"Sweet Dreams"
By Asche Keegan

She snapped awake, eyes tearing through the darkness searching for the demons haunting her dreams. Spiked darkness loomed above, beside, and beneath her, and she shivered, the only light in an otherwise desolate and gloomy landscape.

Pulling herself to her feet, she began to pace, arms crossed protectively over her chest. She watched the night, even as she attempted to steady her breathing. Each minute she walked felt like hours: tense and urgent.

She sensed movement out of the corner of her eyes, and she recoiled backward, terrified. “Go away!” she shouted. “I just want to sleep!”

“But you know what will happen if you sleep,” the darkness replied in her own voice. She could not tell if the thoughts were imagined or true, but she struggled to push them back regardless.

“Leave me alone!” she called again. “If you close your eyes long enough, the nightmares will overtake you again.”

Unbidden, dreams of maniacal serial killers, betrayal, and heartbreak filled her mind, and she stumbled backward, throwing her arms in front of her. “Don’t touch me!” she cried, attempting to push the thoughts away.

She stayed awake, the night dragging on around her, and she watched the darkness, afraid to sleep and fighting off the thoughts trying to break through her defenses.

Then, through the darkness, she saw a glow of white light, the same as her own, yet brighter as if many people were walking towards her. She stood and ran toward it, amazed and excited.

As she got closer, she could make out her friends, standing at the front of the group of people. All were carrying white swords, glowing with the same light that each of them had. She could feel herself glowing brighter as well in their company.

“We’re the sleep patrol,” the one in front said, swishing her bright red ponytail. “We’re here to help you sleep!”

“Ash?” she asked.

“Yep!” the second replied. “And that’s not all. I brought friends.” Behind her fanned out the others, a beautiful girl with blonde-brown hair and the most caring eyes, her sister with a cynical but enthusiastic smile, and other friends as well.

She could not help but tear up to see them all. The girl with blonde-brown hair reached out a hand and pulled her into a hug. “We are here for you. We care about you,” she said. “You can finally sleep.”

As they formed a protective circle around her, she could relax, and the darkness seemed to melt away, replaced by a warm and welcoming light. In the arms of the beautiful girl and surrounded by those who love her, she was safe and able to finally close her eyes.

In seconds, she could feel herself drifting away to a place of peace and happiness.

~ ~ For SlythFang, may you have sweet dreams and sleep well. :) *knocks on wall*

DISCLAIMER: I am not Arabic, Middle Eastern, or Muslim. Any information utilized in the following story comes from limited research I conducted to try writing from another worldview/perspective. Neither I nor my writing speak for other cultures, and I understand there may be several inaccuracies. Please, if something is offensive or inaccurate, let me know so I can either take down this post or address the concern. 

That said, I absolutely adored trying to write this and learn more about Middle Eastern culture. It was incredible to write from a perspective outside of the standard American one I am accustomed to. I hope you enjoy the story!

~ ~ ~

Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire

The embers flicker in the night, drawing me closer, closer—

“Zafiah!” my mother shouts, pulling me close and away from the glittering flames. Her arms suffocate me for a moment as she examines my skin for burns. “How many times have I told you not to stand so close?” she asks.

I say nothing, meeting her glittering eyes with my own dark pair. She straightens and lets me go, shaking her head subtly and touching her finger to her forehead. “Allah help me, what will I do with you, my child?”

Glancing over her shoulder at the men conversing behind the sakina—house—my mother shakes her head and offers me her hand. In her palm, I see a comforting place: warm, but never hot enough to burn; caring, but never bold enough to inspire.

I take her hand, and we walk towards the house, while I steal glances back at the flickering flames.

“Thank goodness your father’s friends didn’t see you,” she says. Her voice lilts as she speaks, and even chastisements sound beautiful coming from her. Before she closes the door, I steal one last glance at the bonfire, and I catch her looking too.

“The fire is beautiful,” she says, gaze lingering on the flames. It takes me a moment to realize she has switched to English, her mother’s birth language. “But deadly.”

Shaking her head, she pulled the door closed.

