By-line

By Asche Keegan

What I Regret

By Asche Keegan

“What’s this?” the dragon asked, tucking his wings around me. “What feeling is that?”

I stretched back against his green scales, then turned and met his ichor eyes. “You wouldn’t know it,” I shrugged. “Ever heard of regret?”

Gregarious frowned—I could tell from the way his mouth tightened and his eyes slanted. “Why would you of all people be feeling regret? What are you feeling guilty for?”

I hesitated, looking out towards the mouth of the cave we were huddled in. The formless sky never changed, but for a moment I thought I saw a shooting star darting across its exterior. Distracted by the motion, I detached myself from Gregarious’ side and walked out onto the top of the mountain, looking for the sign in the sky.

I almost tripped, an action which would have sent me plummeting thousands of miles to the ground below. Gregarious had taught me how to influence matter in this world of mine, but I still did not relish the idea of falling. Besides, the only way to reach Gregarious’ cave was to fly.

“Are you regretting leaving your friend again?” Gregarious called out to me, attempting to redirect the conversation.

I shook my head. “That hurt, but looking back, it needed to happen. We’ve both needed to grow and mature a little. Learn what’s really important—that kind of thing. We’ll be trying again after next semester though, I think. I’m regretting the rest of it.”

“Why would you do that? Remember how she hurt you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the star, trailing above me in its full magnificence. It felt out of place in this otherwise desolate world, kind of like myself. “‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend,’” I quoted. “That’s the last thing she sent me, but there’s more to the passage. Just a little further down in Proverbs, it says, ‘Do not forsake your friend.’”

“Why are you telling me this?” Gregarious asked.

“Oh, I thought you had asked.” I paused, one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched to keep my balance. “I hurt her too. And then nothing went well because of it. I’m regretting the stubbornness, the unwillingness to fight for what I needed to.”

“But you’re a fighter,” Gregarious said.

“I pretend I am,” I replied, turning back to him. “But I give up too easily, especially on the important stuff. That’s a lesson I’ve learned. You know, Proverbs isn’t the only passage I’ve been studying. 1 Corinthians 13 shares some important insights as well.”

“Have I not taught you what love is?” Gregarious asked. “Remember, it’s painful. It hurts everyone it touches, and then people abuse it. You get hurt, you give up everything for people who would never do the same. You pour your heart and soul into making something succeed, only for another to sabotage it.”

“You’ve always been a pessimist, Gregarious,” I replied. The star was trailing off now, stretching out over the desert and growing fainter. “That’s not what love is. It doesn’t envy or boast. It does not get angry, especially over nothing. Love is patient, kind, humble, forgiving, truthful, polite, and selfless. It protects, it trusts, it hopes, and it perseveres. By that standard, I’ve never loved anyone—not even myself.”

“So that’s it?” Gregarious asked. “You’re just going to go back to her just like that?”

I wobbled on the cliff edge, staring at the drop once more. “I’m not ready yet, but I’m getting there.” I wondered how much energy it would take to make a cloud to catch me if I leaped. “I’m learning how to love, and once I do, she and I can be unstoppable together again. Because sometimes—” I trailed off, running towards the edge of the cliff, even as Gregarious’ nostrils flared, and he shouted at me to stop.

“You just have to take a leap in the right direction,” I finished. Winking at him, I dived off the side of the cliff, simultaneously loving and despising this feeling of falling. Just in time, I summoned all my energy together into a wind tunnel that caught me before I hit the ground.

Adrenaline rushing through me, I looked back up to see how far I had fallen. Only a silhouette in the night, Gregarious lazily spiraled downward. “And maybe someday, I’ll teach you how to love as well,” I murmured to the dragon, before grinning and chasing the shooting star across the desert sands.

Looking for You

By Asche Keegan

Beginning

Reckless Love
By Asche Keegan

My inspiration: (for the best effect, listen while you read :))

 Hey y'all! I've been working a lot on my graphic design skills of late! I made a couple of decent looking designs, and I thought I'd post some of them here. Be sure to let me know what your favorite is in the comments below!

Enjoy!

By Asche Keegan

I glide through the night air, wind buoying my white wings upward. Exhilaration guides my every movement, slight flicks correcting my direction. I tuck my wings against my chest and spiral downward, whooping in delight as I plummet to the Earth. The action is both terrifying and spectacular, but I have faith that I will catch myself before I hit the ground.

Ocean looms beneath me, and I remind myself of Icarus who flew too close to the sun. But my wings aren’t made of wax, and they won’t melt or dissolve when I throw myself into the waves. The splash creates a satisfying sound, and I grin as I flail to the surface, gasping for breath.

Flying at night offers the best rewards, for the night air crackles differently. My wings carry me safely towards shore, and as I float, I watch the stars dance. The sand crunches, the trees whistle, and an owl hoots somewhere within them.

Here, I am far from all those who enslaved me, from the lassos that curled around my wings, teaching me to beat them for strength while tying me to the ground. Yet, out here I am free, left to fend for myself against the wild. I contemplate entering the woods, flying away from all that I have. It would not be hard to run out into the night, never returning.

The idea seizes me like the air around me, so I run without caring for the tracks I leave behind me, dashing into the woods and screeching at the top of my lungs. I heard it would throw off any threatening animals, but when I halt my progress and listen, I hear nothing.

Eyeing the forestry behind me, I trudge forward, but my right wing snags on a branch behind me. I turn back and try to yank them free, but feathers rip free with them, and to my horror, droplets of blood splatter to the ground.

