Unfinished Compilations from the Worlds in my Head

By Asche Keegan

(Hoping y'all don't get whiplash! Enjoy these unfinished and unedited compilations explaining why I haven't posted in months. ;))
 

Amid the rolling sand, a boy crouched against a dune, shield held protectively in front of him. Beside him, a single candle burned, sheltered in a lantern of broken glass. He thought the glass might have been beautiful once, stained glass images of a baby and a cross, but he had never been one for religious themes.

On the other side of the dune, the Fische hissed in a thousand screams, murky darkness sliding around and through the sand. They’d chased the rats away to stake their claim, as his grumbling stomach reminded him. He wanted to hunt for something to eat, but if he pulled down his shield, it’d only reveal to the Fische his hiding place here behind this wall of sand.

As if in answer to his thoughts, another hiss ricocheted through the night, and he shuddered. Weakened, his arms trembled, and he stiffened, holding the shield still tighter to his body. He could hear the Fische slinking away, retreating beneath the greater force to come.

Then, a roar shook the ground and searing light scarred his vision. “Nathan,” the dragon’s voice said. “I know you’re hiding there.”

“And you came to find me yourself?” Nathan retorted, attempting a persona of confidence. “I must be quite the important one.”

The dragon huffed, and the boy shrank against the dune once more. If he left his hiding place now, he wouldn’t be able to fight. He was weak and hungry, and the candle had almost completely died out. What weapon did he have to fight a dragon? To chase away demons of darkness? All he had was a miniature halo of light, amplified by a halfhearted plank of cracked wood.

“Why do you run from me?” the dragon asked, and Nathan almost risked a look in his direction. Almost. “I’ve been chasing you your entire life, but you won’t turn back to me.”

“I don’t like people chasing me.”

“I don’t like being denied. I called your name, but still you run.”

Nathan hesitated. “You promised love but only manipulated me. Said there’d be light but instead had me march beside darkness.” Though he didn’t look, he could hear the dragon shaking his head in response, rolling the scales on his neck.

“Why do you always think in terms of black and white and good and evil?” the dragon asked. “Have I taught you nothing? There’s nothing in this world but shades of gray. Other worlds, sure, there’s black and white. But in this world, there’s not."

“Gregarious, how do I leave this place?” he asked.

Silence, then laughter, a deep raucous cacophony sounding as both a melodic harmony and metal scraping metal. “No one leaves. Why do you think there’s so many Fische here? They weren’t always like that; they just couldn’t leave. Then they turned dumb and evil. That’s why we try to control them. Fix them. Train them.”

Nathan hesitated, then closed his eyes. “You want me to be like them,” he said.

“No, I want you to lead them.”

“I won’t lead demons.”

“Annnnnd that’s why we’re having this conversation with you huddled behind a sand dune pretending to be strong.”

“I am strong,” he said, voice childish even to his own ears.

~ ~ ~

Ayla had wandered the star-lit fields of the World Between Worlds for three-hundred thousand years and grown quite bored of the view. One would think it paradise, this little place nestled between the universes, but it was a prison of the most dynamic kind.

A million books, a million worlds. A location she could change and shift to her every desire. Yet instead, she felt only like Calypso trapped on her island, a Greek legend from a place called Earth. Every story had been told a thousand times, and each by a more talented author than the last. She’d read every iteration, a thousand times the worst for wear with each telling.

Now, she was tired of candles and firelight and long waving grasses in the wind. She was sick of playing the peacekeeper, the mediator, the one eternally stuck between heaven and hell.

Some part of her wanted to go out instead and write her own story. Live her own life, chase down Lightwind—whom she had loved long ago—and pursue a romance to set the rest of the universe alight.

Yet she was sick of romance. Sick of action and fantasy and comedy and autobiographies and nonfictional memoirs written by people who thought their lives were interesting enough for someone else to read about.

That didn’t really leave her many options, though.

Ultimately, she felt trapped, stuck in a world she could never escape, though she theoretically had every option open before her.

Ayla had just made up her mind to do something, though she wasn’t sure what, when she noted a figure on the horizon—James Burgundy Scott. She hadn’t seen him in a couple centuries, so she figured it was about time for a regular check-in. He would plead with her once more for her love, and she would spurn him. She wanted nothing to do with realism and stability.

“Dear, you look as ravishing as always,” he greeted her.

She ignored him, examining the universe as if it could possibly reveal something new to her.

“How about that dress? Is it new?”

“It’s the same one I’ve worn for the past few centuries,” Ayla said.

“Well, on you everything looks new.”

“How’s the real world holding up?” she asked.

“The usual: wars, famines, plagues. Half of Europe just died. How’s the imaginary stuff?”

“The usual. Every story without an ending, every sentence halfway written, every heart halfway broken—”
~ ~ ~

At least Enigma knew her treehouse was a prison, right? That’s more than some could say, and it was a good first step, identifying the things holding you back. She’d be happy to stop there, though.

Unlike most treehouses, hers was made of colored glass, a strangely fragile and breakable object for such a strong and durable home. Words ebbed across every pane, long and complicated and magical if she dared to look deeply at them. She didn’t understand all of them, so sometimes she’d make up her own meanings.

Besides the glass, the treehouse was empty, just a pillow in the middle of the floor for sleeping in the evenings (and if she got cold, she’d sleep in the pillowcase). She had a system that worked well for her, and as long as she was here, sheltered behind the tall maze of bookshelves on all side of her, she would be safe from everything else.

From her place in the treehouse, she was able to see every part of the maze, all of the figures at the far end trying to make their way through. Most had given up, but one boy was getting closer to reaching the center, and she’d spend her time tracking him curiously. Sometimes he made it a little further than she’d expected, and she’d add a few more walls to her maze just to make him try a little more.

Even now as she watched him, he turned a corner, then another and another in quick succession. Several more right turns later, and he burst into the center of the maze, where her treehouse was located.

Enigma withdrew, peering at him, trying to see what he would do. Would he start throwing stones at the tree? Trying to break down her beautiful structure? Trying to change her and shape her? Trying to call her down as if she was Rapunzel and he only needed her hair?

“Hello?” he called. His voice was a boy’s, nothing more. “Is there anyone here? Did I make it? Is this the middle of the maze?”

He looked up and caught a glimpse of her through the glass. “Hey! Wait! Who are you? What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer, merely pulling back to the other side of the glass.

He hesitated. “I’m Abraham. I’d love to meet you!”

And somehow her heart was touched by his gentle voice, his sense of simultaneous hesitation and assurance. Her whispered voice floated down from her tower. “And I’m nothing more than an Enigma.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds cool,” Abraham said, grinning up at her.

“How long have you been stuck up here?”

Enigma thought about it. Years and years and years and years.