Is just a fiction that science has yet to prove

Many believe will not be proven.

Then why

Do I still see you

In all the places we loved?

As much

As the medication dulls

Me,

As much

As it smooths and dampens

My distress;

No antidepressant,

No antipsychotic,

And definitely no benzodiazipene;

Will change what is a fact - 

I feel you,
I knew you,

I know you still.

If the serving girl,

the Nanny, in the attic 

of a holiday home;

Can show herself

To a stranger,

As they lie in the bath;

Then 

Why do you 

Not?

If a man hid behind

A darkened window - inset,

To a house;

In an alley,

In the night,

In my hometown

Can show to me

The same face that

He shows my friend;

The same emotion,

The same

Contemplative stare,

Then why

Why

Can you not? 

Does it depend

On the manner of death, or;

What or who you had left; 

Unfinished? 

Unloved?

Undone in grief?

Do you only get to stay;

With me,

If you’ve been good?
Been great,

Been glorious?

Or.

Is it a failure?
Not on your part, but on mine;

Some crime I have yet to commit.

Will it be,

Or was it,

Some monstrous betrayal;

I have besmirched the human race;

Will have Smeared our reputation,

Has it been written in the stars?

The stars - I hope,

Against hope,

That you have gone to - that you aren’t

DIligently, Repeatedly, Hopelessly,

Trying to love me,

While I look on, blind.

A ghost is just a fiction.

That’s why

I cannot see you.

As much

As the medication dulls me,

As much as it dampens all I touch.

No antidepressant,

No antipsychotic,

And surely no benzodiazipene;

Will change the fact - 

I wish

We still had time.

1. What is your character’s occupation?

Stay at home Dad

2. Where was your character born?

Glasgow

3. What is the first thing your character thought about this morning?

Coffee

4. What is your character’s favourite outdoor activity?

Archery

5. What is your character’s greatest achievement so far?

Becoming a father to his son Eli

6. Does your character have any pets? What are they?

A ragdoll cat called Newbie

7. Is your character neurodivergent?

Yes, Autistic , PTSD, and OCD

8. If they stim, what is their stim?

He subtly fiddles with his mug handle, car keys, shirt collar, etc. 

9. What is your character’s greatest fear?

Teachers

10. Who is their best friend?

Doesn’t currently have a best friend. I'm still finishing up the short story :) -Lize/Scotty

But I know. I remember.

That day, a year ago, the final thing I remembered was pulling on my green wellies. Doctors said my PTA, post-traumatic amnesia, would pass in days ... then weeks, then months. 365 days and an embarrassing (don’t ask) hypnosis later, therapists admit defeat, but returning home I remember, finally – most of it.

In wellies, I cross the garden and crawl into the world of our imagination. Mine and Jack’s, my best mate for the first 10 years of my life. The forgotten alleyway that backs onto the gardens was our galaxy, our wild west, our Neverland. Chasing extraterrestrials, we startled a dormouse. As it bounded off the thorny brambles we reached inside, hungry for sweet purple fruits. Greedily, we dipped in deeper until part of the tangle of thorns and vines glided aside, exposing a narrow passage beside Mr Brown’s flaking fence.

Like today.

But this is the edge of what I remember, until my parents found me, sobbing, without Jack.

I shuffle, sideways, back against the fence, following a sweet aniseed-vanilla aroma that reminds me of Liquorice Allsorts, until I reach a clearing where a lavender canopy filters the light of a violet sun.

The fronds of an eight-foot fern are prised apart.

“We waited for you,” Jack says, holding out his hands. “In one hour, we leave Earth, we’ll be safe then.”

A year ago, I ran.

Not now.

Written by Karin

Write a 300-500 word story set in the future about an autistic rebel. This could be the near future - say 10 years from now - or the far future, 2000 years from now!

Or

Write a poem to be read out at the Autism Liberation Protest of 2029!

It's set in the far future where after abortion has been fully banned by a global conservative religious government unwanted disabled embryos are shipped off into space. A spaceship of former embryos, having grown into young disabled teens fight against those running the ship as it heads to its colony planet.

