Cabernet

By Asche Keegan

“You’re a racist, Bibbs,” I said, tipping the glass towards the ancient oil painting. The portrait continued to stare moodily into the distance, perhaps pondering a world where someone else might be as great as he.

“And now I’ve gotta get rid of you somehow.” I swirled the glass, watching the Cabernet slosh back and forth. The sight made me queasy, but I downed the liquid anyway, not once taking my eyes away from Captain Bibbs. I choked on the swallow, coughing it up back into my lap, heaving and bellowing the thunderous coughs of a dying man. Once subsided, I leaned back again, turning my gaze from the painting to the book in front of me.

I opened it to the first page.

“Let’s recount your sins. You endorsed slavery and owned many slaves of your own. You are directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of African Americans in our own country. You served in the Confederate army as an officer for three years. I could go on.”

I paused, glancing back up at the man on the wall. “But you’re also the reason children go to school. And you saved many lives from being lost with your brilliant wartime tactics. You created a legacy. Built a business from the ground and became a national powerhouse.”

I couldn’t think of the other things.

“You’ve got some good pieces to ya, Bibbs, but you’re still a racist.”

I wanted him to respond, to tell me what to do. I could picture the growl he’d make—an echo of my great grandfather’s snarl whenever we came up to him after church. We’d always shake his hand politely before shrinking back against the pews. Until the day he died, he’d see us and throw back his head and laugh.

But in this scenario, I could even imagine what Bibbs would say.

“You filthy lot carrying on with all manner of immorality. There are women walking about with virtually nothing on. Where are the masters for these slaves?”

He’s probably throw the n-word in there a couple of times too.

I took another dreg, swallowing the last of what was in the glass. Almost without looking, I refilled it.

“But what am I supposed to do with you? Half the people I know want me to get rid of ya. Sell you off to an auction and donate the money for reparations, you know?” I laugh at myself. “No, you wouldn’t know. You’re the reason I’d have to give up $50,000 in the first place. I hate this.”

With a start, I realize the cup is dry again, so I set it aside, pulling my head into my hands. I sit there, propped up halfway on the armchair for several minutes.

The entire time, Bibbs taunts me. “I may be a racist, but I’m no coward. I’m not the one who ran away from war. I fought even when six of my bones were broken. And instead, you intentionally broke your bones to stay home. You hurt yourself to stay home. Yer a coward.”

“I’m not a coward. You are,” I retort, petulant as a child.

“You are a child.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan.

I look up again, almost expecting Bibbs to be looking down on me, but no, he’s still looking up, off to his right, that snooty “holier-than-thou” look on his face.

“But you killed hundreds of people, Bibbs. That don’t make you brave, just a bully.”

I poured myself another glass, relaxing a bit as the cabernet settled in.

“But some people want me to keep you. Saying you’re an artifact. A piece of history that can’t be re-written. Someone to be proud of.”

“They mean to say they’re prouder of me than of your sorry ass.”

“Hey, at least I’ve got one. You’re just a head on a wall.”

“And I died with my head on a stick. You’re gonna die fat. In your bed. Screaming.”

“But at least this sorry ass will be attached,” I replied. It was a poor comeback but the only one that came to mind.

Almost without thinking, I stood, the cabernet sloshing in the glass. I approached Bibbs, keeping eye contact. “You’re an utter fool. The butt of too many of my problems.”

“If you were capable of solving your own problems, you wouldn’t need to blame them on me.”

“But you know what, I know better than you. I’m smarter after all. I don’t kill people in the name of protecting a family—

“Because you don’t know have one or because you don’t know what honor means?”

“—Because I’m just f*cking better than you are! You’re a racist, a sexist. A misogynist. You’re all the things. I’m just better. And you. You were a terrible person.”

“And you are only a pathetic one.”

The words hung in the silence.

Then, again almost without knowing what I was doing, I had my hands gripped around the sides of the painting, attempting to yank it from the wall. The wine spilled over the edge falling onto and staining the $50,000 antique, but in the moment I didn’t care about antiques or money or reparations or any of it. I just wanted him gone.

I pulled it off, stumbling backwards and hurling it down onto the floor ten feet away from me. A splintering crack filled the room and staring at the broken remnants of the giant frame, the conversation came fully into focus.

All of it.

Even the imagined parts.

Now it looked like red dripped from Bibb’s haughty eyes. I wondered if that’s what it looked like when he got his head impaled.

I laughed, a little unstably before downing the rest of the cabernet. Tossing the glass onto what remained of the frame, I went to bed.

TW: Self-harm and suicide

Note: This is not an autobiographical piece.

Soul Searching

By Asche Keegan

I’ve been soul searching lately, but I never thought I would find myself on the softball field, caught between a base and a pop up high in the air.

The game is tied, and the pitcher shoots me a glare through her eye makeup. I grin back, leaning onto the back of my foot. She throws the ball, and even though it is just outside the strike zone, I swing, making contact and watching it soar into the air. I can feel my soul rising alongside it, as if freed from all Earthly pursuits.

