The Days of The New

                The advent of sleep hung on his head. The lack of stimulants stumbled across his tired body. Illness plagued his chest and back. The pain of suffocating slowly lingered. It was not the night of nights and he was sitting across his blank screen. He was waiting for something to emerge from the mesh of words that crisscrossed his thoughts ever so quickly. Mumbling musings of an old tale, he could keep himself in this state for eternity. There was nothing to attend to.

She came up to him sleepily from the bed. Taking the time to give him a loving embrace from the warmth of her bodice, she kissed him on the cheek as the cigarettes burned endlessly on the ashtray beside him. Once more, she whispered in his ear the words that would always convince him to leave the illustrious state of dullness. The gray walls echoed the flawed words of the music that emerged from the speakers of the computer.

“It’s all the same. Once again.”

He kissed her back, slowly taking the time to lock lips with her. There was no tongue for it was sweet and not passionate. It was bleak but not meaningless. It was soft. She understood his state, so close to an epiphany of sorts that would eventually cause him to write another masterpiece. Disturbed by the physical realm of reality, his link to the alternative mental truth was severed.

It was another day, another musing, another mindless run of the mill scenario, another empty passing of time and life. Breaking from a habit that emerged every year, taking up the three months of the hottest of the season, it was never quite the same each time. Each time, a longing progressed into his soul, and yet, he wanted the new. He wanted the new, but never stopped wanting the old.

How did she know him so well? He never wondered past the question. He just enjoyed it. He just loved her, regardless. It was not strong, nor was it too timid. The perfection of it all waned reality such that he believed that he did love and at the same time forgot how to. Such was the perfection of the situation.

Another change of music, another change of scene, another change of life’s lessons, another change of dreams. A fling of jealously for comrades who progressed far into the future, while his being was of the past, rendered in the present, and only developing slowly into the near future, kept him at bay. He wanted to move up the ladder; fast. It was impossible due to the constraints of certainty, but nothing was impossible when done out of love. He did it for love.

Fingers poised at the keys, he typed out his work, his heart, his passion. He brewed it from the depths of the empty nothingness that kept him awake at night. He mixed it in with the slight sweetness of life’s little joys. All held together by the porcelain walls of text, the recipe was just right. There was no creamer to soften the strength of the piece. There was nothing to soften the blow of the veracity of existence. Verily, the facade was no more a veneer of human narcissism. Emerged in the black mixture was the visage of life. It was all quite real to the taste however perpetually false to the flavour. Bitter.

“Welcome back.”

She whispered as he joined her upon their bed. The chamber of thoughts locked away once more. He kept it safe, hidden, and would only expose silhouettes in the form of words. The sun was nearing its incumbent return to geographical vision, and he closed his eyes. His arms wrapped themselves peacefully and lovingly around her warm body. She huddled in, savouring the vibrant act of love. It was a good night for her, as it always was, being loved by him. It was never a good night for the writer, kept awake endlessly. He laid himself there, eyes open, in thought. There was no sleep for his mind, yet there was peace in his heart. It was a good night for his soul.

Good for change. The guitars sung them a song that granted him a well earned, and hard pressed moment of sleep. The fresh daylight hours had finally arrived, bringing about the false promises of productivity. He could scream out in a frenzied calm, alas he did not. He slept peacefully in the hopes that tomorrow was a fulfilled promise of beauty. Never was it so hollow.
*Inspired by the band “Days of The New”

(c) Anachronic Works 2013

Bargaining (Poem)

How much,
Is your final
Offer
For these
Cigarettes?

What,
Is your last
Price
For these
Drinks?

What,
Will it take for you to
Come
Home with
Me?

When,
Will you
Keep
Your promise to
Me?

Will,
You
Accept
Poetry
As
Payment?

Will,
Words of affection
Be
Enough
For
You?

Where,
Do we
Go
From here
And
Now?

How would you,
Like to
Do
It when the
Time
Comes?

What then,
Will we
Settle
On when the
Night
Is done?

Why,
Don’t we
Close,
The deal
Before
Introduction?

There. Now.
Tell
Me your
Name.
I’ll tell you
Mine.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

Bus Stop 47

As the tide rose and fell from the shore, off the beach, the road was empty. The rainy season always brought the public farther. The small Parthenon of a bus stop stood above the background in a small but shimmering light. Lightning always made it look scary to the children who would wait there just to get home. The small light that made it visible to the bus drivers always flickered, casting disturbing shadows against the vulgar images that lined the plastic advertisement walls that never lit up. The seats were made of cold metal, the dotted kind, and were almost icy in the late September rain. There was a storm looming off the coast, the local newspaper read, as it lay on the moist seat, absorbing the liquid. Across the street, small buildings lined the blocks, revealing endless shadows of people across the distance. Further back were the city’s larger buildings, a district of vice, a system of lights, and a cement land that stretched far across the eye, yet made a simple dot upon the map. New York at it’s finest.