Personally, I found it didn't live up to is premise but it was still interesting and the authors are autistic. It's the first in a trilogy but I haven't read the other two yet

David

'On the Edge of Gone' by Corrinne Duyvis

'The Outside' by Ada Hoffmann

'An Unkindness of Ghosts' by Rivers Solomon.

~ David

Karin

In apocalyptic Sci-fi, there is also the ‘Underdogs’ series by Chris Bonnello. Autistic author and a varied cast of autistic protagonists. Three books have been published so far, the fourth and final is due April next year I believe. Here is a link to Chris’s website Underdogs - Chris Bonnello.

In middle grade fiction, check out Kate Foster. Autistic writer, writing books with autistic protagonists. Here is a link to Kate’s website: my books - kate foster, children's AUTHOR! (kfosterbooks.com).

Karin

‘Lights’

_D.G.Humphrey

The lights flickered, buzzed and popped incessantly. The power supply to the base was spotty at best, and the lights – like most stuff there - had been hastily jury-rigged out of junk, so it was understandable, but it still bugged Zalera. She tried to focus on her work, but the noise kept interrupting her thoughts, until eventually she couldn’t stand it anymore – she grabbed her things, leapt up from the table, and stormed out into the corridor.

For the last two hours, she’d slowly searched through the tactical outline, picking out every tiny hole in the plan. She wouldn’t let there be any uncertainties – uncertainties could get them all killed. She couldn’t let any ambiguity past her – she saw them, and eliminated them. Or, at least, she tried to. It was pretty much impossible to do anything with those lights.

She was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, staring at the ground, when she heard someone approaching, softly.

“Hey…” It was Darrale. He voice was quiet, understanding. “Are you ok?”

“No.” Zalera replied. “Not at all. I’m not really ever ok, these days. But I’m even less ok now - those lights…I can’t work with them. I’m sorry, I just can’t – the noises they make are horrible for me.”

“Alright…you don’t need to apologise. I understand. I don’t really know what to say here – I don’t think I can help, but I understand.”

Zalera exhaled, slowly. “It’s ok…I just need to find somewhere else to work. I will get this done, it just might take a while.”

“That’s fine. Take all the time you need. We’re…I hope you know we’re all grateful for the work you do here, Zal. You’ve kept us all safe – kept us all alive. We’re so grateful to you.”

“I’m just doing what I need to.”

“I know, but…thank you all the same. We’d be dead if you weren’t here, I’m sure of that. As it is, with your help…we’re going to win this fight.”

Zalera turned around to face him. He was smiling, calmly, and behind his eyes there was a genuine, kind-hearted determination. Zalera took one more deep breath.

“We are.” She said. “We’re going to win.”

With that, she smiled faintly, and walked off down the corridor, in search of somewhere with – hopefully – less irritating lights.

THE END.

Thinking about the holiday as he lay in bed, Duncan couldn’t help but smile. They’d gone on a boat trip, made sandcastles, and attempted to go rockpooling (It had resulted in more wet clothes and less seashells than Duncan would have liked, but Eli had enjoyed it, so that was the main thing). Overall it had been loads of fun - the only issue was that Eli kept talking all night. Duncan had been in to check on him a few times, but he wasn’t on his phone and there was obviously nobody there - not usually an issue, but considering how exhausted he was, and the fact they had an early start before the four hour journey back, Duncan went to Eli’s room to remind him to settle down for the night.

As he quietly knocked, and opened the door, Eli suddenly went quiet - and the room exploded with colour, noise, and blinding light. To the day he died, Duncan would clearly recall how it happened - there was a bang, with a flash of light that had him clutching his eyes and ears, wincing - only for a drop in temperature to hit the room with a gust - so cold that frigid tendrils clung to the skin. As he tried to recover from this sensory onslaught, a voice rang out clear in his head - a voice he recognised.

“Bradbury? Duncan Bradbury? …Years spent unseen and unspoken to after death, it would track that the worst student I ever had would be one out of two people in twenty five years to see me. Sod’s law.”

