Cradle’s Story

With a lingering pain in his chest, Cradle walked down the moist sidewalk, next to the bus stop, scarcely trying to recall what his life had been like, long ago. A cigarette in his mouth, he knew he was to die, however he never quite expected that it would be like such. The streets were dark and void of anything, or anyone. It wasn’t quite the same as it was when he was alive, however, his only contentment was that in this life, death was not to come again, and that whatever he did here didn’t deteriorate his body. If he’d shot himself, he wouldn’t misplace his life, it’d be right there where he left it, in his body. At least that’s what he could expect, after attempting to poison himself futilely.

“Son of a bitch.” He said with a slight musical atonement that would relate words to actions unintended. He dropped the cigarette from his mouth as he flung the creature off his shoulder. It was a centipede, a small one, red and brown, and it left a lingering double-dotted bite mark on his neck. To think that God or whoever was the creator of this damned place would think of a less nuisance infested world. Checking his pocket, for the hard cardboard pack of his endeared vice, he found no refuge in the embers of burning tobacco.

“Motherfucker.” He said, rubbing the sore wound that would never fester into a malicious disease, recalling how his antiquated body was like, long ago. Immersed in the thought, he recalled his dying mother, ill to the bone with a barrage of incurable diseases thanks to her line of work. He recalled his father, who had died on his 19’th birthday, quite some years ago. He recalled his two sisters, who had moved on with life, slowly decaying as time passed by; as they lived their lives without him. His wife was pregnant, and such was the case during his past life. Averting his trail of thought from the dismembered memories of what once was, he returned to his current, and yet similarly distorted life.

“Asshole.” He mentioned to the creator, who was clearly nowhere near him, or so he thought. If there ever was a creator, and they’d met, he would probably have attempted a homicide. The next pack of cigarettes would be at the convenience store uphill, and it would be a ten minute walk over. Checking his watch, he noticed that he still had 15 minutes before the store closed. Undisclosed to his line of sight, there was an old man, around mid 80’s, with a long gray beard that draped over his chest, wrung tightly against the man’s suit. A large gut hung from the man’s centre, which made the man’s breathing more incandescent as it moved, shifting shadow and mass. The man had quite the formal look with a tie bulging from beneath the dark double-breasted coat he wore. It was fairly unnoticeable until:

“One want?” Said the man, startling Cradle. Cradle winced over in shock.

“Want what?” Cradle replied, tossing the empty pack towards the filthy sidewalk, encompassed with litter.

“A cigarette.” The man said, offering an open soft pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning cackled its worst. The man was sitting on a dilapidated bench in the bus stop, a paper bag next to him with what surely contained a bottle of some oddly branded liquor. The cigarette pack claimed that it was detrimental to one’s health, and a physically dangerous substance. The irony of tobacco, its enemies, and its users. It never ceased to let a smile drip from Cradle’s face, and this time was no exception.

“Sure.” He said taking one from the pack. Why wait when he could satisfy his cravings now?

“Thanks. I needed one.” He added, lighting the stick.

“Sit, sonny. Listen.” The man offered. Seeing as he wasn’t going to do anything quite productive, although that didn’t perturb him, for the rest of his miserable second chance at life, he sat down. Luckily he died with just over 3 billion dollars in his hand, and it remained with him through the afterlife, if this was the afterlife.

“Alright.” He said, sitting down, next to the old man. The old man took a swig from the bottle in the paper bag, and released a self satisfying sigh that seemed to echo down the streets. Haunting in a way, although he knew that nobody was hurt here, a chill rose against his spine, the tingling sensation reminding him of his former life. Quite close, however, nothing here was ever quite the same. Everything was extensively bland, to the point of being hackneyed, but at least there was some little taste left.

“What’s a nice night like you doing on a guy like this?” The old man drunkenly asked, turning to Cradle with such familiar green eyes.

“Well, I don’t know about the night, but I’m pretty sure I was walking home when you offered me this.” He replied, holding out the cigarette.

“Heh. Well, nobody doing knows what they’re here anymore. Even I don’t… Anyway, the name’s Earl. A meeting you pleasure.”

“An equal pleasure to meet you. Are you drunk, or do you just have some grammar issues?”

“Well, since ever I blew my head from the brain, I’ve funny been talkin’ like this.”

