. The minute and hour hands were also done in this meticulous fashion, the lace fingers stretching up and pointing to the numbers as they went slowly by. The red second hand, however, was the most beautiful. The hand was bathed in a scarlet red and was accentuated with designs throughout moving with determined speed around the clock constantly and ticking lightly as it sped. His father had said the clock had been in the family for generations ticking through the lives of many ceaselessly. In his life, however, it had stopped once, when he was a child coming back from 6th grade. He had walked up to his room, the events of the day whirling around in his adolescent mind and had casually glanced up at the clock. 1:15. The second hand of the clock had frozen in between the "3" and "4" on the clock and struggled with all its might to break free, but was unsuccessful and remained chained to a motionless infinity. He remembered how his face had contorted and his thoughts became frantic and distraught. The hands of the clock had been ticking above him all of his life and now they were trapped in time. He thought that the world stopped, that he was living inside of a moment and that he couldn’t escape. He tried screaming but his vocal cords too were stunned and refused to obey him. So he stood, mouth gaping and face contorted at the sight, of a world stuck at 1:15.

Later his dad took the clock to be fixed and the next day it was back in its original place, the hands being freed and ticking happily again. His dad told him that his friend John had repaired the clock and for many years following he believed that John had truly saved the world, having unfrozen time and allowed life to continue to progress.

It was 12:48 now and many, many years later. John died of natural causes a few years back and it made for a wonderful funeral. He thanked John for unfreezing time and his wife had cried at that. Afterward, she went up to him and said that John had told her how glad he was to fix something that meant so much to his family. She died later that year and was buried next to John.

His parents were had both died of natural causes awhile ago about a year apart from each other. He remembered sitting in the hospital with both of them with tears welling in his eyes and dried tears staining his face. His mother had gone first and she went smiling. As she lay in that bleached and sterilized room she had looked at him with eyes full of the most caring love. The love only a mother can have for a son, an incorruptible love that somehow brought every moment of love between them together and was still greater than any past moment or even all of them put together.

“I love you, Mom.”

She smiled, a blissfully and soft smile, closed her eyes and laid back. He hugged her body and was truly embracing her soul, and that soul embraced him one last time and went on.

His father had been a different story. He hadn’t seen him since his mother’s funeral and had finally gotten word after it was too late to do anything but wait for him to die. An angry storm was raging over a remorseful sky and the rain had fallen like tears on his head as he walked into the emergency room.

“Harold Pugh?” he asked a pretty lady at a desk.

She scanned the record with a well-manicured finger and finally found the name.

“Room 5C,” she said, “you better hurry.”

He did.

What lay on the other side of 5C was an almost unrecognizable man. His father had let his hair grow to be unruly and tangled and it was evident by his patchy beard that he hadn’t shaved in days. His clothes were in tatters and the boots he wore had decomposed to the point of being obsolete. The worst thing though was his physical state. This man, whom he came to know as being a symbol of masculinity and strength, had receded to a feeble and seemingly emaciated state. His barrel-chested wide frame was gone and now he was wiry and frail, so thin in fact that he thought that he could pick his dad up if he wished to.

Harold Pugh gave his son a weak smile as he entered that seemed to be an immense physical struggle for him. His heart broke at the sight.

“Dad, what happened?”

Tears welled up in the man’s eyes as the corners of his mouth trembled. He knew the answer before he spoke.

“She left Michael, and I couldn’t go on.”

The statement sent powerful waves of emotion through Michael’s body, emotions he wasn’t ready for and hadn’t encountered before. If pressed he would’ve called it sadness but it was much more than that. It was like seeing someone slit their wrist and understanding why. And truly that's what happened, his dad had just let life bleed him out and suck everything out of him.

“It wasn’t your fault Dad, it wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he said tears unconsciously pouring from his eyes.

“I could’ve given her more, I could’ve given her something, I could’ve given her my life I could’ve given her anything,” his dad said staring into his son’s eyes.

In his eyes, he had seen a boundless love like his mother had shown him, but in these eyes the love was different. The love was streaked his the black tinges of loss and remorse and resentfulness at every mistake. In his eyes a love that reaches out to hold and embrace something that isn’t there anymore. So that love tortures itself by remembering its object and with tears in its eyes once again reaches out to hold its object and it once again holds nothing and the cycle moves on. His dad had been living in that pitiful cycle every second since his wife had passed on and his body had finally had enough. As he stared back into his father’s eyes he understood it all and he hated it all.

“Dad…”

Just then his father’s eyes had become wild and frantic like Michael’s eyes when he had discovered that time had stopped. His head searched maniacally and he seemed to forget where he was or who he was. Finally, this wild gaze landed on Michael and froze on Michael, his father’s mouth gaping open in fear and confusion. He couldn’t bring himself to close his father’s eyes or even touch him and simply backed away with his arm outstretched putting distance between him and that lifeless body. A scream rose to his mouth but it was once again noiseless and he continued to back away, a confused and scared child. Michael at that moment became part of that vicious cycle, his love lost and scared and sad.

The paper in front of him was style blank but a couple tears had stained the blank sheet. He looked once again at the clock.

1:15.