You’ll always be shunned,

You’ll always be mocked;

When you’re wrong.

I ask of the Goddess,

You’ll never be loved,

Not while you Decree

That we don’t belong.

That we don’t know our minds,

That we’ll be infantilised,

By a group who believes that

We shouldn’t exist.

As long as you keep up with

The othering of your peers,

When you die,

You will not be missed.

Thomas cringed. Why was he such a bleeding heart? It was just a fried chip but still he shivered as if one of his friends had been injured. Jeez, his scalpel had trembled during biology lab while, dissecting leaves, he’d imagined his victim’s cries at the agony of the incision.

Behind Thomas, Jamie stood stock-still, barely breathing and anxiety levels, which at the best of times hovered around 9 on a 0-10 scale, peaking at 20+. Jamie was far and away the bravest of them, fighting despite paralysing fears. Pearl, on the other hand, leaned back against the wall, nonchalantly; if it were up to her, they’d fight their way out of Cliff Banks with AK-somethings and knives and axes. Thomas grimaced. Cliff Banks was big on Health and Safety, even dinner knives were as blunt as stumps of wood.

Jamie, Pearl and he had been first to arrive at the age of two – days –, and best friends since they’d explored the graphite foam floors of Cliff Banks’ maze of whitewashed walls together, sporting nappies. Sixteen years on, Cliff Banks’ population stood at 105, aged 2 months to 15 years.

From 2029, the year time travel became an (untested) reality, all new-borns were DNA tested for autism. One genius made a link, and metal-engraved plaques were screwed to hospital walls:

‘Autistic infants will start arriving May 2054; if there’s a cure, fix them, if not, send onwards.’

No return address, since they’d assumed time travel was a one-way street. 105 expendable guinea pigs.

Babies weren’t cured, though – thank you, Thomas liked his friends and himself the way they were – or forwarded. They were transferred to a ‘secure environment’ and cared for by LILACs (Live In Learning Autonomous Carers) who were exceptionally skilled at keeping external doors bolted and providing a stable, low-stimuli daily routine.

Until six months ago, Thomas had accepted his class-eat-sleep-repeat existence. And if for his fifteenth birthday, LILAC-087 hadn’t presented him with a book, he’d probably still...

But studying ‘Anatomy for Students’ had sparked his ambition. What good was learning if he was sentenced to life in this flat roofed shoebox?

No one found it odd when he began stockpiling aluminium foil, it was on a par with his collection of dehydrated banana peels. No one blinked, when he wallpapered the inside of the closet he shared with Jamie and Pearl with it. Pearl had questioned his mental capabilities, though, when he invited her and Jamie for a closet meeting. That night, safe from LILACs’ all-hearing digital ears, they’d kicked off operation ‘Disable LILACs and run’.

But so far, every LILAC they’d zapped had been repaired within hours. They’d have to up their game if—

Behind him, Jamie squealed, petrified, and Thomas spun around.

“We’re running out of spare parts, Thomas.” LILAC-087 corralled the three of them between their flexible, extendible arms. “My office, now.”

By Karin

This is the second version. I abandoned the first one when it passed 1,200 words, but then had problems again keeping this version under 500 (let alone anywhere near 300).

Or

Write the lyrics for a new Christmas Carol or song about the environment, technology, or neurodiversity.

Mineral water

Bottled up, cold to the touch.

I must quench my thirst.

Sound

Christmas songs are loud.

They echo in the cafe.

I tune out the sound.

Sight

Bare brick walls greet me.

The cafe cheerful but cold.

Man sat in a nook.

Smell

A sign on the door

Says the coffee is sold out.

I can still smell bread.

Taste

Pink jammy doughnuts

Are sugar sweet in my mouth.

I write this in Greggs.

Or

Write a poem about New Year’s Resolutions. This could be for a human, or for a fantastical creature.

Ellie leaned back, pedalling lazily, stretching and yawning. Glaring at the in-her-face display which reminded her this was less than warmup speed, she tugged at her brand-new, too tight leggings. The only not bad about this place was the bicycle’s backrest.

