Two True Short Stories - and an invitation

[DATo]

I recently had the opportunity of meeting in person one of our regular, and very talented writers -108 fountains - who proved to be as charming, intelligent and personable as his stories suggest him to be. We shared a mild repast and a few beers at a locally famous bar called Blueberry Hill. As you can imagine, the focus of the conversation was centered on writing. I mentioned a story I had submitted called 'The Kiss' but 108 said he couldn’t remember seeing it on The Lit Net. He was right. I had never submitted it. So I submit it below along with another story which took place when I was a novice reader.

To anyone who is interested, and willing, I encourage you to submit a true snippet of your life which you think readers might find interesting to this thread. Let us for once forget about punctuation, spelling, grammar and all the stuff that makes writing a chore. Just tell us your story as though you were sharing that table with me and 108 fountains at Blueberry Hill.

The stories below are both true.

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The Kiss

Long ago I spent a lot of time traveling between the homes of my father, an uncle, and an old maid aunt. All of them lived alone and I would make it a point to stop in on each of them from time to time to give them some company. Young people tend not to realize how much it means to older people to be in the company of young people. Young people make them feel young too. Sadly, most young people tend to be put off by older people. They find them boring I suppose and don't seem to want to be around them much.

So maybe you will understand why one night while eating alone in a restaurant I took special notice of a beautiful young woman about 20 years of age seated with an older woman who I would estimate to be in her mid 70's. The young lady was engaged in an animated conversation with the older woman and I found it difficult to keep from looking at the beautiful smile which never seemed to leave the younger woman's face. The older woman wore a corsage and I could only assume it was her birthday or some other memorable occasion which was being celebrated that evening ... but just by the two of them ... there was no one else in their company. The young lady truly seemed to be enjoying the evening with the older woman who also appeared to be in very happy spirits.

I continued to eat my dinner but caught the eye of the waitress and signaled her to come to me. I told her I would like to pay for the dinners of the two women at the other table but that she was not to tell them who their benefactor was. When they were about to leave and called for the check I watched the waitress saying something to the young lady which I couldn't hear and then made sure to avert my eyes for the natural impulse would be for her to scan the room to see who was watching and thus determine that it was I who paid the check. I stole glances at them as they made their way to the doorway of the room we were in. They walked slowly to accommodate the older woman who's arm was being held by the younger woman in support. Just before they walked through the doorway the younger woman, wearing her most beautiful smile of the evening paused, turned, and then blew a kiss to the room in general.

That was many years ago, but I still treasure that kiss.


=====

Stopping By The Library On A Winter Morning

As a child I once visited the local library on a very cold Saturday morning after having trudged through a half mile of snow (wasn't driving then of course), and I arrived frozen to the bone. The old and gothic library's windows were frosted with ice but it also had a large fireplace with a cozy fire blazing in it. The library had very few people in it, probably because of the weather, it was also very quiet for this was back in the day when no talking above a whisper would be tolerated. I scanned the stacks and picked up a book I had heard of called Animal Farm.

I don't remember exactly how it happened but I soon found myself curled up in a very comfortable cushioned chair in front of the fireplace with my rubber boots and shoes off reading the book. Perhaps there was something of a Norman Rockwell theme in the picture this presented because at one point I noticed that the librarian was looking at me with a subtle smile of approval on her face. I kind of gave her a look like, "What did I do?" her smile broadened and she slowly shook her head as if to say, "No problem." and walked away.

While listening to the crackling of the fire, smelling the faint wisps of hickory smoke and feeling the warm glow of the embers I eventually finished the book in one sitting (the first time I had ever done this). I then stretched my arms, and decided that this had been a cool experience. Little did I realize just how cool at the time. It remains to this day, a half century later, the most memorable reading experience of my life.


.

[Calidore]

Are you in the Chicago area? There's a Blueberry Hill in Forest Park.

[YesNo]

I enjoyed the Kiss. Nice ending.

[EvoWarrior5]

Hello Dato,

I have not read your stories yet but I wanted to say that I accept your invitation. I will soon join your table at Blueberry Hill. The timing could not be better: only a week ago I conceptualised writing a story about something interesting from my life. I will start on that after finishing my second short story, which is drawing fairly close to completion.

Best regards,

Evo

[AuntShecky]

I will soon join your table at Blueberry Hill.

Will Fats Domino be there?

