For the November 2018 SWC Writing Contest, a short first chapter to a short story I'm writing, called Tremors.

When kids ask me, “Ava, what happened to your hands?” I usually respond by saying, “Oh, an accident. I really don't talk about it.” Some days people really annoy me though, so I'll say something like, “I'm secretly Batman, and spent my nights punching people until my hands didn't work anymore.” That scares them away. Telling them I've got ultra-contagious flesh eating disease helps too.
Sometimes I feel like a lizard- scaly and dry. Other times my hands take on the appearance of charred flesh. I'm constantly quaking like I'm having an internal earthquake or I haven't eaten enough sugar. It's actually the nerve damage from the missing myelin sheath. I've been quaking and shaking since first grade, when it happened.
My desk was right by the window. Normally, my favorite spot to be. The window looked out on the playground, where the older grades had recess before the younger grades. Some fourth grader kicked a basketball towards the wall in protest of the “no kicking the basketballs” rule. Did it hit the wall? No. It hit the window. The ball shattered the window inward, bringing every fragment down onto my head and hands. The glass actually wasn't the cause of my problems, but it aggravated a condition I already had. Premature multiple sclerosis or something. The doctors said it was extra rare for a child to have. They discovered it that day though, and the doctors had to tell my parents that I could expect most function from my hands to decrease over the next ten years. By the time I turned sixteen, my hands would be practically useless. Not to mention the scars I'd have for the rest of my life. Dermatologists said I had psoriasis in my hands too. In two years, I would be sixteen. I can't remember the last time someone held my hand.
“Mom,” I said, her driving me to my first day of high school, “you're still sure I can't be homeschooled?”
Mom dead-panned her response. “Ava Marie, this is the seventy-fourth time I've told you. Homeschooling wouldn't give you an adequate education, and you need the social experiences that come with school.”
I sunk down into my seat, folding my arms, scowling at the windshield. “Experience? More like torture,” I muttered.
I shoved black gloves onto my hands minutes before we arrived in front of the school. Mom said goodbye and I dragged the backpack out of the front seat and swung it onto my back. Other kids were also leaving their parents, many of them freshmen like me. I met some red-headed girl's eyes and she smiled. I didn't return it. Mom told me to be nice, and be confident.
The first thing every classroom was required to do in the morning was recite the pledge of allegiance. We recited it like robots running low on batteries.
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the allied states of the kingdom of Nigreos. And to our great King, Ashe. I pledge to surrender all I am to Nigreos, in the hope of liberation for us all. Hail, to the King, savior of us all.”
I still remember when they changed the old one. Made this King Ashe guy into a god. Literally replaced God with him in the pledge of allegiance. We had to still put our hands on our hearts and all that loveliness, but I missed the old times. They took over when I was seven. All the healthy men and women went off to war. America, what our country was called seven years ago, wasn't used to losing wars. We took it hard. I remember listening to my parents discuss politics when I was little, and how heated up they got fighting over which candidate was going to win- red, or blue. Now we had one person in charge. His color was black. And that was what he liked. It made my hand problem seem like a little splinter compared to the knife wound the world had.
This year was my first year attending a school with Nigreos official uniforms. Black sweaters. Black pants. Black shoes. Black hair bows- if the girls desired them. My parents had to write a specific letter to the head of the school board to get permission for me to wear gloves. As long as I made sure they were black, I was allowed to wear them. I had no idea what would've happened if I was forced to not wear gloves at school. Would they ridicule me? Or would no one really care about the girl who reminded them of Edward Scissorhands without the scissors? I didn't want to know.
The school day was actually normal. I was accepted by some girls during lunch, and made relatively good first impressions with the teachers. After school, I waited out on the front steps of the school for my mom to come by and pick me up. Another kid was sitting there too. I recognized him as Drake from math class. He was the one who protested the use of English letters as variables and suggested we change them to Chinese characters. Apparently, they'd be much simpler and less confusing. His revolutionary outburst earned him an extra stack of homework for that night.