She scrunched up her nose. Yuk. She hated the smell of antibac and ‘odourless’ floor polish.

After running – well, walking, maybe strolling – the personal trainer (not actually personal, since he also tended to Mum and Dad and everyone else mad enough to visit this den of physical exertion at seven in the morning) had steered her to this bicycle. Twelve minutes into the fifteen she’d been sentenced to, the screen told her she’d covered one (virtual) mile at five (virtual) mph.

In December, her therapist, concerned about her lack of coordination and social skills, had suggested it. The Gym. Mum and Dad had jumped at the idea. Ellie, less so. Even less now that she was being subjected to the ordeal.

A place with individual exercise apparatus and everyone tethered to their mobile was not promoting social interaction. Besides, panting people and pervasive body odour made a gym inherently antisocial. And then there were the nerve-grating, birring and snapping contraptions. She should’ve brought her noise cancelling headphones, despite what her parents said.

On Ellie’s left, Mum smiled at Dad. Mum pedalled like a wind spinner in her blue and red leggings. Dad, who tried to keep up, was sweating up a major flood underneath his bike. Tomato-faced, he waved a clenched fist at her. Ellie had no idea what he was trying to tell her – keep going or … whatever – but nodded anyway.

On her right, by the wall, a brawny male, clearly punching above his weight, heaved a barbell bar over his head with a terrifying animalistic groan. Mum should tell him to watch his back, like she did when Dad lifted shopping from the boot of the car.

The man noticed her staring. Ellie flinched.

“120 kg, missy, keep working out and you’ll get there too.” He flexed his biceps and strung another bead to his metal broomstick. He squatted, growled, and pushed up.

Ellie huffed. Social skills, my— 

She bit her lip, getting an eye(too)ful of shorts that strained around hypertrophic buttocks as the man dropped the barbells and … Farted, like a jet smashing Mach 1.

Maybe she should apply these social skills at school, in Ms Tucker’s class.

Growl, as she wrote her essay, fart when she handed it in.  “120 words, Mizzzie, keep working on it and you’ll get there too.”

Imagining Ms Tucker’s pinched face, Ellie giggled.

“Glad you’re enjoying it, Ellie. Time for rowing.”  

Tugging at the squealing handlebar-ore, Ellie scowled at her’ personal’ trainer’s back.

With her alarm set an hour and seventeen minutes early three times a week, to go pretend running, cycling and rowing, to be lectured in social skills by a grunting bodybuilder, this was going to be the year from hell.

Karin Maatman, 14 January 2024

I should leave my phone downstairs so I get better sleep

I should Uninstall the block blast and colour sort apps so I don’t waste so much time

How to prioritise the ones that will really make a difference

I should listen to Michael Mosley Just One Thing

I should exercise more

I should eat more vegetables

And then there are all the unfinished projects

I should finish knitting the jumper I started two, no wait, three years ago

I should go through the books stacked up in the corner, see which I can give away

But actually, I want to keep ALL my books.

I’ve fallen out of love with the jumper anyway.

OK. Just one thing, then, this year.

Do not let the word “should” pass my lips

Or worm into my brain.

But there are so many should in my life

I should leave my phone downstairs so I get better sleep

I should Uninstall the block blast and colour sort apps so I don’t waste so much time

How to prioritise the ones that will really make a difference

I should listen to Michael Mosley Just One Thing

I should exercise more

I should eat more vegetables

And then there are all the unfinished projects

I should finish knitting the jumper I started two, no wait, three years ago

I should go through the books stacked up in the corner, see which I can give away

But actually, I want to keep ALL my books.

I’ve fallen out of love with the jumper anyway.

OK. Just one thing, then, this year.

Do not let the word “should” pass my lips

Or worm into my brain.

Gold and rainbow infinity symbol banners

Stim toys on display

What traditional games would we play?

