Hello everybody :) I'm currently on an online-hiatus but that's only because I can't access even blogger at home or my personal laptop and that I need to catch up on school work. But I've been working out the creative side of myself more and further intend to. So, if I just post my useless writing dabbles that just means I'm alive and that I'm attending school too (since I have to use the school computer)...basically, its a win-win kind of thing.

Here, in the heart of that easily comparable to hell, was a child with no name. And like proper lost children, they shall forever be nameless among the elders—those scrupulous watchers, criticizing, yet never giving those judgments a voice…

Even the child’s dreams are critical—never-ending—and cruel. So strong in vivacity that it may not even be a dream, but reality in its purest form.

It never changes. From the moment he’d closed his eyes, to the moment he’d opened them again; there was no solace. The days were stretched, the air, humid and pungent. Even in the shade of the forest, the heat crept up from the ground instead. It was inescapable.

He stood, wavering in step. He could’ve held onto the branches of the felled tree nearby, but that was what he’d been doing every time he woke.

There has to be something else I can do, he thought. But there was no change after all. The boy had a meek frame and a cloudy sense of place—as was his condition every time—but today, he felt worse. Gripping the branch with his left, he doubled over the trunk to remedy the pain resounding in his head. This is similar to a great wave, he assured himself, violently crashing upon the shore then, receding quietly from the depths from whence it came…

But, unlike the wave, and his eager anticipation of the pain behaving similarly to it, it did not go away.

All energy was lost.

Stepping away from the tree, the boy lost consciousness.

“I know he’s here somewhere…”

“Ashlynn!”

Ashlynn slowed her steps, looking back through the greenery she had just passed. Lysander was always so slow. “Come on!” she yelled in the same direction, hands at her hips.

“Ashlynn…why so fast?” Lysander remarked, dusting the sleeves of his coat, “There’s nothing around here—”

“Yes, there is,” she said. “Are you blind? There’s someone here… I know it.”

Lysander didn’t reply. Of course he’d seen someone, but it was none of his business. Why deal with someone obviously who wants to be alone?

Ashlynn believed the latter: that wanting to be alone is the same as not wanting to live anymore. She knew full well that Lysander saw who she was talking about, but unlike feigning ignorance, Ashlynn watched this figure and the obvious hell they were going through. Everyday, at the seemingly same hour, Ashlynn saw this haunted figure wander about the same path, murmuring to themselves, making contact with the same objects upon this path.

Like Lysander, she didn’t bother with the person, but their visage had stuck itself permanently within her mind. Now she saw this person without even spotting them physically. Ashlynn felt a bond—though minor—with this person and she wanted, almost an obligation, to help them. At least, know what drove them to pursue the same path consecutively.

Ashlynn pushed away the foliage that constantly blocked her path, or snagged the ends of her sleeves. She found herself getting frustrated, not only at Lysander’s sluggish movements, but also at herself. She had failed the first time they’d met so why should she try again? They didn’t want help. They didn’t even bat an eyelash at her presence, only paused momentarily, gave her a strange look, and moved on…

…It must have been awhile—she was near the trail when she slowed yet again, choosing careful steps to scale the steep bank that blocked it—since he last saw something so different. Why else would he look at me like that?

Ashlynn blinked. She looked to the left: nobody. To the right: not a soul.

“Where?” Ashlynn said, a little frantic. “Where did you go?”

She jumped.

Daggers, no, talons, had pierced her left shoulder.

The creature was equally surprised, breaking away from Ashlynn. It executed a full 180 around her head before landing on Ashlynn’s outstretched arm, raising a blindingly white wing to clean.

“Strange that I’ve never seen you around before,” she remarked softly.

The bird stopped as Lysander emerged, exhausted from climbing the embankment. With a squawk, it took to the air, circled the area above the two and directed its flight to the right, keeping to the path. Its cry echoing as it got farther and farther…

Ashlynn ran after it.

Lysander heaved a sigh. “First she takes me through the damned jungle” —he shook his head— “now it’s a bird! A bird, cousin! Dammit, has everybody gone mad?”

Lysander, as much to his dismay, hurried after Ashlynn.

But there may be, among that silent crowd, one who empathizes and understands the nameless child. Strong in will and magnanimous in heart, who desire nothing more than that child’s happiness but are unsure of what drives them to such a decision...

When the child wanders far, far, far away… They will be the ones who hold them back and say five words, as if in a spell: “You should never wander alone.”

Yet the child, used to the neglect, cannot comprehend these words, thus, runs from the orator—unaware of the truth underneath.

How can the child help it? It sounded more like a warning than advice.

Darkness, save for one lit spot. There shone a closed coffin. In his possession was a white rose. He approached the coffin, hesitant.

