An Expansive View of Education
Students, would you like to share some wisdom with us? Art, music, writing, video, etc. Please contact me, Kamalani. Thanks.
Please allow me to introduce my new, young friend, Ashley Florek. She is on the Autism spectrum and proud of it! We met on facebook when she shared the following essay. I am delighted to connect with this intelligent, insightful, inspirational woman and encourage others with a new perspective to contact me for inclusion on this page. Isn't she Awe-some? Blessings!!!
Ashley's Bio:
I graduated from college in 2009 with a Bachelor’s Degree of the Arts in English and writing. My interests include the Medieval Period, English Romanticism, horses, birds, and reading fantasy. I have high-functioning autism and writing is my tool for communication. I love to write fantasy with science fiction elements added to it. I began writing my unpublished fantasy series, Voyage of a Dreamcaster, when I was fourteen years old. Ten years later, I am working on book three while trying to get book one published. (See Ashley's book clips and illustrations after this essay...)
My Autism: An Essay About My Life in School
Ashley Florek
In 2010 I created a page on Facebook called “Yes. I am AUTISTIC. And Proud of It! :)” for two reasons. The first was that I always felt isolated and have never met another Autistic person in my life. I wanted a way of connecting to people like me and with people who understood me—Autistic people and loved ones of Autistic people. The second reason was that I wanted to create a safe, accepting place for Autistic people where they could connect with others like them, hear each other’s stories, and never feel ashamed for having a disability. I struggled my whole life with trying to fit in and I know what it’s like to be left out and misunderstood. My page makes me feel not so alone in this world that wasn’t made for Autistic people. It’s a way of sharing with others what my life is like living with Autism.
I think it’s important that people know what it’s like for someone who’s living with Autism because many people just don’t understand or even think about it. I, like many Autistic people, have trouble socializing and interacting with others. It’s like having trouble with “connecting” and staying connected. I have sensory problems as well, a common issue with Autistic people. I have trouble with loud noises, or a bunch of noises all at once (such as people talking all at once at a party or cookout). I have trouble filtering out noise so if someone is talking to me in a loud, crowded place, I have trouble paying attention to what they are saying because I hear everything else as if everyone else was talking to me at the same time. It also scares me when people talk to me because I have trouble speaking and getting my words out. It takes me a little longer than most people to figure out what it is I want to say. That is why I am talkative online. That isn’t how I am in person. Writing has always been a tool for me to communicate what I want to say but have trouble saying verbally. I also have trouble with touch. There are certain clothing styles I just cannot wear because its feeling on my skin is so distracting it will make me fidget, squirm and itch all day. I also strongly dislike being touched or hugged. It is a horrible, uncomfortable feeling so that is why I stiffen up when people hug me or why I tend to crouch down in my seat to avoid it, even with family members. It isn’t that I dislike the person attempting to hug and kiss me, it is just that it is a dreadful feeling to be touched. I need personal space and I like to think of it as having an imaginary bubble around me; I get very upset if someone enters that bubble and I despise (this is taken from Seinfeld!) “close talkers.”
Another thing I have trouble with is straying from routine. I like to have everything planned out by time and I like things to be predictable so things feel safe. Anything out of the ordinary I have a hard time dealing with because it feels like my world has suddenly gone helplessly chaotic and I don’t know how to adapt to sudden changes. I’m like a fish going home from the aquarium: I have to be acclimated to a new environment slowly. We, as Autistic people, also tend to be very detail-oriented and we focus on tiny details most people often overlook. One thing I tend to do is sort things. I organize things into categories: I will keep certain shirts in my closet together and I will even pick through my bird’s seed and put the differing seeds into separate piles. And this, strangely, is something I love to do! We succeed in areas where we can put this talent to use. Why am I like this? It’s because Autistic people have brains that are wired differently. We process information in different ways from non-Autistic people.
Looking back at my childhood, I was always different—strange even—to others. I’ve had odd phobias throughout my life: fear of pipes, water in pipes, air in pipes, rusty water out of the faucet, low water pressure, pool drains, fire alarms, balloons because they might pop, static on TVs, lights on the old-fashioned garage door opener hanging on the wall, the red light on the fire alarm, wind howling, losing electricity. I’ve always done things the same way and always loved routine and I would freak out if things were changed suddenly. At sleepovers I would cry because we were up past my bedtime and I could not stay up late because I “wasn’t supposed to! I’m a kid!” I would wear the same clothes over and over: tight spandex pants and a tucked in t-shirt with a hooded sweatshirt over it, slouch socks and white Reebok sneakers. I never did anything with my hair because I never caught on to styles and trends. At times I would create my own styles and get stared at. I never wore sandals because they hurt, I hated linings in socks because I could feel them on my toes, I disliked Halloween because I didn’t like candy and I didn’t like entering other people’s property and asking them for it. I had repetitive habits with my fingers and calmed myself in stressful situation by biting my lip and by flicking a strand of my hair against my ear over and over. These habits still remain with me today.
It wasn’t until I was older that I was diagnosed with high-functioning Autism, unfortunately. Because doctors didn’t know much about Autism Spectrum Disorders back in the 1990’s, I was ignored and yelled at throughout school. Only a select few people seemed to understand me. Although I am not the “classic” case of Autism, and although I am able to speak and type and write and take care of myself, I am still Autistic. I think people tend to focus on the severe Autistics and don’t realize there are higher-functioning and not so obvious Autistic people. Yes, Autistics can write, they can read, they can dance, they can ride horses, they can clean, garden, ride bikes, sing, draw, cook and build…We can do anything we are interested in, and although we may do it differently, we can still do it, and we are good at the things we do because we tend to focus on minute details of things and get obsessed with our interests.
Long before I was diagnosed with Autism I was 4 and in pre-school and I would not talk to anyone except close family members. While all my classmates were playing and socializing with each other, I was always by myself. The teachers would ask me if I wanted to go on the see-saw, which I loved. I just didn’t know how to tell them I wanted to go on the see-saw or how to get a classmate to go it with me; I hated how such a fun thing required another person! I was always behind in my coloring projects and the teachers had to tell me specifically what to do and how to do it.
Things did not improve, and in kindergarten the teacher, Mrs. Zajack, wanted me held back a grade because I wasn’t talking or interacting with my classmates. I remember a lesson about telling time and I did not understand it and I waited for someone else to say they didn’t understand it. But no one did and I didn’t know how to say I didn’t understand. I’d be asked questions but I could not speak. The teacher would simply give me a zero at each unanswered question, and as a result, I was failing. All I remember is this scary woman with dark eyes with crow’s feet asking me a question I did not know how to answer. I even remember she once yanked my hand because I would not speak. I was so terrified of talking to her that I even wet my pants during gym outside. I hoped and hoped either she or the gym teacher would ask me if I had to use the bathroom but they never did and I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by that; my mother would know if I had to use the bathroom but they did not understand me. Despite the teacher’s insistence that I stay back a year and go to a special school, my mother stood up for me and insisted that I stay in MY school and stay in MY class and graduate with everyone else and be treated normal. She had to argue with the superintendant who refused to meet my needs. He would not help me. It was get zeros and stay back or go to a special school. My mother had to threaten to expose this to the media for the terrible school system to help me and listen to my mother. That was all they needed to hear. My mother won the battle and I stayed in my school and graduated with my class.
