Turning Inward - Asperger Syndrome and discoveryPrologueVignette One - FloatingHe floated near the ceiling, up in the front right corner of the classroom. Looking down, the six year old boy could see the top of his teacher's head and the faces of his classmates. Further down the row closest to the door he saw himself watching and listening to the teacher. The boy felt like Superman since he could now fly.He would often imagine leaving his body during times of increased stress, caused in part by the teacher herself. She wasn't exactly a mean woman, but had a harsh manner that frightened him. At home in the mornings he would sometimes become nauseous from the dread at the thought of going to school. This was made worse by the apprehension he felt with the anticipation of trying to interact with his classmates. He would continue to have a knot in his stomach every morning before school for the next twelve years.Vignette Two - FocusThe monster was attacking him again. Its hairy paws came out of the igloo through holes on either sid
When Worlds Collide - Chapter 1 - Arrival A strong wind blew in from the north. The Black Torrent shivered and pulled his cape around himself. For a late May evening, it was unseasonably cold. The change of weather had come on quite suddenly and it almost seemed there was something more in the air than a mere chill. Breaking into a run, he hoped the movement would warm him. He darted to the edge of the building and leapt over to the next rooftop. As his feet hit the slate, a buzzing came from his belt. He pulled out the small communicator, recognizing the code for Officer Derek Blake. He switched on the device. "Torrent here." "Hey, we were wondering if you could come down to Fifth and Clark. We have a kid here and we're not sure what to do with her." Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. It was nearly 2 a.m. "I'm not covering that area tonight," he said, even though he was already heading to the location. "I know. But...well, you'll see when you get here." It took Torrent twenty minutes to m
Cloud in a Bottle 1Cloud in a Bottle 1How is it your voice is a canyon which cutswhere you did not even speak, opening the riversof my lungs so they could cataract, could rage with breathyou breathed? That the rock swells of your ribs, washedround and floating, met then barred the way with mineso that my heart, turned to tides, could not slip by,and beat against the walls, unanswered, ‘til it drowned?And that I still don’t hate you, even now?There’s all this nonsense of lips and bubbles, that’s fine;still refuse drifts in one direction all the same, refusing—shored up maybe by some reassuring echoes still unsung—to sink, so like an opened blouse colored by brine, my hopefinds refuge at the highest point, and lays itself unlockedon barren sand to fade, suffuse with light, the way all thingsin the desert turn finally, achingly white.
Redwall- Coming Home Winter over Mossflower wood had been remarkably harsh. Everything was white and cold, frozen in its place until Spring. The tree branches leaned low, heavily laden with snow and ice. There was a constant flurry of snow falling at all times. The weather had trapped the creatures of Redwall Abbey inside the red sandstone structure. The only ones allowed out were the biggest and strongest of creatures, and even then only rarely. Presently, one of those with such privileged rights was outside, charging through the deep snow on the Abbey walls, attempting to survey the landscape. Deyna the otter was a tall, strong riverdog. He'd been born at the Abbey, but as a babe had been stolen and taken to the Juskarath clan. After fifteen long seasons he returned home to the Abbey, and to his mother and older sister. Still, he had some habits hanging over him
You can't have it allbut you can have the glazed heat bursting from the blacktop like a brokenfire hydrant. You can have the jangle of keysswinging from your hip with each stride.You can have the tactility of leather and the graze ofbathroom mosaic tiles under a cold shower peltingbullets and when the water cuts offyou can have dry book pages. You can have happiness,though it will often be bitter, like finding a stranger’swallet full of pictures of smiling children until youreturn it to find that the couple is barren.You can have the scratches on the back of his knuckles,faded, yet raw. You can have the translucency of sheetsin the sun, silhouettes but no details,never revealing anything more than a fringe of hairand frayed laces tripping over themselves.You can drop obscenities like bombs untilthey don’t mean anything anymore. You can pull out the Monopoly boardthat broke your family. You can’t put it back together,but you can pretend the thimble is your mother and the
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;Open and stare through the lights,Into the darkness of doom.And yet they smile,Yet they smile.A drop of tear;Seeps through the garden of death;Falls to the mortal soil.Dreams and desires will blend again,To render the roses alive.I am floating through a vision.Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.Can reality be so real?Let me drown again,Into the silence of familiar noise.As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.The flame of hope burns bright,Drenched in the colors of freedom.So let my dreams unravel my soul,As darkness fades away;And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.As these pair of eyes,Open to stare through the lights again.Is this reality?Can reality be so real?Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;Staring at the distant lights;Staring beyond the distant skies.What do they see?What do they long?What do they desire?Then the skies will break down;White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.Moments will tur