Picking up the pace, a mother and son walked towards the stop. She was holding up an umbrella, trying in vain to secure her unruly son. The boy was nearing his teen’s and yet, he acted as if he were a little child, pulling away at times, dodging raindrops to the tune of his heart’s desire.  Taking time off to rest, the mother sat her son down on the bench, handing him an iPad to play with. This was her usual ritual, ever since her husband had left her for another woman. Work, pick up the boy, and commute home. The mess of life was what it was then and now she was determined to find courage and push through it.

A man stood across from her, as she closed the umbrella, shaking it to lessen the amount of water that had accumulated on the nylon surface. He smiled at her as he lit his pipe. It was strange for her to see such a well dressed man at this hour, checking her wristwatch to be sure it was 9pm. He was wearing a hat, to match his black coat that was moist from the rain. His black and white leather shoes were covered with mud or sand from the nearby beach-like area, and it seemed as if he had just taken a walk. He doffed his hat and spoke,

“How sad, the children of today, lost in a world of screens and sharp tunes. Always on the phone, they will never know the joy of a simple walk in the park.”

She hesitated, wondering  if he had simply spoken to himself. He turned to face her son, and watched with a smile and a light chuckle at the boy’s distracted state. She steadied herself, ready to fend off the man with her umbrella should he try to take the iPad. She had saved up a whole 3 months worth of salary for it and she wasn’t about to lose it. He glared at her sweetly with his green eyes, his face partly covered in stubble. He smiled. For a man who seemed to be in his late thirties, he was quite handsome.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it. I have no use for such an uninteresting device.”

Summing up some courage to speak, although she knew she was at least ten years younger than he was. Aggravated by the man’s judgement of her use of 3 month’s work-pay, she opened her lips,

“What do you mean uninteresting? I’d bet that device is capable of doing much more than you, sir.”

“Still, a human mind is more capable of coming up with more suitable ideologies for this world.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?”

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“I mean, that, with such a seemingly smart boy, there, he would be more capable of at least entertaining himself without the use of the device.”

“Well, he isn’t. Can’t you see, he has a problem with his mind?! You don’t have to judge him!” She raised her voice, gesturing towards the boy who was still undisturbed by the awkward conversation.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend.” The man said, taking a puff from his pipe. The small flames drew the sides of the pipe clearer, right before fading away again into the black pit.

“Alright, but don’t you go judging people just cause.”

“Indeed, I am not one to judge. I merely implied that such a device would be a waste for a blossoming child’s brain. However, in any case, I had caused you offense, I sincerely apologize.”

“Hey, you’re the one in the corporate world here. We’re all working stiffs, trying to pay bills and living off our mundane jobs.  Judging by that suit, you look like you’ve worked in a bank or in some law office somewhere. I’m a single mom, and this boy here’s all I’ve got, now you just shut up about him!”

“He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good. Confucius. You, my dear, had just judged me after you claimed it wasn’t proper to judge.”

“Well…”

“When anger rises, think of the consequences. Again, Confucius.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven. However, would you indulge me, please, in some light conversation?”

“Well… Alright, but as soon as the bus gets here, we’re out, okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now, what do you wanna talk about, anyway?”

“Well, you’ve opened up the world of business in our conversation, let’s start there.” He said with a sweet smile. The pipe was still smoking as he opened again.

“All things truly wicked start from innocence. Hemingway.”

“Yeah, and so?” She replied, with a slight pout as she lined her umbrella to her legs.

“Business.”

“What about it?”

“That quote summed the entirety of business up.” He looked at the sky.

“What do you mean?” She followed his gaze for a while, then returned her eyes to study his demeanor.

“Well, think about it, it started out as trade, for the benefit of both parties. Dating back thousands of years. It was quite innocent, but nevertheless it has grown into a corrupt monstrosity, ravaging everyone’s daily lives. You see, we are driven by our need to survive, and trade, as it has, simply paved its way across the quarry that is human life.” He said, leaning on the plastic advertisement wall, raising his right knee up to balance.

“Uhh… What?”

“Let’s see if this will help you understand. Our world is built on finance and business. Without it, we are destined to fall short of any of our expectations and die. Right?”

“Uhh… Yeah.”

“Good. Now think about this, what is the innate goal of a business.”

“Trade?”

