A Round of Words Update

My word count has not been what I would like for it it be, but there has been steady forward progression.  Sometimes as writers, hell as people, that's the best that we can ask.  I'm running into an odd situation, though, and I'm wondering if anyone else has faced this.  You see, here I am introducing good things into this character's life.  She has her little mouse.  She has a great job.  She has just reunited with some old friends.  She is about to meet her first love.  She is healthy and happy for the first time since her mother started abusing, and letting others abuse, her.  But here's the thing: I'm going to have to take it all away.  After all, that's the premise of the book.  I knew that going in.  But I find myself rooting for this girl, hoping she will be one of us to make it out, knowing that she won't and that it will be at my hands.  I'm finding I'm just not sadistic enough for this.  Does anyone else face that?

Here's another excerpt. 

There are so many words, so many terms, concepts, that have become commonplace for me since the day that I walked into the cool chrome waiting room in Center Circle.  Cyber-Bio Compatibility.  Intracranial transplant.  Bineurology.  I’ve spent the last few months in a bubble in which these terms are tossed around as easily as profanity at the docks.  Medical professionals, and certainly scientists, seem to look upon it is some sort of self-degradation to talk in anything other than terminology, and so in self  and so by necessity all of this worked its’ way into my vocabulary just as the electrosynapses wormed their way into my nerves.  Naturally, thoroughly, inseparably.  And so I forget that a season ago they were just as foreign , perhaps even more so, than any of the dozen or so languages spoken here in Flower Town. Today, though, I was reminded.  If I’d caught on to what was happened any more slowly, I think I would have lost a lifetime friend, our friendship would have rotted slowly from the inside out, killed by frightened glances and awkward silence,  and so I’m so thankful that I realized what was happening as soon as I did. Poor Don.

I was so excited to go to work, to see Don, to meet whatever lost soul like me had found refuge in his place.  As soon as I arrived, though, I could tell that something was wrong.  My hair has started to grow back since the surgery, but right now it’s this wild untamed mass of tiny corkscrews pointing this way and that, that , at least in my mind, draws attention to rather than kids the scar that spans my head from ear to ear. So, I decided to wrap my head in a colorful scarf, the same one that covered Rosie’s’ cage when the techs first brought her to me.  Don was friendly enough when I came in, I suppose, but I could tell that something was wrong.  There was ho hug, customary after what he called “my little vacations.” There was no humming as he kneaded the dough with his gnarled hands.  There was nothing.  Just silence, and distance and the nervous glances that he kept shooting my way when he thought that I wasn’t looking.   I chalked it up to time; it has been a while since I’d been  in, or maybe he was irritated by being pressed by the Facility into rehiring me. I’m sure that they are paying my salary, but still Don shares the outer rim’s inherent disdain for anyone Circle Center, which may or may not include me.  I decided not to address it, just went about my day, doing all of the tasks I used to do.  The way I saw it, he would talk about it, or not, when he was ready. 

            By the time lunch came, though, I was feeling the strain.  My shoulders were locked into tension knots and I was beginning to wonder if Dr. Stevens and Basanti have been right about this being a mistake.  We made it through the rush and flopped down in the old mismatched chairs back in the break room.  I took Rosie out of the cage that I’d gotten to keep her in while I was at work, and let her run around for a little bit on the faded no-color Formica while Don scratched away at one of his endless books filled with crossword puzzles, muttering to himself as he worked out the answers.  I’d been sweating; the kitchen of the café was hot even in the winter, one of the reasons that I loved it, and this late in spring it was sweltering.  My head itched under the scarf and so I reached up and unwound it slowly, bunching it into a ball that I then threw on the table with a sigh.  It took me a few seconds to realize that the muttering and scratching had stopped.  I raised my eyes to find Dun staring fixedly at me, his eyes and mouth wide. 

“I’ll be damned,” he said, “It’s really you under there.”

We were both silent for a second, and let out matching guffaws, the sounds echoing off of the cinder block walls and just like that don’s was familiar, home again. 

“Fekegalo, Don” I exclaimed.  “What did you expect?” 

