Bienvenida, mija de luz

she’s watching me. those brown irises follow me, and though i lock eyes with the pillars, the chapel walls, the grasses waving just beyond, i can’t shake her. i call her sunflower girl, this figment of my dreams. 

“have you ever fallen in love?” she asks. leaving the stone steps, i ignore her question. i gave up talking to the voices in my head a long time back. “i think i might love you,” she continues. 

“you don’t know what love is,” i want to say. i stop myself. in the midst of the field, caterpillar weeds poke their seedy noses through dead brush and wildflowers. i gave myself permission to pluck the greens during the height of summer. yet sunflower girl’s soft gaze accuses me of leaving too many flowers out here to die of hypothermia. 

she tramples the grass just behind me, her perfume wafting over my shoulder. “i think you love me too.”

i need to confront her. resolve the matter immediately. “I…” 

She waits. Damn her. 

Then I’m falling, her heart pounding in my open palms. I see the outlines of her scars with the vibrant overlap of the neurologists who mapped the first complete neural brain network. Every book comes to the sidelines of my mind, thousands of pages ready to draw her inspiration from. 

She needs a name. You can’t just call her Sunflower Girl. She needs a friend. She isn’t here to rescue you. She needs you to love her. 

i push her and the dancing and the books aside. “i am not a writer anymore,” i say. the grasses flutter, wind catching its swoosh through their touch. lake brine replaces her scent, and i know she will return another time. 

i settle back onto the step. typically by now, i’d have completed my meditation and physically returned to the surface worlds. yet, i stay. 

i fear i will see her again when i leave. she’ll return to my dreams in promises of a great glade that will set me free. a place to pursue her in. a place she and the others may all be free together, yet still attend my stories. she told me they wanted to hear them. she asked why i didn’t trust anyone. she asked if i’m afraid of everything or just failure. 

never mind, i return my thoughts to the wind. waves lap in the distance. somewhere, Kyomi roars. 

Dancing around a firepit, wandering through the darkness in the middle of the night, one fist clenched above the Gulf of Mexico, tear-shaken time with a friend, wildflowers in forgotten fields, laughter late at night, excruciating morning wake-ups, imitating a character currently beloved, curled into a ball with a book and a pen, creating thousands and thousands of stories…

I can’t leave it. Someone must put words to the tales. 

I open my eyes and find myself in thick woods. Someone has arranged boulders into a semi-circle, and the Sunflower Girl leans from atop the centermost. 

“Welcome to the glade, greenie.”

One hand walks the edge of the steering wheel while the other dangles out the car window, sweatless even in 100 degree heat. In the distance, stars and a red crescent moon shine, and you can still feel the arms of your hostess around you, the faint pointing upwards of, "We'll have to have you and Rebekah and Viji here in the fall. We've got a telescope we can stargaze with if you want."

Her kindness strikes you, yet more than that, her easy sense of permanence. For her, there's no doubt that she'll be here in the fall, that you'll all be here in the fall. 

It's the same with your neighbor. She has plans spanning next year and next month. She's made you her plus one for every holiday because she knows you can't afford to go home. She's allowing herself to love you, though an apartment itself says "temporary."

She's been here 48 years minus 11, the regretful time she moved to Iowa. Almost everything terrible that's happened to her happened in Iowa. She came back home for her father, and even now she's grappling with the realization that not everything at home is permanent. The times has changed faster than she has, and she remembers when the Kwik Trip on Old PB - which is called M now - was the first of its kind in the city. She remembers when the apartment she lives in now was built in the fields she played in as a kid, climbing through the rubble of new construction and staring up in awe at the towering buildings. 

She can't imagine a world without roots, like moving to the other side of the country where she's the lone remnant of her graduating high school class. 

You surprise her sometimes, with your flitting about. She doesn't understand how you get lost so easily, your penchant to talk about home, to embrace the heat like its the summer blanket you forgot how badly you needed. Yet you do. She raises her love for home in glass displays and wonders why others exist. 

Every day for three weeks, you passed a carousel painted red. It meant nothing to you besides a novelty, an interesting piece for a workplace to have. Yet the first time your neighbor lays eyes on the sight, she cries, remembering the days it was stationed on the other side of town, and she'd welcome in spring on the painted wings of its steel dragons. 

