The depths of winter have settled deep in the bones. It’s cold in the Midwest, forcing those of us who live here to ask ourselves why. These months seem to drag on, pulling our lifeless bodies along with the promise of spring, that one day in May when it’s sunny and in the 70s with no humidity. Around here, we seem to go straight from the deep freeze to hell’s doorstep instantaneously. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, there’s no point. I’m still going to prefer chocolate chip cookies to broccoli, and I lack the enthusiasm and motivation I once had in my 30s to work out. In the basement, a lonely weight bench sits folded against the wall, and an exercise bike gathers dust.
But the one moment I’m in my element is teaching my night classes for gifted students through the local community college. It’s a job I accidentally fell into about six years ago when my kids were obsessed with Minecraft. A friend put me in contact with the College of Lake County and their summer camp program coordinator. She was looking for someone to design and teach a class using Minecraft, as it would be a popular draw. I created a four-day summer camp using the program, which was held on campus in a computer lab. The kids learned about Medieval knights and castles, and then built one using that knowledge in Minecraft. The following summer, they learned about board games and strategies, and then built mini games within Minecraft for themselves and others to play.
These experiences led me to apply for a part-time adjunct position within the Personal Enrichment department. This non-credit side of the college offers classes for adults and youth, as well as a fast-paced gifted program aimed at middle schoolers whose test scores are in the 95th percentile or higher on any nationally normed exam. There is an eight week semester in both the fall and the spring, where students take classes in math, science, writing, grammar, or literature. These classes meet one night a week for 90 minutes, and I have created and taught topics in grammar, creative writing, narrative writing, literary analysis, and speech and oral presentations. I don’t get paid a lot, but it’s enough to offer a bit of flexibility in our budget. I also enjoy designing the curriculum and activities, not to mention the great students and families who come to class each week.
Every once in a while, I’ve come across some truly exceptional students, ones I know will go far, and I can’t wait to read about them 20 years from now when they are changing the world. These kids have a natural talent and an innate curiosity to think outside the box. They are writers, actors, and creative thinkers. They inspire me to be a better teacher, and I learn as much from them as they do from me.
As I begin a new session with a new set of writers in my creative and narrative classes, I am drawn to the memory of my narrative class last fall and one student in particular. His name is Madden Zuccaro, and remember it, you should. One day, you’ll likely find him on the New York Times best seller list. Madden is a current 7th grader at a local middle school. He has a wonderful family and an amazing talent for writing. Just the simple warm up of supplying a picture prompt would elicit the beginning of a story, which would have me and our class enthralled, wanting for more.
As luck and timing would have it, our class began just as the college accepted entries for the Skyway Writer’s Contest. Any student could enter a short story in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or drama script. The top 5 from each category would attend the Skyway Writers Festival via Zoom, where awards for the top 3 in each category would be announced. The entries came from numerous community colleges throughout the state, and the festival featured breakout rooms with professional writers and college professors.
I sent Madden the links to apply, knowing he had already done some writing published by his local town newspaper. What I received in return was jaw-dropping. He wrote the kind of story that hit home, especially for me due to my experiences with my daughter and her attempt on her life a year and a half ago. Thus, it was no surprise that Madden was one of the top 5 entries in the fiction category. Although he did not place in the top 3, it was an honor to go up against adult writers and come out at the top of the pack.
With permission from Madden and his family, I would like to share Moving Day with you now. Maybe one day my writing will live up to the promise I see in his.
Moving Day
by Madden Zuccaro
The autumn sun shone low above the city, and its orange glow reflected in the windows of densely packed skyscrapers. From atop the building, the bumble of urban life felt distant for once. It was part of what brought me up here in the end. No honking or yelling, just serene tranquility as I watched cars drift around like luminescent ants far below.
I took a while to ponder it, I had to after all, for on Moving Day, you notice the small things that you usually never pay attention to. The sound of wind rustling through your hair, or the sun’s gentle heat caressing your face. All things that are subconsciously tuned out on any other day, yet Moving Day was different. It was special.
Usually, I would go and say my goodbyes. However, this time there was no one to say goodbye to.
No more family, no more friends, just the inner machinations of my mind pondering the true definition of eternity, and for the first time that I could recall, I felt slight contempt at my predicament.
Everyone I had ever known, ever loved, passed me by, while I remained alone. Moving Day after Moving Day.
Some Moving Days, I cried. On others I shouted. But these actions weren’t fueled by emotion, but instead my lack thereof. Desperate attempts to feel something once more, attempts made to no avail.
In my view, the concept of beyond was one not easily explained. For me there was no after, or even any hope of it. No god to look up to, no entity to guide me, just the omnipresent shadow of Moving Day creeping closer and closer until it was time for it to bare its gnarled teeth. To taunt me with happiness, yet only deliver me perpetuity. You would think that in all this time, I would have found some shred of pleasure, yet longevity brought me nothing but disappointment and dread. In any joy I could have felt, the feeling of Moving Day lingered in the back of my mind. The knowledge that I would outlive any emotion I may be feeling, and that I would outlive those helping me to achieve it.
As I continued to observe my surroundings, it felt like nothing more than a movie, a tragedy destined to repeat over and over again. Long ago I had actually felt something when I made a decision or witnessed an event, I had felt vague sensations of concern, worry, or pleasure. Now I didn’t feel anything. Nothing had any bearing to me anymore, it didn’t matter how I got here, nor how I felt in doing so, I would always end up on this very same balcony, reading the same plot from a different script.
I walked closer to the balcony’s glass railing, it was almost time. Time to confront my fate, or my lack thereof. As I took some deep breaths and anxiously tapped my fingers, a benign thought intruded into my mind. What if I didn’t do it?