That’s when he told me that he’d had no idea what to expect.  Basanti had showed up one day, jingling and beautiful, and had starting spouting off all of those words those words I’ve recently come to know, and had left him thinking that I’d be I know don’t what – a robot/  Some freak with wires or even a whole brain hanging out of my head.  I think I realized then that I have become a part of that other world, to some extent.  Will I ever be able to fit in here again?  Is dual citizenship simply too much to ask?  I haven’t heart form any of the old friends yet.  I don’t know how they would handle me even if I did ferret them out.  How they would react.  Would they be happy for me now that I can really be happy too?  Or would the distrust of anything Center Circle, a deep seeded distrust built of hears of hunger and filth, extend to me now, too?  I don’t know.  It broke my heart to see how Don had shied away from me, that’s for certain.  Still, though, he let me come back.  Even believing that I was some fiber optic medusa, he made a place for me here.  I have to remember that if things get tough.  Even with all of that, he let me come back. 

Guest Post: Pirate Kitty

I'm joined today by Pirate Kitty, beloved First Mate of author Etta Jean whose steamy fantasy novel "Chronicle of Summer" was released on Valentine's Day.  Read Pirate Kitty's Exploits below and then take a peek at what Etta Jean has been up to. 

Captain's Log 05 May 2013

The Admiral be up to something mighty strange. She's taken everything in our base and put it into boxes. The boys like the boxes for the way they make climbing easy, but I'm a cave girl myself. The Admiral has been unhappy with the boxes she made—you got me as to why—but me Admiral is a plucky gal with much determination. She'll make it right.

Captain's Log 27 November 2013

What the hell?! Over the last week, me and the boys have watched the Admiral put every last item into boxes. This very morning, she even tore down the humming machine that she's always meddling with. Seemed like a regular day at first. She and the Skipper went off to wherever it is they go during the day, and me and the boys got down to our normal routine of pillaging and napping. I finally killed that rascally stuff rabbit and got it up the stairs. Sucker was bigger'n Yello' Bastian; I'd get goodies for sure.

When the Admiral and Skipper returned to base, they got to work. All those boxes? Lined up in neat rows. Dark Smudge sulked over losing his perch, and Yello' Bastian hid. Something began to be familiar to me and Black Hawk, and we merely watched and waited. Some of the boxes were taken out and put in the metal ships. Fluffy blankets and pillows went too. The humming machines went into the Admiral's metal ship. I watched and waited intently from my hidden spot amid the small boxes. My tail twitched against my will as the Admiral came upstairs with a familiar carrying case. It was my case. My lovely leather nap spot with its pink and brown colors and squishy bedding. She put it down and walked away and I just couldn't resist going inside for a quick nap.

Oooh! Damn her and her human reflexes and opposable thumb! She snapped the door shut and zipped me inside. As I glared through the mesh of my portable prison, I saw me boys go running for their lives. Black Hawk was nabbed on the stairs and put into another prison. He didn't bother to complain; he just looked at me and we sighed. It isn't always good to be right.

I know not how the Admiral caught Dark Smudge and Yello' Bastian, but I heard the cat-erwauling, and the Admiral was sporting some new claw marks as she returned down the stairs. She stuffed Bastian in me with (thanks, for that!) and put Smudge in with Hawk. She hefted both prisons to cart us downstairs, and even the cranky kits had to be impressed. Humans are often such weak creatures we forget our Admiral can do anything.

Our prisons were put into the metal ship, and she set us sailing down the concrete sea. Yello' Bastian and Dark Smudge put up the wailingest of noises; Bastian has never been in a metal ship other than to go to the doc, and Smudge just doesn't like it. The Admiral started talking and singing to them to calm them down, and even the 'fraidy brat mellowed. We love the Admiral's voice.

It seemed forever until the ship was docking inside a wholly new place. It looked like the cargo bay of our old base, but it was empty and clean. The surroundings were not familiar. The Skipper arrived right behind us, and she carried one prison while the Admiral carried the other. They brought us inside the main building, and I knew at once that we had a new base. It smelled of the Admiral and Skipper already, and I could recognize some scents from our allies. It felt big and empty, and none of the boxes were there yet. Our prisons were set down in the middle of a sea of tan puff floor, and the doors were opened. None of us wanted to move but finally I took charge. I was the captain. It was my duty to go first. I stepped out onto the puff, and the lure of the new base beckoned. A whole new adventure had arrived.