“I see. Tough, huh?”

“Yep… That’s why hires nobody me. I’ve tried. I’m it sick of.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, here’s life been good pretty, actually. I donation get others from. Day it through gets help.”

“Sucks, huh?”

“Yep.”

“So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing that. It’s lonely just lately I’ve been, and I share to something you with wanted.”

“Mhmm, and what would that be?” Cradle said, taking another puff from the cigarette.

“Well, foggy seeing as its how, or vision my blurry is, I talk to wanted you. See you, its doing difficult this, nobody because talks with to want me… I be used to a speaker public. One day, decided I enough I’ve had. Went on shot I myself and. See I how react people to me. Understand do me they, but hard it’s them for. So talking I do don’t much, nowadays.”

“I can see how that would trouble you. Misery loves company, and I guess I’m here to revel in your story, huh?” Cradle said.

“Wanted no, I just say to something someone die before I.”

“You’re gonna die? Now?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay. Well, you can’t get much dead-er than this.”

“Yep. You how bout’? Story a have me for?”

“You know, I gave up my entire life for my dream. Chased it, and I was forced to do something I guess I could say I’m proud of, even though that would classify me as somewhat troubled mentally. I took chances, did everything the books and people told me to. I sat when they said so, jumped when they told me, and still, all my dreams were flushed down the toilet. I made a company, and my partners turned on me as soon as the recession came about. I was forced to steal from them. Hell, I stole almost everything. It was good, at least, when the cops finally found me, I caused a big shootout, killing some bystanders, and a few cops as well. That’s when it turned to shit; some punk-ass SWAT sniper took me out from across the street. Worst feeling ever, being shot. Anyway, I didn’t die then. I was still alive, although my arm was nearly blown off by that son of a bitch. I realized I didn’t want an eternity in prison, so I just ended up shooting myself with my own gun, right in the heart.”

“Head at shoot least didn’t you your.”

“Yeah. Those sons of bitches. My mother was dying, my father was dead, and I was also pretty much an undead asshole, walking with a beat, not knowing what was going on with the rest of my only family, my two sisters. Heh, I guess you win some, you lose some, life’s a joke, and I’ll be damned if anyone can prove that otherwise.”

“Yep. Strike the name’s. Are you?”

“Cradle. That’s what they called me. I always cradled almost every possession I had when I was a kid and the name kinda stuck. What’s with strike?”

“Bowling.”

“Ahh… I see. Nice to know, Strike.”

“Advice piece one I’ve you for got. Again it don’t do, sure for that’s. Life’s here better, so waste don’t chances your. You’re have that money lucky to. It do good with. Worth it’s not do to again that. Trust me. Worth this its time it.”

“See, anyway, around you.” Strike added as he stood up and began walking away. Cradle checked his watch; it was 20 minutes too late for buying another pack. Fractious about the scenario, he cursed again under his breath. Strike disappeared, and Cradle noticed a stick left on the bench. Picking it up, and contemplating on whether or not the creator was actually half bad, he read a small penned inscription on the stick. It read:

‘Good luck, Cradle. Be better.’

“Yeah, right, Strike.” He whispered under his breath, lighting it up. Walking in the opposite direction now, he headed over to the other convenience store that was open 24 hours. Although it was farther, his need wasn’t quite fusty just yet. Cradling the lighter in his hands, he continued walking down the road, pondering on whether or not his gun which was back at his apartment was still loaded.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

This One’s For You, Bobby

Glancing for a second at the analogue clock atop his dashboard, he returned his eyes to the road. Like most delivery truck drivers who would drive at 2 o’clock in the morning, he listened to the radio rather than entertaining himself with the silence from his dirty, old, abused, grey-white sock puppet that sat there in the passenger seat. Two buttons were stuck to the tip, with superglue, for eyes, and a crudely sewn smile right below them. It had been with him for ages, stuffed, and tied down on the open end.

A crusty man, he had a white beard and some sort of a cartoon beggar’s build with his small arms and small waistline. A red cap embraced the hair on his head, the type with a rainbow-coloured, net back. A pair of relatively oversized and overused jeans rested around his legs. His shirt was a large blue Ed Hardy, with the printed image of a woman caught in the middle of a provocative dance.