~ ~ ~

Seven years later, and I’m fourteen, running from my mother and the hijab she holds. I still see her disappointed gaze, but I don’t care.

I race around the corner and see Amal, leaning casually against the wall. He grins to see me, and we kiss each other’s cheeks in greeting. I pull back, and he doesn’t have to ask—he just knows.

“She asked you to wear it today, didn’t she?” he says.

I nod, mutely, fighting back tears and unsure what else to say. Amal shifts his feet and turns away. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” he says.

My head snaps back up, and I meet his dark eyes. “Don’t say that,” I say. “You’re like my brother.”

He shakes his head again. “Zafiah, you must do as your mother told you to. It’s your duty, and I can’t help you rebel from her.”

I gape, shaking my head blindly. “I thought surely you would stay by me? You’re all I have left.”

I can see his eyes glistening as well, but he closes them tightly. When he looks up, he is uncaring and cold once more. “We must be modest, both men and women,” he says. “I can’t be your friend anymore.”

He walks away, and I stare after him, crying and in shock.

For hours I stand there, until it is dark and cold. Shivering, I finally decide to walk back to the sakina alone. Fires glitter everywhere, and I long to find one and let the flames burn these worries away.

Boys just older than I comb the streets, catcalling after me. “Where’s your hijab, pretty girl?” one shouts. “What are you out doing out here at night? Need someone to walk you back?”

I ignore them and walk faster, trembling now with fear as well as from the cold. Soon I’m running wildly towards home, where I see my father and mother out front, frantically examining the night.

My father is so anxious he sweeps me into a hug, burying my head into his suit. “Zafiah,” he says, and I sense his disappointment, relief, and love.

He carries me inside, and the next day when my mother brings the hijab to my room, I do not object.

~ ~ ~

I am pacing the floor of my room in my bridal gown, hand embroidered by my mother and I. She sits across the room, and I can see a hint of age through the wrinkles around her eyes and the gray undertones in her hair.

“Amal said he would be here,” I say, and my mother sighs in commiseration.

“Habibti, you have waited for him for hours now. The ceremony is in thirty minutes, and he is still not here. Perhaps you should put your veil back on and settle your nerves. I know I was nervous too.”

I shake my head, and I’m sure she can see the panic in my eyes. “But I don’t love him!” I say. “I don’t even know him.” The argument has lasted for weeks at this point, ever since I was engaged without my knowledge. “How am I supposed to start a life with someone I don’t know?”

“He will take care of you, my love,” my mother said. She says that as if it is all I need to worry about, but at the thought, the catcalls of children in the street haunt me, and I shudder.

Moments pass in silence, before I see her perfect façade break. “I used to love fire too,” my mother tells me.

Surprised, I look up. It’s been years since she nearly pulled me from the firepit, but somehow she hasn’t forgotten. She meets my eyes, and I see my discontentment mirrored in her own. “I’ll always love the way the flame dances, yet I will always fear what it can become when left unbridled.”

It is good advice, but I take it in a way she perhaps did not intend. For once in my life, I become resolved to do something about this fear of mine. I will never be scared again.

I look her in the eyes, and I finger my hijab. “Why must I wear this to my own wedding?” I ask her.

“It is tradition, Allah wants us to, and we are protecting ourselves from men,” she replies.

I meet her eyes and smile sadly. “We are only chaining ourselves.”

My father meets me outside my room, and I take his arm. Together we walk down to where my groom is standing. It is dusk, and the sun has set the world on fire. Reds and golds match the blazing firepits on every side, that light up the approaching night and shower me with fervor and excitement. I find myself trapped in the flickering ferocity, and I turn back to my groom.

I meet my father’s eyes and see my mother behind him. I mourn a moment the shame I will bring on my family, before I pull the hijab from my face and walk confidently away. 

Author's Note: So this is a rambling MESS, but it is a rambling passionate mess as well (It was three times longer before I deleted those verses... xD). It's been three days since the six hour conversation that completely changed my outlook on God and love, and I can still feel this joyous, righteous love of God filling me and shaping me. 