[MANICHAEAN]

Especially liked the first one DATo. A kiss flung out into the unknown. I wonder what the other diners thought!

Anyway my contribution, relates not so much to myself, as to my parents and a story told by my late mother that has gone into the folk-lore of our particular family.
It was narrated without a touch of humour, or even irony which was one of her most endearing traits.

Apparently, at the time of the London Blitz, my father who was in the RAF and based in Kent was courting my mother and travelled up to take her out for a night in the West End. I’m not sure of the equivalent Stateside, but presume it is normally referred to as “Downtown.”

Anyway, the two having met up, the air raid sirens proceeded to sound, indicating that the Lufwaffe bombers were hitting London town yet again. Apparently my father said to my mother, “Quickly down here,” indicating the steps to the Piccadilly Circus mens convenience facilities. The retort was quite firm, namely, “If I’m going to die anywhere, its not going to be in the mens lavatories in Piccadilly Circus.”

She then proffered her arm for my father to walk her through a German air raid, down Oxford Street untill she gave approval to be accommodated in an air raid shelter more to her liking.

Years after, I asked my father concerning the veracity of this tale.

He smiled wryly and commented “Yer Mam can be quite difficult when she sets her mind to it.”

[DATo]

MANICHAEAN - I absolutely loved your story and thank you so much for telling it. I think the young lady who blew the kiss didn't care what the other diners thought much the same as your mother never giving a care to what the Germans thought *L*.

From memory so perhaps not perfectly accurate ...

"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that were the British Empire and its commonwealth to last for a thousand years, men will say, 'This was their finest hour.'" - Winston Churchill, June 18, 1940

In this poster's estimation this WAS your nation's "finest hour" in part exemplified by the bravery displayed by your mother. Truly a nobel, and VERY British woman!

===

Calidore - Nope. A different Blueberry Hill.

===

YesNo - Many thanks. Glad you enjoyed it!

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EvoWarrior5 - I'm looking forward to reading your contribution. I believe each of us has experienced at least one event which is worthy of publication. I find that it is often the small and seemingly insignificant events of our lives that make the best stories.

===

AuntShecky - Fats Domino is there in spirit. The bar's theme is centered on the period in history when Fats was popular.

[joseph engraver]

Thank you DATo for starting this thread. I also much appreciate your writings and comments. This is a true story, it happened in1998.
My Mexican Adventure
The morning of our last day of travel, we refueled the truck in Lemon and headed south.
We have still need to cross the Sierra Madre del Sur to reach the Pacific Coast and our destination of
Barra de Potosi, just a few kilometers south of Zihuatanejo.
We were on pavement again and even though the highway is not in the best of
repair, we laugh and joke about how it is a super-highway compared to the jungle road of the
previous day’s journey. We start our assent into the heart of the rugged Sierra
Madre Del Sur Mountains.
A notation on the map says, the “Espinoza del diabla.”The witch’s spine.
Traffic is non-existent, the further we go, the more the condition of the
road deteriorates with washed out sections, mudslides, boulders strewn all over
the road.
I feel like I am maneuvering through an obstacle course. Mile after
mile, we follow the twisting, tortured, fragmented asphalt. My neck and shoulders
ache from driving and shifting gears.
I couldn’t believe it, but it is actually worse than the previous day, and it is uphill all the way.
The truck was not at loss for power but those 200 horses under the hood needed much fuel.
I watched the gas gauge steadily dropped lower.
Shortly before we reached the summit, we stopped for lunch and admired the
magnificent vistas of the mountains.
Concerned about our fuel supplies I undo the cables holding the aluminum skiff to the top of the camper, pull out five gallons of gas I have in reserve and pour them into the gas tank. With the skiff re-secured we then continued, onward and upward. At the summit, the roadway levels out and its condition improved.
About this time, a convoy of heavily armed soldiers pass us going in the opposite direction.
Six military trucks loaded with machine guns and men wearing helmets, bulletproof jackets, sunglasses, all dressed ominously in black.
These are the first vehicles we encountered in over four hours of driving.
As they passed, I have an uneasy feeling that not all was well.
Not five miles later, we are starting our descent. Suddenly, blocking the road
are several large stones on top of which have been placed pieces of steel rebar.
I came to a stop and said in amazement to Franca, “What the hell? Don’t tell me this road is closed.”
We sat there for a few seconds with the engine idling.
Suddenly out of the roadside underbrush, two men wearing flower sacks over their heads with holes
cut for their eyes appear, waving pistols and shouting, “Manos Arriba!”
The sacks and the guns were my immediate clue that not all was right with the situation.
I saw no sign of high power rifles and could tell in an instant that the pistols
were cheap 22 caliber Saturday night specials.
I made a quick decision.
“Get down!” I said to Franca.
I shoved the truck into gear, pushed the gas pedal to the floor, let out the clutch. The truck leaped forward, rear tires squealing and smoking. Trying my best to avoid hitting the oil pan and the vital parts of
the motor on the rocks we crashed through the barrier.
My wife, Franca, whose vision was obstructed by my body, really does not know what
is going on. I heard the first bullet hit the truck inches behind my head.
Ping! Followed by several more shots in rapid succession, Ping! Ping! Ping!
“Get down!” I yell at her.
“What?” She replies.
“Get down! The sons of *****es are shooting at us!”
Now we were through the barricade and picking up speed. Several more shots
ring out, ping, ping, ping, and we were out of range.
“What is happening? Franca is asking me excitedly.
I am too busy watching the road, oil pressure, gas gauge, water gauge, shifting
gears, checking the rear view mirror, trying to see if we are being pursued, to
answer her.
Everything looks good, no smoke or noise coming from the motor, no one
giving chase. I check the brakes; they work. After a few miles of speeding
dangerously down the mountainside, I said to Franca, “I want to stop and check
for damage.”
Franca replied, “You do not stop until we get into Zihuatanejo. I do not care
if I pee my pants.”