“Hard-core, or soft-core porn, eh, Bobby?” He asked the sock in his native tongue, partially quoting a song on the radio. He smiled calmly and chuckled to himself for being so bored. The song changed to something rather loud, he cursed in his distaste.

After a while his ears began to ache. He flicked off the radio. Silence filled the front cabin of the delivery truck. He frowned at the ever distant end of the road. The headlights were on and several other trucks were driving alongside him on the four lane highway. It was a long way to go to get up to Baguio, a subsequently modernized mountain city. He still hadn’t left Manila, and he had more or less six hours to go before reaching his destination, a quick nap, and a drive back down to Manila. These quick orders are verily, quite unfriendly to the delivery truck drivers.

“I thought so, buddy. I always knew you were one of those who liked that type of music.” He addressed the sock again in his native tongue as the wind rustled his long, white hair beneath the cap. The heat was intense in the city, especially since it was midsummer. The air was thick with the whispers of a slow death. The only consolation was that he was driving fast enough for the wind to cool off his face and change every split-second. He peered at the upcoming billboards that advertised useless products and for a second there, he forgot the road.

Returning his gaze to the immensely uninspiring road before him, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a 3 year old copy of an FHM magazine. His boredom led him to once more gaze at the beautiful women that lined the covers and inner pages. A figure emerged from his pants, creating a hill centred on the plains of his pants. The crevices with loose threads adjusted themselves accordingly. Dropping the magazine next to Bobby, he thought about how his life had always been going in the wrong direction. Every choice made was a mistake not worth making, and every major decision was a failure that couldn’t be solved. He lost everything he had and lives in his truck, the last of his possessions. Delivering these useless products was all he could do to stop starving. This time it was women’s underwear. Pulling out a cigarette from his soft pack of Marlboro Reds, as they would call it, he lit one and began smoking. His erection had barely subsided.

After finishing his cigarette, he began undoing his belt. It was time. He had to make it fast before the erection faded. With a wide grin that was seemingly hell-spawned, he unzipped his pants. His teeth were incomplete, and moist black spots lined the outside of the crevices where once there dwelled teeth. Pulling out his penis from beneath the tight cotton of his briefs, he transferred his gaze towards the sock and winked. His penis was hard, fully erect, though it hadn’t done that in so many years. He cackled towards the early morning sky, and adjusted in his seat, as if showing his penis off to the sock, that kept it’s eternal smile.

“This one’s for you, Bobby!” he shouted at the sock, again in his native tongue, as he stepped hard on the pedals, looking directly into the road.

Remembering his past with a boy named Bobby, he began stroking the back end of his penis. Bobby, his most beloved companion, had stuck with him through the worst times. Even when all his other friends had begun to call him “faggot”, Bobby was the one to push them all away and pull him aside. Bobby was the one to care for him when he cried over the loss of his first childhood crush during their grade-school years, Alexis. Bobby was the one to care for him as he cried over the loss of his second childhood crush and first male crush, Joey, who had dated Irene during their high-school years. That was when they parted ways, right after high-school. Bobby had gone to college. His family on the other hand was too poor to pay for tuition, and so he needed to work. No matter how hard Bobby’s exam was, the following day, Bobby would always call, just to check up. He was working but he always appreciated hearing Bobby’s voice. Even when he’d gone to rehab for taking shabu, a local drug similar to cocaine, Bobby was the only one who visited at the graduation and cared enough to buy chocolates and lunch for the occasion. He loved the bastard.

He remembered that one fateful night, 3 years after Bobby had graduated college, when he had finally summed up the courage to ask Bobby out to an actual dinner-date. He was so excited he chose his best clothes and put on his lipstick, tied his long hair, and readied himself 2 hours before actually having to leave his apartment. Bobby had left a message saying that he would meet him there at the restaurant. It was a hotel restaurant and he’d been saving up for so long that he nearly starved for that night. Just as he arrived at the restaurant, he saw Bobby, climbing out of his car. Bobby’s smile was heaven-sent, and he looked dashing. Alas, fate, as it would have, twisted lives and so a bus had crashed into Bobby and his car, pinning the two against the wall. He ran towards Bobby, but it was too late. Bobby’s head had been fractured open. Brains were all over the hood of the car. Blood dripped down towards the sidewalk canal and began flowing into the drain. He let out a gut-wrenching scream, but it couldn’t help; nothing could. It was too late.