I’m a Christian; Someday I’m going up there, I think.

That’s my first thought, and them I’m racing towards first base. The coach is yelling at me to run faster, to beat the ball, so even as I touch the base I’m turning towards second.

I’m excitable, I realize, and it pushes me on, propelling my feet forward.

My teammates are screaming at me in the dugout, yelling for me to beat the ball, and I dig in my heels, running harder. As I round second, my coach is watching the ball, telling me to hustle if I want to make it to third.

I’m obstinate.

The ball’s coming towards the base, but I beat it to third, and the umpire calls me safe. The player at third sighs and throws it to the pitcher, who misses the ball.

My coach is screaming for me to stay on the bag, where it’s safe. My teammates are yelling at me to stay. Everyone on the bleachers is yelling for me to stay where I am.

But I’m ambitious,

            so I take off running anyway.

I give it all I’ve got, even as the pitcher realizes what is happening and whips the ball to the catcher. I drop my knee and slide, foot slamming into the plate just as the catcher turns to tag me out.

“She’s SAFE!” the umpire cries, almost as excited as I am. I stagger to my feet, my teammates shaking their head at me even through their grins.

“The coach said he was gonna kill you,” one mentions as an aside.

But as we stream back onto the field to shake hands, I realize most of all that I’m competitive, and that probably accounts for the entire lot.

A Sentence

By Asche Keegan

Anyone can pontificate upon the pursuit of intelligence based on a lexicon of concordance, but few of those convinced of the eminence of vocabulary can conduct rational dialogues.

Out of Concrete

By Asche Keegan

Parking Lot

By Asche Keegan

 TW: Adult themes

There is something almost sultry about neon pink lights reflected on the dashboard. It brings back stories of sex, drugs, rock & roll, the fifties, and classic cars under the moon. The revving of the engine in time with the couples making out in the back, rocking the vehicle to and fro in their haste to get out of there before their mamas come to yank them home.

The diner's lot has been filled before; kisses stolen between licks of a peanut butter ice cream cone. Inside the parlor, an old couple feeds each other the cherries from the tops of their floats, perhaps remembering younger days themselves.

Teenagers work the counters—the same as they have for seventy-eight years. Though they may change out fast, the place itself still looks the same.

Turn the keys and the engine roars to life, blue dials flickering to life. For a moment, the atmosphere holds, motors purring and neon lights flickering. The smell of bubble-gum fills the air, along with the muffled grunts of the phantoms who may once have used this very vehicle to go about their business.

Then the radio snaps on, flooding the car with Christian praise music and banishing the specters of fantasy and the imagination.

“hurry home, the ice cream’s melting.”

Yet that feeling can't be shook, the idea of pedals underfoot, ice cream on the lips.

“Oh the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God,” West sings.

But the dream fades, leaving behind only a newborn adult, clutching tight to the innocence and naivety of the past.

Haunted (Journaling)

By Asche Keegan

I have abandoned my old haunts, but they have not abandoned me.

I sit alone in empty rooms, ancient worlds calling to me. Voices whisper. Remember your first English teacher? In that dusty room? It was always raining outside. The projector was broken. She did everything by hand, brought props to class. She was so busy, but you never saw it. She would have corrected your passive voice.

The dust makes me cough, but I go to the window and look out. That same tree still sits here outside the window, lightly waving its branches. She was there when they hospitalized you. Then, you didn’t even say goodbye.

I leave and keep wandering.

I find myself in an empty auditorium, standing on a table and staring at the giant screen opposing me. Remember when he taught you how to dab? This was the only classroom you goofed off in, the only class you played Minecraft during. One of only a couple teachers to whom you never sent a thank you note. It still smells like mold and mildew and the green velvet that encased the walls.

I can’t stay here, so I leave the school, wandering.

And then I’m running, feet slamming the concrete until I reach the soccer fields I grew up on, where three years of soccer and training left me behind. Now, I’m slow and gasping for breath, hands on my knees, sputtering out my protests before the voices begin. You always played on the Turquoise team. Lost every game but one in your second year. That was pretty cool. To win for once. You hated the Orange team. And the White team. But the umpire gave you free candy sometimes.

I catch my breath and keep running.

I pass the softball field where I caught my first pop fly—Remember the sunflower seeds covering every inch of the dugout?—the other fields where I played first base for three years—remember that one time you played pitcher? Is it still an old haunt if you’re playing again this year?—and then I’ve crossed the loop, and I’m heading back into town again—remember when you learned how to drive on this road?

I pass the hotel I grew up in—remember when they kicked you out?—and the ice cream store we used to visit every week—but you only ever got bags of baby carrots—and the Pizza Hut we always longed to go to—even though you could never eat pizza—and still I keep walking.

And as I walk, the voices point out things that used to be here but aren’t anymore—remember when that billboard advertised swimming lessons? That used to be a jewelry store. The bookstore’s been out of business for years now.

