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

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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

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

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

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

BASTARDS (A Collaboration Story with LaMusica)

Credits to LaMusica

O:

The glass in my hand was the same one as yesterday. The same sharp points that lined the surface from the imperfections of human handling. Light reflected itself upon the translucent cold that crept up the mug. It was cold… snowing, actually. Nevertheless, I consumed the ice. It was handed to me by a warm friend. I’d seen her. She was there all the time; always there at the bar. I couldn’t very well, place a guess on why she kept on doing what she did… although the others did. They always spoke with her. Mundane, yet the conversation led them to countless worlds of wonder.  I wondered, in the dim light of the bar, who could wander the world without wonder’.

F:

There was never a cold night out on the streets like tonight. I’ve been kicked out of my own home again, drifting for a place to hunker down till the snow stops. I don’t know what drew me to this lonely street, with the flickering lamp posts and its cracked sidewalks. It might have been because of the daze of getting kicked out, or the snow storms relentless fall blinding my view. Either way, there was a warm neon sign that said ‘Bar’, and it lead down to the basement of an apartment building. Thinking back I would never have gone into that bar, but I would have walked so many more blocks before getting to a decent place to stay. Walking in all I could think of was that the place was old. Not the glorious old or the senile old. It was the used and abused old, the old that was barely taken care of if not at all. There was barely anyone but a man sitting alone in a booth, and a waitress sitting down with three rowdy men in the middle of the room. There was a bar stool that looked like it was fairly lit up; I sat down and ordered a beer with what little money I had in my wallet. It was decent, enough that I could forget my problems.

O:

He walked in, silent as the dead, yet moved with the luxury of life. Comparing him to the only customers who would join the waitress each and every night, he was the youngest. She’d watched him as he entered, we all did, yet his eyes never met another living thing’s gaze. Not even the cowering fly waiting to be devoured from the web. He spoke softly, as any person would, on a night like this. He was a man of malt. I liked that. Not many here were of that calibre. Malt. The strength to endure such was a rare quality, in the men of new. He was uneasy, ‘Why, who wouldn’t be?’ I asked the half empty glass I held. Nobody hears the corner man, and we were, corner men. The light above him reflected his face upon the glass; as pale as this ghastly weather.

F:

I was born into a poor family. I mean poor family, that we didn’t bond together like a family should. We had money that was sure, but we didn’t really have that family tie that makes us cry during funerals. First mother passed away, we got by and didn’t talk about it. Then dad went, without a word, without any drama. They left me when I was already independent, when it was about time to send them support money and make grandchildren for them to baby. A few years before dad passed away I met Jane. We were only slightly attracted to each other. We knew that after years of trying to get the best partner we could find that we would never be able to get him or her. So we married out of stalemate, we just settled. I don’t know where it went downhill, we both weren’t really enjoying it but we coped. Then she got angry at night, and then she started pushing me out of the house. I wasn’t impotent, but she just didn’t like me anymore I guess. So I’m in the bar, with my jacket over my pyjamas and staring into the wall of liquor like a damn jarhead. Sipping on my fifth beer, not even caring if the snow stopped pouring anymore. I was relaxed.

O:

Time was a strange thing in that bar. It never seemed to clock down correctly. This could have been due to the lack of windows, yet, even if it did have any, what light was there to let in? I presumed, none. Thoughts came and went and after thousands of reconstructed images of the past, and the other thousands of projected future, no one ever talked about the present. The glass seemed to wear thin, for a mug, and my senses were dull. Perfect for thought, since nothing disturbed the mind. I noticed the man had more than the usual two or four beers that everyone always had. A thoughtful man. This bar only knew a few thinkers, and most had already become drunken suicides, or merely drunken road kill. The exasperated sighs this man let out brought about theories. Theories that I dare not prove. To prove would mean to speak. To communicate, and, with a stranger, too. The use of language endangers us all. For when a thought is expressed, erroneous becomes the thought in the other person’s head. How silly it was, that those three with the waitress always spoke louder than actions.

F:

I was finishing my fifth beer, when one of the three men started throwing insults. They were directed at me because there was no one else to shout to in my direction. I finished my beer, ask for one last one. His insults were getting worse, and his voice was getting louder. I was almost dizzy from my beers, more confidence than usual. He insulted me again, I faced him from my bar stool giving an unimpressed look.

O:

They lost themselves, the three, amongst the stars in their heads. Destructive and violent, they thought of conquest. Dominion of the stars surrounding the largest; the source of heat on this cold night. Upon my star I sat and observed. They had placed their flag on unholy grounds. The newcomer turned to face their insults. ‘Why, fellow men, have you succumbed to such insane lengths of torture?’ My glass reflected me a reply which I could not fully understand. The cold no longer blurred and the clarity of the glass revealed the unusual answer. The answer was with the man, was my first thought. Yet a little lower, the three men had more than their fair share of malt. The fly was wrapped in a web, head out. It remained un-devoured.

F:

As if to prove his dominance the man sat up from his chair, standing with his fat beer belly sticking out as if it were to say, I’m bigger than you so you better back off and leave this bar. We glared at each other while I grabbed one more sip from my beer. I didn’t mind the insults; this was just some stupid guy who’s had too much to drink. This though was something I’ve always wanted to do, to get into a bar fight and pummel a man’s face off. I gulped down all my beer but left the heavy glass mug in my hand. He approached me still, not noticing my new weapon. He spat in my face. At this point he was about a foot away from me. I smashed the heavy end of the beer mug into his skull.

O:

One of the three grew bolder with his words, and was struck down, decisively by the newcomer. The two stood up. The waitress scurried behind the bar. The newcomer’s glass was broken. Blood was on the floor. Father time had forgotten this world, leaving us with this. I dared not intervene, though I knew the waitress all too well. I knew the men all too well. The first of the two grabbed the newcomer’s arm with his hand. I pondered on the thought of the newcomer knowing that he’d just struck down a police officer, and that he was now being held by his partner, and that the last one of the men, was a lumberjack. Such abuse of worthless authority…

F:

They were stupid. They came for me when they could have helped their friend who I had just bashed in the head. They shoved my face into the bar and one of them was hand cuffing me. I caught a glimpse of the man in the booth, still sitting there, still cradling his drink. They brought me out into the cold again, one holding on to my hand cuffed arms while the other shovelled with his hands the snow that was covering the police cruiser. I hope the waitress and bartender knew what they were doing, or at least called for an ambulance.

O:

They took him out of the bar, while the waitress cowered in the corner. I knew I should have helped her, she was, of course, the man’s girlfriend, and somehow, a friend of mine, too. Though, I had more important matters to deal with. I walked up just as they lowered the newcomer’s head into the cruiser. I recalled the spider, and I wondered if it had eaten its meal yet. The snow fell coldly and the wind howled in sorrow as I pulled out the flask of brandy I always kept in my jacket. Taking one last glance at the eternity before us, there was a difference that buried itself within my chest. He’d felt it too, I knew. I crossed the street, wondering how much time that police officer had left. A sip from the flask, and a cigarette in hand, I took the long way home that night.

* 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