So I entered the first grade and had special education classes occasionally. I was diagnosed with Elective Mutism because there wasn’t a “Spectrum” of Autism back then, at least not that I know of. Or, if there was, the doctor I saw knew nothing about it. I think back then my disorder was overlooked because girls are generally more difficult to diagnose to begin with—I’ve read that in several sources and I suppose it may apply to myself. Also I acted completely different in front of doctors, who I was terrified of because they were strangers who would stare at and scrutinize me. Without a proper diagnosis, basically the educators in my school treated my case as “She’ll just have to learn to talk, or else she won’t get anywhere” and “She’s doing it for attention. It’s her fault and she’ll just have to learn how to cope and snap out of it.” The special education classes I received did not fit my individual needs. They were very general and they did not help me. I remember going to them and thinking, “What am I doing here?” because the things they were going over with me were so ridiculously below my intelligence.
My first grade teacher was great, though. She had a sticker book in her drawer and she would give me stickers and post them on a calendar, each sticker representing a moment during the day when I spoke or answered a question or played with a classmate on the playground. I had a couple of friends in first grade—only one at a time, though. First was Skye, then it was Allison, and then Danny. I liked playing with Danny at recess because he’d play hide and seek with me and it was a fun game I could play without talking. Unfortunately there was a disgruntled teacher, Mrs. Smith, who found this boy-girl play inappropriate and separated us and forbade us to hang out like “a couple.” She told Danny to play with the boys and she led me to a group of girls who were playing hand clap games in a circle, taking away my only connection to a friend. I just stood there for the rest of recess that day, not understanding how intricate clapping games was in any way fun. Then after that I simply wandered around the playground looking out at the grass beyond the chain link fence and the jr. high school across the street. I guess Mrs. Smith saw that as better than playing with a boy. Sometimes the girls in my class would pull me to them and try to get me to play with them but I saw this as a fun game and would laugh and run away and they would chase me. To me, that was fun. But to them I was a girl who didn’t want anything to do with them, not a girl who wanted to play something other than “house” and clapping games! Eventually they gave up and I was alone again.
Second grade I was behind all the time and I never followed directions. I would actually get screamed at by this teacher, who—wouldn’t it figure—was Mrs. Smith. “ASHLEY FLOREK! PAY ATTENTION!” She would yell this constantly and I remember staring at her face, in awe how red it would get, how squinty her eyes would get, and the bulbous veins that would pop out! She would have to pull me aside and give me specific instructions because I just would not get it the first time. I remember always feeling lost. Sometimes I would go ahead of my work because I finished early and I would get in trouble over that, too! Basically I had difficulties with listening and multi-tasking, problems that still afflict me. My third grade teacher, a docile fun-loving and respectful teacher, even lost her temper with me. A new student unknowingly took my seat at the reading table and I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there looking at the floor. The girl next to him told him he was in my seat and so he got up. The teacher caught this, however, and told him to sit back down. “Ashley, you tell him.” Only I didn’t know what I had to tell him. I waited for her to give me the words I had to repeat but she didn’t. “Ashley, tell him,” she said again, her temper rising. That slight raise I heard made me flounder. I was very sensitive to anger in people’s voices. I clamped up and shut down. I don’t know how long I stood there, on the verge of tears. I looked at the floor, I looked at the clock but didn’t know what time it was, I looked at my classmate’s faces at the reading table watching me, then turned around at the rest of the class. They weren’t paying attention, it seemed. One girl was working on her work, looking down at her paper, her pencil moving. The teacher yelled at me over and over for me to “tell him.” I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell her that I didn’t know what to say. Finally I told myself, just think of something. No one is going to help you. Everyone’s staring. Think of something. So finally, I said it, blurting it in a squeaking voice: “Thomas you’re in my seat.” And that was it. It was over.
Other than that, my third grade teacher was an excellent teacher. I suppose everyone loses their temper now and then, and although I never forgot that, I forgave her. Third grade changed my life because that’s when I discovered my love of horses and horseback riding. One day my mother asked me if I’d like to give horseback riding a try. Right away I knew I wanted to ride and ever since my first lesson, I was hooked. I had something to talk about with others. I had something I loved with a fervent passion. I began drawing in a little black drawing book. First they were just simple drawings of horses but throughout the years they turned into stories of horses and stables. I created families who lived on a stable and I would illustrate and label their daily stable routines, learned from my own experiences. “Hurstwood Acres” was the title of one of my books and I would draw each character, label their height, age, hair color, weight, and then I’d dedicate another page to the horses—their breed, sex, age, riding style. Then I would draw the interior of the stable and label each stall. After that I would draw a bird’s eye view of their property—where the paddocks were, riding arenas, turnout times for horses. Then I’d take a ruler and meticulously draw perfect horizontal lines and post the riding lesson schedule for the day—who had a riding lesson and what horse they were riding and whether or not they should unsaddle the horse afterwards in case that horse had another lesson after. And then I’d draw what each family member did for chores throughout the day. Naturally the kids were homeschooled! And usually they lived on a private island and there was monorail transportation and elevators in the barn. And then there would be a feature to the barn that wasn’t so glamorous—a small spare stall in the corner of the indoor riding arena, because the farm I road at had one in its arena.
I took my drawing book everywhere with me and I could not go anywhere without it. Then I got a zipper pencil case that held my many pencils, erasers, rulers, and sharpeners, and then I had to carry some horse books with me so eventually I carried all my tools in a bag, lugging it wherever I went. My father would take me out to eat every Friday night and we’d stay there all the way up until 11 pm sometimes while I’d just draw. He’d patiently ask me every now and then if I was ready to leave yet. Eventually I’d say yes only because I knew he wanted to get the heck out of there! I got positive attention for my drawings and I would love explaining about horses to classmates and teachers. At the same time I had a great way to keep myself busy; it was a solitary activity that I could do by myself and it was a great way of communicating my interests.
