Day 230: Tornado


One midday, beneath the shade of a leaning cypress tree, after the late-spring sea fog had lifted, I stared out to the crashing waves with a grave impassivity.  In the past years, I’d grown deeply attached to the ocean side town. I believed in a sense we were one, the town and I, joined together in the same way the redwood trees unite their roots underground.

Aggrieved and spiraling with emotions like a blender on high-speed, I replayed Mother’s words, her promises; there would be new bedroom furniture and a private school, and a nice house.  I could wear a school uniform like Jane.

Mother had strolled into my room twenty-minutes earlier with a confident air and found me absorbed in my sticker collection book, categorizing each sticker by theme.  I was on the butterfly page. There were 33 butterflies—one more butterfly than fairies.  Mother had a faraway look, a deep and distant gaze that made me think she was traveling with the angels in the sky or the dolphins in the sea.  I knew innately from all my years with Mother that she was happy; and so I also knew she wasn’t going to tell me her boyfriend Ben was finally leaving; still, I held onto the hope, even though all the signs pointed in the opposite direction.


The rest is in the book 🙂


Day 132: In Short

Here are my favorite shorts I have written. I invite you to choose. 

Day 12: Short piece about being me.  Behind the Curtain 

Day 16: Short story about a friendship. The Bus Stop

Day 20: Philosophical prose.   The Wounded Healer

Day 34: A bitter-sweet short.  A Lonely, Heart-Broken Pillow

Day 45: A short fictional rhyming story. The Land of Grand: A Story of Hope 

Day 58: Predicting the future. Angel and Mary

In Short

Since I started blogging everyday

I have noticed that what matters in life

View from my balcony a few days ago. Sigh.

Is readily available

Lake where I walk

And this realization


Helps me to forget about

Yes, this is my bed!

What I used to think mattered.


Day 109: Bear and the Green Fruit

Bear and the Green Fruit (A story of friendship)

There once was a big brown bear that lived in a lush green forest. This was a lovely place of songbird, of fresh streams of salmon, and strong trees hosting hives of dripping yummy honey. There was so much beauty about. But the bear spent his days worried.  He worried about the streams, and the trees, and even the yummy honey. He worried about the best passage way in which to enter the stream, the best of the trees to scratch, and the best technique in which to acquire the honey. He worried the stream would run dry, the trees would die, and the honey would disappear. He worried so much that soon he couldn’t even hear the streams, see the trees, or even taste the honey. This made him worry more, until in bear’s eyes everything vanished and in place of beauty only barren land remained.

With everything seemingly gone, the bear grew sadder. His roars shook the foundation. His paws beat at his fury chest. And his big sad eyes, they searched everywhere.

In his sadness, one tree was birthed. It grew tall and strong in the middle of the barren land—a tree with a strange green fruit.

The bear touched the tree in curiosity, patting the bark and peering up at the abundance of fruit. What interesting fruit he thought. He shrugged and moaned, and reached up to pull off a fruit. But his strength was so strong that the fruit instantly burst, sending out green goop in every direction. He watched as the inner seed of the fruit rolled away, and could swear he heard the seed weeping. Again he tried to take the fruit. This time he pulled the fruit with light hand, and the fruit remained whole, but as soon as he sliced the fruit open the seed spilled out, rolled away, and he could swear he heard the seed weeping. Next, he pulled another fruit and stomped on it to release the green inside. The green remained splattered at foot, but bear swore as seed rolled away, he heard seed weeping. At last, with patience, the bear opened fruit gently and lapped up the inside, tasting the sweetness. He was pleased. Except bear was certain that the seed of the fruit rolled away weeping.

Finally the bear took another fruit down, and before doing anything he asked: “Why do you weep so little friend? Were you not made to be eaten and be relished?”

The little green fruit answered: “Yes. It is true. I was made to be eaten and to be relished. But you have forgotten the soul of me. You take what is needed. You fret over how to have your needs met. But you forget that I am more than the sweetness. Inside of me is a seed that much like you is in search of home. Yet, I am continually opened, enjoyed, and then left to roll away unnoticed.”

Bear thought. He thought very hard. He tugged on the fur of his chin and then his deep brown eyes lit up. This time bear opened the fruit slowly, with gentle claw, and before he did anything else he lifted the seed out of the fruit and buried seed in fertile ground. This time the seed giggled and began to grow.

