Young Writers Society

Contrary to popular belief, having a small number of real friends is not better than having a large number of artificial friends. Personally, I prefer having no friends, but sometimes you get sucked into a group. So then, I believe in the latter option. Who wants real friends when the “forever” in “BFF” is always just a lie?

The best thing about artificial friends is that it doesn’t hurt as much when they die.

Or, at least, you can pretend that it doesn’t.

My artificial group of friends was half Drowners, half regular social rejects. Some of the Drowners were open about their sinking, but some of them – those similar to Brody – still wore masks, and the rest of us pretended like we couldn’t see them.

We didn’t hang out much during the school year, because we were often too busy trying not to slam our heads on our perfectly polished classroom desks, but we got together during the summer a lot, mostly because there was nothing else to do.

I never instigated any of these hang out sessions, but I was on the receiving end of the invites. They were usually “hey, party at Smitty’s,” or “Zeb’s got firecrackers. U in?” or even just “wanna smoke?” – much like the one I had received that afternoon while sitting on the porch in the mid-July heat.

I’m surrounded by piles of books, one open in my lap, when my phone buzzes. Picking it up I read, “found some cigars, don’t wanna smoke alone.”

Typing back a quick “beach, 20 mins” to let my friend know where I’ll be, I race into the house and pull on a random swim suit and shorts.

Not bothering to write a note or let my parents know where I’m going, I hop on my bike in the garage and started peddling. The day is fairly hot, and the sun kisses my earlobe, the soothing heat spreading down my neck and onto my back. A calm breeze teases the ends of my hair, picking up the locks and making them dance.

I keep peddling and the lines on the sidewalk sprint the opposite way, a mirage of squares tip-toeing out from under me. I take a turn too sharp, but it feels good. The cars are painted bright blues and reds, and they glide over the street like they’re flying machines. The quiet, soothing day whispers sweet nothings in my ears, taking a certain weight off my shoulders.

The beach comes into view, the dark blue water of the ocean meeting the light blue horizon of the sky. Their edges hold hands. The sun watches, pleased in its perch between the fluffy clouds.

See what you’re missing? I say to everyone who’s not here to witness the friendship taking place in the sky above us. Don't you wish you were here, Brody. I try not to sound bitter when I think it.

I park my bike at the base of a sand dune, hidden behind some beach grass. The Drowners prefer the private part of the beach, even though we'd be written up if they cops ever found us there.

We called it the Abyss, even though it was far from that. Instead of a deep chasm, it was actually the peak of the rocky highlands. Surrounding the large alcove that the beach had been made in was a rocky ledge. On one side were the city and roads and on the other, rocks and trees went for miles before coming up to another city.

Before stepping further into the crumbling sand dunes, I took off my shoes. I made my way to the Abyss, crawling up the sand to get to the rocky entrance to the forest. After being coped up in my room for the past couple of days, it smelled fresh and heavenly, clearing my head and reminding me to turn off my filter. There wasn't a reason to regulate my words when there was no one to talk to.

The trees in the forest were tall and spaced out, leaves only deciding to peak out towards the top. They were set in a way that created a sort of path, and I walked along it quietly. It had been sunny and warm on the beach, the sand heated by the warmth of the sun, but the protective ceiling the tree canopies provided made it cooler. The dirt below my bare feet was cold, rocks and small twigs digging at my toes as I walked. My chest felt light.

As I headed closer and closer to the Abyss, the waves of the ocean below pounded harder and harder against the rocks. I could picture them gliding through one another, racing to be the first one to shore.

I push past the last few trees and without warning, I'm some fourth feet above the ocean. While in the woods, there is an almost unnoticeable incline, which makes for a stellar view once you reach the top.

My feet, still shoeless, step across the rocky cliff to the girl sitting on the edge of it, waiting. Her feet dangle off because she's not afraid of dying. Her inky black hair is in a bun, but a few pieces escape, being tugged around by the wind. She is pale, almost pale enough to hide the white scars on her arms and ankles.

"Ash," I say, and she turns her head. She's got a small, pointed noise matched with unsettlingly large, grey eyes and thin lips.

"What took you so fucking long?" She asks in reply.

Ash is the closest thing I have to a best friend. Her real name is Ashley, but people got into the habit of calling us Ashes and Embers, so she goes by strictly Ash now. We met in fifth grade and became friends when Tommy Sommeral pushed her on the playground. She told him right where he could shove it and flipped him the bird.

She's a Drowner because of her mom, who committed suicide four years ago. And drowning is something that is often inherited through generations, people sending the waves of the ocean through their blood and onto their children. Now Ash is stuck with her dad, who gambles away their money at the casino every weekend.