[108 fountains]

DATo, thanks very much for the nice compliments. I like your idea for this thread and also love your two stories, especially “The Kiss.”

MANICHAEAN, that’s a wonderful story. I’ve met many Brits over the years, and I agree with DATo that your Mam sounds like she was VERY British!

Joseph, great story. I could never have done what you did. I would have been scared to death. I was once held up at gunpoint by a woman (no need to go into the circumstances here). I gave her everything in my wallet, which wasn’t much. Seeing her disappointment (and her gun) I was half-inclined to offer to go to the ATM!

Most, but not all, of my stories are based on true experiences; a couple of them, alas, are uncomfortably true to life. Other than meeting DATo, however, I have to admit that not many interesting things have been happening to me lately, so I’ll relate an incident that happened nearly 30 years ago, which I have been thinking about turning into a story.

I had gone to work in the Sudan in the Ethiopian refugee camps. (Younger readers may not remember, but there was a great drought and famine in East Africa in 1984-86 centered in northern Ethiopia.) In the first couple of months I was there, while “new arrivals” were still making their way into the camps, the suffering and the numbers of people dying was beyond description. I remember that most of the refugees were either women or children – the men had stayed behind to guard the family property or to fight in the ongoing civil war, and most of the old people had already died. One day we found an old man who had walked into and sat down in our make-shift morgue. We asked him what he was doing there. He said he had seen all the bodies there and thought that was where he was supposed to go to die.

Later on, although there was still terrible illness and malnutrition out in the camps, the death rate dropped dramatically. As conditions in the camp improved, the atmosphere lightened, and we (the relief workers) and the refugees organized evenings of song and dance and puppet-theater out in clearings between the tents in the desert. We kept busy at our tiny wood and straw clinics and feeding stations during the day, but in the evenings, we were actually able to relax and enjoy ourselves with the refugees before retiring to our own mud huts just outside the camp for the night. We made friends among the refugees, although language was a huge barrier.

One day, one of our nurses, a woman named Rachel, decided to shave her head. She noticed that almost all the refugees kept their heads shaved, so she thought it would be fun to see their reaction if she did the same thing. Next morning when she walked into the clinic, all the refugees looked at her with saddened faces. Some of them asked, “Was it your father?” “Was it your mother?” Rachel didn’t understand what was going on until one of the refugees who spoke English explained that shaving one’s head is a sign of mourning for someone in your family who has died.

[AuntShecky]

What's interesting about these stories is not so much that they're "personal" or "autobiographical" such as journal entries but that the writing evokes human experiences with which the reader can empathize. Yet the main reason these anecdotes work is that they are specific and detailed -- not general or "abstract." That sounds like a paradox, but it's true!

The emphasis in the term "self-expression" is "expression," not "self."