“Hey,” I said, turning in his direction, “you waiting for a ride too?”
He pulled the hood of his jacket further over his head and yanked on the strings. He looked like a murderous monk.
I walked over to where he sat and stood on the steps in front of him. “You're Drake, right?”
How sweet the crickets sounded at this time of day.
“I'm Ava.” I waved at him. “Are you good at math? Because I suck at it and would appreciate a bit of help.”
“Why do you wear gloves?” A voice came from the hood like a hermit calling from his seclusive cave.
I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms and trying to hide my hands. “Why do you want to know?”
He said nothing. I turned around to go back to my own cozy little spot on the steps, when he lunged for my hand and yanked the glove off.
“Hey!” I dove for the glove, but he simply stood up and held it above my head. It was too high for me to reach, even if I jumped. Drake was taller than I thought he was.
He let me try and jump up to reach the glove. “You wear the gloves because they hide an imperfection, right?”
I growled. “I'll give you an imperfection!”
“Answer my question and I'll give you back the glove.”
I saw through his hood that he was smiling. He enjoyed this. But there was something else too. His eyes. One was milky and washed out. The other was red and bloodshot, maybe from a lack of sleep? The boy was half blind.
I stopped jumping. “I have multiple sclerosis and psoriasis on my hands. Happy?”
Drake lowered the glove. He sat down again. “When were you diagnosed?”
I slipped the glove back on, then knelt down to re-tie one of my black boots. “Ever heard of privacy?”
“It's private, I know, but trust me, I was once like you and said the same things you did. Now, will you please answer my questions?”
I wanted to punch something. If only it wouldn't send the feeling of a thousand knifes of ice slicing through my hands. Maybe giving Drake's hooded face a good reality check would be worth it. “Eight years ago.”
Drake took off his hood. I expected some sort of emo nerd with a hidden pretty face, like you read about in books or see on television. Instead I saw a boy with half a pretty face. The other half was blistered and burnt. It explained the eye. Only his hair existed on both sides. I fought back tears of fear and pity.
“I'm about to ask you an important question, and I need you to think really hard about it. Consider your answer carefully.”
I nodded, almost afraid of him now.
“Have you ever seen any little kids who are blind? Like me?”
I wanted to say yes, of course I had, but then I caught myself. I couldn't remember ever meeting a child who was blind before. At least not one who was younger than seven. Some adults, definitely, but kids? No.
I shook my head. I watched my hands vibrate more and more. “No.”
Drake grabbed my hands and looked them over. “These hands are the only hands I've seen clearly in a long time. There is no one like you left in this society.”
“Are you saying that the government has been…killing children?”
Drake looked me in the eyes. His one good eye sparkled blue with tears. “This burn isn't the reason I was marked for death. I have epilepsy. They decided it would be more ”humane“ if I was just killed before I had time to suffer. My parents were dead, so no one could forbid it. I survived.”
“But you're at least fourteen, right?”
“I wasn't a baby when they decided I wasn't adequate. I was diagnosed with epilepsy at nine.”
Dead silence. Deafening silence. Like a punch in the face, I felt the weight of the world crushing me to death.
“Now that you're a part of an official Nigreos school, I wouldn't be surprised if they try to find a excuse to incinerate you in the next few weeks.” He sat back down on the steps, and I joined him.
“In-incinerate? Just because my hands don't look right?”
“They missed their chance when you were first diagnosed. They're going to try again. Same with me, and anyone else who has imperfections.”
“What do I need to do?” I stared at my hands in my lap. For so long they'd been an annoying burden in my life. Now they were more than that- they were a death sentence.
“We run. And we never turn back.” Drake offered his hand.
I thought about what I'd leave behind. Parents who didn't care. Non existent friends. No potential in academics. Sounded like a good life to wipe clean.
“I'll go. But promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“We kill the system. Then we leave.”