Hide and Go Sleep 

Stim With The Spinning Prize Wheel

Quiet Tent

Sensory Tent

Indoor Light Show

Guess the date

Guess the amount of Gold jellybeans in the jar

Claw crane game

Photo Booths

Open Mic with the option of AAC

Video game Arcade

Painting/Crafting

What kinds of food and drink would we have?

Candyfloss with sinks and hand wipes nearby

Chips

Crisps

Chocolate

Hot dogs / Vegan hot dogs

Burgers/ Vegan burgers

Crepes

Are there any outdoor activities?

Sensory Garden

Outdoor light show

Gold panning

Are there any costumes or outfits to wear?

No

What might the festival be called?

Autumn-Tism Gala

I’m nearly there - feeling anxious, hoping to feel elated.

First-timer to the Autumn-Tism Gala.

Fearing I may have a meltdown, 

Even as the Quiet Tent beckons and soothes me.

Really can’t wait for the Open Mic - so glad AAC is provided.

Either I will have a great time, or I will have the safety of a quick escape.

Neither seem bad options to me.

Time for festival food and fun.

Word limits are a nemesis of mine - this has ended up being well over 500 words but I didn't have the heart to change it more. I suppose it's a more platonic than romantic sort of love, and I didn't really know how to properly end it but here it is:

Strix stood reading the screens of their sector’s console room, as part of the morning duties.

As usual, all of the readings were within safe parameters. Some of Strix’s colleagues in the other sectors skipped this part, scoffing at their strict, so-called neurotic, adherence to the rules. Many of those colleagues had paid with their lives. When you’re working on what could be called the most hostile planet in the solar system, you can’t afford to get complacent.

Strix knew why people cut corners, watching and maintaining the expanse of machinery extracting precious gases and minerals from the surface of Venus. For many it was a boring, lonely job - dull, occasionally life-threatening work thousands of miles from your home planet. Strix liked the monotony, and didn’t feel lonely. Until recently.

In their free time via the AnsibleChat, they had regularly communicated with someone who called themselves “Gazer”. The two had “met” on an art forum, discussing music and sculpture both ancient and modern. Strix and Gazer had messaged one another for almost two years – two Earth years – now, just before Strix had started their job on Venus. Before long, it felt like they’d found a kindred spirit - although neither of them had seen images of each other or heard each other’s voice.

Strix thought they’d make a move; nothing definitive, just an idea. -Maybe it would be nice, to meet each other- they’d sent a week ago. And hadn’t heard anything since. The one connection, the one human being they got along with, and they’d blown it.

A loud buzz snapped them out of their thoughts. The screen on the top right of the console unit flashed bright red. 2PV DAMAGE.

The cameras over the pipe were out and the console couldn’t give any further details. Strix would have to go out themselves to assess the condition.

Standing up straighter, Strix pressed their right shoulder to activate their safety suit. A sturdy second skin enveloped their uniform from head to toe, a thick transparent mask covering their face. They double-checked the suit for any signs of wear and confirmed the stability of their oxygen supply before attaching their security cable to their belt and heading out into the tempest.

A human-sized machine with six sprawling limbs was clinging on to the dented metal tube on 2pV. It was like no robot Strix had ever seen.

The raging wind suddenly changed direction and Strix pressed themselves close against the pipe to wait for the surge to settle. Something moved in their peripheral vision and Strix loosened themselves to look around. A blur of silver sped towards them.

Were they dead or dreaming? There was no sense of time in those hazy bursts of awareness, just vague, distant glimpses and sensations. Something hitting their head. The odd machine slinking its way towards them. Despite the furious yet seemingly-distant wind, Strix was floating upwards, limbs heavy.

When the clarity of full consciousness arrived, it was with a sharp pain across Strix’s temple, throbbing as it made its way across their forehead. Strix was back inside, in their chamber, alive.

They sat up, finding the machine sat in the corner of the room.

Strix rubbed their eyes and blinked rapidly. It wasn’t a machine. Its once black featureless head had been a helmet. Now removed, a slender, noseless face was revealed. Two enormous eyes, lush green like the long-extinct rainforests of Earth, stared into Strix’s.