“Oh, thank you, kind Bear,” seed whispered at his side.

With that the bear was at last able to enjoy the fruit. A smile crossed his face. And with smile the sun returned, the forest reappeared, the streams came back, and the honey dripped down. And the one tall fruit tree vanished.

Bear was very thankful. As the bear smiled, he remembered his friend the seed. And with that small thought, a small green fruit sapling appeared at bear’s side.

“Hello, friend,” bear whispered, smiling with honey on his paws.

“Hello, friend,” sapling whispered back.

“You are growing!” Bear sang.

“Oh, yes. I am growing,” sapling said with a smile.

Bear roared in glee admiring all of the beauty around him.

Bear licked his paw and smiled. “Oh, dear friend,” bear said. “Thank you for teaching me happiness is far beyond the solving.”

Sapling whispered in return, “Thank you dear Bear for knowing my longing to be placed in fertile ground. So many have fed upon my sweetness and never had the heart to hear my weeping and know my longing. Because you have known sadness, you saw my truth and I grew. And now because I know happiness, I shall see your truth, and you shall grow.”

With those happy words, the honey dripped from the sky, and bear and sapling sang with the songbirds and danced together in the clear running stream.

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Day 77: Holding On

If I was to turn back the pages of my life, to the first calm months at my stepfather’s house, my days would appear wonderfully simple and sweet, and in truth they were.  It was a time when a gentle thread of calm and security weaved through my days.  A brief moment I fondly remember and continually reflect back upon, perhaps in an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy or to remind myself there was some good.

There weren’t any worries about money.  My stepfather Drake was an attorney and helped the city officials acquire land for approved projects, which sometimes meant property owners had to give up their homes.  It was rumored much later, when I was an adult, that Drake’s firm was actually responsible for my great-grandmother having to abandon her house in Monterey, California for demolition, to make way for a multi-level parking garage for tourists…

The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers


Day 65: Blue

three women

Blue is the color for April’s Autism Awareness Month. Proud moms are coloring their hair blue. Kids’ pictures on Facebook are tinted blue. People are donning blue ribbons and displaying blue symbols. I thought this short story, entitled Blue, was fitting for the cause.

I wrote this piece several years ago, as part of a manuscript.  I have since broken the manuscript into several short stories. Some of which I share on this blog.

Learning to write took a lot of hard work and practice. In the beginning, I wrote every single day (but one day in April) for a year. I was still a terrible writer then, in my opinion, entirely obsessed with my works, and reading my prose to anyone who would listen.

After the first year of writing, I spent another year editing. Then another year rewriting. Then another rewriting, yet again. I calculate that I spent fifteen hours on each page of the two hundred fifty pages. My biggest hinderance to writing was  my dyslexia and difficulty seeing errors. Also, I had a tendency to mix up words and punctuation, and a habit of rambling. (Smiling.)

I hope you enjoy this story.


Everything inside was blue—the seats, the ceiling, the floor, even the steering wheel.  I tugged on a string from the backseat cover, wrapping layer upon layer of blue taught around my finger.  This mid-afternoon it was my tiny index finger which turned a slight shade of indigo.

“Nothing to get hung about,” Mother sang out smiling happily, as if the coming rain had already washed away her worries.  She didn’t have a singing voice, never had, but the effort and soul were there, the wanting to sound good, and the need.  Inside the rearview mirror, her eyes the color of amaretto, glimmered, reflecting the narrowing sunlight. From the backseat I hummed along to Strawberry Fields Forever and jingled my clear-red plastic piggybank in the air, lifting him high and turning his gaze outside.

High atop the rolling grassy hills the enormous oaks stood like rows of fresh cut broccoli, rich and green—the bold color before the broccoli is boiled to a dull olive.  In the shadows of the day tall eucalyptus trees were sprinkled between the weathered fruit stands; their silvery leaves rustling, fluttering up and back, yielding to the autumn wind.  I winked one eye, then the next and then winked several times again to form patterns of gray, brown and green.  A gust of moist wind pushed in through the partially-opened side window, tossing Mother’s chestnut hair and bringing a sharp scent of diesel smoke and wet asphalt… (full story available in the book Everyday Aspergers)


© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.