To us Damaskians the weather is not kind. It is bitter cold, the biting type that tugs at your skin until it is chapped and weathered like gnarled tree bark. To hold each others’ hand would be like gripping fractured spikes of Velcro made of desert-dry skin. But yet, we still crave contact, warmth, and love, so instead we caress the folds of the fabric that adorns every one of us. It is much softer than our beaten bodies could ever be, not even the most bijou of us. I imagine one who does not know us would think it strange that we focus so much on a sense most handicapped by the chill. Why don’t we use our eyes to peruse the beauty and love etched into our profiles? Well, I answer you this. We have no form of illumination with which to do so. Our sun was eaten away until it was replaced entirely with a small black hole that seems to threaten us day after day as it grows. It prepares to suck us inside its numbing depths of inkiness. And fire? Well, for the materials we have, we could surely build one! But yet, it is easy to forget we aren’t the oxygen-dwelling sort of creatures. Without light to brighten our days, there is no reason for us to need eyes at all. In fact, we believe it is a rite of passage for our young ones to remove them, to shed their excess parts and begin anew. It is no different from how past species, like the humans, removed wisdom teeth or a pesky appendix. But what is at the very core of our culture is fabric… intricate tapestries that weave stories into our attire. We wear our pasts with pride to build the foundations of friendship and understanding. We wear our hearts, embroidered into braille, on our sleeves.

It was brilliant and dull; it was sensation and memory; it was a deluge of colors and an outpouring of soul. It was a vest. Simple and complex. The vest was made of a material that appeared to be something similar to a soft frilly blanket with feathers and tendrils of soft cotton. The vest came up to a V-neck opening that was rimmed with crinkly wax paper, that you'd find at the bottom of a box of fresh brownies. The texture was that of a slime mold, left out in the rain and cold for a winter in the pacific northwest. The shoulders of the vest came to a ridge with material that looked like tinfoil, but inexplicably felt like cinnamon; like a box of snickerdoodles fresh out of an oven, being devoured by effusive friends and family. The vest represented the life story of this being. This vest represented the memories, textures, and sensations that guided this being to this moment, recalling the punctuations in this being's life up till this moment. Beautiful and complete in its retelling of a mortal life.

Feathers for Heather Stone for Shaun Better together Dust for Dawn

Wear what you feel Feel so you can heal Dirt for Kurt Grass for Cass

Perhaps the greatest artifact recovered from the site is a long, full-body suit of mail made for an extraordinarily tall person. It is possible that the culture used this mail, made of steel, for their ceremonies. We now know that the culture placed great importance on touch, so this artifact was shocking to archaeologists: it was covered with spines, sharp to the touch even after thousands of years. A person would have difficulty getting into the suit, and would certainly also have difficulty getting out; our team sustained multiple injuries simply attempting to lift it from the ground. The piece of spined mail, however, paints a better portrait of what type of people this culture might have been: they prize touch, yes, but maybe not always those sensations most pleasing to us. Perhaps they valued pain as well.

I heard the doors open so I reach for the next guests hand. I feel her glove woven of the finest silk with tenderness and love. The threads change from her fingers to her arm. They form embroidered ivy wrapping her arm.

‘May I take you to your seat miss?’ I ask as I grab onto the guide pool.

‘Yes, on the way may I ask you what you think of my dress?’ She replies opening what sounds like a fan.

‘Of course miss’ I reply as I use my hands as my minds eye.

Her gloves were silk and textured with the vine yet when I moved to her bust I discovered something most devine.

Her corset was made of smooth leather and fuzzy fur.

The hooks made of smooth polished stone.

And the strings from fiber cotton rope.

‘It is marvelous miss, it feels most splendid. I’m sure it will be the talk of the dinner’ I say as I head her to the dinning room.

‘Thank you young sir. I made it in my spare time. The fruits of the Forrest always feel so sublime’ she said as she held into my hand guiding it around her dress for me to feel.