“Please, don’t be afraid. I’m sorry.” The voice from the being’s fanged mouth was soft, almost whistling

You’re beautiful. Strix wasn’t sure if they’d blurted that out or only thought that. They looked away from the being as it came closer.

“My craft,” the stranger continued, “It…I crash landed and hit your structures. A fragment of my craft was tossed by the storm, and it hit you. I am so sorry.” They rubbed their top pair of hands together, as if nervous. “I rushed into things and hired a vehicle completely unsuitable for something like Venus. I was just excited to get to meet you, in person. I even planned a human disguise…”

Meet me? Who would- Strix rubbed their head, the realisation slowly dawning on them. “I…Gazer?”

“Yes. You…you are Strix, are you not?”

Strix smiled and nodded. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Thank you for not fearing me.”

April Wakefield

So, metaphorically, that’s what we did.

They didn’t go down easy, too used to their way of life - Their astonishment, and their amusement at the cat being challenged by the rat. But people forget that you shouldn’t back a rat into a corner. We weren’t cruel or unjust - that wasn’t our rebel group’s way. But we deserve human rights as much as the next person, and we weren’t going to stop until we got them. 

It started small, protests, petitions, writing letters to the overseers. We weren’t stamped down brutally at first, or in ways that were obvious to the rest of the complex who didn’t stand with us. But it was noticed by us, and our few allies - slightly less food at meal times, being called to do maintenance on the ship a few minutes before our break ended, while the people not with us generally got five minutes over their allotted time.

We could see we weren’t getting results, so we escalated our actions. Peaceful protests, signs, chants, marches, such the like. Again, nothing enshrined into law to remove our (few) rights, no beat downs, nothing tangible to those who couldn’t see the patterns, those not sympathetic to our cause. But the propaganda machine began to go crazy with anti - autistic articles in the holos; ‘Autistic people ask for more - can our ship’s resources stand this?’ And it wasn’t just us - though we were the target, others were harassed and abused as a smoke screen.

‘Wheelchair access to the arboretum will mean redesigning the whole hydroponics area, destroying our plant life and food.’ 

‘Alien Outsiders spotted near our colony destination in Sirius - can we trust them?’ 

As we ramped up the protests, we were imprisoned, punished, stripped of what little rights remained.

It was the turning point where two of our kin were ejected into space - one of whom was not “just” allistic, but neurotypical and abled. That was when people finally realised they were next on the list after us.

And that was when the overseers were usurped and tried for their crimes. Deemed too dangerous to be rehabilitated, they were given an escape pod, a months worth of rations, and cut loose into an unoccupied, but habitable system.

And that is where the real story begins.

Frightened rabbit, frozen in front of the big screen TV.

Cold air bites at yesterday’s Christmas recycling.

Mum feeds the fire wrapping paper and bows,

As the stifling heat feeds my migraine.

I can smell the pine tree rotting already.

We bought it on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, The Radio Times,

 Lists Batman for tomorrow - Adam West. 

The ward is cold, and a Mother is burning up.

Gifts litter the bed - Tinsel smothers  the safety window,

Blood high in her cheeks,

Matchmakers at the nurse’s station.

At the Nurse’s station, the ward is empty of us - 

A lack of patients as the doctors pull crackers,

Exchange jokes and party hats.

They work on Christmas Day,

Just in case,

Us Mad children need to be returned.

or

Write a sonnet for February, either inspired by astrology, weather or anything else going on in your life this month: 

https://nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/how-to-write-a-sonnet/

Or

Write a poem about the hope we feel at spring time:

“Be Patient! Last thing we need is another one turning out like your sister.” You pause, wiggling fingers buried in your skirt. “What sister?” Your mother’s mouth clams shut.

“Be Tidy! Gods forbid your room not be a mess. None of your brothers are like this! Looks almost as bad as it did when Clara was…” You turn round, curious - although spinning pleases you greatly, toys have been flung all around. “Who’s Clara?” Your mother’s brow creases.