And, speaking of adventure: 

It has been nine years for Lucksphere. A devastating battle that shattered millennia of beliefs looms in the past. Magi are confused, the Black Magi Elite are in hiding, and Chronicles are still murdered on discovery. Yet a secret hides within the sheltering arms of the world. A secret that the Elite will literally kill to find and the Dragons are rushing to find first:

Tariah and Morgan Chronis are not the only Chronicles who have made it past puberty.

The four Chronicle children that Morgan sent away for safety are now becoming adults. Kelsey Renaire is a fiery Master Weaponsmith with often more sass than sense. Roman Arequo is an aloof and airy farmer who dabbles in glass carving. C.J. Daragon is a gentle weaver who creates beauty from soil and sand. Jayda Lakemore is a gifted doctor whose watery talents mend all but the most terminal injuries. Secretly living as Master Magi, all have felt isolated from their peers. All have suspected there might be something more to their power.

None of them know what destiny lays in front of them.

As the Elite rise again and strike out in ways that threaten to tear the land to pieces, the six Chronicles of Lucksphere and their Furies are going to have to join forces and fight not only for their right to live, but for the rights of the Magi and Kin as well. If they don't work fast, this summer will be last for Lucksphere.

Will love finally defeat hate?

Bio:

Etta Jean was born in Sacramento, California and destined from birth to be a bard. She told tall tales while devouring the creative worlds of others until she finally had to create her own. She has seen both good and evil in her life, and her stories, like life, have no half measures. Her happy endings never come without cost, though, for she truly believes we can't appreciate the good and the joy without the bad and the pain along the way. Her current haunt is a comfy house in her beloved hometown where she wrangles three feline fur-kids while constantly overbooking her calendar. If she's not chained to her desk, she's stomping through the scenery in search of equally fantastical photographs.

http://www.ettajeanfantasy.com/

http://ettajeanfantasy.wordpress.com/

http://www.facebook.com/ettajeanfantasy/

On Twitter @ettajeanfantasy

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Guest Post Alana Lorens

Today I am proud to host author extraordinaire Alana Lorens

Take it away, Alana.

When bad luck just seems to follow you…

Jake Patrin has seen his share of trouble.

When he hit the age of thirty-five, he had the year from Hell, with a capital H.  His wife had divorced him and he’d lost a good job driving truck in King City, California. Worse, a collision with a Mack truck late one night when he’d been driving too long had stuck him in the hospital for three months, left him in constant pain, controlled by serious doses of Oxycontin and other medications.

If that wasn’t enough, the devil kicked him down another flight of steps. That drug had become his master, had taken over for awhile. Almost a year later, he’d kicked the narcotic, but faces a daily struggle to leave the addiction behind.

That’s why he’s working as a caretaker at the Sherman Ranch, near Santa Fe, New Mexico. Living in the middle of nowhere. Here he can stay clean and sober. Weekly trips to Santa Fe, or even a phone call in more desperate moments, hook him up with a middle-aged male Alcoholics Anonymous group that help keep him sane. His sponsor is an old Indian, John White Horse, who’d fought his own good fight for nigh on forty years. John takes no bullshit. He’s a good friend and good support.

Groups rent out the place, and they come and go. Some have really strange demands—take out all the TVs, or hide the movie collections. Some bring truckloads of horses. Some just find their way to the hot tub and never leave.

Jake’s prepared for the group of fancy-schmancy lawyers coming in to rent the place for the week in March, even despite the boxes of alcohol they brought in. He thinks he can ignore that. He hopes he can.

He’d better be able to. The one thing he can control is his own sobriety. As he soon discovers, everything else this week is totally out of his hands.

Teo Haroun and the other lawyers in his firm look forward in varying degrees to the retreat at the Sherman Ranch in northern New Mexico. The boss has laid down some rules—no phones, no computers, no communication with the outside world—that makes them uneasy. But the corporate team-building exercises are necessary for this firm to survive its inner sniping and turmoil—and to protect the secrets they hold.

