e.blackthorne

The farmer’s bed creaked when his feet reached the floor. Today, he woke up later than usual because he had not heard the rooster sing its morning song. Something was wrong, he thought to himself. The silence was unusual. His wife was already up, and he could smell the delicious scent of lechon paksiw, a leftover from last week’s town fiesta.

He remembered how his people shared sheer laughter and glee while they were butchering five pigs, a carabao, and a cow for the whole town to devour all throughout the celebration. The most awaited time of the year in his town was always the fiesta where happiness was evident for everyone, not because of reveling over the town’s origin and history but rather for the vegetable liberation. It is the time when meat is at its cheapest, sometimes for free, and all the meat could last for up to a month if preserved properly.

However, that was not the only thing memorable about last week. He didn’t just notice the typical delight of the people, but he noticed the animals as well. He and two others were responsible of choosing the five pigs out of the ten from their Kapitan’s sty. Upon choosing, he remembered vividly when some of the pigs backed off and five remained. It was as if they made the offer, it was as if they chose who among them should be slaughtered. He shook his head to shake the ridiculous memory away. It was probably just coincidence.

After breakfast, he went outside. Boots covered with mud, face dimmed by the shadow of his sombrero protecting him from the rays of a newly risen sun. The trees rustled and swayed with the wind, but there was no other sound. No chirping birds in a morning so bright. The leaves on the ground hushed when the farmer’s steps stopped. He looked around and a growing thought bothered him. Something’s terribly wrong, although he could not point out what it was.

He reached his farm and saw his carabao in its typical place. Somehow, the sight of his carabao relieved him from his crazy, implicit theory of animals acting way different than they should. He looked around and realized that he was the only one in the field. Where are the other farmers and their carabaos? A question that gave him a wrinkled line in between his brows.

His heart suddenly leaped when his gaze went back to his carabao. It was looking at him straight in the eyes with hints of hatred all over its face. The farmer moved his right hand forward with its palm facing the ground. “Hoo,” he calmly exclaimed in attempt to calm the animal in front of him. It responded with a groan, its right hoof swept the ground twice conditioning itself to run its owner over. The farmer immediately turned back and dashed away whilst being chased by the monster behind him.

He was thinking of a strategy to save himself from the animal’s wrath. He looked around, still running, and he saw an Acacia tree. He ran to the tree’s direction, planning to climb it, he looked back, and the animal is still chasing him. He’s not going to make it, he thought. Suddenly, he went to a swift stop and pulled out his sharp bolo----------------------------------  

The farm animals are growing detached, impassive, and cold.

I loved you¸ she said it

almost like vomiting thorns

instead of breathing out air

from her vocal chords

just to say those three little, vile words.

What broke my heart

was how she endured it—

the idea of not living with her,

of not making memories with her

felt like a raging storm inside my head.

A kind of storm only she could appease.

She gave me a piece of paper

and a let’s end this,

I expected the papercuts,

but not the frostbites.

It was cold on the surface of my palm,

cold as what she has become.

I remember her warmth,

her golden skin beneath my hand,

our first wedding kiss,

the day we moved in to our new home,

the way she said I love you when she meant it.

I hate the way my friends

joke about the situation

like it’s nothing but a

roleplay of husband and wife

and if you get tired,

you could end it with a paper that’s

waiting to be signed.

You’re the man, it’s easy to replace her.

No, you don’t understand.

There’s no replacing someone

you’ve waited for your whole life.

I was sure of her, so sure

that there was no one else.

It’s not her who cheated on me,

it was the writer of this universe.

She is the most beautiful woman in this planet,

nothing bad could be said to the woman who gave me

the most beautiful experience.

And that was to be her husband and her to be my wife.

And if you’re reading this although the chance is low,

I’m signing the paper with a heavy heart

because if letting you go means offering you happiness,

I,

with eyes colored in blood,

struggled

and stumbled

to see the light,

blinded

and addicted

to these flashing

hallucinations of

what meant to be

the good life.

I,

with relapses and shaking hands,

could not hold

and grasp

this ugly reality

that poisons the world.

So, I poisoned

myself

to save myself

and the world

inside a dream

I don’t want to

wake up on.

I,

who hides from the authority,

to live in a fantasy

of fancy things,

of happy things,

of a world of smiles.

Smiles I cannot

put on when

I’m sober and lonely

and withheld of the

ability to dream.

I,

with a rapid heartbeat,

held my shaky hands

in the air,

and then death demands

I turn to him

to show myself.

I’ve been found.

With my bloodshot eyes

I looked at

death, and

death pierced my heart

with trembling hands

How can you not hear my beating heart? 

               So loud,    

                             so clear,       

                                           so desperate. 

 Like a thunderstorm in a sunny day.                

love you in secret

send me a bit of your melancholy

my words will shout your name

you were quite unforgettable

we were each other’s pastime, weren’t we?

your secret lover

for you glasses boy