-Bence engellilik değil ama dediği gibi, gözlük lazımsa gözlük takmaya hakkımız olmalı.-
Do you consider ADHD or/and Autism a disability? These conditions are classified as developmental disabilities, which means they affect how a person grows and learns.
They are not the same as learning disabilities, which affect specific skills like reading or math. People with developmental disabilities have the right to receive accommodations in their work and school environments, such as extra time, breaks, or assistive technology. However, some people may feel reluctant to ask for these accommodations, because they don't want to label themselves as disabled. I think this is the wrong way of thinking. I compare it to my situation of having poor eyesight. Without glasses or contacts, I see very little, just blurry blobs. Does that make me disabled? Maybe, but I don't let it stop me from living my life. I use glasses and contacts to correct my vision and make it easier for me to function and it is never questioned. Asking for help for ADHD and Autism related challenges should be seen in the same way as wearing glasses.
They won but he is injured
“Diametric powers! Twisted. Wrong.” Thrust. “And they gave you an
Avalon. Steel. Torc. An abomination.”
Each of his words is punctuated by a vicious swing that pushes me
further back against the wall.
I parry a thrust, but he twists, sharp and sudden. My sword tears from
my grip and clatters to the stone.
I’m at the edge of the turret now, and terror deafens my thoughts.
Talan is moving toward me, carving his way through another knight,
and I can feel his terror and panic for me.
Slowly, Wrythe raises his sword until the blade kisses my throat. My
focus snaps back to him, my heart stuttering. I lean away, nearly toppling
over the edge of the parapet. Fear courses through my nerve endings.
Then Talan’s sword bursts through Wrythe’s chest from behind, ripping
through his heart, and Talan stands above him like a god of vengeance.
Wrythe gasps, his mouth slack. Blood spills down his chin as his wide,
pale eyes lock onto mine and fade.
Talan drags his sword from Wrythe’s back, and the Seneschal crumples
to the ground like a discarded rag doll. Lips curled, Talan stares down at
him.
I throw myself at Talan, and he pulls me close, crushing me against his
chest. He’s holding me like I’m a magical talisman, something sacred to
keep the nightmares away.
“You’re okay,” he breathes into my hair. “You’re okay.” It sounds like
he’s trying to convince himself.
But then he sucks in a sharp breath. His body tenses, and his hand goes
to his stomach. He winces, and I realize he’s bleeding.
The world tilts beneath me. “How deep is it?” My words are sharp,
panicked. When I look closer, I see how bad it looks, a slash right thorough
his abdomen.
“Iron,” he grunts. “Iron poisoning.”
0-30p: Kontrollü okuyucu 📖
40-70p: Hafif bağımlı 👀
80p+: Geçmiş olsun, kitaplar seni ele geçirmiş 😅
Telepathy
Tana takes a deep breath and holds out her hand. “What am I thinking
right now?”
I stare at her. “I’m not supposed to be using that power, Tana. I just
explained that.”
“Please,” she whispers.
Surprised at the desperation in her voice, I take her palm.
As I hold her hand, I can feel her thoughts blooming in my mind. But
Tana doesn’t think in words, like most people. She thinks in images and
feelings and emotions and—
“Darkness.” My voice is hoarse, and a cold chill settles in my bones.
“Death. It’s coming…something is coming, and it’s going to destroy
everything in its path. There’s a single drop of clear blue water, and it’s
being swallowed—” I yank my hand away, desperate to turn off the horror.
“Gods.” I somehow feel angry, though I’m not sure at what. “What was
that? Is this what you feel all the time?”
I’ve never seen her with such a grim expression before. “Yes, for the
past few days. The future is getting darker. Something terrible is coming for
us all. And I think we’re going to die.”
A cold shudder traces up my spine. Overhead, the sky seems to cloud
over.
“There was a little drop of water,” I say. “Magical, somehow.
Something that might hold off the death. Then a glassy clearness, like the
surface of a lake. Moonlight glinting off it. But the shadows are trying to
smother it, devour it.”
Tana’s stare is unwavering. “Oh, that’s you. The glassy lake.”
I blink at here. “I’m the what, now?”
“To stop the encroaching death, we need you.”
“Because of my Sentinel powers?”
“We don’t need a Sentinel. We need you. The Lady of the Lake. Do you
know there hasn’t been one in thousands of years? Not since Nimuë. And
To Her
I arch a brow. “And who are you?”
The group seems to tense all at once, sharing silent exchanges. The
leader steps forward, hand still gripping his sword. I watch him and the rest
like a hawk, ready to kill in a single blink.
But instead of attacking, he lifts his hand. “This is who we are,” he
says as he knocks a fist at his own chest. “Do you wear the symbol?”
My gaze drops down to the pin fastened against his tunic. It’s no
bigger than the pad of my thumb. The circle of metal has a bird in the
center, one wing clearly broken.
“We wear the sigil of the Vulmin Dyrūnia.”
I frown at the words. They sound familiar. I think I’ve heard them
many years ago.
“The—” My mind snaps with long-forgotten knowledge of the
ancient fae language. A language I haven’t studied since I was a boy. It
creaks in my head like entering a dusty room whose door hasn’t been
shoved open in decades. Struggling to break open the rusted locks, I shake
my head. “Vul—light?” I question.
“Vulmin Dyrūnia,” he repeats, stressing the suffix of the word.
“Dawn. It means dawn’s bird.”
Something shifts in my chest. Makes me pause.
“And what exactly is that?”
“We are the resistance to the tyranny of the Carricks.”
Now I remember. I heard my father mention them before, but they
were spoken of like vagabonds. Petty criminals.
“So the Vulmin oppose the invasion that’s happening in Orea?”
He looks around his group, some of them whispering tensely, and he
rubs a hand down his beard. “So it’s true?” he asks. “Carrick mobilized the
army, but we didn’t know… The bridge?”
“Rebuilt.”
He swallows hard. I see another go pale.
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
Song of Myself (II)
40
Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!
You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.
Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
Say, old top-knot, what do you want?
Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot,
And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.
Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity,
When I give I give myself.
You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarf’d chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets,
I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare,
And any thing I have I bestow.
I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.
To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean,
On his right cheek I put the family kiss,
And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.