My obsession with horses lingered for years and I was in horse shows and fell in love with each horse I rode—first Foxy Lady, then Mighty Texanna. Then it was Oliver at another stable. Still, I didn’t have any friends who shared this interest. I would try to invite an occasional class friend to my lessons in the hopes that they’d take lessons with me but it never happened. I never fit in with anyone at the stable, either. Even at horse camp all the children talked to each other and I was always the outcast, staying behind. It didn’t bother me so much back then, though, because my love for horses overrode that occasional feeling of isolation. I remember once when I was ten my aunt surprised me with a book I really wanted: an encyclopedia on horse diseases and ailments. Unfortunately I had a birthday party to attend that evening and I begged and begged my mother to let me stay home so I could read my new book. Of course she made me go because it was the right thing to do. Everyone expected me to go, she said. It was the polite thing to do and I knew that, but oh how I wanted to read that book! I had an okay time but I still would have preferred to stay home with my book, and when I got home from that party I couldn’t help but feel like I wasted my entire evening when I could have spent it on something so much more fulfilling!
It wasn’t until my first year of junior high school at age 12 that I realized I had a real talent for writing. Junior high was a nightmare. Not only was the school physically unsafe (the air quality was bad and we were almost moved into another building; there were cockroach, rodent and pigeon infestations. The year after I graduated from 8th grade they actually tore it down) but the teachers were horrendously mean, the classrooms crowded and unruly, and the bullies unrelenting because the teachers simply did not care. And yes, I had teachers who were bullies even. In math class the teacher Mrs. Adams yelled at me in front of the entire class, “Ashley, don’t you know how to multiply?!” And instead of addressing an obvious problem, she ignored it and I struggled. I was terrified in sewing class because the teacher, Mrs. Seonkson, was a witch! I was TERRIFIED of her. After hand sewing we had to move on to the machines, and I didn’t understand how to work a sewing machine and I was terrified of asking her for help because she was a yeller and I had no friends in the class to help me. So 12 year old Ashley Florek’s solution to this problem: purposely stall and feign sewing. Then I battled a humongous knot I could not get out of my thread, working tediously at my desk in silence with red ears and cold sweats as everyone moved on to the sewing machines. When I got the knot out some classes later, I went back to fake-sewing so I would never get it finished and never have to move to the sewing machine. Luckily my scandal worked out and I was so far behind that when I finally did finish my hand sewing, everyone was done with the sewing machines so I moved onto the next project with them. The boys in my class made fun of me and slammed into me purposefully and called me “slow.” They would steal balls of yarn from the teacher and stick it in my cubby and tell the teacher I stole them. I was never so glad when the next term came and never so proud in the next shop class when the new teacher asked me to read something from a book aloud. I read the page loud, clear, and fast. I felt like I showed them! I was smart, not stupid!
The only thing I loved about the 7th grade was last period English with Ms. Mullen and Mrs. Banas. They were my oasis in that place. I looked forward to seeing them because they were kind, understanding, and they saw their students as individuals, not things. I was one of the top students in the class; I got straight A’s and they loved my writing and were impressed with my grammatical skills. It was far too easy for me actually and sometimes I would finish my work before everyone and I would sit at my desk sighing and bored. Once we had a spelling bee and the word was “aisle” and no one in the class could spell it. Mrs. Banas went up and down the rows and the word was spelled “isle,” “ile” and several other ways. I was sitting in my seat grinning. And when it was my turn I proudly spelled A-I-S-L-E. And everyone was turning in their seats to stare at me, aghast that there was an “a” in the word. But my eyes were on Ms. Mullen who was looking at Mrs. Banas with an approving nod. That was a proud moment for me. After 7th grade English, my confidence grew tenfold. I finally had a favorite subject in school.
I was so excited about my first day of grade 9 orientation that I was grinning ear to ear as the bus came down my street. High School was a dream come true. It was a beautiful building with air conditioning and without vermin, crumbling ceilings, leaky, drafty windows, or puddles condemning classrooms. There were no unruly, overcrowded classes, either. It was a beautiful place. I absolutely loved taking the bus. My bus driver took the same route every day and of course I loved that! And I loved going to school. I didn’t have any friends at all, but I buried myself in my studies and was quickly deemed “the smart girl.” Lunch time was difficult because we weren’t organized by teachers into tables like in junior high school and elementary school. Now we had free reign over where to sit and I did not like this unstructured mess. Eventually I found a table I had all to myself and it quickly became “my table” with one occupant as everyone else shuffled into their own tables with their own friends. I would sit facing the back wall, my back to the humongous crowd behind me, which overwhelmed me.
One day a girl—a junior—asked me if I wanted to come sit with her and her friend, Jackie. I went over there and was so nervous at first that I could hardly swallow my food. Her name was Tara and she took me, a shy little freshman girl awkward and poorly dressed with glasses, under her wing and spoke to me and asked me how my day was. One day some guys were at their table and although my seat was still there, I didn’t want to intrude so I sat at the empty table next to it like I used to. She called me over and insisted I sit there, at MY seat. Tara was wonderful and I will never forget her for her kindness and understanding.
There were moments in high school when I’d be depressed because I had no friends. I told my mother and she called up the guidance counselor of blue house, Mr. Vereneau, who, frankly, had no business being a counselor. Yes, he called me out of class to speak with him but the meeting was no more than five minutes and he basically told me to be more bold and be a friend to others if I wanted friends. And that was it. No follow up. That was it. After that five minute meeting I shuffled back to class and disappeared, coming to the realization that it was my fault I had no friends and that was just how it was supposed to be. Instead of getting more depressed, however, I just accepted it and kept to myself and engaged in solitary activities such as video games, reading and drawing.
During the summer vacation after my freshman year something peculiar happened to me. I kept having these recurring dreams of the beach and of strange places and journeys. I began recording these dreams and compiled a list of over 40. I knew I wanted to do something with these dreams and I decided I would write a novel. I am now in my 20’s and this novel is now a series. For years I worked on my book, called “The Quest” back then. I carried my notebook everywhere with me and I would take my notes home at the end of each day and use my computer to write the story. My book became my passion and something I felt like I dedicated my life to doing. Today I am trying to get book one of my fantasy series published while I am working on the third book. The series is called “Voyage of a Dreamcaster” and book one is called “The Forbidden World.”
After graduating from high school in 2003 I went right to state college. My father passed away in 2004 during my freshman year by suicide and this sudden unpredictable change in my life was something that took me years to get over and it did affect my grades for a while. I even questioned my choice of being an English major and temporarily switched out of it. But then I started taking classes I was avidly interested in: Medieval Literature, English Romanticism, and English Romantic Poets to name a few. I snapped out of this depression and returned to getting A’s and B’s. I excelled in both English literature and writing and I graduated in the winter of 2009, on the Dean’s List my final three semesters, obtaining a Bachelor’s Degree of the Arts in English with a concentration of writing. I couldn’t have done all this without my mother and her unrelenting support, help and love. She always looked over my papers; called up the dean and took care of things when I stupidly dropped a class, my insurance ready to drop me as a result; came with me to my appointment with my advisor when I needed help switching back to English as my major. Today she always takes me to my doctor appointments and is always there to talk me out of my wild tangents when I obsess over things and can’t get the tiniest of issues out of my head. Whenever I have a problem, my mother is there to help me. She and my father pushed me to succeed, to do my best, to make something out of myself.
