A Book and A Country

  • Dan Brown wrote fiction. A lot of writers do. It should be taken as fiction, and not offensive. In several notable movies, books, and videogames, America has put some heat on Russia, as well as other countries. You don’t see the other countries complain. They do something about it, or at least be the “bigger man” and not retaliate towards a senseless notion. Think about that, Philippine Government.Complaining is a sign of immaturity, it shows that the person (who complains) is lazy, and simply wants things changed to suit his/her preferences. Doing something about what a person dislikes is more mature, simply because that person becomes the change he/she wants to see. I have learned that the hard way myself. Think about that, Mr. MMDA Chairman.

    If the Philippines does not want an image of negativity to be portrayed, ever, then MMDA better start cleaning up the rest of the country, because I’m sure that a lot of other novels (several of them, I have in my collection of books) have mentioned the Philippines as a rather shabby place. Again, do not complain. Do something about it. Think about that, Filipino populace.

    We can’t all be good guys forever; someone has to be the bad guy for the greater good. I hope Dan Brown is laughing at the Philippine people who are hurt over his novel. I hope he laughs heartily, because I know that I am a Filipino and I will be laughing heartily with him. For this, I write a limerick:

    I write this so they’d understand,
    I curse to not make this so bland,
    You get what you give, and they gave him no rib.
    So there’s nothing for them to demand.

    A book is a true work of fiction,
    But for people with quite little diction,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    Cause’ they feel that they’re being picked on.

    The truth is that they are such assholes,
    Who complain about being called assholes,
    They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
    ‘Cause they do what’s expected of assholes.

    I write this because I’m afraid,
    For a country that’s been so depraved.
    With leaders like shit, and a faith that sucks dick,
    We’re the prostitute that never gets paid.

    I know that my limerick sucks,
    For many who do give a fuck.
    Wait till you see, there’s nothing wrong with me.
    Even you’ll be afraid to cluck.

    A good man had written a rhyme,
    It hurts your pride, even mine.
    I come from a place, that even I can disgrace,
    The proud country that’s dragging behind.

    A good man had written a book,
    The Filipino people it shook,
    I hope that with me, he is smiling with glee.
    For the offenses that everyone took.



Hard To Find

It was her devilish smile. He’d caught a glimpse of her as she walked through the door, the afternoon sun and the spray of the open wind from the beach birthing into this cafe a goddess, of sorts. Her red trench coat stood out, instantly catching the eye of many a man. The cafe’s door chime rang as if announcing royalty, simultaneously, her red stiletto heels clicked as if calling each man’s attention. She hung her coat, revealing a rather obscure orange dress. Bright colors weren’t exactly his thing, but hey, who would complain when the colors were accompanied by a nicely pressed body. Looking down at his horizontally striped red and white shirt, he checked if he was fit enough to talk to her. He could almost see his bones rupturing the cotton fabric of his long sleeved shirt. Adjusting his peculiarly circular glasses, he stood up, scratched the hair underneath his, also peculiarly striped, bonnet. He gazed at her as she sat there by the counter, ordering her drink. It was a coffee shop, after all, and there was nothing to feel relatively uneasy about. He picked up his bag; he could always simply disappear into the crowd, should his dignity be compromised.

“Hey, there, ma’am. You seem familiar. Have I seen you somewhere? In a film? You look like someone I’ve seen in a film. I, myself, characterize myself in books.” He spoke with his squeaky voice that shook. He sat down next to her, dropping the messenger bag on the floor. There she went again, flashing her devilish smile at him, as she turned her head away. She slid the ashtray from her end to center between them, followed by her pack of Pall Malls. Offering him a cigarette, she took one from the pack and lit it. He took one.

The wind from the shore blew into the open-deck cafe, swinging the chimes and curtains. The aroma of saltwater and coffee proved an excellent conductor for the interaction of two people. Such was the case at that moment. They let a little silence pass, as they took the drags slowly, staring out into the beach ruckus. Children playing, seagulls flying, and all sorts of poorly chosen items filled the sand, and there was barely a walkway. Several people sat on lawn chairs, reading, and there was a group that played Frisbee. Above the clutter of life further down towards the shore, they sat, with subtle jazzy music emerging from the speakers of the cafe. As the moment passed, she turned and finally deigned to talk to him. He had been waiting in disturbed silence. She turned to face him with her legs crossed, and leaned forward, revealing a little cleavage.

“I am Carmen San Diego, and you are?” She puffed smoke between her Latin accent.