They all gather around and wonder at you, your plucky grin. They whisper to each other as you pass that it won't be long now, and you'll be gone. 

These are the moments she'll remember the rest of her life. 

Her neighbor's face lit by fire held close and a shaking cigarette, from the third box of the day. An addiction rendered beautiful in flickering orange at burnt twilight. 

Or the secret place at the top of the roof, with a guitar and a Bible and the open stars. She keeps waiting for someone to notice her up here and call the police, or at least wave hello. Instead, it's just her and her song and the neighbor's voices, coming together in the timeworn language of the neighborhood north. 

Or dinner with friends singing for her. Two candles - one for each decade - blown out only after she wishes that she might never lose these friends. 

A phone passed around the circle with old friends and new ones together, wishing happy birthday for a friend far away.

The child beats her fist upon titanium walls, matching her force with her heartbeat. She keeps time in this way, unrelenting even when her fist breaks open from the force. She screams, but no one hears her, locked away as she is in the darkest of places.

She wants to be free, but she doesn’t. She wants to be safe, but she doesn’t. In the absence of certainty, she lays awake, driven half to madness along the way.

She yells again, stopping her pounding just long enough to throw her chair to the other side of the room. It wasn’t worth it to love. It would never be worth it to love. 

When it doesn't work, she curls into herself again and whimpers. "I just want to be loved," she murmurs, the voice of a four-year-old. It echoes about her, a frigid refrain.

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.

 

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.

 

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.

Waiting Here

By Asche Keegan

He sat alone on an abandoned park bench, the first flakes of snow dusting the top of his frozen ice cream cone. Well aware of the askance looks he received from those walking by, he licked away the mint chocolate chip—the one source of color in the otherwise dreary world. He shivered, as was to be expected, and pulled his coat closer around himself.

For the last 364 days he had sat here, a brutal test to his resilience and his motivation. Only if I can make it to the end will I invite her, he had said. He had loved her once, two marriages, forty years, and a war ago. He had not thought of her since without love and regret in his heart.

“Abe?” her voice rang behind him.

He turned, at once caught up in her aged beauty, crinkles in her once-smooth skin, gray hairs peeking through the black.

“You look different.” Yet, somehow, he loved her even more.

“As do you. Although I believe time has been kinder to you than I,” she joked.

“Nonsense, you look beautiful.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized his error; he had belied himself immediately. “Sorry, I apologize,” he scrambled.

“No, no, it’s fine…thank you.” She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out. “Do you want to go inside? It’s kind of cold out here, and I see you have an…ice cream cone?”

“It’s a tradition,” he said, rising from the park bench and walking with her towards a nearby restaurant.

“Every time I have sat here, I have bought a cone of ice cream, and on today, the one-year anniversary of when I began, I felt it only fitting to treat myself one last time.”

“Congratulations! It takes commitment to come out here every day. Unfortunately, it’s a more somber anniversary for me—my late husband passed away last year on this date.”

He knew that of course, just like he knew mint chocolate chip was her favorite flavor, and winter her favorite season, and the restaurant they were walking to was her favorite location. He had practiced how to reply to a statement such as this nearly a thousand times, but now the words escaped him, and he mustered out a scratchy, “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

“Life happens, and I’m moving on, you know?”

The conversation fell into silence, before she asked about his day and proceeded into chatter about the mundane. The two of them had lunch, and the conversation passed in a blur, every moment a dynamic exchange that left them choking over their glasses.

“Do you remember when Emilio put soap into the fountain and got foam all over the commons?”

“Yes! He was always such a jokester!”

Yet, about an hour and a half later, when the waiter had stopped coming by and the giggles had fallen into a relaxed silence, she began subtly gathering her things.

Desperate to prolong his time with her, he cast about for something left to say, but had nothing but the truth. “You know, the real reason I sat out there every day,” he began, “was because I could barely see your apartment complex if I squinted.”

She fell still, eyes fixated on her frozen hands. He sensed he had ruined everything, but he had no choice now but to bumble on.