“Yes, partially. That was what it was before. Now it is simply outwitting the person who trusts you to give something equally important in return, yes?” He looked at her, his eyes intent on driving his point.

“I guess.” She said, taking a quick glance at the boy who was twisting the iPad around in his hands.

“Advertisements. They promise, and yet, they never fail to fall short on their bargain.” He puffed from the pipe.

“Okay.”

“That’s why we have money. It was created to lessen the outwitting, but it, in time, has also failed to do it’s job and has also fallen into the hands of corruption.” He returned his gaze to the starless sky.

“Uh huh.” She nodded, slowly, attempting to understand the discourse.

“What is money worth?” He asked, pointing the tube of his pipe at her.

“Uh… Everything?” She said, raising her shoulders.

“Not necessarily. Ponder on it, and you will see, that money is simply a number, placed on a piece of highly overrated paper. It’s worth is built on the foundation that is gold.”

“You mean, the Federal Reserve Bank?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. The Bank. All our money’s worth is in gold, in that bank. Now, take it back to the old days of trade. What is the sole purpose of gold?”

“Jewelry, duh. Unless you use it’s conducting power.” She said, with a knowledgeable smirk.

“Yes, but it is merely a rare substance. As we can plainly see, copper is the most common of the best conductors of electricity.” He gestured with his pipe towards the wires that loomed above them.

“Okay.”

“Vanity. Our entire empire of a world is built on the sole thing, that is vanity.”

“So, what are you saying; that money is worthless? That everything that we work for is merely a fool’s quest for greed or power?”

“In a way, but who are the fools?”

“Us, right?” She giggled.

“Indeed.” He said, puffing some more smoke, losing the smile. She was irritated, knowing that he thought that everything she had just worked for was worthless, that all she did, that all everyone did was not worth a single thing on this green earth. She soon realized that this man was merely as dark as the weather and that he would not ever last long before falling into poverty and despair. So much for the man’s educated ideas.

“So we are all basically worthless, right? You have the courage to tell people, that everything they’re doing is worthless, juts because you’re rich.” She started laughing, covering up her hurt, to which the boy followed, and as soon as she slowed down the laughter, when the silence returned, the man opened his mouth and said,

“I wouldn’t saythat.” He returned his smile.

“So what are you saying?” She questioned in frustration, her hands in the air.

“All of it is true, yes. But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated. You tell me who said that.” He said with a smile, noticing the bus pull up against the curb.

“So, wait. What is it all worth?” She looked at him, eyes bewildered, her face formed in questioning manner.

“Look at the child, and then find the courage to tell me what it is all worth.” He said. She nevertheless pulled the boy up and along, and he struggled before following and taking a seat in the bus. Taking in his statement, she took the words into thought and sat next to the boy. The boy began shaking, and he mumbled almost unintelligibly,

“Mommy, I’m cold.”

“Oh, I’m sorry honey, I forgot your jacket.” She said with a saddened tone. She cursed herself under her breath for forgetting the boy’s jacket. It was a long trip home, and she would have to stop by the pharmacy for either vitamins or medicine, should the boy have gotten a cold. To her surprise the man now loomed over her in the still bus, with a smile, his pipe gone. The bus driver waited, holding a 5 dollar bill that the man had presumably given him, to stop the bus this long.

“Courage, is grace under pressure.” He said, handing her his coat. He smiled that friendly smile once more and doffed his hat as well.

“Hey, Mack, your five minutes is up man! Next stop folks, stop number 48, Oak street.” The bus driver said with his slang tone.

He stepped out of the bus and re-lit his pipe. Standing there in the bus stop he waved a gloved hand at them, and stepped into a car that was parked nearby. She felt the pockets of the coat as she wrapped it around the boy. A solid feeling came up, and as she pulled it out, she realized that it was a money clip. It had the name Hemingway on it. She turned back to see if he was still there but he had already disappeared into the night. She counted the money. It was worth her 3 months salary. She tucked it in her pocket with a swift and giddy motion.

“What is it all worth?” She mumbled, as she rested her head with a smile, the boy still playing on the iPad. She embraced the child, and joined him in the game, smiling.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

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

FLOCK (Another Collaboration Story with LaMusica)

O:

I feel as if I were a stranger walking across a foreign land. The roads no longer provide me with any comfort. They, like the many people I once knew, have disappeared into the abyss of this battle. I cannot perceive how much has passed between me, and you. All I know is that it’s a lot. Almost too much to be known.

