(This is an excerpt from the fiction novel I am writing.)
About the author:
This is more of an "about the author's intent" paragraph, rather than "about the author" himself.
My name is Troy Dearbourne; I am an early twenties YA contemporary fiction author. I'm aware that SteemIt is particularly used for blog posts, but I am testing the waters to see if full-length novels would not only be accepted here on this site, but if they would be read and enjoyed as well.
So how would you liked to get PAID to read?
Those of you who aren't fond of reading fiction books can leave this post, as it is not likely to interest you. But for those of you who love to read a good book, imagine this: instead of paying 'X' amount for an ebook on Kindle, you instead come to SteemIt, where you vote for books/chapters you enjoyed reading, while also having the opportunity to comment and resteem to earn Steem yourself. There would be no upfront cost to the reader, but the opportunity exists where they could earn money/Steem by reading works written by novelists and upvoting their book posts.
Every day between the hours of 12:00 p.m. and 1:00 p.m. EST, I will be posting a new chapter of this book until all chapters are posted and the book is complete. From there, I will leave it on this site for readers to enjoy and upvote, comment, resteem as they please.
Granted, this is just a field test, but I would love to hear from you in the comment section below. If you too are a novelist, whether fiction or non-fiction, give me a shout!
To enjoy the story to its fullest potential, please seek out the first chapter and read from the beginning. All posted chapters can be located on my blog wall.
And without further delay, please enjoy my novel, Paraplegic, below.
3 Weeks Earlier . . .
My cheeks warm as the sunlight slips through the shades of my window. It's almost dawn, but I have been awake for awhile. I tried many times to fall back to sleep, but I am filled with too much excitement; today is a big day after all. Tomorrow is going to be even bigger.
In the distance, a bell tolls steadily announcing the start of a new day. At this hour, the town's lighthouse is probably shining its beacon for one last revolution before taking its rest. I remember when father took me up there; I was six. I don't think I have ever been so scared in my entire life. We were so far off the ground, the harbor breeze ripping itself through my blonde curls. I felt so free, like I could leap off the railing and take flight.
Voices trickle through the open slit of my window, mixed with the salty air of the harbor. The town is starting to come alive. Even from the curled up position in my bed, I can hear the waves angrily crashing the rocks of the shoreline; a sound I've enjoyed getting used to since moving here to Camden, Maine. I can't believe it's been almost thirteen years. Seems like yesterday we were navigating the moving van onto the gradient driveway for the first time.
Dishware bangs together from beyond my bedroom door; my nose twitching at the sweet smell of chocolate chip pancakes. I throw the covers off me and set my feet on the plush carpet. My toes nearly disappear, sinking deeper into it as I stand. The smell grows more potent as I rush downstairs and into the kitchen.
Mother turns her attention away from the stovetop, "Good morning, sweetie."
I reach for the fruit basket, passing over a golden banana and a ripe pear before selecting a Granny Smith. "Morning, mom."
Father is already sitting at the family's cherry wood dinette table, the morning's newspaper hiding everything from his eyes down. A porcelain mug filled with coffee, straight black, is in front of him. The mug has an image of a golfer poised with his club over his shoulder, admiring the shot he'd just taken. It's his favorite mug for whatever reason; he uses it every day. He's always had a love for the game. I don't really understand it myself. He showed me his scorecard once and it didn't make a bit of sense to me; just looked like a bunch of numbers within a lot of gridlines. He's asked me to join him out on the course a few times. I told him I would rather whitewash a fence.
"Good morning, daddy." I crouch by his side and press my lips against his left temple.
He yanks the newspaper closed, folding it in a series of quick motions, then lays it on the table. "Good morning, Kenzie." He's already dressed in his usual suit pants and collared shirt, which is buttoned clear up to his throat; a contemporary looking blue and black striped tie hanging down. "Did you sleep well last night or were you filled with too much excitement?"
"I slept okay, I guess. Took me awhile before I was able to put my thoughts to rest and shut my eyes." The tangy sweetness of the apple strikes the corner of my mouth as I take my first bite. August is sitting across from me, his head hung over his Sony PSP. "Hey! You know the rules, no video games before school." It's worth reaching across the table to slap the side of his head, despite the slight sting it leaves on my palm.
My face warms as mother passes by with a steaming plate of pancakes, placing them in the center of the table. "Put the game away and eat your breakfast." August yields to her scolding tone, then sticks his tongue out at me. I roll my eyes in response. He can be so annoying sometimes.
There is a wide age gap between the two of us; a ten year gap to be precise. He turned seven last month. The day my parents told me mother was pregnant and that I would soon have a little sibling filled me with two kinds of emotions, one: joy because I could see how happy they were about it, and two: a little mischievous because I would finally have someone to boss around and do my laundry for me. My hopes were ultimately unfulfilled. I can't even get August to do his own laundry let alone mine.