“365 days ago, I wanted to go to you immediately, but I stopped myself, saying I didn’t deserve you. I vowed to myself that only if I could sit outside in all the bitter elements for a full year would I then reconnect with you. I still don’t deserve you, but I know now this is not a passing faze and never will be. And I will respect your decision, whatever you make, but I want you to know that I lo—” he froze, and as her face shot up he cast around for another word, “—love spending time with you, and I will be your friend no matter what.”

Her gaze returned to her hands. “So that’s why you always sat out there. I always wondered but didn’t have the nerve to ask.”

She met his eyes, and he knew what she would say before she said it. “You’re a good man, Abe. Thank you for letting me know how you feel, and I admire your courage and bravery to talk about it in such a candid manner with me. But I loved my husband—I still do, even as he lies dead in a cold grave. I fear that if I moved on so soon, I would not be doing him justice.”

So soon? He had months in excruciating heat and cold waiting here for her, and it was too soon?

“I understand,” he said instead.

“Thank you…I have to go now, but it was good to see you again. Maybe we could do this again some time.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice."

“Okay…bye? See you later, Abe.”

“Bye.” He watched her leave—just as he had the last day of high school all those years ago, a joyous wave behind her and a skip in her step.

“See you later, Abe!” she had called.

“Tough luck, friend,” the waiter said, coming up beside him and drying his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Yeah, a Tetravis please.”

He closed his eyes and could still see her there, hear her voice, feel her hand in his. So soon… But for him, he had waited not one year, but forty.

When They Tell Me to Describe Home

By Asche Keegan

To an outsider, the beautiful brick house and the rose bushes where I spent my childhood would seem like a blessing and foretelling of an equally beautiful story within. Though the bricks are scuffed and worn and different colors, very few are cracked. The yard is mowed, and three rose bushes grow in front of the porch. They sway gently in the blustery winds of early spring. Though no professional gardening job, the place looks well-kept enough from the street—until you get closer and see the duck tape in the eaves where the birds and bees would nest, the orange yellow pumice meant to keep the insects out, and the brutally cracked and scuffed concrete running under the porch. Under the rosebushes is nothing but a tarp meant to keep the weeds out of the flowerbeds; there is only a small hole poked out for the bushes to grow in.

In my mind, I walk inside through the garage, as I always have, but on the other side of the laundry room Mom is waiting in her doorway, tirade ready on her lips. I stand there and listen as I always have, thoughts flying randomly, shoulders falling further and further under the weight of her abuse. The smell of soggy pizza pervades through the house from where my sister is cooking in the kitchen while she teaches my other sister how to spell the word, “multiplication,” and still I am here, listening in my mother’s doorway.

A realization strikes me as I picture the scene—I was never allowed to see the house on blustery spring mornings, and this entire process was solely an act created by the fanciful imaginings of my mind. With that the dream (or nightmare, you decide) fades away: the house, the pizza, my mother, and once more I am left in the empty universe of my mind. It is a sorry place, yet that is where my mind drifts when I think of home, and it is still better than wandering endlessly alone.

Disclaimer: 

This is not my own work, but rather a close-imitation writing exercise based on Jamaica Kincaid's short story, "Girl." The purpose of the exercise is to mimic the writing style of another author and simply replace key words and phrases with your own! I did this for my creative writing class - which I love - and liked it enough to share it here. Nevertheless, I would still count this as a journaling entry, though I suggest you read the original first. :) Enjoy!

What My Mother Taught Me (Close Imitation Exercise) 