[DATo]

joseph engraver,

I read your story with white knuckles and my toes curled. You really captured in prose the essence of what you and your wife experienced in real life. It was an extraordinary tale, made all the more exciting to read because it actually happened. There is an old aphorism which comes to mind: "Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.", in this case I would amend that to say, "Truth can be more exciting than fiction."

Below is another story I have already submitted to The Lit Net. I reprise it only for those who may not have been members of The Lit Net when it was first submitted.

This is also a true story.

Crossroads

I have worked for a university for many years, and as some of you may know, campuses tend to be hectic places during a school day. But in the very early morning the campus paths are devoid of the teeming masses which later appear and despoil the mystic serenity of early morning light and shadow. The cacophony of midday noise has not yet swelled. Birdsong trills unadulterated celebrating the dawn of another day with an avian paean of 'Ode To Joy', heard by only the granite block walls of ancient, wizened buildings as they sit silently in their ivy covered robes ... and me.

It had become my habit to walk the campus paths every morning in the early dawn to betake what had become for me an almost religious experience of quiet solitude wreathed in the gothic beauty that only an old campus can afford. One day I decided to embark upon my daily constitutional earlier and during my walk, in the very center of the campus where two paths crossed, I saw an older man walking in the same direction along the diagonal path to my left. It was obvious that our paths would cross. He walked a bit ahead of me and he reached the junction some little time before I did. We looked at each other, smiled, and exchanged unspoken nods of good-morning. I mildly resented the intrusion of this bipedal infestation to my otherwise paradisiacal routine which heretofore I had only shared with the occasional rabbit or squirrel. Then it occurred to me that perhaps it was I who was the interloper since I had now begun my walks earlier than before.

He was of a bulky, rugged frame and one could envision him in earlier days as a football lineman or a traffic cop. His grizzled grey hair was worn in a flat top style standing straight up and looking all the world like an ashen colored lawn in serious need of mowing. He wore faded, well-worn, light blue denim jeans and coat and I thought it strangely coincidental that I wore denims as well - mine newer and dark blue by contrast befitting, I mused, our difference in years. He had a jaunty step and it was apparent from the look on his face that he shared my love of this time of day, as well as the peace, beauty and solitude of the campus in early morning. The next day I began my walk at the exact same time as I tend to be fixed in my habits and was surprised to find the same man at precisely the same place on the path relative to mine as the day before. Once again we exchanged nods of greeting and this routine was to follow for many years. Sometimes the nod would be returned with a salute and sometimes with a wave but words were never exchanged. I assumed he was a maintenance worker for no professor I knew or ever heard of would be up at that time of day walking the university paths for no reason; also, his consistently worn denim attire suggested manual labor.

There comes a moment in the life of every writer when the pen stands motionless and the ink falls drop by drop upon the page: the writer sits, frustrated to describe the heart’s pain of a small boy whose dog has just died; when there can be found no words to describe the treachery of a dear friend; when there are no words in the lexicon to describe the feeling of holding his newborn child for the first time. The ineffable fascinates the perceptions, the senses and the philosophies of men. The ineffable is the genii muse which inspires, cajoles, tempts and ultimatly frustrates, for there exist no words to describe the deepest feelings of the heart. Perhaps this is why we never spoke. A knowing smile conveyed an unspoken understanding between us - the knowledge that we both were inspired by the same genii muse.

After awhile he became a part of my morning experience - a comrade who, it was apparent, shared my appreciation of the indefinable preciousness of these early morning sojourns. It became a sad day when I did not encounter my old traveling companion, and I wondered if he felt the same about not seeing me on days when I was either early or late. As time passed I saw less and less of him during my walks, and after awhile I saw him no more.

One day I picked up the local newspaper and the first thing that caught my eye was a picture of this very man. It seemed he had died and the article was about his life and accomplishments. So simple and routine was his life, so lacking in ostentatious public display that I had never known what this campus icon looked like.

I continue my morning walks, and at a sleepy crossroad each morning I smile and nod to an old friend - Howard Nemerov, Poet Laureate of the United States.

[MANICHAEAN]

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Hebrews 13:2

I might add DATo that I have on occasion entertained some fallen angels, but that will have to wait for another short story thread.

Best regards
M.

[EvoWarrior5]

I'm gonna go ahead and give this a go right on the spot. This is not the story I mentioned in my earlier post, it's just a little something I thought I could write about earlier today and it didn't require as much thought as the other one will have, so I could squeeze it in right now. The other story I will start to write when my longer project I've got going on is finished.