“Wally, or as some people call me, Waldo, Odlaw.” He said, taking the lighter.

“So, why is it you’re here, talking to me?” She played a subtle, yet distinct pout.

“Why does anything even happen?” He played a smile that seemed bittersweet.

“Avoiding the question, changing topics, and you left your drink on the other table. You like me, don’t you, Mr. Odlaw.”

“Well, someone’s full of herself.”

“Well, that just proves it. I am right.” She said, using her cigarette to accentuate the point.

“Just because I said certain things in that order, doesn’t mean that I have a hidden plan of sorts.”

“You just keep making this harder and harder for yourself to disprove.” She said with a wink.

“Alright, so you’re right. What of it?” He said, dropping his hands calmly on the tabletop.

“Let’s cut the verbal foreplay here, huh?” She said, uncrossing her legs.


“You have, more or less, until the end of that cigarette stick to make me like you. If you fail, you’re gone. No second chance. Deal?”

“Deal.” He said, taking a very deep drag that finished most of the cigarette off.

“I have a feeling you’re a tough kind of girl to find.” He said, stubbing out his cigarette.

“I feel the exact same way about you.” She replied, stubbing out her cigarette.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012


It started out as a regular airsoft match. The usual guns blaring and crossfire. Until it reached 5:30pm. Out of the 100 that came on that day, around 60 were left. Then someone suggested a zombie game. We had our doubts about it, but when majority liked it because of the change of game play, we eventually had to join in. The rules were simple, nobody was allowed to use automatic fire and the zombies could be revived by their teammates after a minute or so. From the 60, some 40 people were to become the zombies, I was lucky to get into the human team. The mission, to be able to make it to the rescue point before the timer runs out. Since the time was 1 hour long, we had a good chance to make it in time. That’s where I was mistaken, it was harder than expected. It was dark, our base was barren except for the 20 of us who stood by for the siren that set us off. We could see into the darkness of the trees and barricades. They were there, walking, crouching and hiding, they were smarter than your average zombies. They knew we were coming, we were food for the feast, with only a little ammo left, and disabled firearms, we wouldn’t be able to hold off for long. The siren rang in our ears, it was ‘Go Time’, the first few of us charged straight ahead, but I was able to get a few people to wait with me. I told them that if we waited, we’d get a clearer shot at reaching the goal. The first few rounds went off, a few frightened screams echoed, the first 3 were out. We were only 4, as soon as the next 3 came out, we made a break for it. We all ran the way we planned, guarding each other’s back. Zombies rushed us. They came from all sides, we couldn’t move anymore, we had to hold them off together. They blocked the way forward and back, probably hoping to send us splitting up, and running into the forest. We were about to do that, but then one of our group members ran off before we could. He ran into a pack of zombies. After seeing that, we decided to hold off our position till the end. We made hell of a combo, we worked like gears in a clock. That is, until the horde of zombies rushed us. We were in the middle of our reload cover fire when they came. All sides filled up with the rushing undead. Then, like one of those heroes in the movies, one human airsofter came out from nowhere, carrying his gas powered revolvers. He ran towards us and cleared the path towards the rescue point. We didn’t waste time, we all started running like hell. He led the way for us, but then, just as we neared the point, a zombie out of nowhere pushed him off the trail. In a split second, one of my group mates opened fire on both of them, as he did that, he slowed down. A couple of zombies took him out in a flash. It was me and the other guy left, almost to the point. We were probably the last two out there. I was so close I could feel salvation, until a zombie pushed me off the trail. My ally hesitated a bit because I was in front. Then he decided to shoot. Both I and the zombie were out. It was his chance, but then as he turned, he ran straight into 3 waiting zombies. It was a hell of a fun game even though we didn’t win, after all of that, we decided to play another round, but we never forgot to have fun.

* This was written when I was in high-school. Please bear with me.

** The event took place with several acquaintances with whom I had never had the chance of meeting again. I sorely miss that game.

*** This was my first short story regarding airsoft.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

2:56 Coming Up On 2:57pm

Have you ever felt that the world is no longer enticing? The world is predictable. It is mundane, and the consistent change never changes. Such is true that it comes to a point in time where one can no longer write, paint, sing, or in any form, express what he feels. He is incapable because the feelings no longer bother him. The feelings have lost all sense of feeling. No? Such was the case of Shirt.