He quit his job, and used the last of his money to pay for Bobby’s cremation, and the whole family was there. After everyone had left, he broke the lock of the frame that contained Bobby’s urn, and took the urn, spilling some ash as he went along. Having nowhere to turn, he ran to his truck and drove off into the far south. After months, he sold the urn for a low price, and kept Bobby’s ashes in one of his socks. He never went anywhere without it. He knew he never would. Looking back at the sock, a tear in his eye, he smiled, saying;

“This one’s for you, Bobby.” And he began masturbating over the sock. With each hard tug and each bead of sweat that fell, he imagined Bobby’s body. With each gasp for breath he imagined Bobby’s penis. The sock was still smiling, and he could see the smile on Bobby’s face that night they were supposed to date. It was as glorious as it was painful. He furiously shook his hand whilst keeping the other hand steady. He tried to keep his foot steady, as to not eliminate his chances of ever completing his quest. He closed his eyes hard, and his face began to wrinkle even more. Stretched in a somewhat frown of concentration, his hat gained the moisture from his head. His bony body, although physically tired was rejuvenated with the memorized image of Bobby in the common shower that time after physical education class. With a slight bit of semen emerging at the tip of his penis, he smiled a purely satisfied smile. He screamed as he came on the sock. He covered it with his very own human milky-white substance. It was a scream of joy, a scream of pain, a scream of anger, a scream of hate, a scream of bliss, a scream of lust, but mostly, a scream of love. Fate struck its final blow and he crashed the truck into the trees alongside the high-way. He bled to death with his face pressed against the sock, the mixture of blood and semen not disturbing him in the slightest. He smiled peacefully as the ambulance sirens wailed in the distance.

“This one’s for you, Bobby!”

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

K. F. L. Y. Y.

The wind on my skin is so cold, I could freeze. My eyes are sore, and red, and tearing up. I barely have control over most of my senses. I feel immortal with a weight on my chest that pushes outward. My head drops left and right, and my body wants to follow. Dark and light, move around as if shadows. The music plays and it carries me away on a ship that sails never to see the light of day. I the numb captain immortal, commandeer this ship alone.

With some leaves in my pipe, and a face so cherry-ripe. I wipe my eyes, and fly this ship on the liquid skies. The birds swim and the fish fly, but there is no help to come to me tonight.

I miss the sound of a voice in the distance, it no longer sings, the mermaids are gone. As I am caught up in this blissful instance, I fall once more to the floor of bone. This ship was built on the backs of men, and men lead it across great distances, just to hear the voice call their name. The sun rises with it’s massive blue. Moby Dick couldn’t compare to the size of this spew. This spittle from the sky of liquid jumps and falls, with a white cloud tidal wave, it splashes us all.

The bunny next to me thinks greatly of my endeavor. It thinks me the king of all that is clever. Alas I itch, and my hair needs a scratch, so I sit and use my boot for that. The bunny is starving so I give it some Chicken Cornflake (TM) and it enjoys the milk-less cereal that makes your daily dose of supposed food roll into one suppressed meal. The sea will do that to you, and you need to maneuver as well as eat.

Yes!

The sun shines and calls me, the shirtless, Captain of this ship. The light of the smokey stars start to fade as they rock me to my sleep of days. I sleep in the daylight but I am no vampire. It is but the simplest of things, a plant I admire.

(c) AnachronicWorks 2012

God Save The Trees, Long Live The Trees

You grow like you know,
You know you are very strong,
You, the mighty Tree.

Towering around,
The true King of the Jungle,
Ruler of Forests.

Hundreds of feet high,
You are nature’s best creature.
And surely, you live.

You don’t feed on life,
And you can provide for such.
You feed the weaklings.

Great is your power,
Your sacrifice aids all life,
A servant to all.

They chop and stab you.
Yet you do not seek revenge,
You suffer but smile.

The storm will brew, but,
You provide them a shelter,
Until your last breath.

You the Timid Beast,
Take all with you when you fall,
But you live in peace.

The perfect leader,
Your rule is just and righteous.
Father to your sons.

One day all will sing,
Your chants and praises galore,
But indeed I know:

“God will save the trees!”
They sing but no word is meant,
“Long will live the trees!”