I suppose I always had a predisposition for writing. It’s in the family on my father’s side. Even when I used to draw my horses I would set up the drawings in story structure. There was always a beginning, middle and end. There was always a little drama added—a horse gone missing, a horse that got hurt, an important horseshow, a devastating hurricane. But that was all for fun. It wasn’t until that English class in 7th grade that I realized I had a talent and that I had a possible career in my future. Ms. Mullen and Mrs. Banas believed in me and saw my hidden talents. They saw me as an individual and recognized that beneath my extreme shyness was a very talented person. I will never forget my favorite English teachers and all of those in my family who believed in me and my talents.
*About my book series, Voyage of a Dreamcaster My books follow the journey of a young woman named Catalina, who learns the significance of her psychic Dreamcasting abilities and how they connect her to the damaged earth and its endangered human race. The year 2736 is centuries after The Final War; it is a time when Earthlord Galixiote reigns the earth with bloodshed, murdering all who do not belong to his Elite Race. A tiny domed city with a capacity of no more than several thousand inhabitants isn’t enough to sustain the human cycle. This imbalance must be stopped before the entire human race becomes extinct. That is why Catalina’s father plans a journey to The City, Techtrebajartroplis, to shut it down. Catalina never thought of herself as important in the world. She never once thought that her strange dreams and intuitions had anything to do with the earth’s current state. After all, she’s just one girl. She figures she is an idle follower—a skinny, useless girl simply following her father so she can see the world outside of the isolated village she grew up in. But what she learns on this deadly journey across what was once known as northern Europe is that she has an important role on her father’s team and that, in the end, it is up to her and her alone to put an end to the world’s mayhem. That is, if she chooses to believe in herself. Catalina soon learns that she has been tied in with earth’s fate millennia before she was even born. *Prologue from The Forbidden World, Book One of Voyage of a Dreamcaster. The place he went was nowhere. It was done with life, forgotten. The wind was ruthless like heavy rain viciously lashing out at a tiny boat at sea. But it would not stir the earth’s dust. It could not be felt. Never before was the sky so bare; the darkness didn’t allow even the boldest of stars to peek through its chaos. A trained eye once steady and confident now quivered like a feather not quite sure of where to fall. He knew this place very well once, yet now it was nameless and unfamiliar to him. Now it was all too clear—the land’s already delicate mantels were crumbling right before him. He could never see such things before. Why could he now? Unless… Out of habit, he wiped at his forehead, but it was as dry as the dust he stood on. He tried to think of his name. Every time he came here, he forgot more and more of what life was. His sapphire eyes drifted across the barren land that consisted of pointed hills of nothing more than smoky dust. All living was dead. Trees long dead curled their bare branches into sinister positions. One looked like a hand with its bony fingers clutching frantically onto the neck of something invisible as if desperate for the answer to its question that had never been answered. The trees’ fanged roots dug angrily into an infinite abyss of ominous shadows below. The last somber clouds that did remain in the west stitched themselves into the sky like musty cobwebs. They were still and lifeless, not alive but certainly not dead, either. They were no clouds of earth. Was this for the best? Perhaps it was meant to be, he thought with a chill. There was no one left. Could one single man do this much damage? What is my name… He felt a feeling of hotness in his eyes which throbbed in the acrid air. It was too dry for his tears to do much else than stand in his eyes. His chest ached for cool air and his throat burned, begging for a drop of water. Was there any water left? He walked aimlessly with heavy feet—no map in his mind—searching for an oasis, or any kind of life, for that matter. But there was nothing but the redundant deadened earth, tired of crying, too exhausted to even mutter a whisper. Running a trembling hand through his hair, he stood alone, not knowing what else to do. Should he just wait and whither to his death? The thought seemed dreadful, yet unavoidable. There was nothing his powers could do, nothing his sharp mind could decipher. The darkness took all that away. He should just give up, he realized, for fate has driven the world to this wretched state. He was nameless, gone. He failed. Then… Taucher. Everything shifted and the heaviness in his chest lifted and he breathed in relief. The black turrets and hills of earth shrunk; what was left of the hollow earth converged, the sky lighting to a deep crimson. And then he saw her. Was it her? My name is Taucher. He felt the sudden excitement rejuvenating his heart’s dying rhythm as that awful void left him. Hope filled him with every breath. “I’ll always be here,” said a man’s voice as he pulled a girl up from the ground. He was draped in robes, his face hidden. He held her close and proudly. He was not much taller than her and not much older. The grass was wet with rain that still steadily fell. Taucher had seen this place before, but never in dreams. But she had. He smiled. It was a hill that sloped downward, the depths frighteningly intangible. The girl allowed her gaze to drop down the endless hole, the horrible darkness hurting her eyes. They were under an acropolis, the rain falling everywhere but there. Yet the fires still tore up what was left of Earth. Men in rags were scattered around the base of the hill, bowing down to them, afraid to move in the blaze around them. The girl looked off in the distance with eyes the color of spring. The sky was veined with eerie streaks of red, flowing as lucidly as ink through water. The screams and shouts seemed to fade out of the girl’s mind. Only Taucher heard them now. “Just like I told you from the beginning,” said the young man, “they’re all gone and I’m here to make everything right.” His lips curled into a crooked smile, his light eyes dazzling like a starlit sky. The girl listened quietly to his voice as his hands came up to her shoulders, to sooth her, perhaps. Taucher could see the horrible confusion and uncertainty clouding her focus. Clearly, she couldn’t remember much of what happened, but the longer she looked into this man’s eyes, the more she began to recall. Yes, Taucher thought, see it! “It is not your fault this happened.” The man pulled her rigid, frail body closer to him when she tried to squirm away. “A price that had to be paid,” he said lazily. “I…I failed,” she whispered. “You conquered,” said the man valiantly, that same horrid, fake smile stuck on his face. “My father… they’re dead,” she managed to choke out through suffocating pain, over the roar of the flames. “All of them!” Neither fire nor smoke reached her on that safe oasis; her pain shouldn’t even be there, Taucher realized. But it was. “It’s a good thing, I think,” answered the man, his eyes consoling. “Now we can conquer the world… just you and I.” He sighed, his cheeks reddened from the burning air. “Together. The way it was always meant to be.” “No…” She backed away, but no matter how much she did, he was always there by her side; he was her shadow. “You chose this,” he told her. “Remember? You made the right decision.” “I didn’t!” The patience was beginning to falter in the young man. His face tightened; finally, the smile shrunk away. “It was the best for both of us. If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be able to conquer the lands now, would