Here’s a first-draft excerpt from the beginning of my new book, which at the moment I am calling Endless. This time it’s a piece from the point of view of Tara, a fifteen-year-old girl on the high-functioning end of the Autism spectrum who’s genetically linked to hawks and who has been raised in an unusual community in the backwoods.
This new jornaling unit works grate an dosnt giv me hedaches any more but the spellchek slows me down way too much so I turnd it off evn tho my dad will hate it. Besides, I dunno why but this souns mor like how I think an not like som kind of text book made out o my thots.
Ive bin out with the hawks, walkin an testin the jornal, lookin at the wildflowers. My dad modded the jornal from som off-the-shelf implant softwear that he herd about on an autism site. Its the best one so far but it still kicks out wen Im in a hury.
But rite now Im walkin, smellin the spring smells an thinkin about Steinbeck who I just bin readin. My dad sez now Im fifteen I gotta read off a reading list an Steinbeck is all over the list. Hes kinda depresing but I lik som of his discripshuns, speshally in East of edn. Like the poppys, he says theyr not ornge, not gold but if pur gold wer liquid an could rais a cream, that goldn cream mite be like the color of the poppys.
I like that. The hills ar covred with them rite now an I go way out to the cow medow up above the Pertie Ranch to get a good drink o that gold, lickin at my eyeballs. I sit a long time ther jus eatin it up. My hawks go too, playin like kittns abov me. Not like reglar hawks at all.
I sit ther so long Im starvin, dint bring any food an now I wish I hadnt com so far.
But Farsee’s been huntin, an brings me a rat, her wings brushin my face. I take the gift an thank her. Its still alive, it wriggls in my hands and I slice its belly open w/ my hooked knif. I cach the hot blood in my mouth and now its movments are jerky and slow so I terr at the furry skin w/ my teeth. I can feel how the skin seprates from the mussel, all slimy an clingy an warm an slippry. It lays limp while I eat it, the livr hot and iron-y, the hart small and tough, the mussels slideing off the bones and down my throat w/ a satisfying weit. I put the hed between my teeth and crack it open, suck out the branes and pop the eyes, spit out wiskers.
Wen there is nothing left but bones and the sak of its colon I go to the crik and wash.