There was none of that scorching heat, no heavy atmosphere. Instead of his hair being plastered to his forehead, it was neat and parted to one side. His attire, though not stuck to his skin, remained the same; funeral attire.

Before his eyes, the coffin opened, deliberate, as if actual hands orchestrated this movement but there were no others besides him here… Now that this thought came up, weeping could be heard. There were several, the sounds melding together, resonant in this inscrutable space—replacing the previous ambiance to that of a cramped closet.

Stopping, he zealously glanced around at the unseen procession, desiring some glimpse of their sadness. Nothing.

The flower’s stem was at its breaking point, until finally…snap!

His eyes widened as he watched.

The coffin abruptly shut, fading amongst the darkness as the weeping and voices disappeared…

The atmosphere was liberated.

Then there was the flower…when, upon making contact to the ground, turned, from ephemeral white, to ghastly scarlet. Subsequent to this transformation, the petals liquefied and spread upon the dark backdrop till it held dominance over everything…

In this red room he stood stock still.

In this red room there was no will or strength.

Forever, the red, the very essence of his guilt, is the thread that binds his cross.

He woke to a familiar sound, a screeching in the distance.

“Ansel?” The word first came unfamiliar, and then the sound came again. By then, he remembered Ansel to be a name. “Ansel, here!” With a renewed vigor—somehow forgetting the recent fainting episode—he stood with his arm out, whistling in order for the bird to pinpoint his location.

The bird swerved between two trees, slowed, then landed. Ansel’s talons were sharp but the pain was welcomed as a distraction from the return of the blasted heat.

He enjoyed the presence of the bird, for, in his usual isolation, there was naught else to talk to. But when Ansel came along, looking like something sent from the heavens, the temperature became bearable and his spirits were temporarily lifted.

His dream, however, had stirred doubt in him. He was worried, that this creature too, as white as the rose he had held, would suffer a similar fate; that Ansel would leave but never return, if not the same Ansel as in the past. There had to be some way to make him stay, only to make this loneliness bearable, only to…

His thoughts were disturbed by the surfacing of a girl, a familiar face but he couldn’t exactly tell when or where…

“You,” she said uneasily, “do you…remember me?”

Her standing there, timid in frame and outlook but with strange lively eyes…implanted a shamefulness within him. How was he supposed to react to this girl, impervious to the dreadful temperature and is not the least bit exhausted—especially in such thick attire!

“Well?” she asked, her voice rising, “Are you mute or are you pretending to be?”

“I talk,” he said disdainfully, “but what gives you the right to address me as a familiar?”

He was right. Ashlynn, on a whim, thought something would awaken in him, a realization of something; that bond she feels, but he cannot? There was something not right here but she had to fix this first.

“Then tell me your name” —Ashlynn stepped towards him, he took a step back— “Why do you run?”

He was shaking his head, ready to get away if she came nearer. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What?”

“Why are you here? You shouldn’t be anywhere near me”—he looked at Ansel suspiciously— “Did Ansel lead you here?”

“The bird? Yes…and no.”

“Speak, I beg you to!” He was suddenly furious now.

“Last time, when I met you,” Ashlynn began, suddenly conscious of that strange look in his eyes, “I asked you what you were doing. You didn’t respond to anything I said so, when we parted ways, I wanted to forget you. But—”

“Yes? What is it you want? If you’ve got something to say—”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you! There, I said it, now what’s wrong? Are you not used to being around people? Is there something on your mind that’s bugging you? Are you sick? I want to know, otherwise, I will not leave.”

Ashlynn’s sincerity in her speech affected her more than she wanted. At times her voice would falter and reach a note that would be unpleasant if that was the normal tone of her voice. But her struggles were for naught. Sincerity did not bode well for him; instead, it further fueled his anger. Though the direction of that anger was not definite. There was the girl of course, and her honesty, and then there was Ansel, who led such a magnanimous soul to him.

Now the girl had begun to cry, right at the exact moment when another appeared. He too was clad in winter clothing, and of the same demeanor of the girl: both were unaffected by the weather.

“Ashlynn what’s wrong?” Lysander neared his weeping cousin, trying to peer at her face, but she was covering it with her hands. “What happened?”

“She was asking if anything was wrong with me, and that she would not leave unless I told her” —he noticed Ashlynn calm down, quite the opposite compared to the one next to her— “You can hear me, correct? Then listen well… There is nothing wrong with me. And, if there ever was, you two have no business of knowing it and should know better than to meddle and disturb other people’s affairs. Now, good-bye.”

At the last word, he turned from the two and began walking.

“Hold on a minute—”

Ashlynn tugged at Lysander’s sleeve, stopping him from continuing any further. Ashlynn may have made him go through, if not, half this entire forest just trying to talk to this guy again, but he didn’t want to see her sad. He decided to attempt, at least, to break free from Ashlynn’s grip in order to catch up with him, but Ashlynn only tugged harder.

