I Gave It A Little Tug

I gave it a little tug, just enough to unplug it from the socket.

Just enough to put the hard drive to rest.

Just enough to slowly darken the monitor.

Just enough to keep the processor running on low.

Just enough to keep the battery from dying out.

Just enough to watch as the keyboard and mouse become unresponsive.

Just enough to slow down everything.

I watch as the screen fades, and I no longer see the light.

I watch as the keys fail to let me post my final reply.

I watch as the hard drive dies away, taking the memory with it.

I watch as everything slowly comes to a halt.

I watch as the processor sounds its last offset electrical hum.

I watch as the battery jolts one last time before finally losing all power.

I gave it a little tug, just enough to unplug it from the socket.

Resting heads on the pillows, people sleep.

Laying their feet on the bed, or couch.

Raising their hips to adjust to the new position.

Sliding their back as they try to find that comfortable spot that will send them off to sleep.

I took away their source of inspiration, light, and whatever it is that kept them alive and well.

And it slowly faded away, blending into the night, sought by no one until the dawn.

No disturbances, no discrepancies, no intolerable voices, moans, groans, grunts, and sighs.

On passion’s dance floor, the walls trembled no longer.

On passion’s paper, the ink had dried out: incomplete.

On passion’s bed, the erection was lost and the estrogen subsided.

On passion’s audio-video, there was no media left to display, and the Emergency Broadcast System was all on play.

On passion’s passion, inspiration had lost its way among the trees of the forest of thought.

On passion’s PC, obsolete designs were no longer supported, but what technology was there when they were all dead.

I gave it a little tug, just enough to unplug it from the socket.

-Anachrony

The Valorous Visages: Casi Campucha

By Anachrony

The air was dense; Mark could not breathe well under the circumstances. The smell of burnt gunpowder, vomit, and blood was all he could smell. It was searing, the sun, and he could not have sweated more in his entire life. Quietly, he crawled towards, Bud, his friend. The grass beneath him moved ever so slightly. It was obviously unnatural, and the Viet Cong opened fire. Bullets grazed the grass before them like a lawnmower of bullets. Their commanding officer gave the order to open fire. The sound of M16 returning gunfire sliced through the forest. A few grenade explosions later, both parties were losing men. The Viet Cong pushed forward, though their number was smaller. They charged with a thinly placed line of men. A few more grenades and the Viet Cong were deathly silent. The sudden silence injected fear into the heart of the commanding officer, thus he sounded the retreat.

The chopper arrived somewhat later than expected, yet they held their ground until the swirling blades were right above them. They loaded up. Just as the chopper was dusting off the ground the Viet Cong opened a large volley of fire. The choppers gunner returned it, providing cover for the rising chopper. The sound of the heavy automatic bursts filled the cabin, echoing on almost endlessly. He and several other men from his squad assisted and opened fire as well. One of the Viet Cong was lucky enough to land a shot on the choppers gunner. He sat back, head lolling around in the cabin in a disturbingly diagonal fashion. Mark stood back, staring at the gunner, silent. The medic pushed Mark aside and placed his kit on the floor where Mark sat. Seconds later, the medic stopped aiding the gunner and asked for a body bag. Nobody spoke a word.

“Hey, Mark, the guys are gonna go to town for a drink. Wanna come along?” Bud poked his head in the room.

“We’re not allowed to leave the premises, it’s not safe. The Viet Cong might be in the city as well. You know that.” Mark replied, staring at a black and white picture from home. It was Kaeti, his girlfriend. The picture showed her in a sundress in the front yard of what was soon to be their house, just after the war. She smiled at him.

“Shit, we know that, but this drink is for Mikey, the machine gunner from the chopper. I know we haven’t gotten to know him well, but the man died, savin’ our asses today, and I thinks he deserves a goddamn drink.”

“Blood and destruction shall be so in use, and dreadful objects so familiar, that mothers shall but smile when they behold their infants, quarter’d with the hands of war.”

“The fuck you talkin’ about, man?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Shit man, I know you’re an English teacher and all that, but you don gotta go bringin’ up that shit ev’ry time we fuckin’ talk.” Bud raised his tone and volume. Mark sat up, looking Bud in the eyes. Bud eased his stare and started,

“Sorry, man. We been through a lot. I jus wan’d to ask you to come with us. Jus this once, for the guy man. For Mikey.”

“Oh, alright. Let’s go.”

From Los Baños and Bohol Respectively.

 University of the Philippines, Los Baños

 Bohol Bee Farm, Bohol

Why Does The Country Smell So Sweet?

-Anachrony

The wind that blows takes away all disgust. The clear blue skies inspire dreams. The soft grass comforts anything that lands on it. The trees sway gracefully as the sun sets between them in all the splendour a fiery ball of gas could ever radiate. It is cool, and the consistent sound of rustling leaves fade in and out placing sleep into the hearts of anyone nearby. The clarity of it all enhances the tolerability of the world. The wayward drop of rain lands upon the grass. The neutral smell of the wonder creates a sense of peace. Eden was probably like this.

Everything looked so perfect from so far away.

I cried my eyes dry that day. I vomited out my guts. I bled my skin dry. I died, and I was led there. The wondrous place of peace, where nothing disturbed anything. I tried my best to stay; I tried to grip the trees, to smell the smells, to see the sights, to feel the grass, to breathe the air. I tried to be a part of the wondrous place to live in pure, unadulterated existence among the wondrous fragments that constructed this world. But, like flowing water, my stay was short.

I wanted to cut myself free from this world. I wanted to rename myself. I wanted to save myself. I wanted to live there, to exist in utter harmony as a being that no longer needed to conform to the world. I needed escape. Or, so my therapist said.

The only way to reach there was to walk through the passing road of the dead.

Everything changed upon my return.

I wanted to relieve myself and escape there.

I couldn’t take it anymore, I wanted out, and upon my request, a kind enough man granted it.

With a blast that echoed eternally, and blinded more than he and I, I returned, guided by the sun.