A little while ago I asked myself this question: just what is worse? To not understand, or to not be understood?

To most people this question may sound obvious. I suspect - forgive me if I am wrong - that most people would go for the latter. At least, in the way that most people would probably interpret this question at first glance. But let me go into what this question means to me.

I am autistic. I will not go into detail about it for those who do not understand what it is. But one of the characteristics that can come with it is the inability to connect things in your mind. I remember how some years back - it must have been nearly 8 years back by now - we watched this video tape on autism in class, to raise awareness on it. For me. And for the one or two others in my class who had it. The secondary school I was enrolled in at the time always got a few new autistic children each year, and they were really helpful to them. For instance, each year there was an introduction day just for the autistic children before the introduction day for rest of the new students, so that they could be shown the school and get used to it, and maybe get the chance to have their specific questions answered. Anyways, one of the things that they told us in this video was this inability to connect things together. They illustrated this with an art classroom cut up in puzzle pieces, saying that autistic children would see the individual pieces (or, I suppose, objects) in the room, but would sometimes be unable to connect them together to see the full picture. Well, something like that. I always thought that I did not have this characteristic because I never noticed not seeing the full picture. However, when I look back now, I wonder if the classroom in the video was not simply a metaphor, and that what they really meant to say was that the autistic child would have trouble connecting information. Because I did experience this some time ago. I will explain:

A few years back, my parents got a divorce. My father fell in love with another woman, and in a few months he moved out of the house. My mother found herself a new partner some time after that, too. As time passed I got more acquainted with this man's family: I went with my mom and him to his father and a much younger woman, who I learned was the father's girlfriend. We also went to his mother twice or so. Do you see where I am going with this? We went to his father, with a young woman who was his girlfriend. We went to his mother. In a different house. I think it safe to say that 99.9% of people on planet Earth would have been able to make the connection in their minds. But some time ago, when my mother talked to me about her boyfriend's father and mentioned how the man's wife had left him some years back, I remember that I was a bit surprised. Then within seconds, it all became clear. Mother. Father. Not living together; father has a new partner of whom I knew that it was obviously not the mother of my mom's boyfriend. Of course this mother and father had been together once. I bet you think that that is the strangest thing in the world: how could I possibly not have put the pieces together on that one? I don't know either. I just didn't. And there are more cases of really obvious things that I just didn't understand.

Now let me go over to something else by saying that I was never one to care for the news. I never followed it on television or in the newspaper or anything. Of course I got my share of some of the news in school, but I grew up a really ignorant kid. I didn't care for news or politics, I just lived in the way that made me happy. So I wasn't exactly knowledgeable when I was in my teenage years. And boy did I get ridiculed for that sometimes. "How could you possibly not know what al-Qaeda is?", and so the guy went on for about ten minutes, I remember once happened. And there are a lot more examples where that came from, but I'm not going to bore you with that.

The point I'm trying to make here is: because I never followed the news, I never grew up to be very knowledgeable, and I grew up sometimes not understanding things that were blatantly obvious to others because of my autism. Can you imagine how I sometimes felt? I hated it whenever people mocked me for not knowing something. I hated it. And what was I supposed to do? Completely change my life around to follow every bit of news and catch up on what I never followed when I was younger, just because I might one day need that bit of knowledge in a conversation? Some people just didn't manage to understand me. And that's where I get to the question I asked myself: just what is worse? To not understand, or to not be understood? To me, because of what I have been saying, the first one sounds just as bad to me. I want to understand things. But is this purely because I really want to be knowledgeable, or because people have pushed me into wanting to understand by not understanding why I do not understand? Thinking about this side of me, I feel like Charlie Gordon.

I know what you want to say. I should live the way that makes me happy, and not mind others who do not understand me for who I am. And that I should not try to force myself to know or understand. What can I say? I am who I am, I know that. And I'm not ashamed of it. I guess that we all have our shortcomings, and this is mine. It's just a little scary to wonder how it will affect me, realising that it will stick with me forever.

[DATo]

Howdy Evo !!!

Your story is of interest to me for the very reason that I do not know a great deal about autism. Your story in particular is important to me because it is told by someone who can relate first hand experience. The metaphor your school used to describe what might be experienced (the puzzle) was particularly of interest to me because it was an excellent illustration of how an autistic person might "see" things.