we?” “No… I didn’t! I swear to you I didn’t! I will not stand by your side—I won’t!” The girl fitfully pulled away from his grasp and ran through the ash and soot-filled paths through the only village left, terrified people scampering around, holding onto their children and dragging what little tattered possessions they had left—if they had any at all. Everything was scorched and still burning endlessly. Not a single splinter would be fit for rebuilding a home. The sky grew darker; the scarlet red veins contorted into misty statures in the clouds. The deafening whispers and piercing shouts repeated over and over… No matter how fast the girl ran, the man was always behind her, never tiring. Her fate was sealed—there was no escaping him. She ran with closed eyes, trying to block everything out. But no matter what she did, the screaming would not subside, and the blurs of dying people would not escape her… Don’t, Taucher urged in alarm. Don’t block it! A pounding in the distance pulled her attention away from her fleeing. She stopped, holding onto her ears. The pounding made an incoherent rhythm, echoing and reverberating. It made Taucher feel very strange and fuzzy. He felt as though he was disappearing with each beat. Men—thousands of them—were thundering across the landscape, wearing animal hides and whipping torches of red flames over their heads. Their shouts were deafening; they were ecstatic. These were not ordinary men. The Töricht. They’re coming… The faces of the dying contorted in great pain. The black clouds swirled, forming funnels that tore at the ruins. They spun and spun; quicker and quicker; closer and closer... The girl was fading quickly now. “Wait!” Taucher shouted. “I have been waiting for you!” But it was no use. She did not hear—she would not hear. Cyclonic winds clutched her and took her away, everything distorting around her. The earth began to open and crack, falling to nowhere, except for darkness. “Wait! Please!” Stillness. Then the darkness lightened, the mist and dust lifted, and Taucher found himself somewhere else, watching two people, confused. “She will never love you.” This was a time long before the earth died, Taucher deduced. The words hit the same young man brutally in the gut, Taucher saw, silent in the darkness, even if he disguised his torment with a defiant shake of the head, a sneering frown in return to the woman named Naeyla. “That isn’t so,” he muttered, gathering the reins at his destrier’s whithers. He mounted up in an effortless motion and fixed his feet in his stirrups. Naeyla put a hand under his horse’s chin when he made to veer the stallion off. “She will turn on you,” she warned. “You heard your fortune and you deny it,” she pointed out in amusement, a grin curling up. Thick auburn curls framed her small face, her big full lips, her dark eyes, sharp and ferocious like a feline hunter’s. But the young man held his chin up, glaring down at her with cold teal eyes. “She won’t. I will be Prince and she will be my princess.” The playful grin turned to a dangerous smile, her teeth flashing. “You must learn the hard way. It’s written out. But it will happen and you will need me.” She slowly let her hand drop from the reins and stepped back with a seductive shifting of her curved hips. Taucher witnessed the young man swallowing, his eyebrows furrowed in obstinate determination. Naeyla held out a magnificent piece of crystal to him. It shone brilliantly, taking on the light from the sun and swirling it into a spectrum of colors all discreet with showing themselves to one another all at once. He blinked at it, then at her. It was moments before the woman’s powers wielded the response she desired. A trembling hand uncoiled from the reins and he accepted the shard, pale fingers curling around it. He didn’t look at it. He knew the danger in it. “I know what to do,” she purred, slithering toward him and placing a gentle hand onto his knee and trailing her fingers down his boot. The young man pocketed the shard and kicked the horse away. The steed leg yielded nervously at his manic, desperate aids. The woman seemed to frighten the horse. Taucher suddenly thought of her sister, wondering how he’d feel in her presence, and felt a stabbing pain in his chest, the horror too burdensome for him to handle in this state. He swallowed and breathed, willing the trepidation away. “No,” said the young man. “You’re mad!” He tried to kick his horse away but she had a good grip on the bridle. It had a snaffle and a curb bit; the horse refused to ignore that pressure. “The time will come—” “No!” He tried to wrench the reins free of her grip. “—When you will need me. You know how to reach me.” Finally she let go, and the young man frantically kicked and whipped and the stallion galloped off madly into mist. Taucher pulled away, heaviness in his limbs and chest and head threatening to take him back… Again he found himself back in the darkness that was void of life, where the wind was never felt. He hadn’t meant to go to that other place, yet something higher took him there. He tried to make sense of it, but he couldn’t. He fell to his tired knees, alone and sobbing. He scooped up the dust and let it fall through the cracks of his fingers. It wasn’t hot; it wasn’t cold. Not even all his tears together would moisten it. Darkness is coming… Then something in the distance caught his gaze. Through the dullness he saw light emanating from somewhere. He ran toward it, the feeling of deep heaviness inside his chest suddenly lifting, the feeling of cheer awakening him from the long and fitful sleep that had been demanded upon him for so long. Taucher had to shield his eyes from the light, for it was so bright and clear, he’d never seen anything like it before. He didn’t know what it was or what would come of it, but he knew he wanted it more than anything. He knew it was something unlike everything else around him—something every good man secretly cherished and longed for deep inside his crying heart. When he got closer, he found himself on the edge of a jagged cliff. Below was a vast field of deadness, the land dry and parched from years of starvation. Hollow bones, choked of flesh, littered the ground. Where rows of corn stalks once grew, there now lay slits in the earth that led to utter darkness below. But light emanated from a great river that flowed wildly, slithering through the landscape. Its magnificent color was the deepest blue he’d ever seen—it lit up the land at its edges! And there was the girl… Her skin glowed brilliantly like a mystical creature visiting from the Heavens. Her hair was as smooth as the insides of a pearly oyster shell; her robes were the purest shades of white. There was something about her that lit up everything around her. Then he realized she was glowing just as brilliantly as the river before her. The river was a part of her. He watched her from behind the safety of a craggy boulder, afraid to startle her like she was a lone deer, elegant yet wary. She bent down and opened up the river banks with her hands. The cool water drifted across the desert land, watering the earth. Instantly, lush spring grass, buttercups, pansies, and tulips flourished, springing up like excited birds. The barren sticks of wood transformed into beautiful trees—oaks, apples, maples, pines, willows, and birches—that cast mirroring shadows over the springy grass they valiantly towered over. Fluttering butterflies, chattering swallows, and buzzing dragonflies whisked through the air, breathing life all around them. The once deadened heavy sky lifted away, leaving behind an eternal blue, which left no boundary between Heaven and Earth. The stale stained clouds awakened and fluffed into white as they morphed into the familiar childhood shapes of animals one would see from atop a flowery hill. A soft rain pelted the land, and dew sparkled over each blade of grass like little jewels, full of life. Rabbits hopped out from their burrows, sniffing the