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

The Dog Feed Article 3

Okay, so the Feb Fair went very well actually. The booths were nice, as well as the amounts of people going around. Tuesday night was especially a blast, considering the amount of couples whose lives weren’t too fucked up that they had enough time to stroll around the dew-filled grass as the cool night wind progressed. Wednesday was like we were anal fucked by the rain. It stopped a lot of people from going out, but boatloads were still undeterred. Umbrellas save the fucking day! Unfortunately, I don’t use those, and got sprayed pretty well.

On Tuesday, I, brought the ol’ GF over for a little quality romantic time. It was a good place to have a date, but I don’t need to tell the majority of you about that. I’ve seen many couples before, but jeez, the place was loaded with hormone-high teenagers whose primary objectives were to flaunt enough estrogen and testosterone to load up a new civilization by itself. Ironically, this goes out to everyone, even me, and even those who are single. All in all, it was pretty damn good.

All was, however, with the exception of the obscenely loud music/stage shows that continued to blast ears like they were being fucked out from the inside of their eardrums. Not that the music was bad, it was just too fucking loud! Well, being deaf on the left ear has it’s upsides, but being normal doesn’t have one in this case. The sounds reached as far as New Dorm or even out into the main road. It was like being skull-fucked out of your mind with the bands. If they’d had the decency to lower the volume, then a lot more people would have enjoyed the atmosphere of the place. Knowing a few oldies who manage the Makiling Airsoft Club’s Booth, they can rarely appreciate the loudness of it all. I could barely catch soem shut-eye in the dorm. Towards the end of the week, I was so tired of the loud sounds, I didn’t even listen to my music player on my way home. I suggest, lower the damn volume! Somehow, I can still hear my ears ringing.

The rain was a bitch, too, and it took some time out of the fun. Much of the stalls had trouble fighting it when it got hard, and the amount of people steadily decreased throughout the night. The son of a bitch just decided to fuck things up for the hell of it, and grill us the following day. It was as if the sky took a good ol’ piss on Los Baños. Well, the name was served. Nevertheless, throughout the shit-filled pesky nuisances of the week, the Feb Fair was generally good. A relatively good percentage actually said that the fair was okay, and so far, none have said that it sucked, nor that it was one of the best. I’m guessing we just had a good run this time.

To those who managed the whole damn thing, from the people up on the stage to the people down in each little corner booth, I can definitely say a job well done. I also have to congratulate the current Student Council and all the other affiliated groups for a great Feb Fair. If there’s one thing we college kids know how to do, we know how to throw a goddamn party! Have a great weekend everybody!

(c) Anachronic Works “The Dog Feed 2012”

The Dog Feed Article 2

As some of you may know, I have been questioned on my article by a number of people, from both UPLB and outside sources, and I wish I could elaborate further on the replies of others without stirring up a rather large argument, however, I fear that if I do not I will bring about a world of trouble for my article’s credibility. I’d rather not cause a riot, but here goes: (*Before I begin: Please do not take this personally, again this is my view, and this is for the Dog Feed. In no way do I wish to harm reputations or cause a stir, I just want to show my point. Thanks.)

The point that I made earlier still stands even though there are those who are supposed to be good at heart. With the shit that I said in my last article, I am entirely aware that not everyone is the same. I am not stupid, but take a look around, the public isn’t either. They know that I generalized and they know in their hearts that there are more than “1 in 3 candidates” (quoted from a current standing official in the UPLB Student Council) who actually want to do something, but what they do is what counts. However, again, if you look at it through public eyes, the interest that the voting population would sustain would probably be just until they finish the free food given to them. They don’t really care that you say you are different. You can fuck with their wordplay until they bleed letters from their ears, but it won’t really matter. They care that you show your point, not just stand and verbally defend. If you wanted to do so, prove me wrong with your actions while you still can. That’s what people care about. They care if they see you go outside and take a piss on someone’s deserving face, but they do not care if you talk and talk for hours on a podium. For a shitload, actions speak louder than words. (Not that I care, I’m just writing the Dog Feed for fun.) The problem is: every one of these people there who try to defend themselves against a vague article on student politics that was directed at the candidates, are generally candidates. With just that, you’ve already sold yourself to the branding machine.