Inez Suela and thirty other Mexicans have paid a coyote hundreds of pesos to take them across the border into the United States, where they hope to make a better life. The crowded truck heads north into New Mexico to meet their local driver, the occupants unaware that a freak March snowstorm is waiting in its path.

Jake Patrin, the caretaker of the Ranch, fights demons of his own as he struggles daily with addiction. Working far from the city on the lonely Ranch, hosting those who rent the facility, is his protection and solace. But he’s about to lose the only peace he’s been able to grasp.

Davi Pilar needs to make some fast money to appease a couple of St. Louis loan sharks, so he agrees to pick up a truckload of illegals and take them to St. Louis. He drives to New Mexico, not knowing that Inez, the woman who rejected him years before, is one of those on that truck.

The intersection of these people, the collision of their cultures, the revelation of their secrets—all these things lead to violence, death, and even redemption in their New Mexico ENCOUNTER.

EXCERPT:

The others had disappeared into the casa; he heard their voices echo down the west hall. Pete helped him load their suitcases onto the cart.

Jake grinned at the weary look on the driver’s face.  “Interesting group, eh, amigo?”

Pete snorted. “Not satisfied with anything. Big city gringos.”

“Hey, big city gringos’ money keeps enchiladas on the table, right? You and me, pal, we work for a living.” As he stacked the eleventh piece of luggage, he wondered exactly what these men and women thought they’d be doing for seven days that required all this. “How’s Maria?”

“She’s good, she’s good.” Pete smiled with his broken teeth. “Knitting for the grandbaby.” He whipped out his wallet and shared pictures of a fat, dark-skinned infant. “Esteban Marrero-Nunez.”

“Gonna be a ladykiller.” Jake grinned and handed the pictures back with a hint of jealousy. His wife had left after twelve years, taken everything they owned, but they’d never had kids. He’d been on the road so often, it hadn’t troubled him much. Except for times like this. He wished he had some pictures to flash around. Something of himself to leave behind. Something to help strengthen his resolve during those moments when the cravings really tore at his gut.

“Got time for coffee? Put a fresh pot on bit ago.”

Pete looked at the van, his watch and then down the hall. “Better head back, my friend. Bueno suerte. You’ll need it.” He shared a tired smile, then hurried out and hit the road.

That bad. Damn. It was gonna be a long week. Jake rubbed his forehead and went for a cup of that coffee all alone.

You can find ENCOUNTER at Amazon.com and at Three Fates Press, in both ebook and print formats.

ROW80 A Pantsing Plotter

I have been able to write a little over 1000 more words.  I'm now in that awkward period wherein I've written everything that I have planned for this part of the book, but am not yet to the next point where I know what I want to write.  So, I'm percolating.  This is a new experience for me; I am a dedicated plotter.  I make reams and reams of notes and outlines before I ever write a "real" word.  That way, when the creative rush subsides, I still have a road map to follow.  With this benign literary possession, though, there has been no plotting.  I have a general idea of what I want to do, but that's it.  Against all odds, it's working, but I am left with a few not insignificant unanswered questions.

1.  I have a character named Denae.  She is a minor character.  Yet, with some tweaking, she could become a slightly larger presence and one with a LOT of emotional impact.  Still, though, I already have a lot of threads that I'm weaving together, and to do this right I'd have to weave her in as well.  I'm wondering if the potential for confusion is worth the "pow."

2. Then there is the question as to where this person would end her life.  If the Facility would allow her to end her days, catatonic though she may be, in their shiny halls then the aforementioned scene wouldn't matter. But would they do so?  Would they have the respect for the result of one of their experiments to ensure that she had the best of care? Or would they shuffle her off to one of the state-funded facilities in order to save money and, perhaps, an unpleasant reminder?  I'm not sure yet.

I'm hoping that I can figure out the answer to these questions; it's very odd moving forward blind, or at least myopic.  How about you? Are you a pantser or a plotter?