air with a newfound curiosity, while does, eager to stretch their gangly legs, dashed and frolicked about playfully in the thickets of the forest. The dry bones transformed into children who laughed and played in the meadow, chasing after the dragonflies from atop their mares with their manes shimmering like silver as they nickered in delight. All was saved. The girl in her white robes smiled at him, her green eyes reflecting the land around her. Her inquisitive yet confident gaze was all he needed to warm his heart. In her eyes there was hope and there was promise. She will come! A horrible blaring rumbled the walls. Taucher woke up with a jolt. The sights and sounds of a beautiful meadow instantly abandoned him; it was merely a disappearing echo in the back of his mind. He got up from the damp, sooty ground, securing a muddy hand over his laser—smeared with years of grime—as he carefully searched his surroundings. Catching dripping water from the bulging ceiling with the palm of his hand, he sipped the rusty liquid to cool his parched mouth. He’d fallen asleep on post. It was amazing no one had found him. Aegises clad in black trampled past him, their heavy boots pounding and scuffing through the dark puddled aisles. He drew in a breath of the moldy, smoke-filled air, trying desperately to remember the last time he’d seen outside. The thought failed him. He ran with the others down the dank twisting halls, starving prisoners in dirty cloths staring blankly as he passed. It was just another day. He turned to where he saw the origin of the commotion; a group of rebels was being led to the entrance of The Abyss, he saw. “Planned on destroying our Earthlord,” a much older Aegis whispered to him over the shouts of the tortured and terrified prisoners behind them. “The Töricht found them a couple of miles away. Their epic journey ended in failure,” he laughed in a raspy voice. A hacking cough soon followed. Taucher nodded at the old man and looked on as four people desperately fought the restraints of the Aegises at their backs. Scrapes, bruises and freshly bleeding gashes adorned their faces and bodies through their torn rags of clothing. They’d been here a while. They kicked and screamed, yelling that Galixiote will die, yelling that the system was evil and must be stopped and to let them destroy it once and for all, that even the Aegises would be saved. There was a wave of chuckles as the Aegises laughed heartily at what these prisoners beseeched. One yanked the chains of the eldest prisoner hard behind him. “You will refer to your lord as Earthlord Galixiote. I should throw you at his feet for such disrespect,” the Aegis spat. The old Aegis spoke up again. “They will be punished severely,” he assured him over the laughter and muttering of their fellow brothers, “the fools.” Again, Taucher nodded, this time a fake grin plastered across his lips. Death. He knew it was their penalty. They were sentenced to tumble down the endless abyss that had no end to it…. For a moment, the shouting of the prisoners ceased, and all Taucher could feel was the presence of their rusted chains, which dragged and clanged against concrete. They were muffled only slightly when they passed over puddles of sooty water, the endless rainwater dripping off the ghastly roots that dangled ominously from the crumbling ceiling above. “Spiked up for a while, but the number of rebels has been declining,” said the Aegis with a smirk, thoroughly proud. Because everyone’s dead… “Finally our Earthlord is conquering these beasts. He will make his rule permanent as soon as these creatures see that they cannot interfere with our lord.” Taucher, barely paying him any attention, cringed when he saw the last prisoner being led into the dark cavern—a young boy no older than twelve. He was the only one who did not utter a sound. He walked with stiff, knobby knees, struggling to walk in just skin and bone. Taucher wondered if he was even breathing at all. Though reluctant to do so, he strained to see over all the Aegises’ heads to see the family at the edge of the black hole; their faces were now pale white, shining with sweat as they were faced with their fate. Their wide eyes stared blankly down into the misty hole that would cruelly end their lives. And then they were pushed in: one brutal push from each of the Aegises—all at once. Taucher had to blink away when his last sight was that of the boy’s arm flailing behind him. The sound of chains scraped against the concrete as they trailed behind them. And it stopped. And then their deathly chorus of screams—their final words—replaced that, soon quieting altogether. The Aegises—even the brusque old man beside him—cheered in a chorus of elation. But Taucher felt an inescapable tear emerging from his eye. It made its way down his sweaty face, which was stained black from long hours of endless work in this place called The Cell. His hollow chest heaved in misery. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his solemn blue eyes away from that black hole, now void of all screams. The sadness was too much…. But the dream danced vividly in his mind. The girl. He gathered himself, swallowing away an aching knot in his throat. He clutched onto his laser tightly, feeling as though he still had power in some things… He drew in a deep breath—ridding his mind of all ill thoughts—and looked around inquisitively, his eyes narrowing in determination as the Aegises broke up and scattered like scurrying rats back to their normal routines. But Taucher remained in the shadows, alone. “She will come,” he muttered under his breath with such extreme efforts that he wasn’t even sure if the words escaped his lips at all. Wiping at an itch on his dirty face, he turned around and disappeared down the dingy aisle. She will come… *Clip from The Forbidden World, Book One of Voyage of a Dreamcaster It was another dark but very still night by the time the sun had vanished but Chad’s torches burned quietly outside each of their tents. Brock finally allowed him to put them to use come nighttime. The glow from them gave Catalina a sense of comfort and security but they were also a distraction. No matter how hard she tried, she could not rip her eyes away from them. Her sleep schedule was off tilt to begin with and she was not tired. She sat up in her bedroll some hours later and peeked out the open tent flaps. Dense fog enclosed the atmosphere, clinging to nothing and hanging listlessly. It connected sky to sea and she could not tell where one ended and the other took off. She rummaged for her lumous crystal and shrouded it with her robes so the light would not wake up Selda. When she got outside she took it out and walked to the shore, listening to the gentle laps of the slumbering tide. Rather than heading back from where they came, Catalina felt bold and took a sharp right turn. It was an incredible feeling, pretending she was walking that way all on her own, making her own route, exploring the world on her own. It wasn’t long before she spotted an old jetty up ahead, the rocks big and round but spookily dark. The rocks continued rather far inland and she wondered if this was built centuries ago when perhaps the ocean was bigger in volume. When she got up onto the first rock, she quickly stole a glance at the faraway ruddy orbs surrounding their tents. Then, searching around for a safe pathway with her crystal, she crawled up the steep incline in her wool socks and found the very end where a single tall, thin rock covered in seagull droppings stood; it was shaped more like a wood post than a rock. Only slightly did tiny ripples on the sea tickle at the rocks’ edges. She crouched down and feeling the large flat rock she stood on was only slightly damp, she sat down and stared absently into the dark fog. The mist of the air could be seen shifting past the glow of her crystal and when she looked behind her again, the torches’ lights were barely distinguishable. Everything was always so