He sat in his stage of deep thought. However, of all places, his choice of location was not too well. Presumably, one would find the quietest place there was, for solitude. Ironically, in the case of Shirt, he chose the most absurd place to find solace in thought; a park bench, alongside a Frisbee tournament. There was clutter about, and free food and drink, (he was already holding a plastic cup filled with soda). It was not uncommon for him to respond blankly and with dull enthusiasm to whoever approached, moreover since he was in one of his moments of mental self indulgence. His blue eyes shimmered in the daylight, with pupils adjusting indefinitely into various shapes every time a cloud passed overhead. His grey beard that stretched rather unusually long down his neck seemed to remind many a child’s eye of the man from the North Pole. It was mid-October, too early for that kind of talk. His jacket and jeans clung to him as if they were a very sloppy cotton diving suit. Bald to the skull, he brushed a hand over his head to remove a leaf that had landed there from a nearby tree.

“Excuse me, would you happen to have the time?” A rather friendly, though exhausted voice emerged from the corner of his right eye. It was a blur at first, but as soon as he turned, his glasses revealed what he could only think of as God’s idea of a striptease. Her body curves were perfect, her brownish-red hair fell down just right (enough to amplify the breasts and add subtlety to the shoulders), and her lips, Devilish in God’s curious way. She was wearing a movie cliché; a tank top, in blue, pasted onto her, followed by cotton pants that revealed the lacing of her underwear. However, of all these, what struck him was her eyes. They were not blue, nor were they green or gray; they were brown. Simple and plain, and no matter how much it seemed to ruin the physique and nature of the body, it complimented it as if it were a spoon to a fork. She was waiting for an answer he had not yet deigned to give.

“Uhm…” He said as he stole a glance at his watch. “Around 2:56. Coming up on 2:57, right, now.” He smiled.

“Thanks!” She said before resuming her goddess’ jog. His eyes trailed her, and to his uncanny surprise, she turned to wave at him. Somehow she knew her beauty was an indefinite treasure trove for the eyes of many a lonely, as well as those not-so-lonely, men. Humiliation swept over him, and yet he waved, since there was no point in the denial of the obvious. Disregarding the shallow thought and surge of worthless emotion, he resumed his pondering on feelings. Taking a sip from the cup, he resumed his former stance and stared into the vibrant abyss that lay before him.

In what could have been no more than a minute, she had passed again. This time, she paused and sat beside him. She had done the inconceivable. Altering his state of thought disturbed him deeply and among those who knew Shirt, knew that his thoughts were commonly of the utmost importance. It took a while for most of his acquaintances to realize that his thoughts were not to be tampered with in any sort of debauchery or even events of extreme urgency. His routine time for thought was always there, and it was one that could not leave, even if he’d tried to force it out of his system. It had been there since childhood and it remained with utter defiance to any form of conviction. Indeed, she had altered his thoughts twice, and this time, even her beauty would not stand in the way of his cleverly placed retorts and strike downs. He turned to face her, with his sincerest blank stare. It usually did the trick. Usually.

“Hi there! I’m Dander. Well, my friends call me that, but my real name is Danielle Deryn Dello. My parents had a thing for D – names.” She said, followed by a giggle, and finishing off with, “So, what’s your name?”

“Isn’t that nice? A girl whose attitude resonates her nickname. No wonder they nicked you after a scalp problem. You are as irritating as the itch you are called after.” He replied gruffly, content that she would leave him alone after that. She gasped slightly, and resumed her smile.

“So, I didn’t catch your name?”

“It’s Shirt. Leave me alone please.” He said as he turned back, in a futile attempt to resume his routine time for thought.

“That’s a cute name. It suits you. I like it very much.” She persisted.

“Thank you. Take a hike.”

“I just did. I asked you for the time while I was, remember?” She said as she gave him a face that reminded him of how he’d felt when he first saw that girl he’d pined over throughout grade school. There were the stomach spawned butterflies, again.

“How could I forget you?” He said sarcastically, stomping on the butterflies one by one. He avoided looking at her. It would’ve melted the ice that was his initial sentiments towards her when she had sat down next to him.

“That’s sweet.”

“You’re retarded. Leave me the fuck, alone.” He declared, raising his voice.

She was gone. Everyone was gone. The park had become empty. There were no sounds except for the trees, rustling in the slight afternoon breeze. His breath had become audible within the semi-deafening silence. His eyes had not deceived him yet, until then, he’d believed so. Yet his eyes had not deceived him either. They were gone. Everyone.

He resumed his old stance, and looked at his watch one last time before freezing in his position. It read 2:56, coming up on 2:57.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011