“Be Pious! You need to listen to the priest in Church - If you work on yourself, love your Gods and your soul, They will protect you.” You fidget on the pew, more comfortable now the crowds have gone. “Protect me from what?” Your mother’s face contorts into a grimace.

“Be Polite! When the schoolteacher asks ‘how are you’, you say, ‘Good thankyou, Miss Tiffany’, you don’t start talking about mushrooms.” Twirling a sycamore leaf between your fingers, you stop in the middle of brushing it against your ear to answer your mother. “Mushrooms are beautiful - they have patterns inside, and they take rot into their circles and cleanse it.” Your mother buries her head in her hands.

“Be Temperate! Don’t take all the cheese, leave some for the others. We have apples and bread as well - greediness attracts attention, and that’s the last thing we need.” Your mouth turns down, holding onto the cheese in desperate hands. “I can’t eat bread, it’s lumpy, smooth, airy, it has grit. And apples taste of fire.” Your mother goes stiff, and hustles you back into the family cottage, aware of the eyes nearby.

“Be Honest! We know you have another damned fey-child, don’t try to hide her! Kill the child, or let us take it in the woods, before you Damn us all!” Your mother cries in gulps, tears sliding down her face. “Run, Beatrice!” she whispers, her face sad but soft. “I’ll hold them off, love.” You freeze, a deer in headlights.

“Be Prideful!” You urge your mother, a embrace before you slip through the crawl space and to safety. “You are my mother, and I love you. I will come back for you.”

Understand - you cannot let them get the upper hand.

Traitor, twisted terror, non-compliant brat.

You need to stay alert with them, and that, colleagues, is that.

----------

Of patients and of service users, this one gets our scorn.

For they don’t deserve our treatment, when they’ve shouted, and they’ve sworn.

--------

Can we legally dismiss them, and say they really need no help?

And there must be no repercussions, after we neglect this whelp.

Really we’re doing them a service, combative, naughty, child.

Education for the patients, don’t ever dare to be this wild.

-----

How does this brazen patient crave person centred care?

Egotistic troublemaker, how dare they challenge us? How dare?

And the worst part - their intolerance is passed down in their genes -

Raging spitfire of a mother, let us pray that they don’t breed.

That would be a true calamity, we’d have to take their spawn to care.

Best practice says we should reach out, a notion we don’t share.

Redemption is a pithy word, one which we don’t believe.

Either you’re the perfect patient,or you will get no reprieve. 

And, they have a right, to effective mental health care, I confess.

Know, my colleagues; when we deny this, we can blame them for the mess.

Afterlife tends to be rather boring. In life, I stuck to my own business - I’d zone out when on my own, music blasting through my headphones. These days, I’m kind of a busybody. I’m all up in the living’s business whenever someone comes near my plot (It doesnt happen that often - few visitors for the victims of an ongoing plague…). So that’s why I paid so much attention to the beginning of the apocalypse.

On the first day, the graveyard was all but deserted. This was nothing new - by now, isolation was part of my daily routine. Because of the quiet, the birds stuck out - at first, nothing unusual, apart from there were slightly more birds than usual.

The second day, that changed. I still wonder if my graveyard was the epicentre or not, and I suppose I’ll never find out. Hundreds, on hundreds of birds, of all sorts. Probably much nearer to a thousand than five hundred. There were sparrows, finches, crows, and ravens. Hawks, an eagle, even twoscore hens, roosters, and chicks. The most numerous were the pigeons. None of the hawks, eagles, or owls ate, or harrassed a smaller bird - there seemed to be an armistice of sorts in place.

On the third day, I knew that things would never be the same for humanity. The birds were planning. 

A frantic, fearful flight attempt, before you lose your shape.

Little hope is left within you, and you fear your very soul.

Aghast that if you can’t jump ship, you’ll be under his control.

Depending on the muscles in your weak and weary wings,

Risks the lives of many others, no matter how much your heart sings.

Idiotic stewards try to lunge at you, you easily swerve their grasp.

Under arms, and over heads, the entire Feast Hall left aghast.