Mother walks back to the pantry to retrieve a bottle of maple syrup. "Are you sure you don't want some pancakes, McKenzie?"
A crunch sounds as I take another bite of apple. "Mom, the Blue Jays' photoshoot is today! There is no way I'm showing up with a stomach full of dough," my words slightly garbled from chewing. "Besides, carbs are a big no-no. I need to be able to fit into my cheer uniform."
August pulls two pancakes off the main plate and drags them onto his own plate, drowning them in maple syrup. He takes a huge chunk and stuffs his face full. About halfway through chewing, he looks up at me and opens his mouth full of food, while making stupid noises. I quickly look away, revolted at his juvenile antics. "Ugh! You're so disgusting."
Mother sits down in the chair next to me, ripping open a packet of coffee sweetener. "McKenzie, August, don't fight please."
"Look at him. He's so . . . so . . . weird! Can we trade him for a puppy? Pleeeeease?" my lips purse into an adorable little pouty face.
"You know very well you aren't responsible enough to care for a dog. And besides, what would we do with your brother?"
I raise my shoulders in a thoughtless shrug. "I dunno. We can ship him to a cow farm or something."
August knocks his silverware against the table with excitement. "Yay! Yay! I wanna go to a cow farm. Cows give chocolate milk."
"Cows don't give chocolate milk, doofus! You need chocolate syrup to get chocolate milk."
"Well, my cows would give me chocolate milk because I would pet them, and play with them, and sing to them, and hug them . . ." He drones on. I quickly lose interest and tune him out.
"How's your case coming, daddy?"
He sprinkles his fried eggs with salt. "Not so good, honey," a quick sigh follows his words. "My client is being accused of robbing a gas station downtown. New evidence came to light that certainly supports such accusations."
"Oh, wow! That's terrible. Did he do it?"
"I don't believe so, which is why I'm doing everything I can for him." He stabs the egg with his fork.
"What will happen to him if he's found guilty?"
"If my client is convicted, he will most likely be sentenced to prison for seven to eight years."
"Seven to eight years!" Mother frowns at my sudden increase in tone; August merely giggles. "I can't even begin to imagine being held in the same tiny room for that long. I barely survived the twenty minute commute on the elementary bus."
Father is a criminal defense attorney. I don't really know the in-depth specifics of his job, basically just what I see on TV, which is mostly just a bunch of fluff and propaganda for television's sake. Bad guy commits a crime, police arrest him, bad guy calls his lawyer, trial commences sometime thereafter, lawyer pleads on his client's behalf, then jury the decides bad guy's fate. All I know is that he works long hours. He leaves for work around the same time August and I leave for school and sometimes doesn't come home until late that evening. August sees him less than I do. He has to go to bed at ten o' clock sharp. I, being the mature, responsible adult that I am, do not have a bedtime.
Mother speaks from behind her coffee mug, "That's why your father and I tell the both of you to stay in school," she pauses for a sip. "Which reminds me, don't you think you two should be getting ready? The bus will be here soon."
August chugs the last of his orange juice. "I'm ready," wiping his mouth with the back of his black and yellow checkered sleeve.
I shove my chair away from the table, the wooden legs screeching against the tile floor, and throw what's left of the apple in the trash can. "I'm taking the Benz to school."
Father drops his chin slightly, gazing past his reading glasses to look at me. "Wear your seatbelt, young lady," his voice stern and direct. "And use your blinkers when turning, and don't forget to engage the parking brake before you get out, and—"
"Dad. I'm seventeen. I'm not a little kid anymore. Just relax. I'll be fine." He lectures me as if it's my first time behind the wheel. True, I've only had my license for three months, but that doesn't mean I'm not qualified or knowledgeable about driving. I'm practically a pro.
He removes his reading glasses from his nose and stuffs them in his breast pocket. "You're right. It's just hard to see my little girl all grown up. It seems like yesterday you were just in diapers." He chuckles. "I would take you out on the course. You would sit on my lap and pretend you were driving the golf cart."
"Dad!" my tone clearly implies I don't want to partake in his reminiscent moment. "Keys. Give. Now." The keys clink together as they slide from his hand to mine. "Thanks!" I throw my arms around him, then head for the stairs just as mother calls for me.
"Oh, McKenzie, we decided to have a cookout tomorrow after your graduation ceremony. Why don't you invite some of your friends?"
My heartbeat quickens. "Sounds great!"
August swings his backpack over his shoulder. "You're gonna invite Xander, aren't you?" making kissing noises with his lips.
"You better watch it you little brat! You might wake up one day to find you were shipped to Indonesia in your sleep."
"I would find my way home," his toothy smile displaying his confidence.