Now to further elaborate on why my point still stands; even those that are good at heart try to shield themselves from the inevitable questioning that will ravage their image like a starving tiger seeing a lonely antelope on a vast plain. Now, by defending yourselves, you’re just proving my point. You guys didn’t have to come out and say that you were innocents to the fuckery that was said in the other article. If you didn’t then you knew yourselves that you were innocent and that you did a pretty damn good job. However, since you did, it just shows that you guys are trying to protect your image, without me actually accusing you of the fuckery in particular. You try to defend your comrades as well, hence shoving my point twice as far up reality’s ass. If you wanted, you could’ve sent the same message to me alone, but instead, you guys wished to come out and say it here in the open. It’s the image that counts in politics. See? Comparing this to a playground situation, let’s say that one asshole kid wants to be leader, and then towards the end of the day in the playground, one of the other kids decides to try and shove a mental dildo up his cocky ass by saying that all the kids who have been leaders are the same. Note that he does not fuck about by saying that the leader as of now is the redundant bastard. So now this leader kid replies that no, I am different and nicer, which is generally what the other bastard leaders did. See the point? To put it plain: Defending yourselves verbally ain’t gonna do shit. Prove me wrong by acting on it, and then the public will get at you. I’m giving you a free pass to use my article to boost your image, and yet you guys choose to tank me on this instead of making the public see you for yourself.

I am just here to speak and speak and speak. I’ve built an image so that people around the internet forums respect my ideas and such. Now I’ve given you the chance to use my article as a springing step. Hell, I even cursed a lot in the article, making this shit almost like trash. You could’ve bought yourself an eternity of worship by proving me wrong with this and that. Instead, you tried to attack a more simplistic concept, the concept that everyone is different and that you yourselves are innocent to the accused topic (which was pointed at the general direction of the candidates [not naming names] and not the current running officials). This just proves my point that the campaign in about image, and that majority of the people wouldn’t care or even read this goddamn reply. Good day.

(c) Anachrony “The Dog Feed 2012”

The Dog Feed Article 1

So we get a couple of pretty candidates to run for Student Council Office…

I suggest that all political parties just talk, and not advertise themselves, or go out to shake hands with passersby, telling them to vote for you. Earlier today I received handshakes from my friends who were members of the Buklod (UPLB Political) party as I was going about my schoolwork. On most days they would give a friendly wave or smile, and we walk past each other as if we each had our own distant world to conquer. I’m not saying I do not appreciate it, nor am I saying that I’d like to ruin friendships, but let’s step back a bit. (I’ve voted for Buklod before.)

We are Students, not the average junkies or squatters and bums who roam the streets poor as fuck. We’re not cavemen either, nor are we people whose minds can easily be fucked with. We can think. We can speak. Not to brag, but we do this better than a shitload out there. Now here’s the point I’m trying to make. Let’s not be gullible, nor let us be swayed by the simplicity of free food and other trinkets. Look and listen to the candidates, but never do it one at a time.

You see, language is like a whore. It can take many positions to satisfy different people. Pleasing in good ways for some, bad ways for others. That can’t be helped. Some people just won’t like the choice of words of this specific candidate. No, I’m not telling you to be open minded about the words. As I’ve said, words can be shape-shifted to mean this and that at the same time to different people. Now, if we mix the words with the body language. Disregard the fear and the shyness, and you can see who really means what they’re saying, and whose guts are in the right place. Watch your candidates, see if they feed that lonesome dog near LB Square. Look at your candidate when he/she is not campaigning and listen twice as clear then. Siphon the bullshit and you’ll get what’s what of the candidate.

Politics (election campaigns in particular) should not be so trivial. It should be gut. If everything was trivial, then we might as well have hired robots to finish the job for us, since we humans cannot be trivial 100% of the time. Nor can we manage to be relative for others while maintaining triviality. The essence of election campaigns is to win the public over. Now in what way do I suggest people go about it. I suggest people dispense with the bullshit, dispense with the plans and forms and structures and fucks. I suggest they stand on that podium, and talk about themselves. The best judge of character would be the reaction among friends and family, classmates and teachers. If people would just shut the fuck up for a while and talk like a regular person, and not like a candidate, then people would be able to choose.