F:

The road we trekked with such optimism, only ending up taking different turns. These different turns all slowly showed us the true reality of things, that our optimism was fool hardy, and that we can’t be everything we want to be. The war has boiled down into battles, small battles we have as individuals. Individuals searching for more, or yearning for the past, or in reckless abandon embrace the future. We’ve all been lost into the pool of humanity in front of us, but it’s good to know that we can still recognize the faces of our brethren.

O:

Indeed, brother. I’ve recognized some along the way, but somehow, they remain in the same torment. The same struggles that we had gone through merely ages ago. I dared not to approach them for fear of losing my own path, yet they simply scratched their heads and stared at the ground with which they walked upon. They, and their arms at the ready, still in the combative dispute of centuries past. We trekked far, brother, and perhaps, we’ve trekked too far ahead. Too far, for we were skilled back in the day. Now, look, we sit in wonder as they slowly climb this hill, make their way through trekked grass, as we sit here, tired, making our own paths. I do hope others may follow us, yet our path is thinly woven, and the fabric of this world tears easily. Maybe that is why we stand on separate grounds, lost in the illusion of a million paths before us, yet, beyond the illusion lies the flat grass. Never trekked, or over-trekked, and I’m sure we do not know.

F:

You speak like a wise man but are you truly sure, that the path you took is the one for all? Do we not stand still, not making progress, observing their every weary step, never lifting a finger to give them the path we have set? If we truly move forward then our distance would span the equator, and in the end we are actually closer than ever before?  We speak from experience, from our travels through the high grass and the valleys, but our kin must find their own way for it is destiny for the seed to be scattered. Our path is not the smoothest, none truly are, but at the end of every road is something better or something worse. The coup d’grace of our travels, what we have been looking for, the end is not near. We have sinews on our bones, muscles on our limbs, breath in our lungs, and sense in our minds, we will keep moving forward in the hopes that someone will recognize our footsteps. I wouldn’t know if there is any hope left in my battle. In a dark featureless mangrove with breadth I do not know, I walk. You, my friend, where do you walk?

O:

The grass around me is all but different from the grasses that I’ve trekked before. I do not know how, or in what way or why, I no longer know this grass. It’s similar, by the looks and by the texture, and the feel upon my boot. The clouds are gray here, upon this plain, and the rain will soon pour down upon here. There is no shade, and I carry no device, or means as to avert the water’s cool strike. I’ve but not an option to walk, and scour the grass, as high as my boot. Although the city, I can carve a path to, I still cannot go there. It’s too dark. The distance is short, but it’s too dark. Bleak, and lightless. Not even the streetlights have sprung energy into their bulbs. I fear this city is the future, a fruitless, and blatant mesh. I see people, walk along the road I dare not take for fear of what lay at the end. Thousands of them, following each other. Ants, though unproductive. I see some of our own regiment walk along the path. It has an attractive allure, the wealth that comes with the concrete. Yet, I dare not fall victim to the venom I believe it holds. I have but one wish; to join you, once more, that our burden may be shared. The distance is hard, though it binds us close, the poetry in our acts. I cannot help but recall the first time we’d seen the poet in one another. I, the scattered soldier, lost with a friendly fire. Do you not recall?

F:

I recall, I recall it in vivid memory, but brother, that was so long ago in a war that was long forgotten. That stalemate where nothing further could be done but move forward as companions in travel is of the past, it’s only been a year since we parted at the junction and yet we’ve diverged so far. It is my dream too that we may reunite, it is also my dream that our venom stricken family may join us in the plains that it may be beautiful rather than fleeting. We’re at the mercy of the stars; they guide us to what destiny has in store. We wander but we know the way.

O:

I wonder where the compass may take me with the direction of the stars. I wonder how long it will be before we can see each other again. United by our past, strengthened by our present, and with the hope of a future to behold. The days grow weary, and our muscles lose strength. The night batters us as we rest, and yet we continue. Our quest may lead us to foreign lands, to lands unforeseen. Though it’s a lovely thought to keep in my head, that we have our letters in between. I wonder how the postman sends this, so accurately, so precise. While we are lost amongst our paths, in the wilderness of life. Till’ we meet, or greet again, brother, I give you this parting note. I hope that one day we’ll be the same in our home. Still serving under our flag, under our God-sworn oath.

* This was a collaboration story with my close friend LaMusica

** Can you guess who is me, and who is LaMusica ?

*** Half the credit goes to this guy, as well as half the Copyright.

**** Please read and enjoy!

(c) Anachronic Works & LaMusica Works 2011

Dear (A Letter)

Credits to Anachrony

Dear,

I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.

My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.

Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!

That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.

You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).

Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:

He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?

 

I will always have you in my heart,

Sarah-Jane Nothdruft