See, I knew Him, but I didn't know where He was. For the past few months, I have been significantly struggling to create a solid connection with God. I would pray, and it would feel like I was talking to myself. Reading my Bible was as dry as a history lesson. Even before I lost my closest confidant and friend, I was struggling to find that missing piece I had forgotten with God. 

What I did not understand is that I had forgotten to love. 

Oversharing a bit here, but I have had love messed up for me in so many ways. In my past, cruel and abusive actions have been justified as love, and I grew to fear things done through "love." I also refused to believe that true love could exist out there in any form. Due to my own cynicism and trepidation, I continued to push love and loving people away from me, attracting mainly those who only reinforced my thought processes of "tough love," or that I was less than they were. 

Yet, I came to the realization three days ago after a conversation with a fantastic friend who wants to one day become a minister, that I had completely missed the point. Christ's first two commands are to love God and love people. These are what we should prioritize above all else. 

Love is not about hurting others or trying to change them into someone else.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." - 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8

I never truly understood what that verse meant until now. Now, I rejoice in awe over what God has done for me and His actions. Reading my Bible, particularly Ecclesiastes, makes me feel alive. 

So that was long-winded, but I wanted to share this testimony in the hopes that some of y'all may be able to find that closeness with God again as well. 

Now for the messy poem. 😅

~ ~ ~

Empty prayers every night

Freezing your daydreams due to loveless duty

Shackles pulling you down, down, down…

Under the name of “tough love”

And you looked around and asked,

“Is this who my God is?”

Nightly prayers that feel 

More like you are talking to yourself

Than to the being who knows all.

And they say it’s lasted for years

It still hurts some, and they follow God

Because they know it’s right, not because they feel it’s right.

Losing yourself in an attempt to be

Someone other than heartless.

When you meet a messenger of God.

You leap onto the message, asking him more, 

And he lights up, his face shining 

With the joy that wisdom brings.

Again and again he says, “Love God, Love people,” 

Christ’s two greatest commandments,

And he sings and plays piano with the voice of an angel.

And you feel your shackles Snap. 

“Love God, Love people,” you repeat aloud. 

“There is no perfect person.”

And you understand that it is more than duty

To a fearsome God,

But LOVE and AWE for the Creator.

And you lift your tear-stained face and smile. 

Once more, you hear God’s voice

Whispering to you and guiding your life.

"Love God, Love People," by Danny Gokey

Matthew 22: 37-38

“What’s wrong?” 

I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

“Part of me is a little Disappointed and frustrated That you would end things before they even had a chance to begin.” 

“You’re essentially my little sister.” 

“91221” 

“91221.” 

Lonely

By Asche Keegan

I know a girl who knows everybody.

It’s only freshman year, but somehow she knows 20% of the people we walk past by face, 70% of the people by name, and can tell me a miniature fact about at least 40%.

 “That’s Alexis: she likes cats and is a music major.”

Her boundless energy, while difficult to follow, gives her an endless platform through which she continues to introduce herself to people. “Hi, I’m Aire! I haven’t seen you around before, and I was just wondering what dorm you live in?”

When I remark on her connectedness, she shrugs it off. “It’s a small campus.” There are 10,000 people here at least, and somehow she knows approximately 9,000 of them in freshman year. “Besides, all you really have to do is memorize their names and a fact about them. It makes them feel important to you, and they’ll be more likely to remember your name as well,” she confides to me.

She’s already off, chatting with a friend she has not seen in ages, leaving me wondering how many people she has entrusted this information to.

She talks incessantly. Every word out of her mouth is designed to create a following around herself, a way to constantly be the center of attention. “It’s something I’m working on—asking others more questions,” she laughs. She’s been the same the entire time I’ve known her. I don’t think it’s working very well.

When she leaves a conversation, they chatter quietly amongst themselves, stealing glances in her direction. “They’re talking about you,” I warn her.

“Oh, were they? I had no idea,” she says. “Let them talk. I really don’t care.” Yet, a minute later I catch her looking over her shoulder, harrowed eyes scanning the room for the conversations she has left.

