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75 pages

English

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Shortly after moving to San Francisco a young girl Teaha finds herself fleeing the police with her mother and sister. She is given a choice to stay and face social torment and the media's scrutiny regarding her family or disappear. Challenging the duality of freedom and prisoner. Can she commit to the choice she made or will the weight of her past be too much of a burden?

Inevitably fracturing her identity between who she is and who she must be in order to establish a sense of normality, confronted in moments of reprieve. A life lived is only experienced by the eyes that see it but embraced by those who listen. Today Ended An Hour Ago, based on true events, is a testament to childhood trauma and the formation of independence. Exploiting society's transparent behaviors raising questions about virtue, loyalty and submitting to the role others cast.

What is left unchanged is chosen to be trusted.

Sujets

Women

Coming of Age

Woman

The Women

Crime

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	13 juillet 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977266705
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Today Ended An Hour Ago The Art of Impersonating Yourself All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Tessia-Yasmine v2.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
Cover Photo © 2023 Dreamstime. All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
"There are more Starbucks than libraries, and people have more clothes than books."
In dedication to my sculptors
Based on true events

Any events placed cannot be used as evidence in a court of law
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Preface
SINE METU
The elderly, pungent and poised, radiant or frail, are signifiers. Symbolic representations of the time unknowingly remind us that if I can make it this far, so can you. When you walk down a street looking for something to fill the time, be it beer, company, or a nice red wine, look for the elderly sitting, standing, or demanding the best, for their time is a prize until they reach their demise.
Dennis A. Bjorkland, Jie Dong, James T. Hammes, Jorge Iglesias, and David Richard Kaup were major white-collar criminals who lived life with a little extra spice. They didn’t fear the law because they were above it. Vocabulary consists of semantics and technicalities falling into the grey areas of economically driven ideals. The difference between right and wrong does not come from the law of man or God; it is bestowed upon us through something valued as much greater. Money.
Most parents want to shelter their children from the cruel world surrounding them, keeping them close to home so they may never stray too far from the beaten path. The home was something inconsistent, the beaten path not nearly as clear as thought to be; you could call this a coming-of-age novel, but the idea of one miraculous event making you an adult was hardly plausible, far more relatable to say a series of unfortunate events or a slap in the face saying this is reality and sometimes shit happens. I invite you into the daily crusades of my life the unfortunate events, the slaps to the face, the animate pains, but also the prosperous lessons learned.
I ran away so much that my mom put deadbolts in our big oak doors; she never let me forget that. The first time she found me was in the middle of the playground, staring up at the sky, probably deciding whether or not I liked clouds. To this day, I am still unsure. The farthest was to the aquarium, sneaking past security to the shark tanks and sitting and observing until someone came up and asked me where my parents were. They were at home. He asked who accompanied me, and I said nobody. It seemed where they were was unimportant; it mattered more where they were not.
At the age of four, my mom was arrested again. Which time was this? No one could really say. We all lost count. She was like the men listed above wanted for their untrappable minds. There isn’t much to say about it, like why she was there or for how long; just whatever needed to be hidden when the rooms were raided could be tucked away in my pull-ups. Maybe that’s what the Huggies commercial means when they say I’m a big kid now.
The aftermath, a long dirt path to the facility, and her sitting behind that glass window in black and white striped pyjamas. Little, meticulously paved cutouts were drawn to break the divide so we could speak to one another. Fixated on those absences of space, anticipating a world of danger seeping through those tiny little holes. She was home a few days later, and the thought became a distant memory. Growing up in a family such as mine, you find yourself asking a lot: Where do my loyalties lie? Does loyalty hide amongst the expectations of who can offer more, or are we burdened by something deeper?
Our surroundings form expectations, but what if your surroundings keep changing? How does one decide whether or not to feed or starve the idea of expectancy, and doesn’t it seem like the problems we procure always revolve around the same matter regardless of the setting? At what point do you look in the mirror and say, Behold the problem . Is that when we come of age? After handling the same problem repeatedly and finally accepting that we lack control over the dimensions of our insanity. The conscious self can be taught to use the chaos we crave. In this story, you’ll come to realise that no matter how ever evolving our mentality may be, the child inside of us will always be whispering sweet words in the corner of the room to the man in the mirror, sometimes with tears in their eyes, begging us to listen.
Where are you from? What a nuisance of a question. Do you mean where I was born or what genetics create my ethnically ambiguous features and toned complexion, or perhaps it is my cultural practises you wish to know about? I am from the outside, an outsider with no claim or place. Only the cliche gratification of claiming home is where the heart is when, in reality, you don’t know where your heart is at all, just that it’s always with you, even though little pieces are left scattered around the world. In turn, wherever my head falls, that is home for the physical self. The heart and head are encompassed in the same shell.
When you are young and chaos is normal for you, you expect other people to find it normal as well. But, as I’ve learned, there are levels of chaos. The complexity of it falls along the lines of what can and cannot be controlled by thine own actions.
Judgement is one of our basic instincts. Political Judgement is like rust; it spreads, capturing those bound by fear of societal deterioration. In the world of elitist criminals, many have a deep-rooted god complex, for they are ones that beseech judgement. Erasing moral lines to best suit their hobbies and eating away at the shiny metal cuffs you try to hold onto it with. It is not what you do; it is what they can prove, and that is the leg upon which their thrones rest.

Born in a small town with smaller-minded people, the suffocating desert borders never felt like home. It was a truly foreign feeling to try and recall any memories from those days, as if I lived with a stranger hosting my body. The Mesa, Arizona Hospital, on 29th April 1999, delivered a little girl named Teaha-Maria Ladas, that’s me. From the outside, everything seemed pleasant; we were just the blackish family down the street who left the Christmas lights out far past December.
My mother was our family’s core and did not need a simple life; she did not come from one and thus felt no comfort in it. She was a masochist of the mind. We lived in a great house in a gated community on the lake, with not one but two docks, our pool accessorised by a seven-foot rock waterfall, a boat, and countless costly cars. We even had our tiny golf course on the side of the house with the fake grass, so it never looked dead. Like that fake grass, my family covered our secrets, like the decaying earth underneath, with a faux-green finish. Five out of the seven days, my father was away in the Greenlands of California. That is, of course, when it wasn’t always on fire. It’s amazing the way things look when you’re a kid. You always want what is out of reach. Sitting in the window with my sister, we watched my father leave at all hours of the day and night every week for six years in his green Jeep Wrangler, then for another four years in the red Jeep Sahara that he so generously exchanged with the women next door. Pleading with him to take me too sometimes worked. His work place was my second house, the firehouse, where I had no standard one or two uncles but 20, who filled me with copious amounts of chocolate and laughter upon every visit and, yes, sliding down the fire pole. One of the secretaries had a typewriter, and while my father worked, they would assign me interview jobs around the building, concocting ridiculous stories solely for my entertainment. On training days, they would cast me as a lifeless victim in need of rescue. CPR certified since the age of six. This was the beginning of my poor attendance record.
My father, Marc, is a simple man with simple wants. At least, that is what he conveyed to the world. What happened beneath his surface was unknown. I’m not even sure he knew. A man who used to tower over me with stature and dark piercing eyes got promoted to fire chief in Burlingame, California, by leading the merger set forth by Hillsborough and Burlingame and expanding it to Millbrae and San Bruno, resulting in the Central County Fire Department, which in some parts of town had the clean, smooth asphalt with no cracks and the houses with the big candy bars during Halloween way to go, Daddy. My mother’s name, you could pick a few, changed as often as she did. Shaughn, since that was the name she signed my birth certificate with.
In 2010, my mother, sister, and I moved to California to witness his rise and rebuild t