Fire raged in the center of the Vortex as Ash approached, lingering on the edges of the maelstrom. It blew upwards like a great well of fire, and around it stood twelve judges, watching, waiting, lingering to see what she would do. They sat at their posts and didn’t move, not even Horsey, whom Ash would have thought would be more trembly than that.

“Where’s Fidelity?” Ash finally asked.

They watched her, twisting their eyebrows together as if she had asked something unreasonable, as if she had spoken gibberish instead of fact, merely Latin instead of a name. “Who?” Kuyibka asked.

“Yes, her.”

Loki laughed from his seat, a low dry chuckle that sent chills through Ash’s bones. She knew him well—had once had an intimate familiarity with him, but even now the sight of him again once more stirred her heart into trembling fear. Had they once been like family? Friends? Enemies? Mentors? She couldn’t remember, and the variations the story had taken seemed to mesh and collide here in the darkness of her mind/the brightness of the Vortex. She couldn’t entirely decide where she was seated and where her heart was at.

“For someone who likes to play with fire, you tend to avoid it,” Loki said.

Confused, Ash turned back to the fire, leaning into it, staring down. Through the flames, there opened a gap in the well, a long dark abyss traveling downward.

And clinging to the ledges of the abyss was the Who. Crying out, Ash lunged forward, attempting to grab her hands, her clothes, anything to pull her up by. “Don’t just stand there!” she screamed to the characters. “Do something!”

They shook their heads and didn’t move. “She’s been like that for days. We can’t reach her.” Still though, they didn’t try to warn her off or tell her It was a lost cause for her to try. Maybe they knew that even if they had, she wouldn’t have listened.

So Ash lunged forward, leaning deeper and deeper, and then just barely managed to snatch hold of the Who’s jacket. She looked up then, and the two met eyes, and Ash was startled by the unfamiliarity in them. It was as if she was looking into the eyes of a stranger, one so hopelessly lost and uncertain, caught in the abyss of sorrow and suffering and coming face to face with an unexpected hand.

“Fidelity!” she shouted. “Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out of there.”

The woman stared at her again, as if plunged into deeper confusion. “Please, give me your hand,” Ash pleaded, reaching deeper into the well. The fire and flames had previously parted as if to make way for her presence, but now the girl’s gaze narrowed, and the flames began to rise higher and creep towards her again.

Confused, Ash lunged for her hand and grabbed it, this time taking it from the ledge and pulling backwards with all her might.

“HELP ME!” she cried again, begging the characters to join her, but none of them did.

Anastasia tilted her head to the side and said softly but not too softly for her to still hear the cold spite that lingered, “Where were you when we needed your help?”

“She’s going to fall!”

“Why won’t you let her?” Loki asked.

“Because I don’t want her to die! She’s in danger. She needs help!”

“What if what’s better for her is at the bottom of the pit?” Loki asked, a gentle eyebrow tilted upwards.

“You don’t know that,” Ash insisted. “The better world might be the one up here. Heck, it probably is the one up here. Give me a hand for crying out loud; she’s already infected you all.”

Fidelity began to twist in her grasp then, and Ash had to redirect her attention to pulling her out, and she strained, heaving with all her might and strength, but nothing worked. Now, she held half the weight of another person and her own, and she began to slip into the well after her friend.

“I’m not going to let you go,” she told Fidelity, and at that, the girl’s eyes narrowed, and the flames immediately roared higher.

Crying out in pain, Ash began to slip, doing everything she could to hold on. Fidelity began to twist and writhe, attempting to yank herself from Ash’s grasp.

“STOP, STOP, what are you doing!” she cried out, but it didn’t change a thing.

Then from below, she could hear her words repeated back to her in a much more sinister tone of voice, “I’m never going to let you go.”

And in seeing the man holding on to her friend’s leg, Ash shivered in fear. She couldn’t let her go. She couldn’t.

But if she didn’t…. If she didn’t let her go, what greater harm would be done? Would she have to spend her entire life bouncing back and forth between person and person? Lost in the world that had been created for her to live in?

The characters watched, judging her from their podiums, and once more she pleaded for help, once more she tried to pull up her friend, but the weight was too much, and with Fidelity squirming as she was to get free, Ash just. Couldn’t. hold. Her. Anymore.