I feel like she spends so many words to say nothing, and she uses traumatic life experiences as conversation filler when she has nothing else to talk about. It doesn’t seem like it would help draw people closer together, but somehow, it works. She seems well-liked.

Days pass, and I see less and less of her. I’ll catch glimpses occasionally, but her hood is pulled low over her head, and she doesn’t answer when I call after her. I feel momentary sadness, then realize that for someone with so many friends, it seems obvious that she would find someone more entertaining than me.

The next few days are lonely, but considerably more peaceful.  

~

Yet, walking to the bathroom at 3am one night, I see her crouched and crying by herself in a dark study lounge. She clutches the window frame as if it is all that she has left, and I approach cautiously. “Are you okay?” I ask her, sinking beside her.  

She sniffles, and I can see her backbone straighten and her shoulders rise for a second. However, she deflates again, unable to muster the energy to maintain an illusion of bravery. “I feel so alone,” she whispers.

I gape, astounded. “But you know everybody! You’re well-liked. You’re friends with so many people! You’re friends with me.”

She looks up, and though her eyes shine with tears, she smiles tightly and blinks them away. Taking my cool hand in her warm one, she holds it for a second, looking back out the window. “Yes, you’re my friend,” she says, and when she turns back, I examine her eyes for sincerity. For once, though, I think she truly means it, just for me and no one else.

The peace holds for a moment and together we watch the moonlight. “The others? They’re a failsafe,” she says.

“How so?”

She sniffles again. “When you know 9,000 people, your reputation can’t be destroyed by 6.” I steal another glance at her, and her eyes glimmer again.

“But none of them are truly your friends,” I say, suddenly understanding.

We sit in silence for several more minutes before she clears her throat, wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve and takes her hand back from mine. “Thank you,” she says.

I know why, but I sense she wants me to ask so she can say it out loud. “For what?”

“For being my friend.”

A star peeks through the city smog, and we both smile to see it.

~

The next day, I see her in the hall, laughing and chatting with a large group of people, talking to each of them by name.

“How do you know everybody?” someone asks her. She laughs.

“More trouble than it was probably worth. Of course, y’all are worth it, but I’m thinking that I should maybe start focusing on being really good friends with just one or two people. At least until the semester is over. There’s nothing quite as lonely as knowing everyone.”

The Glass Castle (Chapter Excerpt/Book Sneak Peek)

By Asche Keegan

"Years from now, you'll still have your stars." --The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

Raz wandered through the clouds until she found the castle.

Unlike the medieval fortresses of Europe or the towering mosques of the Middle East, the castle shone. Light glanced off the glass paneling in every direction, dazzling her eyes as she approached. A thin layer of shimmering air seemed to form a protective sphere around the building, and the moat was formed from partial raindrops, floating in a suspension design next to each other. Only one way could be seen over the moat: a lowered drawbridge just past an open gate.

A tall man stood surveying the clouds, but indirectly watching her as she approached. Though clothed in an official uniform, his shoulders slumped, and he looked weary. Yet, as she drew closer, he straightened, placing his hand over his heart.

“Good evening,” he said. “May I have your name?”

Raz paused. She could never fully be sure what kind of monsters her mind cooked up—for to be able to float on clouds, one must truly be in a dream—but giving him her name did not seem too much an issue.

“Raspberry Curry,” she replied. “Yours?”

He glanced up at her in surprise, grinning. “I’m Ryan, but it’s nowhere near as pretty a name as yours though, Raspberry.”

Raz could feel her cheeks heating, and she looked away, shy. “Thank you, Ryan, but please, call me Raz.”

He nodded, pulling a glimmering rod of prismatic light from his pocket. He slipped a finger into the top, unrolling it like a scroll. “It looks like Lady Felise is already expecting you!” Ryan said. “That certainly makes things easier.”

“Who is Lady Felise?” Raz asked.

“Our leader and teacher,” he said. “And just so you are not surprised, she is also a shapeling.”

