Read TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Online
Authors: Matthew Turner
Tags: #Inspirational Romance Fiction, #New Adult Genre, #Coming of Age Story
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story)
22nd December—The Great Ocean road
24th February—14,000 Feet Above Motueka
TICK
to the
TOCK
BY MATTHEW TURNER
Published by Turndog Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Matthew Turner. All Rights Reserved
———————
love & living begins now
Quite frankly there are too many people to thank, because the act of crafting, writing, and publishing a book is far from an individual endeavour. I may be the author, but the part I play doesn’t tell the entire story. Indeed, you, the person on the other end of these words, are part of it, and for this I thank you because you deserve to be thanked a million times over. There is no greater compliment to a pen scratcher like myself than to have someone read their work. Thank You!
I must certainly thank my parents too, because they support me on a level that doesn’t seem justifiable. Many people are pressured by their parents to do this or to do that, but not mine. It feels like they believe in me, have faith in me, and trust in my wayward dreams and wanderings. This is beyond special, and so, to my mother and father, Thank You!
To my other family members and close friends, also. You are the folk who support me when nobody else does. Whether it’s reading my book, buying my book, attending an event you have no interest in all because it’s my own, or simply supporting me with kind words and hearty high fives. You know who you are, and again, Thank You!
My editor, too, deserves thanks, because she helped me take this idea to the page. Susan, Thank You!
And to Erin Al Mehair and Michael Mardel for proofreading and finding all the faux pas’, and to Kirsty Vizard and Amanda Liston for being my Beta Readers. Above that, however, you all offer me support I don’t feel worthy of. You’ve become amazing friends, so to this awesome foursome: Thank You!
I cannot forget the team at Costa Coffee, Halifax; or The Works, Sowerby Bridge; or Andrea at Deli Belge; or the various other locations where I’ve drunk coffee, stared creepily into the distance as I try to figure out my next sentence, and tip-tapped away for hours on end, day after day. You put up with me, don’t kick me out, and most certainly played a part in this story. Thank You!
Finally, to everyone else who’s helped bring TICK to the TOCK into the world. This includes Bloggers, Reviewers, Online Friends, Old Acquaintances, Book Store Owners, My Printers (Book Empire), and again, YOU, the person who reads my heart and soul. Thank You!
But I must leave my final-final thanks to the most important little person in my world. To my gorgeous son, I thank you every day. Not only are you the inspiration for so much of my work, but simply life in general. I hope you read this one day and smile, and I hope I do you proud for the rest of my days. Kid, I love you in a way that doesn’t even register on the love scale.
Thank You!
____________________________
.
Dedicated To The Kid, My Son, My One—and—Only
____________________________
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The Six Part Prequel to TICK to the TOCK
Find out what happens the day before
Love & Living Begins
. One Day in September is the six-part prequel to TICK to the TOCK, offering an insight into the minds of Dante, Danii, Ethan & Wilbur the day before their journey together begins.
____________________________
DOWNLOAD ALL SIX @
t
dog.co/one-day-in-september
16
th
September—York:
Recommended Listening:
Wires—Athlete
Winter—Joshua Radin
9 Crimes—Damien Rice
To never reach the age of twenty-three is unjust, but this is the fate I face. I awoke this morning with my life ahead of me, but now, as I sit on this cold, damp, wooden bench, my demise clings to the horizon. I'm a dying man, a man with a ticking clock. We all are, of course, but most don't consider it or foresee it or give it a second thought. A few hours ago, I was one of these free-spirited minds, but life has a way of changing course in a rather quick and frank fashion.
My day began like any other, the alarm breaking into sound at the same time as it did yesterday; my tired eyes creeping open, slowly, cautiously, like any would at such an ungodly hour. The only difference to this day was rather than heading to work, I would go first to the doctor, but as I would catch the same bus, at the same time, and head in the same direction, little differed.