Here's another bit of what I've been doing:

.  And so I told her, slowly at first, watching her face ang gauging her reaction.  Soon though it was pouring out., all of it.  What the nurses had said, my feeling that Dr. Alyce had abandoned me, my fears about what others would see.  Most of all, what I thought my feelings meant.  That I had gone through all of this for  nothing. That I had lost my last chance to be normal.   By the end I was crying, snot bubbling out of my nose.  Basanti waited until the flow of words and slowed and stopped. 

  Then she spoke quietly.  “You are mad,” she said, “and scared. And sad.”  I nodded.  “Tell me,” she said, “have you blacked out?” I shook my head.  “Cut yourself?  Tried to commit suicide?”

“No.”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with her head cocked to one side.  And then it hit me. 

“No!” I said again.  She smiled broadly.  “See?” she said, “you are already makng progress.”

“But the rage, the fear-“

“-are all normal human reactions.  You didn’t think that the surgery would take away all pain, did you?”

I was quiet because, as ridiculous as it seems even now, that’s exactly what I had thought

Troll Or Park Cover Reveal

Have you heard of Red Tash?  The fabulous teller of tales?  If not, stop whatever you are doing and make yourself acquainted with this writer. You can find her at https://www.facebook.com/RedTashBooks, or at
http://redtash.com.  The best news is, you picked a great time to become a Radish (yes, she even has a special name for her fans,) as the cover for her latest book, Troll or Park, was revealed TODAY!  Here it is:

Look at that puddin'.  Isn't it adorable?  Don't you want to now go and read everything else she has written, in preparation of reading this? If so, you can go here, and find it all!  What are you waiting for?  Really, go, 'cause Red Tash, man, RED TASH!!

A Round of Words - Jumping in

I've decided to join the writing challenge "A Round of Words in 80 Days."  Laid back, set your own goals, it seems like the kind of challenge I could dig.  The premise is that there are four, 80 day, cycles.  You jump in, state your goals, and then update twice a week on said goals.  Of course, there's other stuff involved, as there always is; meeting new friends, cheering people on, etc.  So, here I am.  As I figure, I have roughly 50 days left in this round.  What can I do in 50 days?  I can do 500 loads of laundry.  I can cook 170 meals.  I can fall short on my homeschooling goals at least 49 times, hurt myself in some sort of ridiculous way 26 times.  I am scheduled at attend at least three booksignings.  So, something reasonable, right?  Nah, not my style.  About a month ago I was given the spark for a novel.  This novel has taken over my brain, and if I'm not as far along as I'd like to be (are we ever), this is the fastest unplanned 10K words I've ever written.  My goal is to finish a a rough draft of this novel by the end of the next 50 days.  Below is an excerpt of Charlotte and Rosie, a cyberpunk play on "Flowers for Algernon."

I crossed to the desk with a dozen eyes fixed on my back, or so it seemed.  I am, at the best of times, certain that the word “crazy” is written in giant glowing letters across my back just as it is in the scars on my wrists or the faint burns on my temples.  This was not the best of times.  I gave my identification number to the receptionist, Cyber, I’m pretty sure, and found a seat at least one empty chair away from anyone else.  My sleeves had worked their way up my arms.  I pulled them down until the rough fabric brushed against my knuckles, and tried to take the deep, cleansing breaths that Doctor Alyce had said would help.  They didn’t. 

            The waiting room was pristine, immaculately decorated, so very different from East, from any of the state run and funded facilities to which I’d become accustomed.  Those smell like piss and bleach and are decorated with flaking paint and whatever the last out of control patient had smeared all over the walls. Here everything was cool blues and off-white, with a SimWall depicting a beach or, at least, what a beach used to be. There is a beach down the road from my flat in Flower Town.  It does not look like that.  Still the crashing of the waves was nice. Soothing. In and out. Back and forth.  In and out. I looked down, surprised to find I was scrubbing my wrists back and forth on my thighs, and rocking in time with the water.  How long had I been doing that?  Apparently a while. The skin was red and the other people waiting to be seen were pointedly not looking at me.  Fek.  For some strange reason I thought of Tawny, her dark eyes wide in the dim light while angry footsteps pounded up and down the halls.  “You picked a bad time to go loco, ese,” she had said.  She had been right.  That time was bad, this one was worse. 