“Just let him go Lysander, some people are just as stubborn as you are.”

“Ansel, Ansel, Ansel…I often wondered when you’d go away forever but forever can do nothing but incarcerate me into hell. What is there to live for when everything you see and that which we hide within ourselves will eventually consume you? When that time comes, I will not be alone; I will not carry that burden by myself. That’s why you cannot go, no matter how much you struggle Ansel, there will always be a time when you’re wings shall be clipped and you will fly nevermore, for isn’t that what makes us different? I, cursed to stay upon this wretched ground while you can come and go as you like? And then you bring her along… This suffering is mine and mine alone…and it’s all because of you!”

“You will never let this go Ashlynn, and I don’t want to be bothered every minute about it. Follow him if you must. He and I may be stubborn, but so are you.”

It was because of Lysander’s last remark that now drove Ashlynn after him. She had thought much of how futile this attempt could be, to further drill him for answers that he probably did not know himself; but if it came to that she would just deal with it then. Overall, there was no plan, just a curiosity that needed to be satisfied. Now there was no denying that here was quite a peculiar fellow, and she wanted to know more about him at any cost.

Ashlynn had long been out of the heart of the forest, but he was nowhere to be seen. It shouldn’t have been difficult, now that yards upon yards of yellow soil was now what divided this fading section of forest to another far off in the horizon. So far, upon surveying this stretch of land, there was no sign of him or the bird.

The bird… Ansel! Ashlynn mimicked the way he whistled, as well as his stance upon receiving Ansel. But there was no reply, no squawk or screech, nor was there the flapping of wings. Just an eerie silence.

“He’s gone.” Ashlynn turned around, meeting a disheveled version of the haughtiness she had witnessed before. His eyes were focused on the ground, lifeless and dull, his hands hidden in his pockets, and his shirt showed evidence of blood being wiped and splattered upon.

The answer was clear in his eyes, there was physical evidence on his clothes, but she wanted to hear him say it. “Where is he?” She slowly approached him, afraid that he might back away again, but he didn’t. Only, he looked at her with sadness and offered her a hand, covered with a white handkerchief, soiled and…moving? Ashlynn motioned to lift the cloth but he swiftly withdrew it. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He gave a sad smile. “I took it because I was going to suffer by myself. Even when I first struck him, this was still beating, still…alive. But…now it’s going away”—he offered it again— “I’m shameless. I keep thinking that there’s no point to show it when, in your soul, you know full well what it is already but I do want to show it. I want to see how you’d react to the truth.”

Ashlynn was seconds away from removing the handkerchief, her eyes fixated on the dying cadence of what she thought as Ansel’s heart…but she did not to take the offer. “What truth are you talking about?”—her eyes met his—“Your speaking in tongues I don’t understand.”

The saddest smile he could muster curved his lips, for, in those brief seconds, his hand shut like a trap, silencing the cadence for eternity.

“We cannot save each other, nor can we hope to be free of our guilt. When we run, we trample over the lives of innocents like the demons of olde, forgetting who we were and what we did before we changed. I say this to you because you sought me out, sought out this sad truth, you’ve found out what’s been ailing me… Now, get away from here. I told you already, you’re not supposed to be here.”

He turned to leave again, but Ashlynn took hold of his wrist. “But I want to stay. You put yourself in this hell, you and I both know it, but you don’t have to—”

Pain engulfed his mind yet again, more potent than the one before…

Everything went dark.

Fire. Fire consuming the forest. Serpentine pillars of smoke filling the blue, granting the land a momentary reprieve from the sun’s rays—though an ominous shade. But this wasn’t the case with him. Though they were among the heart of the fire, there was no essential feeling of the flames surrounding them.

He had thought, no, assumed, that in his plight for suffering alone, she would leave. To his surprise, she didn’t, and even held him dearly when he had fainted yet again. He couldn’t understand this, or why she had on such a strange smile as she too slept.

There was violence around them, he had committed a violent act, it only seemed fitting to end as such… But she was here, lulling him back to sleep, away from the hellish scene with the rhythm of her heart.

“The missus is busy, the mister is busy…everybody, including myself! It’s difficult having to take care of their boy as well, and right after such a loss…and he is such a nice boy, though a bit strange… Why? Doesn’t the missus have a heart anymore?”

Mareen had been mumbling to herself, but only due to that fact that the study was a long way from the front door. Due to her irritation, she barged into the study without knocking.

“Mein Gott!” Mareen paused at the doorway, tsk-ed as she rolled up her sleeves and retrieved the water pitcher upon the desk. No water.

Before leaving to procure some, she shook the blanketed frame of Gregory—questioning why he’d even don a blanket when the fire was about ready to burst from the hearth.