peaceful in the presence of fog. It was as if it turned off the wind, shielding it, absorbing it. It wasn’t that calmly jubilant feeling one got from first snow fall on a crisp afternoon; it was more of a passive understanding of solitude. It drowned out all excitement but dampened hysteria and shrouded all with a mask of slumbering restfulness. All sounds seemed muffled, strangely downcast, and mourning doves cooed melodically atop the highest perches. Most people did not care for it for some reason and avoided it at all costs, staying shut up in their homes. Catalina, however, loved it for the temporary absence it created in the world. Instantly her mind took her to home. She imagined the meadow with mist suspended over the dandelions, the grass curling down toward the earth, thickly covered with dew; the fencing blackened and looking like a cat’s scratching post from dampness, weather and time; the sea a window to an endless seafloor she could see for miles it seemed; the quietness of the stable hands as they worked tediously with a passive necessity. And then she thought of Errik. She pictured him as a valiant overseer of the village, standing atop the main balcony over her home’s front doors, that same stern look her father held at the game of Battle weeks earlier on his face as villagers lined up to ask him favors. Then there was Arista and Nightsong… But before she could even delve into their memories, guilt panged inside her at the remembrance of the Töricht suddenly dispersing. Not knowing what happened after she deliberately disobeyed her father had left a silent gnawing inside her, cruel and always present. Were these seeds of danger she’d planted for her team? Why was it that she couldn’t imagine things being okay at home? The Töricht left our village, untouched it seems. Maybe Father said that so we wouldn’t worry, she suspected but she knew he didn’t. He wasn’t one to hide the truth. He told everything like it was. If there was something he didn’t want them knowing, he just simply would not say it. Alright, so the Töricht quickly withdrew. But why? Sometimes when her thoughts turned chaotic, she considered the possibility of Arista, Errik and Loren fighting off the warlords with strength and vigor. But that was impossible. There was nothing of superhuman ability that her village could muster, and that was precisely what it would take to fight off the Töricht. Why did they withdraw? Catalina jumped, her heart pounding. From the beach she heard the hollow crunching of shells. Immediately she buried her lumous crystal in her robes, deadening the glow. For an instant that primitive instinct arose on the back of her neck and she feared there was someone there—a stranger—and no one else knew. That old woman’s words reiterated in her head and she felt the cold stab of that girl’s warning in the restaurant. She looked down at the clouded water beneath her and knew that if worse came to worst, she had the advantage of escaping underwater. The crunching stopped and Catalina told herself it was just an animal—a water rat—but the horrifying scuffing of boot on rock made her stomach turn upside down. There was a faint beam of light blurred but distinctly searching. She tried to crouch but her body was rigid with fear. Halfway down the jetty the light stood still and looked like it was a piece of metal reflecting the direct shine of strong summer’s sun. The light was right on her. Catalina felt her heart drumming rapidly as her breath froze in her chest. She sprang up, nearly losing her balance. Scraping and scurrying filled her ears. The light brightened. Just when she was about to jump, the figure stopped dead in its tracks and she saw light-colored robes… “Selda?” “It’s me,” the guard confirmed. When she was on the same rock as Catalina, she lightly pulled Catalina by her arm. “Stay away from the edge. You look like you’re ready to jump in.” “I was,” Catalina admitted dryly, her breathing finally slowing to something human. “I thought you were asleep,” Catalina stated in alarm. “Not quite. Sit down.” Catalina looked up at her guard’s face which remained unemotional under her own lumous crystal’s radiance, but the stillness of her posture told Catalina she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She tucked her crystal into a pocket and folded her legs beneath her on the flat stone. Selda lowered herself, crouching on the balls of her feet. “I just couldn’t sleep,” she made to protest. “I’ve been sleeping all day. I needed to go for a walk.” “Onto a jetty far away from camp in the middle of the night?” Catalina shrugged, knowing her argument was futile. “I know,” she rolled her eyes, “my father wouldn’t approve.” “Probably not,” said the guard tiredly, striking an odd note in the strings of Catalina’s conscience. “What does that mean?” Her tone was injured. The guard shrugged indifferently and settled to a more comfortably position, the lumous crystal still clutched in her hands. Her look was one of knowledge, of awareness, and it both frightened Catalina and put her at ease all at the same time. “If there is one thing I know about you it’s that when there is something heavy on your mind, you need to get away. Alone. Not the best choice sometimes,” she added pointedly, and Catalina felt her eyes persistent on her without even looking up. “You want to talk?” Selda asked after a few uncomfortable moments. Her question’s tone told Catalina trillions. There was a sense of finality to it, a calmness that spoke volumes of her patience and willingness to hear her out. “Are you still worried about your decision of joining this team?” “No,” Catalina said defiantly, and then the woman nodded slowly. “At least we’re getting somewhere,” she said insipidly. Catalina fidgeted and unwillingly opened her mouth. “I feel bad about something I did. A long time ago.” “How long is a long time ago?” Catalina shrugged uncomfortably. “The night before we left home.” She hesitated, swiping her fingers back and forth over her lumous crystal she’d taken out again. She watched the change in light dancing over the rocks as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Ah.” “What does that mean?” “Doesn’t mean anything,” she said in a steady voice. Catalina relaxed somewhat but it felt like the guard’s gaze was seeping inside her. Only this time there wasn’t a bad or scary feeling surrounding it; it just felt like her story would be useless. Still, there was something here she had to own up to. “I told her,” Catalina said, exasperated. As she floundered in her misery, Selda merely watched her with that same stillness and patience. “I told Arista everything.” She cringed, covering both her hands over the crystal now so that only the light from Selda’s illuminated them. “I told her we were leaving and why. I told her about TSADAR. I told her about the Töricht coming…” For a long moment as she waited for the woman’s response, Catalina only heard her own breathing and the tiny splashes of fish jumping somewhere to her right. Then… “I know, Cat,” she said, her words short and hassled as if it pained her to admit this. Catalina looked up, the features on her face frozen in stun. “You know? But how?” “I have my ways,” she mused with an ounce of triumph speckling her words. “Your father didn’t make me your guard for nothing, you know.” It took all of Catalina’s power to break her out of her thunderstruck stare. “So then my father knows,” she dared to say, recoiling at the thought of it. He probably knew it this entire time and never said anything to her. Was he that disappointed in her? Suddenly she felt the blood drain from her face. Was that why he didn’t want to tell them what to expect on this journey? Already one of his teammates ruined his trust. She felt her muscles contracting in response to this horrible concept. She had to get to her father now and apologize—admit everything to him and beg for his forgiveness and assure him she would never lie to him again. “No,” Selda said