These are my shorter writing pieces. Not all of them are from the Kirev universe, but most fiction pieces will be compatible with it. I write everything from short stories to poetry to essays. Stay tuned!
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I switched off the light and darted around the corner of my castle-shaped bunk bed as fast as my little legs could go. I had to be quick, before the Shadows got to me. Still holding my breath, I ducked under the purple Tinker Bell blanket that I had strung up with colorful shoelaces across the gap between the bed and the rest of my room. Then I scrambled under the comforter. Safe.
Gathering my bearings, I sat up and reached into the cavernous book nook beside my bed, pulling out 1001 Cool Jokes, the one with the blue birds and bananas on the cover. I tilted the plastic shade of my little white lamp, which was already on, and, as always, it went a little too far, glinting into my eyes. I winced and pushed it down.
Oblivious to the grumbling sounds of my parents making their way to bed, I read the joke book from front to back, muffling my laughter with my hand every now and then, when, for instance, the doctor said for the hundredth time that nobody was disagreeing with you, as much as you might think so. Light bounced across my homemade den onto the pastel green and purple walls, and my mind whirled, connecting words, making new meaning. Every read was a puzzle and an adventure. But mostly a puzzle.
Being twice-exceptional means that you are both of high intelligence and have some sort of disability, especially one affecting that intelligence when put into practice. In 'twice-exceptional,' then, the word 'exceptional' means two different things simultaneously. Exceptional can mean amazing. It can also mean being an exception to the norm.
I checked my posture, my nails, my expression, my volume settings, the lint on my shirt, the angle of the emerald ring on my finger. Finally, the doctor's face appeared, and I smiled almost imperceptibly. She was going to tell me that I had ADHD, I was sure of it. That was why I had gone to her, after all. After my trek through modern medical institutions had left me overdiagnosed and more desperate for answers than ever, I was ready for something to make sense.
Autism had never seriously crossed my mind. That was what those quirky, hyperintelligent boys in shows had, I thought. The ones who hyperfocused on Dalmatians or the number three at the expense of everything else, including any semblance of social skills, and didn't understand anything that wasn't literal. "We don't understand autistic women as well," the doctor said. But, as I listened intently to the list of symptoms that we did know about, I found myself inclined to disagree. For perhaps the first time, I felt completely understood. My food aversions, my cringing away from touch, my emotional volatility and blankness, my constant misunderstandings with other people, even (and especially) my obsession with writing and a certain color: they were all explained by this one word. It unpacks a punch. It did for me that day.
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When I was young, I saw things in the trees. I still can, I think, I've just become distracted by the rest of life's complications, but with evergreens surrounding my home for my entire life, there used to be lots to see. From my seat at the dining room table, where I often mused over an anxiety-inducing piece of dry meat or mushy lasagna, a gap in the tree branches made an imperfect snow angel shape in the permanently cloudy Washington sky. I remember telling my mother about this. She squinted and squinted while I eagerly pointed at the angel of the woods. When she denied being able to see it, I told her to look from where I was. I pointed, lining up my finger perfectly with the green cookie cutter. She shook her head.