smartcutecandy wrote:

For the November 2018 SWC Writing Contest, a short first chapter to a short story I'm writing, called Tremors.

When kids ask me, “Ava, what happened to your hands?” I usually respond by saying, “Oh, an accident. I really don't talk about it.” Some days people really annoy me though, so I'll say something like, “I'm secretly Batman, and spent my nights punching people until my hands didn't work anymore.” That scares them away. Telling them I've got ultra-contagious flesh eating disease helps too.
Sometimes I feel like a lizard- scaly and dry. Other times my hands take on the appearance of charred flesh. I'm constantly quaking like I'm having an internal earthquake or I haven't eaten enough sugar. It's actually the nerve damage from the missing myelin sheath. I've been quaking and shaking since first grade, when it happened.
My desk was right by the window. Normally, my favorite spot to be. The window looked out on the playground, where the older grades had recess before the younger grades. Some fourth grader kicked a basketball towards the wall in protest of the “no kicking the basketballs” rule. Did it hit the wall? No. It hit the window. The ball shattered the window inward, bringing every fragment down onto my head and hands. The glass actually wasn't the cause of my problems, but it aggravated a condition I already had. Premature multiple sclerosis or something. The doctors said it was extra rare for a child to have. They discovered it that day though, and the doctors had to tell my parents that I could expect most function from my hands to decrease over the next ten years. By the time I turned sixteen, my hands would be practically useless. Not to mention the scars I'd have for the rest of my life. Dermatologists said I had psoriasis in my hands too. In two years, I would be sixteen. I can't remember the last time someone held my hand.
“Mom,” I said, her driving me to my first day of high school, “you're still sure I can't be homeschooled?”
Mom dead-panned her response. “Ava Marie, this is the seventy-fourth time I've told you. Homeschooling wouldn't give you an adequate education, and you need the social experiences that come with school.”
I sunk down into my seat, folding my arms, scowling at the windshield. “Experience? More like torture,” I muttered.
I shoved black gloves onto my hands minutes before we arrived in front of the school. Mom said goodbye and I dragged the backpack out of the front seat and swung it onto my back. Other kids were also leaving their parents, many of them freshmen like me. I met some red-headed girl's eyes and she smiled. I didn't return it. Mom told me to be nice, and be confident.
The first thing every classroom was required to do in the morning was recite the pledge of allegiance. We recited it like robots running low on batteries.
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the allied states of the kingdom of Nigreos. And to our great King, Ashe. I pledge to surrender all I am to Nigreos, in the hope of liberation for us all. Hail, to the King, savior of us all.”
I still remember when they changed the old one. Made this King Ashe guy into a god. Literally replaced God with him in the pledge of allegiance. We had to still put our hands on our hearts and all that loveliness, but I missed the old times. They took over when I was seven. All the healthy men and women went off to war. America, what our country was called seven years ago, wasn't used to losing wars. We took it hard. I remember listening to my parents discuss politics when I was little, and how heated up they got fighting over which candidate was going to win- red, or blue. Now we had one person in charge. His color was black. And that was what he liked. It made my hand problem seem like a little splinter compared to the knife wound the world had.
This year was my first year attending a school with Nigreos official uniforms. Black sweaters. Black pants. Black shoes. Black hair bows- if the girls desired them. My parents had to write a specific letter to the head of the school board to get permission for me to wear gloves. As long as I made sure they were black, I was allowed to wear them. I had no idea what would've happened if I was forced to not wear gloves at school. Would they ridicule me? Or would no one really care about the girl who reminded them of Edward Scissorhands without the scissors? I didn't want to know.
The school day was actually normal. I was accepted by some girls during lunch, and made relatively good first impressions with the teachers. After school, I waited out on the front steps of the school for my mom to come by and pick me up. Another kid was sitting there too. I recognized him as Drake from math class. He was the one who protested the use of English letters as variables and suggested we change them to Chinese characters. Apparently, they'd be much simpler and less confusing. His revolutionary outburst earned him an extra stack of homework for that night.