The castle loomed above them, and a shiver of delight worked its way through her. “A shapeling? I thought those only existed in fantasies," she said. 

Ryan chuckled, pointing around them. “The clouds are the best place to find them.” Gesturing for her to follow him inside, he then turned back and pulled a lever that closed the gates.

They slid back in place effortlessly, and Raz could not help but feel as if she had locked herself inside. When she expressed her unease to Ryan, he adamantly shook his head.

“Demons haunt these hills, white as the clouds, and if I leave the gate untended, they could come inside.”

Accepting his answer, she turned her attention to the main doors. Ryan knocked thrice, paused, then twice more, before they opened of their own accord. Inside, the castle seemed just as beautiful as the outdoors had, but each ray of light had been magnified through prisms that lined the doors and seams between the wall and ceiling.

“Can anyone see anything that happens?” Raz asked, running a hand along the glass walling. 

Ryan sighed. “Only if you forget to turn on the opaque filter, which I have done more than once. I do not recommend it.” Raz chuckled softly, and he blushed. "It's surprisingly easy to do. Speaking of which,” he said, “This is your room.”

He pointed towards a beautifully decorated room with a bed that seemed almost entirely made of light. “Here is where you can rest and recuperate before Lady Felise can come speak with you. Gowns and other dresses will be in the closet, and you can turn the opacity on and off with the button here,” he said, pointing to a clear knob with a golden ring around its outside edge.

“I will come back to pick you up before your meeting if you would like?” he asked, an awkward smile making its way across his face.

Raz smiled. “That would be delightful.”

The two of them shared a smile before he nodded and left the room.

First, she adjusted the opacity to allow just enough light into the room without revealing the specifics of what she was doing. Then, she opened her closet. Beautiful silks of every color practically spilled out onto the floor, and she gasped in delight. Poring through them, she was suddenly startled by a sneeze.

“Who’s there?” she asked, jumping backward.

“Dang it! I hate my stupid nose!”

“Get out of my closet! Show yourself!” she exclaimed, peering past the dresses, trying to make out the person speaking.

To her surprise, a teenage boy her own age pulled himself to his feet. He seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. “Look, you can’t blame me for hiding in your dresses. They’re the only thing in this castle not see-through.”

He was tall and lanky, and his freckles danced across his face as he chattered on. “Seriously! One would think they’d put more things to hide behind in this place.” Raz found herself distracted by his buoyant red hair, where faint knobs protruded from the top of his head, making a straight line down the back of it. Shuffling a couple steps to the side, she thought they traced a line all the way down his back.

“You know, I’m not blind. I can see you looking. Haven’t you ever seen a dragon changeling before?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

She shrugged, then glanced over her shoulder. “What’s your name, and why are you hiding in my closet? What are you hiding from?”

He glanced over his shoulder and leaned closer to her. “My name is Gregarious,” he said, boyish face growing deathly serious, “And there is something seriously wrong with this place.”

~ ~ ~

Ahhh I hope you enjoyed the excerpt! No, the book will not be named the Glass Castle (although The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls is amazing), just this specific chapter. Though I am currently in the middle of another book that I will be finishing first, I am excited to write this revised tale of The Message Inside! Please let me know what you think of the story so far in the comments below! I would love to hear your thoughts. 

“I don’t want to leave,” my demon said. She looked like an ordinary person, thin and tall, with curly brown hair only kept out of her eyes by a sunhat. She brushed a strand of it away from her face and caught me looking at her.

“You’re not making this easier for me,” I said.

“I know.”

An awkward silence fell between us, and to fill it, I stared out over the ocean. Despite our height on the cliff-top, sand still crunched beneath our bare feet. She had insisted on going shoeless for no particular reason, and because I loved her, I had obliged despite the pain. Assuming I could follow through, the bruises would later be a fitting reminder of what had happened here.

“This isn’t a good spot to die,” she finally said. “It’s too peaceful.” Her brown eyes glinted as she glanced back at me, searching for reassurance. Though I should have said something to the contrary, forcing her to stop making excuses, I proved too weak. Who was I to deny her final request?