Pat couldn’t stop running her forefinger along the pleats of her trousers. She did this repetitively throughout the day, caressing each fold like it was her favourite pet. Better than her favourite pet, because she got to wear the same garment, day after day, five identical sets of trousers that got worn exclusively for the entirety of the week. On Saturdays, she washed four pairs while still wearing Friday’s pants, and on Sundays, she wore Monday’s pants so she could wash Friday’s. No other slacks would do.

It was all in the way the pleats folded back on themselves so perfectly, so crisply, never needing to be ironed. The material was 100% cotton, of a variety that felt soft and smooth to the touch. It was pure heaven.

Nevertheless, if it weren’t for the four pleats, two on either side, Pat would never have purchased the pants in the first place. It had been five years since she had discovered them on sale at Old Navy. A promotion for the new spring line of clothing that year. Pat had been wandering aimlessly through the store, her hand grazing the fabrics, when suddenly she stopped at these particular pants, her fingers resting on the pleats as though guided there by fate. She didn’t even have to look at them. Appearance never mattered when you found the perfect pleat.

It only ever happened once in a blue moon, like finding the love of your life and deciding right then and there to tie the knot. That’s how sure she was. When you know, you know. She went to the register that day with her first six pairs in hand. She loved them so much, she went back a few weeks later to buy four more pairs. And then back again the month after that to buy another two. Just in case.

It didn’t end there. She mulled it over, and by the end of June, she had returned to Old Navy a total of six times and purchased all the pairs in her size she could find, before they got replaced with their summer stock, twenty pairs in all. Five years later, she was down to the last five pairs. The growing fear inside her —that had started off as a sort of uneasy dread last winter when she had to throw out another set of trousers so threadbare, the pockets were wearing out — was growing daily and building into outright panic.

That was the problem with finding these diamonds in the rough. Perfection didn’t come along very often, but when it did, it never stuck around for very long. The world of fashion was such that the newest, most tantalizing textures were always replacing the old ones, so nothing was actually ever current. New methods of weaving cotton were always under development, and while polyester blends had almost totally been eradicated, some lesser manufacturers still insisted that their fabrics felt just as soft as pure cotton.

Pat knew better, of course. Those poly-blend charlatans hadn’t consulted the autistic community about what was comfortable and what wasn’t before they decided to market their wares. Or perhaps they were sick and tired of catering to a community with such particular and exacting tastes. There were some such bastions of the old ableist philosophy still out there, sticklers for tradition, or maybe just capitalists trying to cut costs while appealing to the normies.

Given that almost half the population nowadays was on the spectrum, those attitudes were going the way of the gas-powered vehicle.

Henceforth, it was going to be all about the sense of touch, that which led anybody of the neurospicy persuasion to almost start convulsing in fits of pleasure over the latest contact high.

The ghastly article fit perfectly around the young woman, each curve pronounced and taken care of. Its colors clashed, patters mixing together either in a much too busy way, or in a fashion that just wasn’t appealing; cheetah print and fluorescent green palm trees. No sane person would wear it. The clothing couldn’t be named in type. It was no dress or gown, but it reached the floor. It was neither long sleeved nor short sleeved, but each arm was draped in flowy fabric that graced the elbow. It had a v neck that wrapped around the chest in a robe sort of way. Layers of skirts were cut at different lengths on each level so one could see the pattern or color underneath. Despite all of this, the woman’s face lit up with joy and she twirled, adoring the reflection in the floor lengthen mirror. The very clothing she was wearing was a creation of the villages finest seamstress, whom refused service to everyone for the past 20 years. But the young woman, standing in the tent, had forwent the hags barriers. The seamstress wasn’t prized for her creation’s beauty, but rather, for their feel. Each peice was uglier than the last, but the victims of them always came through extremely pleased, almost acting like a different person. And now the girl could see why; she could _feel _why.the rivers of fabric imitated the flowy banks of a brook, rippling across her skin in silky rhythms. Music began to play around her, and she could have sworn there were bells sewn into her skirt to cause it. The roughness of the lace adorning her shoulders reminded her of natures ethereal mountains; so tall and sturdy, rough and rugged, but so beautiful it would take your breath away. The outfit felt like dipping your toes into snow cold water, making you want to recoil with shock; it felt like summers blades of grass tickling your fingers as you lay out in the sun; it’s like dancing at a festival with your tribe, and everything is in slow motion as you laugh and twirl, and the orange and yellow fractures of the sun caresses your face, and the music fades into suggestions. It feels like living.