I should just get out of here. They’re not going to pick me anyway, I don’t know why I’m even trying.  As of right now I’d be out nothing but the hoverbus fare and maybe, just maybe, I could cling to whatever chip of dignity I had left. If there’s any at this point.  Sometimes I wonder. Of course, Dr. Alyce would be disappointed. It’s not like that’s new.  I’ve been disappointing Dr. Alyce for ten years or more, and he’s just one on a long, long list, besides he gets paid to be disappointed anyway.   My heart started thumping in my chest.  I can’t do this.  I can’t not do this.  Stay and people will see. They will see what I am.  And, worst of all, they will actually, and this is hilarious, decide that I’m not broken enough or too broken or who knows what.  What if I actually fail at being sick?  Go home though and there’s no hope. None. Besides, they’ll all be sitting here knowing I couldn’t make it and laugh and talk amongst themselves about the stupid lazy wanna be patient and how I was probably hungover or strung out and couldn’t find my way. I found my way fine, thank you.  Better than they could if we took them out of their oh so pretty world. God, I’m just so damn tired.   I looked again at the SimWall, where a brightly-colored bird was entering from one side.  Okay, let the bird decide.  If it flew through, just a tourist, so too would I be on my way.  If it stayed, so would I.  It soared across the blue sky, banking so that it looked like it was flying away, then curved and came closer, settling on the branch of the tree.  All right. I folded my hands in my lap and gave what I hoped was a pleasant smile to the woman across the aisle, and did my best impression of someone who was actually sane.

            “Charlotte,” another woman identical to the receptionist was waiting at a door that I hadn’t even noticed. So, there’s one question answered, Cyber for sure. She guided me through a tangle of rooms and hallways, her high patent heels clicking on the tiles.  One thing this place did have in common with East, it was a maze.  She stopped, finally, and pushed a door open on silent hinges.  “Thanks,” I said, forgetting that you don’t have to thank a Cyber.  She gave me a programmed smile, flashing her flawless white teeth, and clicked back the way she had come. The office behind the door, like the rest of this place, was spotless, beautiful, with real wood furniture and soft fabrics. There were framed awards everywhere.  It is obvious that they are used to people who educated, rich.  People not like me.  I’m surprised that they even let me in there, probably had a cleaning bot already programmed to sanitize the place after I left. I don’t belong here. If they didn’t need someone desperate to use as a guinea pig, a place like this wouldn’t even answer my waves.  Still, Dr. Alyce was waiting, along with two people I had never met.  They were all looking at me.  I wished that I had left when I had the chance.

            Dr. Alyce stepped forward.  “Charlotte,” he said, clasping my hands in his, “I’m glad you could come, let me introduce you to our hosts.”  He turned, first, to the woman on his right, a dark skinned woman with startling hazel eyes and a white coat like his own.  “This is Doctor Stevens,” he said and, turning to his left his elbow brushed the elbow of the man next to him and passed right through, leaving a bluish glow behind.  The other stranger must have holo’d in for the occasion.  The kid, I swear he looked about a decade younger than me, was introduced as Cybernetic Specialist Nu.  He wore a dark blue blazer embroidered with the stylized pigeon of the Tesla Academy.  A scientist of some sort, then.  That explained the holo.  I’d heard that most scientists thought themselves hesitant to leave their labs, afraid that in the time it took for them to visit the latrines, someone would beat them to the next best thing.  I’d seen the T.A. emblem before, of course.  Once, on the leg of a drunk, homeless man that we were helping get cleaned up.  Mostly, in the hospitals, though.  The electroshock machine had T.A. engraved on it, in fact.  I wasn’t sure what to make of that.  I bowed briefly to each, my right hand crossed across my chest, tapping my closed fist on my left shoulder in the true Benevolencia fashion. In other words, the fashion I hadn’t used since we learned it in Primary.  “Thank you for considering me,” I said. 

            They bowed in return, perfunctory flicks of the head, and the C.S. motioned to a seat.  I sat, aught myself scrubbing at my thighs with my wrists and forced my hands to fold themselves once again.  Dr. Stevens made a note in my chart.  I felt my gorge start to rise and swallowed several times. Dr Alyce nodded encouragingly and launched into his prepared speech.  We had gone over it together in his office so that I would know what to expect. 