Every Moving Day prior, I had never questioned the final act. It was almost reflex at this point. Yet just now was when I finally realized that it was always a conscious decision. I chose to come up to this balcony, each and every time.
But what if I stayed? What would happen if I decided to fight instinct? For the first time in forever, an anxious curiosity began to reside in the pit of my stomach. The concept of choice felt more than just an illusion now, it felt all-encompassing. It consumed every square inch of my body, and I couldn’t have felt more powerful. For once in many lifetimes, I had an actual choice to which I didn’t know where it would take me. There wasn’t the foresight of this balcony, nor was Moving Day of any further concern, all that mattered was after.
I couldn’t! Another part of me wrestled for control, and it took all of my effort to pry my white knuckles off of the cold glass. How could I betray myself like this? Moving Day wasn’t a part of life, it was life! Did I truly want to see what came after Moving Day? What if there was nothing? Would the possibility of nonexistence be worth not living in eternal monotony? All questions to which I didn’t know the answer, but one thing was for certain…
I intended on finding out.
All I had to do was survive this day, survive until 12. I always jumped at 12. I didn’t even need a watch, my body simply knew when, and hoisted itself over the railing. But not today. Today I would fight the eternity’s worth of programming that plagued me.
Today I would fight Moving Day.
My first course of action became obvious, I needed to get off this balcony.
Now that I wasn’t planning on leaping off the edge, the cars below felt a lot less relaxing. Especially when two parts of my mind were vying for control of my fragile body, and one slip could send me over the sides. After enough willpower to move a mountain, I managed to enter my apartment, and seal the glass door behind me.
It was done. There’s no going back now.
No longer will I end up on that balcony, I couldn’t. I would get to the ground floor, and face whatever awaited me.
As I stepped to the door leading into my hallway, my body’s rebellion became more physical. No longer was it a matter of will, now it was a fight for my life. My muscles moved on their own accord, and they were not intending on going down without a grueling fight.
Spasms turned to involuntary movements, and just opening my hallway door was a struggle.
I desperately hobbled across the labyrinthine passage to the elevator, acquiring the nervous stares of various other tenants.
“Are you okay, sir?” A housekeeping worker tentatively inquired as I inched across the long corridor, weaving back and forth like an indecisive drunkard.
I didn’t have the time or mental capacity to answer her question, for every shred of my consciousness was now dedicated to fighting my own body, and for a moment, I was winning.
My hobble turned to a full on sprint as I dashed to the elevator, careful not to trip over myself.
When I finally arrived at the elevator door, a police officer flanked by the apartment’s manager emerged from the nearby stairwell.
“That’s him, right there, officer.” The manager stammered, pointing his arched finger at me.
Not now. I was this close!
“Sir, we’re going to ask you to come with us.” The officer began to step forward as he spoke, his hand firmly planted upon his belt. My body jerked and thrashed, and it took all of my strength to stay in place. “Sir, I’m warning you!” The officer continued. “Don’t move!”
Ding!
The elevator door slid open, filling the silent room with a faint hum.
As if the officer knew what I was about to do, he quickly put his hand out in warning, but it was no use.
Contrary to my better interests, my body impulsively threw me into the elevator just in time for it to close. What was making me do this? Why was I at war with my very own anatomy? I had no idea, but now, it seemed like I was fighting an uphill battle.
Lower and lower the elevator went, and the silence left me alone with my thoughts. I didn’t know what would come next.
For the first time, I had no clue what was waiting for me, and along with that knowledge came a stream of emotions. Anxiety, curiosity, uncertainty. I would figure it out soon enough though, and as if on cue, the elevator door slid open to reveal the apartment lobby, where I came upon a crowd much to my dismay.
“Hands where we can see them!”
I was trapped. At least five police officers stood at the ready, their weapons raised.
I began to convulse again. My muscles shook violently, and I felt as if I had lost control of my own body. Simply putting my hands above my head felt like lifting an impossibly large weight.
I couldn’t maintain it. The alter ego that resided within me grew in power by the minute. I was going to get myself killed!
Then it hit me.
I was going to get myself killed.
It didn’t matter how it occurred, Moving Day cared not for method, simply means. My own body was going to kill me, and it didn’t care how. Even if I survived tonight, it wouldn’t matter. I would live on the run from myself, trying to outsmart my body until it managed to kill me off, one way or another. My control was slipping… Thoughts fading...
I let out a resigned sigh.
On all other Moving Days, I was never presented a choice. I jumped, I came back, and I restarted. This time, on the other hand, was different. My fate was in the hands of no one but myself, and that in itself gave me a warm feeling. I was happy, I was content, and I was ready.
DON'T LISTEN.
I felt satisfied, I had a decision, what else did I need? Moving Day was inevitable, it was a constant. There was no running from it. Why did I even ponder rebelling? So juvenile of me to think that I could change what is.
RESIST.
A warm smile enveloped me, and the officers ahead tightened their grips on their firearms.
TRAPPED IN MY OWN MIND.
I loved Moving Day! How could I be so blind to the truth?
LET ME OUT.
I had won over my body, and now I was free. Free to make a choice. The choice to Move.
NO.
Yes.
I extended my arms as if to embrace the air, and my snicker broke out into a grin. The voices were gone now. I had providence over my entire anatomy. There was nothing holding me back anymore. I had done it.
PLEASE.
It was beautiful. The grand scheme, I saw it now. I had shed my ignorance, and I could see the truth. The universe’s plans all united by one concept.
Moving Day.
It was time!
The unfailing internal clock that had served me all Moving Days prior had served me again, and without any prudence, I quickly bound towards the officers ahead.
A cacophony of brass-clad angels shed their wings, and their harmonious cries sounded through the night, each bringing a trail of wispy smoke in tow.
Oh, how eternity awaits!