Chaos Inside A Pen

Third Eye 190x210 oil 2012 by Martin Guderna The problem is she can see too much; her normal vision is always mired with the strange and odd sightings beyond the scope of her two eyes and her own comprehension. It all started when she was five. The memory still gave her a good chill when the snapshots from the past suddenly flash before her mind; floating, dismembered head with gaping mouth spilling black liquid and hollowed eyes that keeps on gazing her each time she try to sleep and each time he wakes up in the cold gust of morning. When she was a teen and currently exploring the kick of her hormones, she nearly killed her boyfriend when they are secretly making love in her room when her parents are out on a party. As he thrust his way deep inside her for her first taste of deflowering instead of the face of the handsome mestizo that pounding her, it becomes the face of a horned goat bleating loudly as saliva drip from its muzzle. Their relationship ended right there wit

Image Source: D. Gastin. License:  https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en “I hate this city old man!” The lad in hipster clothes did his third spitting on the concrete as he cast a scornful look to the towering pillars placed randomly around Manila. Neon glows, voices and noises; everything breeds nothing but shallow pretense to him. Submerging his senses on those stimulants is akin to eating a burger that upon the first bite, you will eventually notice that the patties are missing. It is always been hollow in the inside. “Those skyscrapers look like giant tombstone if you ask me.” He continue while trying to find his last stick of cigarette on his pocket. “Why that is exactly the truth son.” The old man of the city who live day and night begging and sleeping answer him as he ponder with his own set of pale eyes the technicolor lights blinking against the black horizon of the city like countless candles in the wind. “This the graveyard of cre

You can’t find the priest of the town of St. Pio The Pious in the church most of the time. When you ask the people here in this old yet bustling town, many will say the their priest will only stay at the church during Sunday for the mass. Most of his days however is spend in the town’s largest Pub, The Carnal. Specifically in his favorite spot on the saloon. Father Spinoza or Father Spin as called by other is a Man of God who have only one flaw that gravely destroy his reputation; something he never mind at all although it cost him lesser contribution from the church people and ultimately a nearly empty church on the 2 nd year of his stay as their parish priest. He is a drunkard and fond of comparing the holy blood of Christ with Bloody Mary. Often telling to the people from The Carnal that both share the same taste of heavenly sweetness that every soul ache to taste. However, the people of St. Pio found it blasphemous and most of the time they just leave the pri

The following short fiction is inspired by the article from AswangProject about the traditional tattooing in Philippines called Pang-o-Tub. It was said that tattoo in pre-colonial Philippines was believe to endow strength who anyone who has it. You can view the article right in this link:  https://www.aswangproject.com/pang-o-tub-the-traditional-philippine-tattooing-you-havent-heard-about/ ) Anton doesn’t like the smell and taste of blood. Especially if it is his own. With broken ribs, swelling eye and wheezing breath, perhaps the only thing that keeps him going is adrenaline against Dadong Damuho inside the audience. The audience’s blatant heckling didn’t even help either. Everyone is rooting for the towering six feet tall juggernaut with fist like sledge hammer pounding him to death. The other bad news is that round 3 is just starting. There is still a lot of minutes to clobber him. To humiliate him. Going for a brawl against Dado is an irrevocable death contr

Too many visions wrapped in electric dreams. Exit eyes; enter mind. Neon lights bleed for the first time upon the penetration of wires. A reality where nothing is real, can somebody give a hint if there someone in the mask or another mask awaits the stripper and another one until vagueness become the truth? A ghost inside the machine, stored in a disc running for 60 to 80 years. Burn by lasers scarred with needles a montage of pixels called memories flash in crack screen. Rewinding, Stop and Fast Forward; all data will be lost. Nothing can be save. We are bound to be deleted one click away. Now the rain is glistening against the bright red lanterns. Like tongue of fire spit by heaven but no one is looking above. Nobody dreams of paradise anymore. A set of letters and numbers, a cord in the brain, coitus of codes and consciousness. Downloading Nirvana requires an illuminated eye by the luste