He didn’t stir. Mareen, used to being tough on the boy, knocked the side of his head with the side of the pitcher, almost knocking him out of his seat. Now he moved, a tremulous hand resting on the afflicted area.

“Ansel…” he whispered, hurt.

Mareen’s expression softened, setting the pitcher back before removing the blanket from Gregory’s shoulders. “Still miss him eh? Gregory, I understand that your loss is great but you cannot dwell on the past. Hansel is in a better place now… Do you understand, boy?” He nodded. “Good and I thought you were old enough to realize that, with your learning and your books…”—she procured from her pocket, a handkerchief to dab the sweat on her brow— “Now what is this here? What’s this map for?”

Gregory, though a little hazy in vision, cleared his throat. Upon inspecting the spread of books about him, and the map Mareen was pointing to, he remembered reading about war tactics, then to reading about different regions—he happened to stop on an area called the Tropics—which he vaguely explained to her. Then, when finally being able to recall what he read, he directed her attention to a certain book. He explained the pictures and diagrams, the after-effects, causes and purposes of an abandoned agricultural practice: slash-and-burn; save for a few areas in rainforests that happen to be in the Tropics themselves.

At the end, Mareen was a bit confused with what he had dictated, but he couldn’t blame her, for his mind was wandering, trying to gather the pieces of what he had dreamt. But the more he tried to recall it, the more he could not understand.

“Well, I don’t know about farming myself, but your friends keep coming by and asking for you,” Mareen said, taking the pitcher again, “Now, I know it isn’t my business but, seeing your enthusiasm, I think you should go with them. They’re worried you know?”

“About what?”

“What do you mean: ‘About what?.’ Gregory, weeks ago, we held a funeral for Hansel, your friends came but you didn’t. Since then, you’ve been here, studying, and they come by everyday asking about you. Did you get lost Gregory? Because when you immerse yourself in your work, you lose time for what is precious. Well? Did you?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say lost Maman. I lost my way, maybe, but I didn’t lose myself.”

“I don’t think we should argue about this Gregory—”

“I’m not—”

“Yes you are. You’re old enough to forget that you can still be a child. Gregory, books can tell you facts and stories but you can never truly experience them. Read as much as you like, read the entire library if you must, but it doesn’t mean you’ve actually done anything the writer had to go through in order to write it. Take the subject of your Tropics. Somebody had to map the world and go there and learn about it. Have you done those things? It’s easy Gregory; to get lost in this big world, for it is none other than big, and all the books in the world can write about it and even fantasize about it, but you’re young, enjoy it. And I say this because I’m old and weary. I don’t want to see young ones like you lose out on life because they feel like they can be martyrs for knowledge.” Mareen observed the place before taking her leave, “Now… I’ll be back with water. And while you’re at it, you should freshen up. I won’t take No for an answer, I mean it, you’d better be gone by the time I get back.” With a wag of her finger, she turned the corner and was gone.

Gregory stood from the desk, loosening his collar. He walked to the middle of the room, keeping his eye on the fireplace. Sparks flew as the timber collapsed upon the tier below it… If there was something to remember about his dream, it was the unbearable temperature and the stifling air—which seemed true considering he kept the window and door closed. Digging further, beyond the dream, he unearthed the events of yesterday. Reading and frequent naps, as well as it being a rather cold night—snow was falling—which would explain the excess of firewood… So far so good. The desk contained nothing more than pens, books smothering pieces of paper, a fluffy white feather…

He took this, spinning it with his index and thumb, grinning.

Splash!

Gregory tucked the feather in his pocket as Mareen opened the window, letting in a cool refreshing air. He recognized that sight, fresh snow.

“At least you’re up, that’s a start. Here,” Mareen held before Gregory two roses devoid of thorns, red and white, “you’ll need them. Stop blushing; you look so strange, like your brother. When he blushed, the blood rushed to his ears… Ah, I remember this”—Mareen took the feather from Gregory’s pocket—“Hansel and Gretel—”

“And I’d always be Gretel Maman, and he’d make fun of me because I had to be the girl, then we’d fight about who gets to be whom…”

“Aha, so you do remember!” she returned the feather and went to tidying up the desk, “Have a fun time today Gregory, say Hello to Hansel for me and Thank that sweet girl too. She told me herself that a relative of hers was sick, but she comes here anyways…”

“Alright, I will,” he replied, “Oh, and Maman, I wasn’t lost. Hansel saved me…and Ashlynn, they both did.”

Mareen smiled and waved Gregory off.

And when the time comes for that child to realize that the orator had only good intentions when saying those words—through much trial and tribulation—they shall return to those who stepped from the crowd with gratitude. For upon giving them that chance, to think over their previous convictions, that nameless child may as well not be among those nameless anymore.