in a low tone, “of course not.” Relief poured over her like cool water trickling over a fire. But the guilt ate away at her. She remembered that morning when she overheard her father asking Selda why Catalina came into the house alone. She lied to him. She knew all along…Why did she protect her? The question sounded silly to Catalina. It was her job to protect her. But not from something like that—something stupid she did out of her own selfishness and fear of having someone mad at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” She looked up into unwearied eyes. “Whether you wanted to tell me or not was your decision, not mine. Though I guess it would have been a lot easier on you if I had just confronted you about it,” she added apologetically. “It’s my own fault. I thought it was right.” “If you thought it was right you wouldn’t have kept it a secret.” Frowning shamefully, Catalina sulked in the depths of darkness, turning from the light. Selda held her crystal out before her so that Catalina’s eyes were immersed in its light. “I would have done the same, you know,” Selda told her quietly. Not looking up but instead staring intensely at the water that trickled gently between the rocks, Catalina shook her head. “I lied to you.” “Don’t worry about that.” The guard turned back to the foggy sea and Catalina studied her glossy strands of hair silhouetted in the darkness, feeling terrible. “You told me the truth. That’s all that matters. That takes a strong person.” “Then you must never lie.” Catalina watched a strange expression unfold on the guard’s face—a look of regret, it seemed. “You are the strongest person I know.” “Everyone has their weaknesses,” she admitted. And for a long while they sat in silence. “Was it stupid, what I did?” Catalina asked some moments later. “It was so stupid… something that could jeopardize us all. My actions could kill us. Why weren’t you—” “Worried?” she smiled. “Because I know you always do the right thing.” “But you just said—” “I said you wouldn’t keep it a secret if you thought it was right; I didn’t say I thought it wasn’t right.” “Yeah well, the right thing for one thing… the bad thing for another. It was wrong of me,” Catalina confessed bitterly and sighed. “I shouldn’t have told her. My father knows what he’s doing.” “He does. But so do you. You have good judgment. I’ve always known that of you.” “I’ve never done anything to prove my good judgment.” “You’ve never done anything that has resulted in bad judgment, either. That’s just as important.” Catalina shrugged it off. “I suppose. But not in this situation, I don’t think.” “You have always trusted Arista.” “Yes but that was when I had her in my life. Now…” Selda contemplated that and said, “Don’t you think you’ve known her long enough to know she can be trusted?” “Yeah.” She wiped away at an itch on her arm, which turned out to be a mosquito. She felt its thin body rolling under her fingers. “Arista knows the implications. She wouldn’t do anything to put you in danger. And if she does do anything,” she added critically, “it will be hard on her conscience, I think.” That was true. “You just feel bad about your father.” Selda just had a knack for reading her. It amazed her at times. “Disobeying him, yes.” That was what it was. She knew Arista would never do anything to endanger them. But still, she wondered if she had anything to do with the Töricht’s decision to turn back so suddenly… Again, Catalina failed trying to picture the stable hand simply standing around, obeying her request of taking care of her horses and going on with her daily routine like nothing happened, like nothing was happening. “What if,” she paused as if daring herself to go on, “she did something… something that would indirectly put us all in great danger? Because I told her our plans.” Selda chuckled quietly. “Think about Arista for a moment. If you never told her, do you honestly believe she would sit around and easily accept the fact that we all just disappeared?” Catalina shook her head, not able to control the smile that sprawled across her lips as fond memories of her fiery friend played in her mind as vividly as summer’s sunlight. “Exactly. She would do whatever it took to find you. She would have gotten herself killed. At least now she knows what’s going on. She knows the dangers for herself and she knows the dangers that involve you.” Selda shook her head. “I know you did the right thing, Cat. And if no one else in this world agrees with that, then you’ll always at least have me.” Catalina nodded slowly, allowing the meaning to set in. “Means a lot.” She fixed her gaze to the crystal that was vividly alit in Selda’s lap and then closed her eyes, breathing serenely. Selda loyally stayed by her side, not allowing tiredness to drive her back to shore, for her state was much more valued. What other guard but Selda would be so dependable? When finally Catalina’s mind allowed her ease, she walked back to the tents with the woman, feeling blessed for having such a wonderful guard… and a friend. Copyright 2010, Ashley Florek Errik caught up to her after cutting off a large section of the arena. It seemed so easy now... Then something came up on her other side, dangerously fast. Catalina caught glimpse of an Aegis slamming into her horse’s rump. The next instant, Nightsong was stumbling sideways. She threw the ball to Errik and he cut the reins and batted it with his mallet. That was all Catalina saw as the ground rushed to meet her. Nightsong fell and rolled, then quickly got up and cantered off a few strides in fright, leaving her alone in the mud. Catalina looked up to see the mesmerizing glow of yellow aflame in the hoops. For an instant her veins stiffened to ice, until she found Errik raising a fist in victory. "Pick your victim!" yelled an Aegis. Catalina got up on unsteady legs, flicking the caked mud out from underneath her arm guards, then staggered back to her horse. Her arm hurt but she paid it no mind. Errik unsheathed his sword. Its blade gleamed strangely in the firelight, like the luminosity of crystal. He looked around at the helmed players that made up his team. His eyes fell on her and stayed. Up and down he studied Nightsong's legs and head. If he chooses me, then it's for the best, she thought. "Ghere." Catalina felt a rush of relief he didn’t choose her. She was grateful it wasn't anyone else on her team. Still, hearing a name she recognized made her turn her head away, nauseated. The fat, smelly blacksmith dismounted his horse and knelt, baring his neck valiantly. Errik’s jaw clenched. He whispered something—perhaps an apology—and made it quick. Catalina flinched once. Errik struck his sword into the mud and pulled a clean blade back up, securing it in his scabbard. He stood with his head bowed for a few seconds, then remounted. He whirled his stallion alongside Nightsong. "You’re certainly not Sonek," he said, "and that isn’t his ragged palfrey. I would have picked a stranger but you are skilled and your horse is fine. Who are you?" Windsong was slathered with foamy sweat, steam rising up like fog baking in the summer’s sun. Nightsong stretched her neck out to the familiar horse and Windsong did the same, but Errik pulled the stallion up hard and the horse skidded back on its hind legs. The Aegises hollered for the game to resume, their horses dancing restlessly. "Fine," he said coolly, the raindrops crawling down his visor, "so be it, friend. Block me then; your mount can definitely handle it." Catalina clenched her teeth and galloped off, leaving her betrothed behind. She got cool looks from the others—all of them except from Selda, whose eyes watched her with a hint of curiosity in them. She doesn’t know. Catalina knew she didn’t because she made no attempt to block her. Or stop her. It’s play or die. 
Ashley, like others on the spectrum, has a deep connection with horses!
Copyright 2010, Ashley Florek
*Clip from Following The Owl, Book Two of Voyage of a Dreamcaster