I sit down next to her, my legs criss-crossed under me, deliberately further away from the ledge than she is.

"It smells like flowers," she comments. I glance around the clearing, observing a few lilac bushes near the trees. "I hate flowers."

"You got the smokes?" I ask when I can't find anything else to say. She pulls out a small, metal box and opens the lid. Two cigars lay like dead bodies in a grave. She plucks one out and hands it to me. I hold it between my fingers.

Ash always had a depressing aura surrounding her. Occasionally she'd have good days but mostly they were bad. She was the kind of person who never thought about the future, preferring to live in the here and now. "Why'd I want to think of myself ten years from know?" She'd say. "I'll just get more depressed." I couldn't disagree. Thinking of adult Ember made my chest constrict.

Ash pulls a huge cloud of air into her lungs and collapses backwards, legs still dangling over the edge, back resting on the patchy ground. I light my cigar carefully, popping open the Zippo and cranking the tiny metal wheel until a flame eruptes from the tip. It sways and dances with the breeze, that flame, and only stops for a moment to stare at me, to stare at the cigar, to pass on it's joyous energy to the cigar, and to disappear as I close the lighter, banishing the flame to be alone forever.

The butt of the cigar was shining; it was glowing red even though it was being drowned out by the light of the sun. I put it to my lips and sucked the smoke into my mouth. I never inhaled it into my lungs, just let it tease the surface of my tongue before I shoved it back out into the world through clenched teeth.

"You're a pussy smoker," Ash says from next to me. "You know that right?"

I glance at her for a moment, uncross my legs, swing them over the edge, and plop down next to her. "Sorry I don't want lung cancer."

She makes a noise that sounds like a laugh and a cough and a "hmm" all in one.

She stops for a moment, thinking, and takes the longest drag I've ever seen from the tip of the cigar. The red tip burns bright as it withers away. She inhales the smoke for more than a few seconds until I'm sure her lungs are burning and her head is dizzy. Then she stops, pauses, and blows it all out, slow and steady like she's winning a race. The smell of it climbs into my nose and the rest becomes the world around us.

"I wonder how long it takes to die of lung cancer," she says.

I pretend I don't know why she's asking or why she's so interested.

"Doesn't matter," I say back. "You could die any day. You could die tomorrow."

She laughs, loud and fake. "Yes, and how blissful it would be to finally get away."

A sad breeze teases the ends of my hair, picking them up and making them waltz to empty music.

We sit like that for a moment, staring out into the blue water. An emotion that I've been avoiding crashes into me, suddenly, and I try to ignore it. I feel like I'm not above the waves, but beneath them.

Please don't die, is my mantra, but I don't know who I'm talking to anymore.

The sky has gotten significantly darker in the past few moments. Clouds are coming in from behind us, splitting the sky in half.

"Should have checked the weather," Ash says. "I hate smoking in the rain."

I hated smoking, period.

Contradicting myself, I put the cigar to my lips again and taste the fiery smoke. I huff and the smoke blows out like mist over water. Tapping the cigar, I watch the ash from the end of the cig split off and billow off the edge of the cliff.

Ash has long since finished her cigar, huffing until it was too small to hold anymore. She's staring at the sky, at the lighter blue mixing with the darker blue.

"Ash," I start.

"Please don't talk about Brody, Ember. Please."

It's a whisper of a sentence just as I'm a whisper of a girl. It barely enters the world, and hangs there like a broken limb.

"Ash-"

"Ember."

And the water looks very inviting. And the ground looks very hard. And the people on the beach look like aunts. And everything's getting blurry and I don't understand why until a droplet falls from my eye and splatters onto my bare leg. And then another one, onto the dirt, mixing in to make the tiniest bit of mud. And I lean forward because there's a pressure in my chest that's devouring me and more droplets fall fall fall drip drip drip out of my eyes and down down down onto my broken limbs and my shaking fingers, and down into the water below. They take ages to make it to their destination. They flee from my brokenness and hurt.

"Ember."

And I see a body and it's not mine it's his, hanging by a rope a chord a belt a something. And it flashes into my eyes again and again and I can't get rid of the image and it's not blurry like the rest of the world because it's not the world - it's in my head, but just because something's in your head doesn't mean it's not real.

"Ember."

And I'm in Ash's arms even though Ash isn't a comforting human. And she's shushing me and stroking my hair and I think she's crying too. There's a crack of thunder and a stop drop and roll of lighting. And the angry sea pulls at the blurry sky, begging the angry clouds not to drop it into the dark abyss below.

And suddenly it's raining souls.