Hey, long time no see. I’ve been mostly editing my story and working on two large projects. But this is a short story I’ll post in the meantime that I’ll probably do for Camp NaNoWriMo in April (or maybe sooner–two months is a long time to hold in a story). I also have another short story I’d like to publish here–even thought I’ve thought about submitting it to a magazine.

This is moreso of a concept story. Critique if you like, but I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. This is the first time I’ve written in first-person present tense, so it was quite the experiment for me!

I need my medicine.
I feel the omen coming. Nausea in my stomach, my vision blurring. A voice shouting inside me: Something is wrong! I’d give myself a minute before the seizure comes. Maybe less. I’m lucky that way—for most epileptics it comes without warning—it doesn’t matter if you’re out on a date or you’re supposed to be studying or you’re using the toilet.
But there’s one thing that makes me different—besides that I looked really stupid in the costume I’m wearing—I can move objects with my mind. And I’ve been using it to fight crime.
I was doing a patrol along the outskirts of the city around 3AM, when I saw two men with large guns break into a lonely gas station. I just entered moments ago. The cashier is hiding behind the checkout counter. One of the masked thugs has opened the cash register and is filling a sack with money. I’ll call him Greedy. The other, larger robber is pointing his rifle at me. He doesn’t look too happy. I’ll call him Grumpy.
Grumpy swears. “Get on the floor before I shoot,” he shouts. I don’t move. I’m terrified. I’ve been doing this for a year—patrolling the city, ending violence, helping others—all while trying to hide my powers. You can’t suddenly become Superman without becoming a threat to national security first.
There’s no one else at the gas station. Maybe I could wipe out the cameras somehow. The cashier could’ve written it off as a hallucination. And if I knocked the robbers in the head—
“Down!” Grumpy shouts.
I stretch out my hand. Many things happen at once.
Grumpy goes flying through the aisle, crashing into the beer fridge. Using my powers is like a surge of electricity running down my bones. Glass rains everywhere while several six-pack beers fall on his head. Ouch. He’ll have one hell of a hangover next morning, a voice says in my head.
Greedy is surprised and drops his money bag, but not surprised enough that he doesn’t grab his gun and cocks it. My body is getting weaker. I knew that disasters would happen if I had a seizure. Using my telekinesis, the gun is ripped from his hand and I send it through the ceiling.
Then, I loose control. I fall backward, drifting into a dark, silent hole. The world around me fades away—I can’t hear, see, touch, or even smell. All I can do is pray that I don’t die.
* * *
Another thing you need to know about me: my name is Dalton. I’ll soon be sixteen. My curfew was three hours ago.
I have a love/hate relationship with my anticonvulsants. They bring down my seizures to once or twice a week, which is awesome. But if I take them, I’m powerless. It’s like having a cool video game but you can only play it at night when your parents are sleeping.
But when I do have a seizure without the medicine, everything around me spins out of control. Literally. Objects fly off their shelves, things hit me in the face—it’s like being in the center of a tornado.
Suddenly, I’m pulled out of the dark void. Everything around me is blanketed in confusion. What’s happened? Where am I? Am I real? I’m scared. Where’s my parents? Is something behind me? Am I dying? Usually, someone kindly explains to me I’ve had a seizure and then suddenly everything makes sense. But it doesn’t.
I sit up. I have a terrible headache. How many minutes passed? One? Two? Five minutes means you’re supposed to panic and call 911. Around me, the store is in chaos. Shelves are dislodged and their contents are everywhere: bags of chips on the floor, fluorescent lights blown out and flickering, dozens of soda bottles leaking from their shelves and forming a sizzling waterfall that had soaked part of my costume…my costume!
I grab my mask and quickly tied it around my head, hoping the security cameras don’t catch my face. It doesn’t heal my headache but for some reason it’s strangely comforting—I don’t have to be Dalton the epileptic kid, instead I’m someone else. A symbol of some sorts.
Grumpy is still passed out. Greedy’s body hangs over limp on the counter. Quickly, I stand up and check his pulse. Still alive. Good. I’m fine with knocking some douchebag out but I never, ever, want to kill someone. Dad says killing isn’t something you get over with. I’ll take his word since he’s a Gulf War veteran.
The cashier is shivering. He points at me. “Y-y-you’re….”
I raise my hand, but he cowers back. He’s in more shock than I am. “Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “Please, don’t.”
He shakes his head. But that doesn’t mean he’ll keep his mouth shut. I got an idea. I notice the security camera television suspended from the ceiling. It somehow had survived any damage. Concentrating hard, I focus on ejecting the disc inside. Instead, the television comes flying right towards me. I jump to the side and it smashes to the floor.
I scratch my head. “Um….” I turn to the shell-shocked cashier. “Can I take this?”
He nods quickly.
My stomach gurgles. At my feet is a bag of cheese puffs. It might be the shock, or the fact I had cold pizza for dinner, but I pick it up. “And this?” I add. After all, I deserve at least some kind of reward for everything I’d been through.
He nods again.
“Thanks.”
I break into a run, the bag moist in my sweaty hands and the broken television floating behind me. I can’t go out into the street and have everyone notice me, so I careen behind the shop. I run past several dumpsters, over a broken fence, and into dark woods. The gas station is far behind me.
I drop the television where no one would find it—under a pile of leaves I quickly craft with my mind. Then, I undress from my stupid costume, rolling it up the best I can. I’m wearing a hoodie and sweat pants beneath. I stuff my costume between my belly and my jacket, making me look like I was pregnant.
Once I’m out on the streets again, walking like a normal punk teenager, I load my mouth with cheese puffs in a failed attempt to calm my nerves. I can’t believe I’d lived through that. Everything that happened was a miracle, no doubt. But still—a rush surges inside me. I did the right thing. I feel old yet really young at the same time. The cashier, although scared and perhaps in need of a few therapy sessions, is safe. The bad guys got what’s coming for them, and—if I’m lucky—they’ll be in prison soon before they hurt anyone again.
I sit down at a telephone pole where I had a view of the gas station. Several police cars flash blue and red. And no, flashing lights don’t give me seizures. That’s pretty rare among epileptics and a Hollywood stereotype. The cops lead the criminals into the cruisers. Others talk into their radios. One of them is interviewing the cashier, who’s frantically describing me with great detail. I knew he’d lie.
Once I’m done my snack, I disappear into the night, like a shadow among the black.