ADDICTION
By Lindsay Gale
We are thrilled to introduce you to our newest published author, Sloka Edara! Sloka recently published her book, Bridge of Starlight, through our Fresh Ink publishing program. Fresh Ink, youth authors with a completed draft of a novel are mentored through chapter-by-chapter revision process. At end of the program, the author is guided through the publication process resulting an ink-and-paper book they can hold in their hands and share with other readers!
“Not again . . .” I mutter to myself, pressing my fingers against my temples. My phone is buzzing, ringing, calling to me, telling me that I need, need to respond. This isn’t what I’d expected. After all, when I was banned, they weren’t spamming me like this. They virtually ignored me. Now, though . . . I try to turn away from it, but I can’t. Grabbing my phone, my fingers go into autopilot, doing what they’ve always been good at doing.
Texting.
My book is called Bridge of Starlight. It’s a book about a normal girl, Charlie, a bit paranoid, whose whole world is thrown into a frenzy in one afternoon. As if the people she loves being abducted isn’t enough already, she finds herself in a secret magical organization that reveals hidden information to her. And her whole life changes. Just like that. Soon, she finds herself thrown into a conflict that she didn’t know about until that one fateful afternoon. And the question is: Will she succeed alongside her friends? Or will she suffer the consequences? My book is called Bridge of Starlight. It’s a book about a normal girl, Charlie, a bit paranoid, whose whole world is thrown into a frenzy in one afternoon. As if the people she loves being abducted isn’t enough already, she finds herself in a secret magical organization that reveals hidden information to her. And her whole life changes. Just like that. Soon, she finds herself thrown into a conflict that she didn’t know about until that one fateful afternoon. And the question is: Will she succeed alongside her friends? Or will she suffer the consequences?
Laughter bubbles and froths as it escapes my mouth. I can’t help it. What my friends are writing just brings up something inside me. Relaxing into my chair, I let out a breath and press send. Then, I scroll through the messages above my own. I read them all closely. The sunlight casts dancing shadows across the screen, and I turn from the light, blocking the golden glow. Looking back at my homework, which is still lying there, white and blank, devoid of any words, any thoughts, any dreams, I bite my lip. Shaking my head and looking away, I brush a strand of hair away from my face and fidget with my bright neon phone case.
How can I have drifted back so easily? Didn’t that week of suffering teach me anything? I remember everything that had happened with my phone. Didn’t it help me get over this?
to our newest Sloka recently of Starlight, program. In a completed mentored through a process. At the hands and share with other readers!
Just three weeks ago, I had been in this exact chair, sitting before a sheet of homework, and my phone had started beeping as my friends messaged each other. Reaching for my phone, I started to text as well. The rivalries and scandals of the past week flashed across my screen as my friends brought them up with merciless teasing. I giggled as I read through the cheerful taunts and juicy gossip that our group chat was always full of. A small noise vibrated the table just then, and a message appeared on the computer screen from my teacher, Mrs. Redeikia. “Narrative Writing Project due tonight, three pages or less. Good luck!” My hands slowly drifted to the keyboard, but I paused when 26 new messages made my phone vibrate wildly. I opened one of them, soaking in every single word, trying to stop my body from relaxing, trying to turn myself to homework. “It can wait, Akira,” a small voice whispered in my head. “Stop caring so much. It’s only eight pm. You’ll have time to do your homework . . . later.” I couldn't help but want that, want to sit there, texting. It was better than anything I could think of. The narrative writing could wait.
The next day, Mrs. Redeikia asked me in a low voice about the narrative writing. I had been doodling in my planner, and my pencil froze. “Oops . . .” I thought, internally wincing and imagining what would happen when I got home.
What would my parents think? How would they feel? How would they make me feel? Despite these worries, I couldn’t help but think lightly of the situation. It wasn’t that bad. I could trying started jeans,
When I got home, my parents were standing there, in the doorway. Brushing past them, always busy. Everything mom asked. Her voice was sharp, spoke calmly, quietly, level-headedly, as if this was a normal day. His mouth was pressed into a thin line.
I turned away from him, trying to hide. I felt a buzzing in my pocket. “Oh no . . .” My hand twitched, and my dad looked from it to the glowing rectangle in my jeans pocket. There was something grim and determined in the way he set his jaw.
“Give me your phone.”
I stopped breathing and stared at him, shocked.
“Your grades have been dropping, Akira.” My mother cut in. “Ever since we got you that iPhone 12.”
I stumbled away from them. “No! No, no, no. Mom, Dad, my phone is my life. Please, don’t.”
They stared at me, then my dad reached out and plucked it from my pocket. I grabbed out, but he had it. “We’ll take this away for a week. I hope your grades will improve in that time.”
I felt tears streaming down my face as I started screaming at them, screaming at them to stop. I called them names, insulted them, and begged my parents to give it back to me. Shaking my head desperately, I reached up, bent on my knees, begging them. My phone was what I had sacrificed so much for. I had done virtually all chores around the house for a year and had given up TV privileges for an entire summer. I couldn’t survive without my phone. It was what I lived for, sometimes. Now, my parents were taking it away.
“PLEASE!” I screamed, shouting at my parents. They silently walked up the stairs, leaving me sitting there, crying.
When I woke up the next morning, my eyes instinctively drifted to the empty spot on my nightstand, the place where my phone usually was. I felt an emptiness inside me as if something had been pulled out. Every single moment seemed wrong. When I walked through the halls, the weight in my pocket was too light. When I sat down in class, there was no buzz and heat against my leg, no glowing screen for me to tap. I worried about what my friends would think if I didn’t respond to their texts. Would they resent me? Would they remove me from the chat, or worse, completely exclude me from their circle? And what if they had something really important to talk about, something I wouldn't I would touch my pocket, saw the heads of my constricted as I wondered phone, I was on a completely different planet than them.
The things they talked and out of the blue without context. I was silent dragged on. At night, room, the usual noise
On Wednesday, our teacher revealed that we would have a test the next day. As I remembered what had happened the last time I’d procrastinated on my homework, I resolved to study as hard as I could for it. Maybe my parents would even consider giving back my phone three days early. That night, I stayed up until nine working on flashcards, and the next day, as I reached home, I saw my dad, standing outside, smiling.
“Thirty-five out of thirty-five,” he said simply, handing a small box to me, “I’m so proud of you, Akira.” Opening the box right there on the porch, I found my phone inside with its bright neon case.
Suddenly, a message brings me out of my memories. It’s on my computer, and it's from Mrs. Redeikia. “Slideshow presentation about ‘The Man in the Well’ due tonight. Good luck!” I take a deep breath and start to work on my presentation. But my phone is beeping so loudly that I can’t think. I want to go back to my phone, I want to text, but I force myself to keep doing my school work. I remember Mrs. Redeikia’s face, my mother's eyes, and slowly, ever so slowly, I silence my phone.
I regret it immediately. I have to respond. I have to. I think of all of the comments and gossip I will miss in the next few hours. And yet . . . the white and gray walls of the room seem dance round engulfing with their bright lines and sharp angles. drop table.
me, finished