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

She surveyed the landscape again, then turned without saying another word. I picked my way across the clifftop after her, cringing at the sharp stones I stepped on. She did not seem to notice my pain, but that was common for her.

Occasionally, I would remember the brutal nights she forced me through, like the broken shards of glass on my floor and the lingering smells of blood and alcohol. I shuddered, crossing my arms to ward off the sudden chill.

“There’s a bridge up here,” she said. It took me a moment to realize that the tremble in her voice was due to more than just exertion. I had never seen her vulnerable, and though her tears had only been manipulative in the past, now I felt her sorrow was real.

We stopped, just out of sight of our destination, so I could wrap my arms around her and bury my head in her shoulder. Empty platitudes died useless on my lips, and all I could do was hold her. Taller than me, she settled her chin on the top of my head, and we stayed that way until her shoulders stopped heaving. Her hand trembled when she wiped the tears away, but the determination I had always admired in her gaze had returned.

“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” she said.

I shook my head, pulling away. “It’s okay to be weak sometimes.”

She smiled feebly, offering me her hand. Though it broke my heart, I took it just like we had done before, swinging our hands back and forth as we walked the rest of the way.

“What color is the bridge?” I asked. She had the best way of describing colors, and I wanted to hear it from her one more time before she had to leave forever.

“Vermillion,” she said. “It’s like the darkest part of a campfire or the perfect shade of a falling autumn leaf. It is freshly spilled blood or the heart of a grapefruit. It’s close to the shade of that house I took you to in Venice.” Her voice broke again, but I did her the courtesy of not looking at her. “It’s a lovely color. Vermillion, that is.”

I remembered Venice as if it was yesterday. I had tried drugs for the first time at her behest and been arrested for it. “It is,” I said.

Her hand was warm in mine, but not clammy. Though she walked to her death, she came bravely. Still, her touch sent sparks of fire racing through me. How can one love someone who has hurt them so badly? The question broke me apart inside, and this time it was my turn to cry while she comforted me.

“I can’t do this,” I said, and I expected her to agree, as such was in her nature. Perhaps she recognized that in my moment of weakness, I would have done anything for her, even going back to live with the demonic figment of my imagination for eternity, if only she’d love me in return.

Yet surprisingly, she shook her head and encouraged me instead. “Yes, you can. Not everyone would have been able to walk me here, and at least you are brave enough to do it yourself. Besides, I’m not real. When I’m gone, I’ll simply cease to exist. There will be no pain.”

“I won’t ever get to see you again,” I cried. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, oddly sagacious. “I am the worst part of you, and you don’t love yourself. But maybe someday,” she said, squeezing me closer. “Maybe someday you’ll be able to really love me.” The words did not make any sense, but perhaps they were just what I needed to hear. “Okay?” she asked.

“Okay.”

She grinned, and I exalted in that smile, memorizing the features of her face. Then, we pushed back the last line of bushes, revealing a sandy stretch of beach leading to the vermillion bridge. “Catch me if you can!” she called, bursting forward.

Even though my feet hurt, I chased her to the edge of the bridge, catching her just before she reached the other side. We laughed together, possibly for the last time, and as that realization struck us, the mirth fell away.

The wind whipped the waves dangerously across the sea, and her eyes grew lost in the sight. “Now this is more like it. Almost as wild as I am,” she winked.

I saw through the desperate attempt to lighten the mood, but I smiled anyway. Another few minutes passed in silence. “Remember when you first created me?” she asked.

I nodded. “With a sheet, a chair, and a marker. I’d spend hours talking to you every day. Everyone thought I was crazy.”

“They still do,” she teased. By now, the sun had crossed the midpoint in the sky and begun its trip towards the horizon. The somber reminder of the passage of time brought us back to the ocean.

“I wish there was a way where you didn’t have to die,” I said.

She shook her head. “We both know there isn’t. You’ll just think of me again, and I’d never truly be gone.” Holding out her arms to me, she offered one more hug, and I accepted it. “I’ll miss you,” I murmured into her shoulder.