And the Who yanked herself free and fell into the abyss of the well below. And Ash stood still at the topic, shocked. Confused. Hurt. Crying. Wondering.

“Is she going to be okay?” she asked.

She looked around the circle and noticed that some of the characters had disappeared with the fall, including Horsey.

“I guess you’ll need to leave that up to us to decide,” Loki murmured, bridging the gap between them and peering into the fire. “Since you couldn’t help her either, you are free to leave when you’d like.”

Choking back a sob as the heat scalded her face, Ash stepped backward, fleeing the fire in fear and shame.

Gray Ashes

I'm just incredibly lonely, bouncing back and forth between wild abandon and instant depression, attempting to bridge the gap in a relatively meaningless existence. I light the world on fire and watch it burn, settling into gray ashes, the remnants of ink and paper that once meant something. 

I feel the same way, like I meant something once, like I held value long ago. Now, I feel my meaning deeper, as if in a symbolic way, just as gray ashes on the concrete hold a greater metaphor for existence than a blueprint of plans for perfecting the world around me. 

That's all I used to be, is a pitiful excuse for a sheltered teenager, completely unaware of the privilege and opportunity I'd been born into, stuck with the belief that my life was far worse than that of others, simply because it's unusual or strange. I'd been stranded into the idea that I could tell no one, say nothing, speak not a word, and the exclusivity dramatized the experiences, emphasizing them out of proportion in my mind. 

Yet now, I have begun to speak it to the world around me, watching it land. I have encountered friends with genuine hardships and watched them learn to live in a world devoid of opportunities. I have seen a singular text be enough to keep a person alive, seen a popsicle bring more happiness than any other object here on Earth could have. 

And yet still I am lonely, separated as I am from the people around me. I've built up these characters, these voices in my head to play with me and talk with me, but only now that I have truly loved humanity do I realize how shallow the voices of my imaginary friends have been. I've cast out the rest of the world, inviting everyone to be my friend but only trusting myself with one, maybe two or three people. 

Yet everyone I know is busy, or far too overwhelmed to deal with my first-world problems, though of course they'll never tell me that. 

But I'm sick and tired of plastering on my eccedentesiasm! I just want to laugh with someone who understands me, someone who has the same sense of humor, someone just as clingy as I, someone who wants to spend every waking minute with someone just because they love them, and for no other real or genuine reason. 

Nothing reminds me of the importance of true friends until they aren't there anymore. Nothing clarifies to me my lack of true friends like when I don't notice when they're gone. 

So yes, now I'm just banging my head on desks, trying to make it one more, two more, three more days, holding out and bottling up all these inexpressible feelings I miss out in the missing of companionship. 

It's odd. I never realize how reliant I am on friendships until I am devoid of them, and then I'll do anything to get them back. 

But missing one person reminds me of how much I miss everyone, and then I just spiral into a half-hearted scrolling through my phone, laughing at every picture, crying over every video and playing them again and again and again and again and again and--

I'm just so tired of the status quo, wanting to fast forward time but unable to make it even two minutes without checking my phone to see if anyone has sent me a message... still no one. I'm caught up. Completely caught up on every email, every text, every messaging app and have been for weeks. 

I am unused to loneliness, and I handle it poorly.

Youth at Large

Black Eyed Susan

Twenty-seven years of watching her shadow dance across the walls, twirling in and out of contact with his own. Twenty-seven years of watching her stare out the window, brooding on the color of the sky - always the color and shape of the sky. Twenty-seven years of placing flowers in her hair, daisies and daffodils, Queen Anne's Lace and Black Eyed Susans. Twenty-seven years of biking with her six times around the neighborhood as dusk fell, her laughing in the same nasally way she always did, throwing her hair back just to stare at the sun as she pedaled. Twenty-seven years of memories, good and bad. Walking her through the highest highs and the lowest lows, beside her in every way. 

Five years of misery, breaking out into shouts over the smallest of things. Five years of distance, hiding from one another, sleeping in different beds with different people. Five years of watching her come home with black eyes and bruises and doing nothing, turning his face away and saying it wasn't his problem to solve. Five years of their only child begging them to get a divorce every time he came over, telling them it had gone too far - that they weren't the same as when he was there. 