It’s not the problem of the voters, who vote for the candidate of their choice, it’s the problem of the candidates. They lie, give false smiles, shake hands with no meaning to it, and do all sorts of fucked up things that end up making others see an obvious plastic mask distorting what was once a friend. Fuck. Right? Now I challenge the candidates, when they go about school, not to wear their Candidacy ID’s, not to wear the shirt of the party they represent, and not to wear that mental mask. I challenge them to go out for one day, and campaign to the people like the people. Talk and walk, cut classes, rush with people, eat with people (don’t buy them food), and just look at the lives of your voters and see what is really fucked and what is really trivial.

I may not be a candidate, and I doubt I should ever be one, nor do I have a feeling I want to, but I think that this is how a candidate should go about his/her campaign. I’m just your average insane bastard walking among you. Good night.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012 “The Dog Feed Articles”

Lost in This World (Project Song)

I’ve been stuck on this same old road,
For more than I can remember,
For more than I can tell.
I’ve been going around in circles,
And I think that I just fell,
Into a deeper part of hell.

But I know. Yes I know. Oh I know, you’ll find me. (x2)

Coz I am lost in this world without you,
There are things that I just can’t defeat.
I am lost in this world without you,
So please don’t leave me be.
Just please stay here with me, with me.

I’ve already been ’round here.
These roads look the same.
But you come up from behind me,
And I’ll never be the same again,
No I’ll never be the same again.

Coz I am lost in this world without you,
There are things that I just can’t defeat.
I am lost in this world without you,
So please don’t leave me be.
Just please stay here with me, with me.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Delayed Merry Christmas (It’s Amazing How The Simplest of Stories Can Make One Cry)

So yesterday, I was at a hotel for Christmas day, and surprising to say, I couldn’t get away with my way, because internet service in the room means that you have to pay. 100 Pesos an hour is really too much, so I was not able to post this soon enough, but nevertheless, here I am now, ready to share something new to the crowd.

 

So for all you people out there who had spent their Christmas-es alone, then that’s cool. At least the Internet always has some posts for you guys. 🙂 Here’s the post:

 

It’s Amazing How The Simplest of Stories Can Make One Cry

 

The more complex on the other hand makes one think.

The comical drive the point of the need to laugh.

The more horrific drive the point of the need to fear.

The romantic drive the point of the need to love.

The action and movement filled ones drive at the need to live to the fullest.

The musical drive the point of expression through the sounds that affect us ergo the importance of our ears.

The silent ones drive the point of expression through visuals and how important our eyes really are.

Though with all of this, it’s the simple ones that drive the point of life itself. It’s the simple ones that make us cry. Why? Maybe because we relate to them. Maybe because they’re easier to comprehend. Maybe because they’ve happened to us. Maybe because they can influence more. Maybe because the lessons learned are really useful. Maybe because we follow by example. Maybe because of all of these combined.

 

Or maybe.

Just maybe.

You’d like to,

Live out what actually transpired.

 

You’d like to live it, so you can tell your version.

You’d like to live it, so you can experience the fullness of life.

You’d like to live it, because you’ve been starved of it.

You’d like to live it, since it happens to others.

You’d like to live it, knowing what to expect or what not to.

 

But for me, I like the simple ones because they make me tremble,

they make me question,

they make me wonder,

they make me realize,

they make me analyze,

they make me worry,

they make me relieved,

they make me stay awake,

they make me sleep,

but most of all,

I like the simple ones,

Because they inspire.

 

Because,

 

To know the simple will give you all that you’ll ever need to make the complex.

 

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

Tumblr Exclusive Post One

There’s a new Tumblr Exclusive Post on my other blog. A little short story I made for a friend of mine, Alex. She specifically requested that I write her a story for Christmas, and here I am, writing it as a gift. Enjoy your the season’s moments, and I wish you all the best again for this season. I will have a Christmas-Dedicated post going up on the 24’th of December, which is tomorrow (time check is 2:20am, Dec. 23, 2011) for all you people who don’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. Whether you’re working or studying in another far off place, or just plain bored on the Night Before Christmas, then you can drop by if you’d like and give that post a read. It will be my last post for the year 2011, and I promise it’ll be something special. Although, on the off chance that I do not get to post it, I’ll post it up ASAP. Hope you guys enjoy this Christmas!

 

 

(c) Anachronic Works 2011