#wip draft

The world stopped being beautiful a long time ago. Gone were the days of fragrant flowers, towering trees, lush grass, and blue skies. All that's left sickly greens and yellows, bare trees, and skies that were always grey.

Anna does not feel loss over this. She does not understand what the elders of her town moan about. What do they mean? The grass has always crumbled between her fingertips, the trees do not give anything but wood that cannot burn, and the skies were never an unnatural shade of blue. How silly of them to fall into fantasies and the shortcomings of old age.

Crossing the ditch, Anna balances on the rocks, careful not to fall. The words of her father rings in her head. Do not touch water that is born from the earth. It is cursed and will kill you if it has the chance. Never touch it, it will kill you.

Away from the source of curses, Anna runs out of the woods and back into the town where she is immediately greeted by smiles and warm welcomes. A woman give her a biscuit, a man gives her a jug of water, and that strange woman gives her a strained smile. She accepts them all and does her best to touch their hands as she was instructed to by her mother. As soon as she’s done, she waves goodbye and runs back to her house where her mother would be waiting for her.

The hill is no challenge for her small legs. She’s lived there her entire life and the steep incline no longer bothers her as it did when she was four. She’s eight now which means she’s a big girl! Everyone says so, so it must be true.

When she reaches her house, she leaves the slingshot outside the porch knowing her mother will scold her if she brings it in. She removes her shoes and makes sure it’s left all tidy along the boots of her mother. She steps inside and runs upstairs, eager to show her mom what she found in the forest.

As always, her mother is in her room, back against the doorframe, shaking and making herself look smaller. Anna stomps her foot and like clockwork, she watches her mother stiffen and moves her hands towards her face. When she turns around, her eyes are brimmed red like always and the locket father gave her before he left is gone from her neck.

“Anna, you’re back,” her mother signs. “Where did you go?”

“To the forest. Look!” Anna takes the gemstone she found from the forest out from her pocket and holds it out in the palm of her hand.

A frown twists in her mother’s face but she takes the gemstone with light fingers. “Which side of the forest did you go to?” She asks.

“The southside. But I went close to the west.” Anna replies. “Why?”

Her mother makes no reply, mouth unmoving as she stares at the bright blue gemstone. Then she looks at Anna and starts to sign again.

“The sky was blue like this gemstone before. That is what the elders taught us,” her mother makes her child sit down on the bed and continues to stand as she signs. “In my childhood, the sky was not as dark as it is now. Perhaps what they say is true. But blue is a beautiful color, is it not?”

Her mother hands her back the gemstone and tucks it tight. Anna nods slowly, still doubtful but curious now.

“The sky changed?” Anna asks.

“There were times when the clouds would not block the sun. It’s harder to see the sun now.” Her mother smiles. “Go to your room and change into better clothes. I’ll make dinner.”

Anna nods and runs out to her room, throwing off her dust-ridden clothes and changing into the white dress that the seamstress gave her a week ago. It’s strange how everyone treats her so well when everyone else lives so badly.

The rest of the day goes as usual. Her mother makes them beef stew, she helps her wash the dishes, they set the machine outside to draw more water from the sky, and then her mother tucks her in her bed, pressing a kiss on her forehead before leaving.

To Mike Morgan, nonetheless, the scene was nothing more than a crude and prosaic representation of what was already obvious. A plumb haze that undressed in front of his eyes as he walked. What did these children with their fingers glued to the glass dream about while they gazed out at the shop windows? Did anyone ever warn them of the reality behind the horror of the party? Would they be angry when they discovered the—oh, hilarious yet true—dark truth? Blissful reality! The weeping eyes and the disjointed smirk on their faces; the dazzling fact woven through the lights and the recesses of the mistletoe; the dreams left on the mantelpiece; the promises fading away with exuberant cadence. How guilty were those parents? The proverbial and everlasting tradition that began, whose origin was ignored by most.

It was not until the early years of five that Mike Morgan met Christmas. He burst under his bed and stuffed it with lots of messy questions that no one had answers to. In his childlike soul the deceptions were not allowed; the inconsistencies. Ah, the candor of childhood! She cautiously manifests herself and runs away like the cowards in war. His spirit of seeking the truth drew him into a grim yet true journey, and so, time later, Mike too came to understand the tricky reality that surrounded them.

Hands in his jeans, Mike Morgan was sliding along the winding road. A shabby backpack and a knapsack on his left shoulder. The instructions previously received by an average gentleman were crowding into his mind in haphazard fashion. Words slipped through his fingers and fell into an abysmal pond from which they could not be rescued; and the images of a map he had picked up at the airport (which he later threw into a rubbish bin) were blurring with each other. Eventually, he moved to the right side and a vast boulevard parallel to the beach—Main Beach, if he remembered well—was opened before him. He marched with an unyielding step, staring at the sea; the waves; the fine sand; the sun; the birds. His face was trimmed against the gloomy rays of the sun, which added to his stout figure. A thin layer of sweat formed behind his neck, which he attempted to rid himself of with harsh rubbing. His scowl at the sun’s stinging, the sole of his muddy slippers and the jeans that slackened on his knees; it was the epitome of Mike Morgan.

Flocks of snow gulls flocked to the shores of Main Beach, hovering laboriously among the trash bins, clamoring for every crumb. The swell whipped up against the rocks, which clumped together on one side; it lashed out with spite, soaring in majesty with each onslaught. The pristine beauty of the waves! The pristine waves! The scant greenery bobbed to the sound of the wind, nestled in certain nooks and crannies on the beach. It danced with him, danced Viennese waltzes, were dedicated harmonic and yearning tunes, like two lovers’ victims of passion. He kissed him so sweetly.

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