I don't know if you read the story I once wrote for the LitNet called The Dreamer in which I offered the POSSIBILITY of how elderly people suffering from dementia might see the world, but my illustration was purely theoretical whereas yours is absolutely credible since you have experienced it yourself.

I think the answer to the question you pose in your story is ... a little of both. I know that sounds like a simplistic answer but I believe it is true. One can view the problem in terms of dramatic repercussions resulting from either problem. On the one hand, if a person did not understand that doing something was dangerous, such as touching something that is hot, they may experience a painful burn, but by not being able to convey what they have learned because the people they are trying to warn do not understand them they may not be able to alert others not to touch the hot object either.

I don't think that autism had anything to do with your lack of understanding about items in the news. Many people have become so jaded with the negative things found in the news that they simply ignore it. Others, perhaps like yourself, just aren't interested in keeping up with current events unless the events directly impact their lives. I don't consider this a psychological disorder but rather a personal choice. I, for instance, do not like to travel. People - including people in my own extended family - think this is strange because they love to travel. I don't feel that I must demonstrate to them that I am "normal" by traveling, and you should not feel obligated to have knowledge of anything and everything that might come up in a conversation. I have worked closely with Ph.Ds for the last several decades and I can promise you that they know far less about things outside their own area of expertise than you would think they do.


EDIT:

Thank you so much for sharing such a personal part of your life with us. I enjoyed reading your contribution very much!!! It has given me a lot to think about.

[joseph engraver]

My new bride and I had been back from Italy where I had recently finished studies on bas relief sculpting in gold. We were enjoying swimming and picnicking with some friends at a small lake in Connecticut.
Playing on the beach were several children in the 6-10 year old age bracket. They were making castles with the damp sand.
I sat down near them and began to sculpt a duck in flight.
Soon several children were curiously watching.
One boy, about seven years of age suddenly asked, “Mister, do you know how
To make an alligator?”Sure I can ,“But I need you to help me to do it.”
Soon we were working together on a huge alligator that was going to swallow
the duck. Suddenly the boy looked straight in my eyes and said, “Are you going
to be an artist when you grow up?
“I am never going to grow up I replied, “I’m having too much fun.”
“Me neither” he grinned and we continued to work side by side.
After finishing the alligator, I said goodbye to him and returned to my bride and our friends.
I told them the story and we all had a good laugh over it.
Then Franca with her natural intuition, said,” You shall always be a child my love.”

[DATo]

I like that a lot Joseph. Kids can sure say the darndest things, can't they? *LOL*

I have no children but I came to befriend just about all the kids in the immediate area of my home. I suppose it happened because I would take a genuine interest in their lives and talk to them earnestly about the minor triumphs and tragedies which affected them. In time I came to understand that I was probably the only adult who took their day-to-day experiences seriously.

I do a lot of gardening on my property and spend a lot of time outdoors. I found that the smallest kids seem to make their way to my front lawn in the very early hours and the older ones later in the day. Little boys and girls would show up to show me their newest toys in the morning and in the late afternoon the teenagers would arrive to ask my help to fix some malady with their four-wheeled jalopies.

One morning a precious little girl named Yevonne, aged seven, stopped by with her doll in her arms. She told me she had just started second grade and that she had a new boyfriend named Robert. "You dooooo?" I asked. "Yes." she replied. "And is Robert a nice boy?" I queried. "Oh yes," she said "... except sometimes I have to bend his fingers back till he yells because he gets too excited." I laughed so hard I had to sit down on my lawn till the fit passed. I'm absolutely sure she didn't mean it the way it could be interpreted by an adult but that was precisely what made it so funny.

[EvoWarrior5]

Completely forgot to reply until now. Thank you for your response to my story, DATo! It's encouraging to hear.

One thing though that I should clear up:


I don't think that autism had anything to do with your lack of understanding about items in the news.

Forgive me if I did not make this clear enough. I developed both points (lack of understanding things obvious to others because of my autism AND on the other hand not following the news, therefore not being knowledgeable) in separate paragraphs and hoped it would be visible that they were separate from each other. They relate to each other in that they attempt to develop the point and the question, but I did not try to say that my autism had a causal relationship with not following the news.

In the meantime I have finished my longer project and my schoolwork has settled down for now so I was able to read a few of your stories as well. I was highly impressed by especially the Kiss and the Crossroads. When reading the Kiss it just made me hope it would go on; that you would meet this girl and get something going. It was just that interestingly developed, how she caught your eye.