Tired, I stumbled through my morning routine, my restless night not mixing well with the early hour. Still, a certain excitement ran inside me, for late last night I experienced an epiphany of sorts, an encouragement to write, a need to return to a craft I once held so dear. I'd go to my appointment, pick up whatever medication was prescribed to me, and leave my frustrations behind; return to the page and conjure meaningful pose once more.
The crisp morning air filled my lungs as soon as I stepped outside, a lovely September morning that only Yorkshire can muster. Walking in such weather is a commuter's delight, the crackle of leaves erupting beneath your feet. In a few weeks, the trees will be bare and the ground a soggy, rotting mess, but for now, all is well. For one final encore, summer has a say.
Energised from the refreshing stroll, I approached the doctor's office in a somewhat buoyant mood. I awoke with a headache, as I have most mornings recently, but Doc assured me all was fine, even though he was taking a rather careful route. He's always been the cautious type, but he's a guy to trust. If he says all is well, all is well.
"Oh, Mr King, head straight in," said the receptionist, as soon as I walked through the door.
Mrs Robinson
played over the old waiting room speakers, a song I love. I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to it again.
I've known Doc my entire life; in fact, it was he who gave me my first injection, first inspection, and first prescription. His smile is always the first thing I notice when seeing him. The wrinkles have deepened and skin sagged, and his silver hair gets sharper each time I visit, but that smile is unwavering... until this morning.
The sullen expression aged him: lifeless and drained, as though some parasite had emptied him. I clutched my chest as it beat strong and fast, edging myself down in the old cushioned chair; worried to say anything for
fear of what words might bring.
"I'm afraid it isn't good news," he said, his head low, immersed in a pile of papers. As he raised his chin, I realised how vacant he was. His eyes needed that smile, for without it, he had no comfort; a stranger rather than a man I've known for twenty-two years. "The results are back. I've triple checked them, but... but... it doesn't look good," he said. "I've spoken to several people, and..." he sighed. "It doesn't look good."
The silence between us took on a haunting form. I said nothing. I couldn't say anything, all I could do was sit, my hands pushed tight under my thighs as I awaited his next words, which, as in all moments of worry, took a lifetime to arrive; trudging towards me in slow motion.
"Dante, we've found a tumour..." He carried on speaking, but there are certain words in the English language that halt your existence. They're bullets that tear through your skin, pieces of shrapnel that rip you open and leave you gasping for air. They make all other words worthless, and
tumour
is most certainly one of them.
"...It's aggressive and in a precarious position, and, well... I don't really know what to say. It's a very rare case."
The sound from his lips distorted, the blood pulsing through my ears creating a waterfall of muffled noise. Seconds were hours and minutes, days. Was I still dreaming? Had my alarm yet to sound?
"Dante, I'm so sorry. I know this is a lot to take in, and I promise I'm going to do everything I can. There are more tests to have, and there are specialists who know far more than me, and—"
"What... what does all this mean?" I asked, the words scraping up my throat and exiting in a barely audible form.
Doc exhaled deep and long, slumping in his seat. "You have a brain tumour. It's bad. It's malignant, which means it's invasive and aggressive, and the location and size make it inoperable. Any potential treatment becomes very difficult in cases like these, but like I say, there's still—"
"Am I going to die?" I asked with a desperate and high-pitched squeak. He went to speak but was met with an empty breath instead. That said much more than any words could.
"I don't want you to think like that. There's still hope, and—"
"Doc, please, be honest with me," I said, and although short, it was possibly the most difficult sentence I've ever had to form.
"It's not good," he said, taking another deep mouthful of air. "It's in an
awkward
position... very rare. Cases like these are tough." He shook his head, his eyes red with despair. "I'm sorry."
He held me when I was a few weeks old and watched me grow from child-to-teenager, teenager-to-adult, and now, finally, adult-to-dying-man. The silence returned, once again haunting, taunting me lower into the chair.
Do you cry? ask questions? get angry? say nothing?
The seconds continued to tick by as the two of us stared at each other, although neither of us focused on anything in particular. "Oh... okay," I finally said. "So... how long do I have?" Each word was hollow, like a distant memory.