Clutching my wounded wing to my chest, I press forward regardless, looking for a perch to spend the night. I climbed upward, but I picked up the soft pad of an animal somewhere nearby, and I circled higher into the air, struggling to avoid the branches stretched out to trap me.

Then, a predator leaped at me, snarling even as I shot out of the way, trying to make it high enough to break through the thick canopy above me.

We raced, but soon I finally reached it, the immense patch of the night bursting around me. A howl ripped through the night, and I shivered in frustration, gliding back out and circling over the forest as I contemplated my next actions. I did not yet have the skills to survive on my own, despite all the training I had gone through. I circled again before unleashing a cry of my own frustration and gliding back in the direction of the camp.

The night air did little to comfort me, and as I spiraled downward, I cried for the enslavement that would soon suffocate me once more. I plummeted—

—and I watched the eagles coming back home, coming back to the handlers and the chains that would cuff their ankles to their perches.

I stared at my own hands and feet, once more examining the one weakness in the iron shackles. “I am not ready,” I whispered to myself. “But soon I will be free.”

And I came back home, towards my imprisoners.

 

Hypochondriac

By Asche Keegan

Darkness scratches at the window, its claws sliding down like the knives in horror movies. I go to it and peek out, searching for the scratch I think will be there, but instead I only see my acned face in the clear glass.

The masks have irritated my skin, as they always do, and I watch the contoured edges of my grin shrink away and morph into something darker. For a second, I shudder, imagining my teeth decaying and falling out.

Tearing my eyes from the ghastly sight, I run to my mirror and feel around in my mouth, making sure I still have a full set. I brush my teeth for the fourth time that night, scrubbing my face raw afterwards.

The darkness has returned, surrounding and crowding me. I close my eyes, but that makes it worse, so I open them as wide as I can and stare into the lightbulb until I can see it when I blink. The light sears away my fear for a moment, and I find an odd sense of peace in the stillness that follows.

Then thunder crackles outside and I cry out in surprise, once more running to my window to make sure that the heavenly shout had not set my house on fire, despite the numerous lightning rods running up and down its side.  

For a moment, I wish I had someone beside me to settle my fears, lay a hand on my arm and hold me. He’d tell me everything was alright, that I’d be okay, that he’d protect me, and that I could come back to bed if I wanted to.

I get caught in the daydream for a moment, until I can almost feel his arm sliding around my waist or the heat of his breath against my neck. Yet the thoughts are empty and restless, his face formless and shifting back and forth in my mind.

“It’s because of Covid,” I claim to myself. Pacing calms me, so I do it now, stalking back and forth across my room. “If I didn’t need to stay indoors. If I could see my friends. If I didn’t have to wear those masks.”

I hate the masks because they make it hard to breathe. They lasso themselves behind my ears and across my skin, leaving telltale marks of their abuse on my tender skin. I can’t breathe when I wear them, and I have to yank them off and head inside, terrified that I will suffocate to death and no one will come to save me because they would be too afraid of Covid.

Covid also scares me, and as I once more eye the darkness outside, I can almost see the tendrils slipping in beneath the window, carrying disease and despair, haunting me with its midnight black goo. I see myself hacking, bringing up bits of my lungs and refused visits from those I love most, and I pause a second, imagining my lonely deathbed, like Ebenezer Scrooge’s, but brought about by nothing more than a worldwide pandemic.

I’m pacing faster now, almost running back and forth as the rain drums against my roof and my window. I breathe faster as a whirlwind of possibilities sweeps through my mind. Through them all drums the word alone, and I panic, wanting nothing more than to be surrounded by the people I love and care for.

The rain stops, and I stop with it, listening to the lingering noise of raindrops falling off the roof and into the gutter. I close my eyes, caught up in the sound, but the darkness returns. I wonder what would happen if I let it overtake me—if I close my eyes and sleep for just a moment.

I imagine what my friends would say if they could be here—how they’d comfort me and tell me I was alright. How everything would be okay. How I won’t die alone. I can feel my throat constricting, my heart pounding, and I can’t resist the urge to cough.

Where did I get the virus at? The groceries dropped on my steps by the delivery man? Not the mail, which I haven’t touched in weeks. My phone broke weeks ago, and I haven’t replaced it. The thought hits me suddenly, and as I stare at the pile of library books, I wonder how I was weak enough to let this cacophony of germs into my home.

Though it is too late, I pull on some gloves and grab the staggering pile of books, holding my breath and hauling them across the house. One by one, I feed them into the oven, throw in the gloves, close the door, and turn it on the highest setting.

Quickly, I run back to the bathroom, grabbing the alcohol wipes and spray and sanitizing the area where the books had sat. I scrub my face raw, bemoaning my acne stings. I resist the urge to pick at them, only watching my haunted face in the mirror.

I stand there for awhile, but I smell smoke and race to the kitchen, where strings of fire decorate the walls, and I gape as the spare stash of alcohol explodes into flame. With no time to think, I yank the fire extinguisher from the wall and start spraying it, though the bursts seem to do little good.

My clothes start burning, and I give up the cause as lost, backing out of the kitchen and running back to my room. The fire has imprinted itself into my vision, throwing darkness in every other direction. I run from the darkness as much as from the fire, until I find myself in my room, throwing my sanitized objects into a pile of things I must salvage.

By the time I have gathered it up, the fire is outside my door, leaving only the window as my way out. Yet, darkness still scratches at the window, tracing lines up and down the smooth, polished glass.

I back away and hide on my bed, wishing I had been afraid of fire too. In that moment, I wonder what my family would think of me, if they were still here. In that moment I give up, wishing I could blame the pandemic for why I’d die alone.