And everywhere I walk, the memories rise up, overwhelming and consuming me. The new hotel, the sauna place, the gym, the old gym, the Kids Club, the hospital, the stores where we ate all those baby food peas, parking lot after parking lot imprinted with memories traced right along the white parking lines.

There’s a road here, which we proudly marched down during the annual Christmas parade—Remember when you had friends who cared about you? Remember the pedophile you accidentally let into the organization? Remember the triumphant lifting of your banners? Remember the lights and the glow? The breathless anticipation? The aching in your ankles? I’m crying in the middle of the road. There’s a car coming, but I barely see it. I can't handle it anymore.

I leave the city behind, and I step into fantasy, wandering.

There’s so many doors everywhere, stretching into other worlds, and I pick one at random, falling in. When next I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by caterpillar weeds, stretching forward in all directions. Above me a million galaxies appear in the sky, and lanterns light a path through the field. Somewhere soft music lilts on a warm breeze that smells like hot chocolate. Remember when Ayla held you when you cried? Remember when your best friend had a discussion with Ayla for you to get her to stop being angry at you? Remember when Ash died?

The last thought dissolves the world, plunging me into the next. Red clay now covers every surface. Flat-topped homes have caved in places, been demolished in others. A long road, made up of a dust just as red as the rest of the world, stretches out into the far off distance. A lone man stands just within sight of the end of the road, staring into the sunset. Remember when Requiem was just a thought? When you created a world just to spite your broken mind? When you got plunged into a half-composed parallel universe you never thought you’d see? Then chose to write your book about the other side of the planet? The betrayal still stings, and I start running to the man whose name I can not remember.

He turns, and those great blue eyes sparkle with joy, and then I’m falling through another door in the universe.

Landscapes flash before my eyes—Remember the world of killer bats? Remember when you fell in love? Remember when you poured out your heart and soul in a sandy volleyball court? Remember when you shattered and love picked you back up again? Remember the world of the fire magic? Remember the NanoFic you started but never finished? Remember Peridot? Those creepy children? Stories flash past too quickly to keep up with, and I plummet through doors.

Yet then it stops, plunging me into a world where the mountains tower far above my head, the sun can never be found, and the sand goes on forever. “No!” I scream. Remember when you lost yourself here? Remember how many characters you killed? Remember when you killed your soul here? Remember when you gave in? Gregarious circles in the sky above me, great black wings blocking out what little light remains, and still I scream at the universe. “No! You can not leave me here!” Remember the pain you caused? The people you broke? The people who broke you? You couldn’t save them. You couldn’t even save yourself. The voices crush me, and I fall shivering to the ground, searching vainly in the sand for some sort of light to dispel the darkness with. You will never be able to save them. You are worthless. Useless. Pathetic. Incompetent. Why did you want to go home? You don’t belong there anymore. You don’t belong anywhere but here.

The Fische start to creep towards me again, and I crawl backwards. “No,” I voice, trembling. “This is not my home. I refuse. It will never be home.”

You don’t have a home anymore.

“Then I will make one,” I announce, and I push past my fantasies, wandering.

Beyond my fantasies there is nothing: only vast emptiness devoid of light, sound, and movement. Miraculously, the voices fall silent—there’s nothing to remember when nothing has ever happened. I lift my hand to create a new world, but it falls back against my side again, limp. What good would it do to create another world instead of living in the hundreds I have already been given? For an instant, I imagine a million different ways to repaint my mental walls, but I give up, for no world could ever satisfy me.

Someone slams on a horn, a jarring sound that yanks me from my reverie. I find myself watching the sky, raindrops touching my tongue. Despite only the brief moments I spent on other worlds, my raincoat is soaked and a black SUV is swerving to a stop in front of me. That's what I need, I think abesently. A world where it's always raining.

I look down and meet the eyes of the driver. Wordlessly, I move off the main road, stepping onto the nearest sidewalk.

“Hey!”

I turn.

A pause. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “But I’m going.”

The driver wants to ask another question, but I don’t give him the time, and I keep walking, wandering.

Freedom to Speak

By Asche Keegan

I am my own person,

Fiercely opinionated and fiercely independent.

But my family tells me,

“Sometimes you just have to go along with it;

It’s safe.”

Safe.

            Safe.

                        Safe.

So in public,

I bow my head.

I bite my tongue.

I nod along, and

I write what

I don’t believe.

But I’m tired of staying safe.

You can not lasso my language
And corral me into a corner.

A match can light a fire;

A fire can light a forest;

And the next thing you know all of California is

Burning, 

Burning,

 Burning

With the whirlwind of words I’m spitting out.
For my tongue is my mace; my pen is my sword.

You can not take my weapons away

Because you disagree with what I say.

I’ll gather up others who believe the same,

And I will tell them we aren’t secret messages to be

Rolled up,

Bottled up,

And cast away to sea.

We will melt the bars that entrap us

With the ferocious heat of our words.

We will torch the gags and straitjackets‒‒

Burn all the symbols of the world that hated us.

And when we stand above the carnage of a world aflame,

Word by word, we’ll build another just the same.