Safety is within your reach, you dodge a net, a pike, a sword. You can cause the realm no more harm - no longer at the “mercy” of the Lord.

For a long while, I managed to fool myself that both myself and the world as we’ve always known it would survive. A child’s fancy - unrealistic at best, wildly naive and dangerous at worst. 

Not long after I realised my mistake, I spun my skin and my soul into a fabric that shone brighter than a star. My heart, my hopes, and my hair went into the thread, while my fingernails and teeth i melded into a needle - with my understanding of ethics and justice as the point and the core. My tendons, my bones, my gristle, and my grit for life went into the scissors, and my stardust eyelashes were the pins that held the whole lot together.

A snip here, a tuck there, until my reality was hemmed. The creation of a new world with the death of my own. I chose to tear at the seams until what put me together was no longer a mystery.

A table, one of six chairs filled. Grief blankets the room.

A shattered camera, scattered pills, lit up by the moon.

A photograph album with four pictures - which one should be kept?

The preacher pressured me to choose -  Uncaring as I wept.

I can’t do this without you - Can’t live without your heart.

This gaping hole inside my chest yawns now we’re apart.

I do not want to join you - I promised I would stay.

I miss you, and I love you, I hope we’ll meet again some day.

The rest of the battle passes in a blur. Your arm is nearly severed twice by two different orcs - later you are thankful for your fighter, Gregoir, and your rogue, Tiffany, but now you are rushing to your wife’s side, the smell of cooked meat turning your stomach. Between the three of you, you fashion up a stretcher and get her to a temple as soon as possible. As soon as you hand her over to a cleric, your ears start to ring, and your vision whites out at the edges. The next two days are a haze. You can’t stop blaming yourself for waiting longer to meditate and pray to Ilmater. Had you recharged your spells, a healing spell in battle could have made the difference. 

You’re holding Blue’s hand and praying when the cleric comes in and bids you to leave the room. You kiss the small part of her forehead that isn’t covered in a poultice for the burns, and leave the room to seek the comfort you don’t deserve from Tiffany and Gregoir. Your eyes are swollen from crying, your fingernails are ragged from being bitten.

As you leave, there’s a sudden rush of activity, what seems like the whole temple full of clerics and healers running to your wife’s room. You sit outside, terrified and praying fervently to your beloved God. Your healing spells are refueled, but you feel impotent, poisoned, as if you could cause her more harm than good. Frozen to the spot, you are on the verge of rushing in to help when one of the healers comes out of the room and approaches you.

You fall to your knees in relief, taking huge gasps of air that swell and burst inside your lungs. Tears fall down your cheeks, slicking your face in solace. The healer said she’ll live.

I hope it just needs to dry.

If it’s broken beyond repair,

I think I’m going to cry.

My anxiety spikes high,

At the thought of water on my hands.

Wrinkling my fingers,

It’s a feeling I can’t stand.

I feel I’m on a tightrope,

Between apathy and aid.

I can’t keep dancing to the council’s tune,

I’m alone and I’m afraid.

There are resources around me,

That I’m entitled to claim.

But I can’t keep being harassed,

Cannot play their wicked game.

So I must live in poverty,

With none of my needs fulfilled,

Or be shafted by the bureaucrats ,

Whose attention makes me ill.

I know there is another way,

It’s not even down to means.

Gatekeeping’s ideological,

We’re all cogs in the machine.

They keep the common people down,

I’m the enemy.

A drain upon the country’s assets,

An oil slick in a flawless sea.

They stir up hatred for the ‘Other’,

Special fakers, scrounging liars.

We don’t deserve the resources,

We’re saying we require.

We’re scapegoats, we’re distractions,

From the greed of the rich few.

We call for true equality,

And they say that’s greedy too.

I’ve spiraled down this rabbit hole,

Though I’m not in Wonderland.

Sadly this is reality,

This is how our country’s ran.

There’s so much inequality,

We need direct action, not wishes.

Let’s cull the billionaires!

…This escalated from dishes.