By Asche Keegan

Order your textbooks on Monday and line them up against the wall; pack your book collection on Tuesday and put the boxes in the van; don’t check your phone; carry a pencil and a pen; forget about your friends after you take off; when taking notes to help you study, be sure that they aren’t scribbled over, because that way they won’t be legible after class; make toast when the cafeteria is closed; is it true that you socialize more than you study?; always spend your time in such a way that it won’t hurt your grades; On Sundays, try to act like an adult and not like the kid you’re so bent on remaining; don’t slouch when you’re talking to me; you shouldn’t speak when I’m talking, not even to give clarifications; don’t eat wheat – indigestion will follow you; but I don’t talk when you’re talking, and I never slouch; this is how to write a sentence; this is how to write an essay for the sentence you have just written; this is how to edit an essay so you can submit it on time and to prevent yourself from looking like the irresponsible kid you’re so bent on remaining; this is how you stay up late for hours every night so that you get all good grades; this is how you eat plenty of protein and vegetables so that you get all good grades; this is how you make pizza– far from my room, because the smell makes me sick; when you are teaching others, make sure they get plenty of sleep or else they won’t understand you when you are teaching it; this is how you multiply; this is how you divide; this is how you do a geometric proof; this is how you write a story you won’t like too much; this is how you write a story you don’t like at all; this is how to ruin a story you like completely; this is how you study during the day; this is how you study during the weekend; this is how you study during the weekend with a holiday; this is how you study during the night; this is how you study while you eat;

[...]

This is how to make the benchmark; always double-check your work to make sure it’s good; but what if I run out of time on the test?; you mean to say that you’re really going to be the type of kid that will run out of time on the test?

 

An Analysis of the Intrapersonal Persona

By Asche Keegan

“Tell me, I beg of you. Is it too late to find myself?”

I turn to the specter, solidifying before me even as we speak. Her red hair falls limply behind her shoulders, and I wonder how long it has been since she bathed. Deigning the sight not worth my time, I turn my back and stride away.

“Please!” she cries. “I want to discover who I am. I want to fix all the things that are wrong with me and build a world that is better for everyone that comes across it. I want to change the world, but I can’t like this. I’ve got so many things wrong with me…” Her voice cracks.

I pause and steal another look, and I find her on her knees behind me, hands clasped. Her head almost touches the ground, and her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

“You have too many things wrong with you for that,” I tell the girl. “You think you’ll be something great one day? Right now, you are nothing, just a spineless piece of filth who desperately needs a shower. You think you’re smart? You haven’t met smart people. You think you’re pretty? I don’t even have to show you why you're wrong with that.”

She continues to sob, but not an ounce of compassion stirs my soul. “I came to you for help,” she says. “Will you truly deny it to me?”

“Yes.”

“You are a wicked person.”

“Playground insults mean nothing to me.”

She shakes her head and pulls herself to her feet. “You can not feel. You’re a narcissist incapable of recognizing that someone else might be at the center of attention. You’re a rotting ball of greed and anger and cold pathological logic. You are emotionless, and you don’t even deserve to be called human. The forces that drive you are envy and the judgement of others. How you can be so foolish is beyond me.”

The words hit a nerve, I must admit, but I refuse to allow her the victory of seeing me hurt. “And your point is?”

She chokes back another sob of hate and sorrow then rushes at me, hands grasped to tackle me to the ground.

Easily, I swat her attack aside and seize her neck, lifting her up to my eye level. She writhes and croaks, the pathetic thing, and I contemplate how easy it would be to kill this small voice that does nothing but beg for things and condemn me. Yet, an unwelcome part of me protests the act of violence and I toss her aside instead.

“How dare you attack me,” I say.

“I—hate you,” she says, the vehemence in her voice fiercer than any I’ve ever heard.

“It looks like you have a bit of spine in you after all,” I say. Turning back, I stride away—to where I do not know. I only peer behind me once more to ensure that she has evaporated just as she came. 

Summoning a rock to support my weight, I sit exhausted against it. In this moment of rest, the insults come flooding back, the attacks, the cruelty of what was said.

The last time I had been called a narcissist I was weak, and she had been the one to take control. As the memories replayed again and again, I shoved them away, refusing to acknowledge that once she had been strong, and I had been the vagrant pushed to the side. Once more she dredged up the insults that hurt the most, for only she could have known the pain her words could cause.

Pathological, I can understand, and though what heart is left in me yearns to unfurl itself within my chest, I refuse to allow it. Emotions make me weak, and empathy is a tool for pawns. I wonder what the others would think if they saw me here, and I almost choke as her condescending words come back to me. "The forces that drive you are envy and the judgement of others."

I can not focus on these thoughts now or they will be the death of me, I realize.

Limp red hair falls around me as I lean back on the stone, and I contemplate how foolish one must be to destroy themselves from the inside out.

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.

Reckless Love
By Asche Keegan

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

By Asche Keegan