Today's Autism Fact:
Many people who have an autism spectrum
disorder (ASD) have difficulty processing everyday sensory information such as
sounds, sights and smells. This is usually called having sensory integration
difficulties, or sensory sensitivity.
I’ve been a very
lazy author over the past three years. Life had other plans for me and my poor,
weary muse so writing had to take a backseat. Now, happily, I’ve finally
started writing again. And, as I’m a lazy author, I’m going to post an excerpt
from one of my WIPs. The working title is The
Shelter, but that’s probably going to change. This is the gloomier of the
two stories I’m working on, which I save for dull or rainy days. This scene,
however, is before things start going to hell in a handcart for Noel and Malik.
I hope you enjoy
it.
And, before I
post. I’ll leave this question for you. Answer the question and you’ll go into
a draw for a book of your choice from my backlist or, if you’re an aspiring
writer, I’ll do a free one chapter assessment/edit of anything you’re working
on. The winner will be announced at the beginning of May.
The question:
Which of the five senses could you not
live without?
Now, without
further delay, the excerpt.
It was
clear, from the smell alone, that this was the studio. The room was flooded
with light, which fell across the wooden floor, turning the boards to amber.
Several easels beside the windows, and a work bench, scattered with brushes,
jars and tubes of paint rested against one wall. Paintings, too many to count, covered
the white walls in brilliant splashes of vibrant blues, whites and golds. I was
drawn into a maze of intricate geometric patterns. I recognised the motif
immediately, being interested in Islamic architecture.
I
drifted toward a painting on an easel, mesmerised by the contrast of light and
rich, dark blues, threaded with gold lines. I could’ve looked at it forever.
“Beautiful,” was about all I could manage.
Bedford
stood beside me. Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. Close enough that
I could smell his cologne and feel myself sliding toward being attracted to
him.
“Thank
you.”
“This
reminds me of the walls of the Bibi-Khanym mosque.”
“You’ve
been to Samarkand?”
“Years
ago. I could’ve spent hours in there. Incredible mosaics.”
He
nodded and smiled. It is amazing, isn’t it? I’d love to go back one of these
days.”
“So
would I.” My travelling days were over. Living in a high-rent area put paid to
anything more than a week in a cottage somewhere, if I was lucky.
I
trailed around the room, captivated, lost in a tangle of colourful mazes. Some
of the canvasses were huge, at least six feet long and three feet high. I
would’ve happily handed over my wallet and my savings for one of them to hang
on my living room wall. Luckily, common sense prevailed, and I had to be
content to look and covet. Bedford trailed after me, standing at my side while
I studied each piece. The room had fallen into a silence broken only by Laney’s
distant murmur.
“They’re
terrific,” I told him, as I completed my tour. “Just remarkable.”
For a
man who must’ve heard variations of those compliments for years, he was
gracious enough to offer me a warm smile. “Thank you. I’m glad you like them.”
“I like
them very much.”
“I’d
offer you one but I’m pretty sure that would be considered bribery.”
“That’s
very kind and, yes, I’d probably lose my job.”
“Well,
we don’t want that, do we?”
I
didn’t want to leave the studio. The heady combination of the paintings, the
peace and the artist had become addictive, something I hated the thought of
leaving behind. When Laney entered the room, I knew the idyll was over.
S.A. Laybourn lives in Wiltshire with her son and two
needy cats. She works as a freelance editor and sometimes writes stories. Her
alter-ego S.A. Meade writes gay romance. She loves cooking, reading, gin and
tonic and the occasional glass of wine. She is not terribly domesticated and
has trouble finding things that she thought she’d put in a ‘safe’ place.
You can find her books at:
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