“Vermillion,” she mused aloud. “It’s a lovely color, and this is a beautiful place to die.” Even as she spoke, I could feel her fading. Her essence drifted into a billion particles that spread throughout the air and fell sloping to the bridge and the water below, before those too disintegrated. Not a trace of her remained, and despite how much my heart hurt, I felt as if a huge weight had fallen from my shoulders with her.

“Hello?” I called. “Angel?”

For once, no one answered. My demon had left.

Holding On

 By Asche Keegan

“Would you like a flower?” you ask the people passing by. “I have a full bouquet of them.”

“Sure,” a man says, stopping and staring quizzically. It makes no sense to him that such a person would just give these flowers randomly away to people, but he smiles, taking the bright red rose. “You have a great day,” he says.

“You too!” you reply. He keeps walking, and you linger there at the corner, giving your roses away. Some people stop and stay a little longer than others, and to these people you give three or four, gladly sharing what you have.

Someone asks why you are standing here, and you grin. “I’m trying to give the world my happiness.” It seems to work, and she laughs, taking a rose for herself.

You come here every day, giving strangers the parts of you that matter most. Yet as time goes on and they grow used to your presence on the street corner, they begin to take more and more flowers from you, often with scarcely a thank you or a smile in your direction.

“I promised my wife I’d bring some home,” one says.

“I want to press them into a journal!” cries another.

Yet when you turn your back, they turn on you, gossiping about you. “She stands on the street corner every day just giving flowers away. She isn’t fully there in the head, if you know what I mean,” they say.

Your roses, once prized, soon litter gutters and lie crumpled in trash bins. You give and you give, but eventually, you’re down to your last bouquet. You search your friends’ eyes for any sign that they know you’re almost out, but they show no remorse.

The girl who takes your last rose smells it for a moment before shoving it in the garbage bin, and now you have run out of flowers to share. It makes you sad, and you go to your friends to see if they can make you happy again.

They frown and turn away when they see you in your misfortune. “You shouldn’t have given it all away if you were just going to run out,” they say. “Do you think I have any happiness to spare? All I have are scraps of what once was.” They hand you broken pieces of glass and shattered mirrors, which tear and scrape your skin.

You beg at street corners, searching for someone to help, but those who once smiled to see you now look elsewhere and shift uneasily. You are alone, and you wander through the city restlessly. 

You spy a glimmer of red in an alleyway, so you run to it, throwing back the trash can that buries the rose. Despite its once brilliant glory, now it is wilted and dismal, a sore reminder of what you once had. You fall to your knees in frustration and grief, fighting back tears. 

However, a tap on your shoulder distracts you from your misery, and you look up. Standing there is a girl about your age, carrying a basket filled with flowers. “Would you like one?” she asks, smiling.

You ache to take them all, to restore what has been taken from you, to take back the pieces of yourself that you gave away too freely. Instead, you restrain yourself, taking just one and giving the girl a shaky smile.

“You have a great day,” she says, turning to walk away.

“You too,” you say, and your heart hurts to see her leave. “Hey, wait!” you cry. She turns. “Will you be my friend?”

She laughs. “Of course,” she says. “Would you like another flower?”

You ache to say yes, but you refuse to do to her what has been done to you. “Don’t worry, I’ll grow more with this one,” you say, holding yours aloft.

The two of you laugh together. She extends her hand to you, and you take it, climbing to your feet.

“I know just the place to start a garden. Just be sure not to give too many away this time,” she winks at you.

You start in surprise. "How did you know..." You trail off, seeing her knowing smile. 

"Every time you gave someone a rose, a smile, or another piece of yourself, they would often pass it along to others and eventually to me," she said. "I collected the flowers you shared, gathering them up and planting new ones. These ones come from you."

You don't know what to say, so you chuckle nervously, turning away to hide your stinging eyes. "Thank you," you choke. 

"Thank yourself," she smiles. She hands you another rose, and this time you take it, lifting it your nose. 

The rich scent is the best you have ever smelled.