“Hey,” I said, turning in his direction, “you waiting for a ride too?”
He pulled the hood of his jacket further over his head and yanked on the strings. He looked like a murderous monk.
I walked over to where he sat and stood on the steps in front of him. “You're Drake, right?”
How sweet the crickets sounded at this time of day.
“I'm Ava.” I waved at him. “Are you good at math? Because I suck at it and would appreciate a bit of help.”
“Why do you wear gloves?” A voice came from the hood like a hermit calling from his seclusive cave.
I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms and trying to hide my hands. “Why do you want to know?”
He said nothing. I turned around to go back to my own cozy little spot on the steps, when he lunged for my hand and yanked the glove off.
“Hey!” I dove for the glove, but he simply stood up and held it above my head. It was too high for me to reach, even if I jumped. Drake was taller than I thought he was.
He let me try and jump up to reach the glove. “You wear the gloves because they hide an imperfection, right?”
I growled. “I'll give you an imperfection!”
“Answer my question and I'll give you back the glove.”
I saw through his hood that he was smiling. He enjoyed this. But there was something else too. His eyes. One was milky and washed out. The other was red and bloodshot, maybe from a lack of sleep? The boy was half blind.
I stopped jumping. “I have multiple sclerosis and psoriasis on my hands. Happy?”
Drake lowered the glove. He sat down again. “When were you diagnosed?”
I slipped the glove back on, then knelt down to re-tie one of my black boots. “Ever heard of privacy?”
“It's private, I know, but trust me, I was once like you and said the same things you did. Now, will you please answer my questions?”
I wanted to punch something. If only it wouldn't send the feeling of a thousand knifes of ice slicing through my hands. Maybe giving Drake's hooded face a good reality check would be worth it. “Eight years ago.”
Drake took off his hood. I expected some sort of emo nerd with a hidden pretty face, like you read about in books or see on television. Instead I saw a boy with half a pretty face. The other half was blistered and burnt. It explained the eye. Only his hair existed on both sides. I fought back tears of fear and pity.
“I'm about to ask you an important question, and I need you to think really hard about it. Consider your answer carefully.”
I nodded, almost afraid of him now.
“Have you ever seen any little kids who are blind? Like me?”
I wanted to say yes, of course I had, but then I caught myself. I couldn't remember ever meeting a child who was blind before. At least not one who was younger than seven. Some adults, definitely, but kids? No.
I shook my head. I watched my hands vibrate more and more. “No.”
Drake grabbed my hands and looked them over. “These hands are the only hands I've seen clearly in a long time. There is no one like you left in this society.”
“Are you saying that the government has been…killing children?”
Drake looked me in the eyes. His one good eye sparkled blue with tears. “This burn isn't the reason I was marked for death. I have epilepsy. They decided it would be more ”humane“ if I was just killed before I had time to suffer. My parents were dead, so no one could forbid it. I survived.”
“But you're at least fourteen, right?”
“I wasn't a baby when they decided I wasn't adequate. I was diagnosed with epilepsy at nine.”
Dead silence. Deafening silence. Like a punch in the face, I felt the weight of the world crushing me to death.
“Now that you're a part of an official Nigreos school, I wouldn't be surprised if they try to find a excuse to incinerate you in the next few weeks.” He sat back down on the steps, and I joined him.
“In-incinerate? Just because my hands don't look right?”
“They missed their chance when you were first diagnosed. They're going to try again. Same with me, and anyone else who has imperfections.”
“What do I need to do?” I stared at my hands in my lap. For so long they'd been an annoying burden in my life. Now they were more than that- they were a death sentence.
“We run. And we never turn back.” Drake offered his hand.
I thought about what I'd leave behind. Parents who didn't care. Non existent friends. No potential in academics. Sounded like a good life to wipe clean.
“I'll go. But promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“We kill the system. Then we leave.”

I love this!

Gumbel22017 wrote:

smartcutecandy wrote:

For the November 2018 SWC Writing Contest, a short first chapter to a short story I'm writing, called Tremors.

snipped

I love this!

Thank you!

I love it too! You're an amazing author!