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.

TW: Self-harm and suicide

Note: This is not an autobiographical piece.

 

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. 

By Asche Keegan

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.