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

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Just for The Memory, Right on the Mark

Thanks to my friend “Kuya” Mark Madrona, I was able to post an article on his blog; “Right on the Mark”, which I doubt was coincidental, is the TOP Political Blog in the Philippines, so far. I am very much grateful for his assistance and help with me with regards to this blog, as well as his advice on political subjects.

Wonderfully consistent with current events that are mostly regarding politics, but branching out to so much more, “Kuya” Mark, has a blog that is very much worth reading and following. With straightforward wit and proper information he storms his way across the battlefield of this writing world with his essays. I wouldn’t be surprised if he, one day, wins a national award, or an international award, for that matter, for his works. What I do in entertainment (short stories/poems) he does thrice as well in his essays.

I am very much honored to have my work “Just for the Memory” featured in his blog.

Cheers, “Kuya” Mark!

Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You

Imagine her, the girl of your dreams, your future bride, your Virgil to your Dante, your Anabel to your Poe.
She’d just left you after seeing you for 2 and a half months, saying she didn’t want a relationship.
She didn’t even mention that she wanted to be friends.
She merely said it, “We can still be best friends.” without so much as a hint of sincerity.
You loved her, so you believe her, in the slight hope that friendship may once again bring back the relationship.
Bring back the love.
Bring back the days you’d spent laughing with her.
The ineffable kisses you both shared.
The misanthropy you provided for yourself in exchange for her attention.
It was all you required.
She was your self knitted hat.
She was your gasoline and drive.
She was the guitar you learned to play until you had calloused fingers.
So you let it be.
A few weeks later, you do not speak.
A few months later, you see her and smile, but she loses all trace of you in the back of her mind.
There’s another man, who now catches her eye.
A new flavor of wine that she’d love to try.
A new drug to help ease the sickness of life.
A new path on the map of life.
He is there, holding her hand.
He is there, playing as she cheers from the bleachers.
He is there, reading her to sleep.
It was the novel you wrote for her, it was hers to keep.
All trace of you has been erased.
A formatted hard drive, and it’s an emotionless face.
Then you see her again, and this time she cries.
You talk to her, and comfort her this time.
You walk and talk for a stretch of miles; visiting the past, remembering the smiles.
She feels better, and gives you a hug.
That’s all you’re gonna get, so you leave with a shrug.
You see them together, again, as if they’d never fought.
All the pain dashed away, as if it were a passing thought.
And again, you see her in the middle of the night.
Tears in her eyes, as she struggles to fight.
There he is, walking away, and she’s kneeling on the sidewalk, meters away.
He needs help, and so does she.
So you approach the guy, and you’ll help them see.
You sum up the courage to talk him through.
With a single line, you know what you have to do.
You love her too much to let it go too.
“Don’t hurt her, bro. She loves you.”

* This was written for the Facebook Page “Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You.”

** Why I wrote this for a Facebook Page was because I was BORED. BORED. So I decided to pour out a little bit of my heart into the page.

*** Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dont-hurt-her-bro-She-loves-you/155903644455335

**** You can find this post on the Discussion Board. As of the time I post this, nobody has deigned to reply to me yet.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011