            “Dr. Stevens, C.S. Nu, This is Patient 3245931B, Charlotte.  I have had the pleasure of working with Charlotte for well over a decade.  While her condition is indeed chonic, and I have reason to believe, progressive, I have found Charlotte to be a willing participant in her recovery.  That last phrase I’d heard before, at least a hundred times.  I had heard it at each of my Patient Release Meetings.  There, it meant that I was going to make it to my appointments, take my meds, and at least try to not to kill myself.  I heard it as a joke among the patients at East, our meager attempts at gallows humor.  “Now, now, we’d say” when someone sat at the toilet, vomiting their way through the DTs, or the times that someone would descend for a moment into absolute insanity, turning over tables or screaming about spiders that weren’t there, “is that a good way to participate in your recovery?”  Once, I heard it from three male nurses as the reason that they beat the hell out of Denae, a schizophrenic drag queen and one of my best friends at East.  I guess that sounded better than the truth, which is that they got mad when she refused to blow them in the iso room.  Those nurses didn’t last long, at least.  Even the Doctors loved Denae.

            I came back to now with a start and everyone was staring at me.  I must have missed something.  Fekegalo.

            “I apologize,” I said, “I believe I missed the question.”  Dr. Stevens scribbled again.  A crease had appeared between her eyes.  “I asked why you feel that you would be a good candidate for our trial.”  Ah. Dr. A had prepared me for this.  I launched into our rehearsed speech.

“My disorder reduces my ability to live a normal life.  I have a great desire to become a contributing member of society and feel that this procedure would grant me an opportunity to do so.  If chosen I – The C.S. stifled a small cough.  What did that mean?  Was it some sort of code?  It happened just as I said ‘If chosen.” I lost my place in the speech.  Suddenly, the room no longer seemed to have enough air.  Harsh, metallic sunbursts started to explode at the edge of my vision, leaving dark negatives in their wake.  My field of vision was shrinking, and I could feel this straw that I’d been grasping so hard for so long start to slip out of my sweaty grasp. 

“I just – “my voice quavered, “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.  You don’t understand it’s,” I tried to choke out the words, words that would explain the constant fear and perpetual loneliness, that could somehow show the pain of stitches and pumped stomachs, of failed relationships and lost jobs, and the constant exhaustion of clamoring and scrabbling at the edge of the pit only to have your fingernails tear off and dirt clods fall in your face but never, ever getting out.  I couldn’t.  “Please,” I said at last.  “Please help me.  I will do whatever you ask.  I will follow any plan.   I will work hard.  Just please.  I don’t want to live like this anymore.”  Hot, thick tears built up and overflowed my lower lids.  Dr. Stevens was scribbling furiously, though took a moment to wordlessly hand me the box of tissues.  C.S. Nu looked studiously at his feet, obviously embarrassed, probably disgusted, at my outbreak.  “Thank you,” Dr. Stevens said, “That will be all.”  The Cyber met me in the hallway, and I expected to be escorted out of the building.  If I were lucky, they would have a cab that would take me home.  Once there, what?  I had been, I knew, at the top of a short list of candidates for this trial. If I had thrown this chance away, like I had so many others, what? I would have to figure out something, but first I thought I would sleep.  I was, suddenly, unbearably exhausted.  However, when we got to the lobby, the Cyber took me through a door on the other side.  There was the feared cab, and in it Dr. Alyce, and together we went to the Facility where the surgery will be performed to give me a new brain and, if they are right, a new life. 

Windmill Land Mines

This is my oldest son.  We call him. . .well. .. all sorts of things.  For the longest time,he couldn't say his name.  He called himself Beowulf, so we will go with that.