"You don't even know how to spell Indonesia let alone find your way home from there."
"I do, too!" He looks up at the ceiling thoughtfully, "I-N-D-O-N . . ." slowly trailing off from there.
"Mmm hmm. Told ya!"
The school bus' brakes hiss as it pulls up at the end of the street. "Whatever, sis. But at least I would have cows to give me chocolate milk," he slams the front door behind him before I have a chance to say anything more.
"He's gotta be the stupidest seven-year-old on the planet."
Mother is still seated at the dining room table, finishing her coffee. She watches August through the dining room window, ensuring he makes it on the bus safely, the same routine she does every morning. "Don't be mean to your brother, McKenzie. He's only in the second grade after all."
"Ugh. Whatever." I sprint up the stairs to my bedroom.
Little brothers are so annoying. I often wonder what life would be like as an only child. Bet it would be nice. Sometimes when I see a star dash across the night sky, I'm tempted to wish that August would just disappear. Okay, not disappear as such, like to not see him ever again. I'm not that cruel. More like a scenario where we rent him on the weekends and ship him off to grandma's during the week or something. Besides, I've seen too many movies where someone wishes their sibling never existed. They usually have to go through a weird chain of events to try to remedy the issue before their sibling is permanently erased and their own timeline altered forever.
I thrust open the glass doors of my closet. It's huge and filled with a broad range of stylish name brand clothes. When we were house shopping, father asked mother and me what we wanted most in a new home. Mother said she wanted a safe neighborhood to raise me - not knowing August would come into our lives later on. However, I told him a closet that would satisfy the Queen of England was a must for me. Hey, a girl's gotta have room for her fleet of shoes.
My style is somewhat retro, yet spunky. I absolutely love Converse shoes! I have twenty-three pairs, all in different colors. When father has to go away on a business trip, he always brings me and August something back. August requests something different each time. I'm more traditional: shoes. The first time he went away on business, father brought back a remote control helicopter for August along with my very first pair of fifties Converse All-Stars. They're bright red and even have my name embroidered on the toes. I've kept them in pristine condition; only wash them by hand and with no abrasive cleaners. August lost his helicopter long ago, however. I'm pretty sure I laughed when it happened. He and father were flying it over The Bluff one time and it drifted out of signal range, plummeting nearly eighty feet to a rocky death.
I sift through the rack, sliding the hangers down the metal bar with a disapproving eye. I want something different. Today is a really big day. It's the last day of school. Ever. And I want to look uber fabulous, not that I don't always look fabulous, because I do of course.
Time is elapsing. We don't live far from school, but I always like to get there early, if nothing else than to see Xander pull up on his street bike. I don't know what kind it is, but he looks incredible while on it. And the way he shakes his surfer's haircut around after removing his helmet gives me chills just thinking about it. I'm anxiously waiting for the day when he asks me to hop on the back and takes me for a ride. He's my soul mate, I just know it. I want to get married on a hill in Ireland, encompassed by rolling valleys and flowing rivers, beneath the blue sky and the birds, surrounded by a few close friends and of course family, and then honeymoon in Rome, Italy. Which reminds me, the annual county dance, Hollywood Ending, is coming up. I so hope Xander doesn't already have someone he's going with.
I settle on a graphic-T, which has a picture of the school's rock band: The Mirroring Manics on the front, a pair of whitewashed ripped jeans, and my lime green Converse All-Stars. Downstairs, I hear the front door open then close immediately thereafter; father must be heading to work.
Mother calls from downstairs as I lace up my Converse. "Kenzie, you're gonna be late for school!"
"I'm fine, mom!" It's only a little past seven thirty, and first period isn't until eight. Truthfully, I am deliberately procrastinating in hopes I will arrive at school the same time Xander does and be able to walk in with him. I'm not actually sure where we're at with each other, relationship wise. We've never actually been on a date. I should clarify, we've never actually been on a real date. There was this one time in late freshman year when a hurricane came through resulting in a countywide blackout. Xander and I somehow came across one another struggling to find our way out of the school. We eventually wandered into the school's gym, and that was the first time I witnessed his skills on the basketball court. We soon stopped trying to locate the exit and decided to wait in the gym for the lights to come back on. I happily watched Xander run drills on the court during that time.
Mother calls to me once again, shouting yet another warning that I will be late if I don't hurry. I huff at her parental tone, but yield to it at the same time. I check my reflection one last time to ensure I look my absolute best.
And of course, I do.
I thank you greatly for reading. Please 'follow' me and hit that 'vote' button, as that really does help. Comments are also welcomed.
~Cheers
(c) Copyright by Troy Dearbourne 2017. All rights reserved. Anyone who copies this document in any capacity without the written consent from the author will be in subjection to extreme legal action.