Then three years of loneliness, lying in deserted fields in the middle of nowhere, picking himself back up and learning to live alone again. Sitting singly on empty beaches and watching even the most hideous of seagulls find a mate, sing their songs together. Three years of picking flowers but having no one to whom he could give them. Three years of watching the rain fall without stealing a kiss, without feeling another's hand on his. Holding an umbrella only above himself. Three years of living alone in a rundown cabin in the middle of the woods - a hermit not solely by choice. 

Then after thirty-five years, she knocked. Not looking at him once, she fiddled with the Black Eyed Susan in her hands, twirling it back and forth.

It's the first one you gave me, she says. He takes it from her, fingers gently brushing hers, and examines the flower - a small one. He remembers the day he picked it for her, about a month into their courtship. She had blushed as he put in her hair, then carefully saved it and pressed it into her favorite book. 

She peered up at him then, and for the first time in awhile, he was overcome with tenderness at the sight of her bruises. He invited her inside, and she followed. 

I can't live alone, she admitted over coffee. I just can't. And yeah, it's hard, but it's harder having nobody.

He didn't intend to, but he reached out a hand and trailed it along the side of her face, outlining the yellow and purple. He wanted to kiss her, hold her hand, give her a flower unadorned by old memories. He did none of those things, withdrawing his touch. 

So you came to me, he said, hating the callowness in his tone. 

Thirty-two years, she said. And we threw it away. 

You said you wanted to start over, he said. 

So did you, she returned. 

Well, what stopped you? he asked. 

The two of them looked at each other, knowing the answer. It was twenty-seven years worth of memories, keeping them both up at night. Keeping them from coming to terms with new love, new people, new places.

After coffee, he took her to the field behind his house, where rows of wildflowers bloomed. He plucked them, putting them in her hair. She laughed, that same nasally sound he had loved, then hated and now believed he could love again. 

Later, they returned to his cabin, where he poured them each a glass of wine. 

What's his name? Why does he hurt you? he asked. 

She grimaced, offering up information slowly, reluctantly. He pressed gently, reassuring her. Afterwards, he invited her to stay the night. She slept troubled until he curled in next to her, sweeping her hair away from her face and soothing her. 

The next morning, he was making breakfast when she came out to see him, embarrassed. 

He told her not to be, that she could stay forever if she wanted. 

What if he comes after me? she asked. 

He won't, he said, yawning. 

She believed him. 

And this time, she stayed. 

Trailer Hitch

She's spent the better half of her freedom wandering deserted parking lots just after twilight, entranced by the way her shadow flits across the cracked cement, the outline of a figure just barely old enough to know what she wants in life. 

A trailer's been parked out there for the better part of fifteen years, rusting its slow way towards oblivion, an ever-present aspect of the landscape for those who don't seek refuge within it. She perches on its side, scribbling another note into a journal already filled with them. Beside it, grasses tower, and she weaves each stalk between her fingers, crushing their fragile tips. She picks them at their roots, braiding them together to crown herself Queen of the Grasses, an envied title among the litany of imaginary friends she brings with her.

Here, she's capturing moments, raising her fist to the sky, swapping out the middle finger for "I love you," seeking peace signs over military gestures, branding herself an old soul of the new age. She's a girl obsessing over the literature giants of the past, hoping to be one for the future. She plays with fountain pens and ink, letting droplets pool across the page, if only for the nib to dance beneath it, as she does under the opulent obsolescence of the sinking sun. 

She longs for poetry, and her heart heeds her cry, spinning together phrases that make no sense alone but shine in nonsensical sentences. It's not the moment she's seeking here but the feeling it conveys. 

She climbs to her feet, entranced by the last remnant of light on the horizon. In an attempt to stretch out and reach it, she balances herself on the side of the trailer and climbs. Making it to to top of the rust-bucket, where the trailer hitch juts into the sky, she clutches her journal in one and hand and salutes the evening light with the other, thanking it for making the blossoming night such a poetic one. The rising moon smiles back at her, its recognition of a fellow wanderer.

Shoving the journal back into her bag, she leaps from the top of the hitch, tumbling into weeds that threaten to engulf her. Yet, as if recognizing in her a young, growing thing not asimilar to themselves, they release her back to the cultured wild of the domesticated lot and the city streets.

She runs its length and sprints away, freedom spent for youth's reward.