To someone without special sight, it would look like a normal white dress. But not to us. To us, it a spitting image of the future. With solar panel fabric and solar flare technology, it can be both powered and produced to create the wearer into a star. Not only that, but the fabric is absolutely luxurious. It is built to not only feel amazing, it is built to look as amazing and as beautiful as its wearer.

The dress is long, ever so slightly striking her shins as she walks. It’s the kind of feeling that grazes your fingertips, touches you in such a gentle way. Silky and smooth, billowing like the waves of the ocean, green, much like the trees, soft, just like the grass. Not too tight, just fitted around the edges, making it feel like it was molded to you, made into your skin as if you never even dressed at all, like it is a warm blanket you envelop yourself into on a cold night. Sometimes it even feels like you are being embraced by a soft being.

Push Into the cave wrap it up tight show it the suns toss to the longnight

With her tiny bluegrey tongue poked to the side, Fressel adjusted her needles. Poke the needle through, wrap the luff around from below, pull the loop through, and with a gasp of relief she pulled the orginal loop from the left hand needle. Her first urge was to dance but dancing she’s had learned the hard way equalled losing stitches.

Again and again, the kit worked the soft fiber. With each stitch the luffworking grew easier. With her fledgling confident she picked up speed. Fressel looked with pride at her first row. Expectant, Fressel looked up at the older luffworkers of her clan. A toasty fire of dung and mattic wood crackling was the only sound over the clicking of needles. Strange, she thought as she focused on her rows.

They were all arranged in half moons flanking the fire with the oldest makers closest for warmth. The musk of luff lanolin and dried sprigs of clovemint perfumed the makers’ cave. Lanolin slick, her dark blue fingers returned to her task, flowing like water row upon row.

From her small chair in the back, Fressel looked up from her moving fingers to watch the others working on intricate sweaters and shawls. Soon she would learn the stitches denoting blood clans and animal heralds. Soon she would make traditional cablework designating fisher from farmer, warrior from weaver. She thought of being a master luffworker, with handsome commissions and loyal followers.

At the last harvest festival, clans from the south came for trade with luff dyed with berry juices and decorated with shiny coarse strings and glittery bits of stone. Soft pink and bladroot blue, the colors dazzled Fressel. Holding a pretty purple hank of luff up to the suns it shined but felt coarse between her fingers. Up close she noticed the garments made from this luff were thin and flimsy. These will not last a winter, she thought, nor provide protection from bitter cold. She remembered setting the fiber aside and going in search of fruit preserves and spice cake.

As if her thoughts made made magic a brisk breeze blew across her face. With surprise Fressel looked at the plain fine scarf pooling at her feet.It was only Vers entering the makers’ cave carrying a large basket with the midmorning meal. The heavy leather door flap fell behind him.

“It’s quiet as a mean man’s funeral in here. Usually the luffworkers are louder than kits,” Vers bellowed.

“Shh you big mouth. We are being quiet on purpose. Fressel is in the flow. Don’t disturb the kit,” Old Mother Sava hissed.

“Ooo, so sorry, my dear. You know me talk first and think later,” Vers said, chagrinned.

“More like think never,” Jer said, swishing his tail in irritation.

Oohing and aahing, the luffworkers gathered around Fressel to admire her handiwork. Her cheeks blushed violet.

“Such a nice drape. This will lay like butter on the skin.”

“An even hand, just like Jessel before her.”

“The one who is blessed with this scarf, Fressel, will treasure it for many rotations.”

With admiration they passed round her first scarf. Proud, Old Mother Sava patted her cheeks. Milling around the food, the luffworkers were telling stories of their early pieces, including ridiculous mistakes. Vers made her a heaping plate of bread and cheese with a large slice of spice cake. A little embarassed, Fressel took her meal in a seat by the fire. Biting into the cake, she decided she would gift Vers with her scarf.