Beowulf has autism.  He is high-functioning, but that doesn't mean that his issues don't occupy nearly every minute of every day.  They are a constant presence, one that must be coped with, managed, fought against, and sometimes even enjoyed.  There was a wonderful poem written once that compares having a child with autism to planning a trip to Italy and ending up in Holland.  That poem can be found here, and I really recommend that you read it.  It's awesome. Of course a response was posted on one of my favorite parenting blogs called "I f&^$% hate Holland" and man sometimes I get that, too.  But there's another side of it, too.  See, when your child with autism is high functioning, every day is filled with Windmill Land Mines. Every now and then, life is going well, things are as normal as they get around here, and all of a sudden *SMACK* you get bashed in the back of the head by a windmill you didn't even know was there.  For instance, last week we learned about subtraction.  I was fairly sure we had addition under control and it was time to move on.  So, I wrote a bunch of problems out for the three who are in school to work.  Suddenly, WHAP! school halts because THOSE SIGNS AREN'T RIGHT.  There are certain signs that are used in the math problems and I drew the add sign wrong.  It's wrong and he has to fix it RIGHT NOW. Before we can go forward, before I can explain why it's not wrong, those signs that are not right MUST BE FIXED.  But, of course, they don't and there is lots of weeping and pulling of his own hair and rocking before I can understand that it is a whole different sign that means a whole different thing.  Then, he's cool, moving on like nothing ever happened, diligently subtracting the second word from the first.  The rest of us, though, are still a little rattled. We are all a little wide eyed, a little more tired than we were, are finding it hard to focus.  It's like a summer thunderstorm just went through, or we were attacked by a windmill land mine. Beowulf loves his friends. Fiercely.  He's also fairly convinced on some days that he's a wolf.  So he's playing and they are running around and I'm looking on thinking about how awesome it is that he is able to reach out and have friends and then CRASH!  He decides to show his affection by getting "puppy hands" and whining.  Maybe even giving a lick.  Damn it.  Windmill.  There's another kid who won't be asking us over for a sleepover.  (By the way, sleepovers are one of the great heartaches of parents of kids with special needs.  Do you know how many weekends we have been asked to a sleepover in the past year? 0.  Do you know how many weekends he has packed a bag just in case someone invites him or set out entertainments and snacks in case someone takes us up on our invitation? 52. I cry over sleepovers and birthday parties on a regular basis). Or the other day.  We are watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies as a family.  Everyone has fallen asleep except for Beowulf who can NOT stop watching that movie until the tower has fallen. Can't do it.  Too much anxiety.  And we are at the part when Sam decides that he can ask his love out on a date.  "Why does he look like that?"  Beowulf asks.  "Because he's decided that if he can go through everything he did, that he can probably ask out the pretty girl."  "Ah," says the wise young one, "his baventures have made him brave." "That's right;" I answer, "just like you're brave.  You wouldn't be scared when it's time a court a girl."  BAM! SPLAT!  "I DON'T WANT TO DATE A GIRRRRRLLLLL," he howls.  "I want to stay with my family.  I would miss you so much!  Please don't make me leave!  I don't want to LLLLEEAAAVVVEEEE!"  An hour later, he has fallen into a restless sleep, and I open a bottle of beer for my husband and myself.  Because when you've been brained by a windmill, sometimes that's the best answer.
                   Sometimes I think that it would be easier if the issues were always there.  Other times I know that's not true.  What I do know is that while sometimes I love the autism and sometimes I hate the autism (I ALWAYS love my son), I will never ever get used to the landmines.  Of course, that is their nature, isn't it?  When I start to get exhausted, and anxious, and overwhelmed, I remember a gift that my husband got for me, long before we knew that Beowulf had the issues that he does.  It is a large, old, illustrated copy of Don Quixote.  I'm not the biggest Cervantes fan, and my husband knew this, so when I opened it I was grateful but puzzled.  My husband answered my questioning look.  "You remind me of him," he said.  "I am a man of LaMancha?"  I asked. "No," he replied.  "I am. . . mysterious and charming and alluring?"  I said.  "No," he replied.  "I mean yes, but no."  "Okay," I said, "I give up."  "It's the windmills," he said, "the way you fight your windmills.  It's one of my favorite things about you."  I think now that it was one of the Inspired gifts, because it helps me remember: they may be windmills, they may be land mines, they might be giants (here's your earworm for the day), but whatever it is I'm ready to battle another day.