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.

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.

By Asche Keegan

 

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.

By Asche Keegan

 

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.