The Ant Farm

Somebody tried to rob me. I thought it was just the cat making noise downstairs, but it went on for too long, so I got out of bed to check the ruckus. I should have known better. I guess I was too naïve, not thinking that bad things could come by and visit me. I have never felt fear like that before. When I walked into the living room, it was already too late—the man’s blinding torch was aimed right at my face.

At the station, the police asked for a description, but the best I could give was a silhouette. My perpetrator was no more than a shadow, a blank face, like a smudged memory—an incognito, a ghost.

How do you chase down a ghost?

I thought I had to do something. What would my dad do? I wished he were still here—strong, certain, always knowing what to do.

I’m living alone in the city. And here, one can disappear just like that, like nothing. I stood by the window, looking down at the pedestrians walking and crossing the streets like little ants. Only everyone’s a stranger. Each to each. There’s no collective order, no sophisticated form moving toward a unified goal. Everyone is out there on their own.

I need to buy a gun.

Gun Guy

I had never held a gun before. I always admired people who could handle a pistol—riding into the sunset like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, people who could stand up to their enemies. I like Westerns, by the way.

A few days after the incident, I visited a neighboring city to make a purchase. I don’t know why I had to go far just to do that, but if I had to guess, maybe it was because I knew I’d be weird and awkward about the whole thing.

I made my way to the one gun shop that wasn’t so popular, at around six o’clock, when it was almost dark and there’d be fewer people. I thought of wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, but dismissed the idea and dressed in my normal clothes. I wore a baseball cap—not to hide my face, but to tame my frizzy hair, since I hadn’t showered for days.

Inside, there wasn’t much to say about the place. Three long glass counters—one on each side and one at the far end, where the hunting rifles were mounted on the wall. I asked the owner (I assumed he was) for something compact, easy to hide—a handgun. He offered me a Glock, but I had my eye on a revolver. The guy said it was loud. I let him choose for me.

I asked how much. I was already reaching for my wallet when he told me it would take two months for the papers to go through.

“I wouldn’t last three days,” I told him.

I left the store empty-handed.

Fear

That night, I slept with the lights on, my clothes off. I tried making the cat sleep next to me, but it preferred the shelf. I finished maybe three cans of Pale and texted my ex-wife, asking her to come home. I guess… it wasn’t entirely a terrible decision. At this point, I’m just tired of being afraid. I did receive a reply, but it was from some guy saying he’d pass along the message in the morning.

Spending the entire night wide awake in my room was strange. I think that was the longest time I’d ever spent staring at the ceiling—like I was never really home before. And I tried to listen, I mean really listen, to every sound the house made while the city kept moving outside—ants, all of them, marching without me. And I felt rather alone. And it almost touched my lips—

I think I muttered a few words that pleaded for the thief’s return.

Leaving Town

A man sits on a bench as he waits to board the nine-fifteen train.
It’s the first time in years since he last got out of town.
One might wonder why—why leave everything behind?
And it wouldn’t be hard to answer.
Ordinariness can sometimes make
a man’s soul dull—
as this small town could,
or already has.

One-way ticket in hand,
shoes wearing thin,
and a heartburn.

Freedom is cheap when you’ve got nothing left to lose.

At his feet, a small travel bag:

Five shirts.
A hand-me-down suit.
Three pairs of socks.
Eight pairs of underwear.

Just enough for the road.
What he managed to pack.

When the man arrived in the city,
his first stop was a warm, decent meal—
preferably cheap, something the locals would often have.

It’s the fastest way to get acquainted with a place.

As for love,
he visits a brothel.

Pays good money.
Pays more for a goodnight’s kiss.

Some nights, it gets him a sleepover.
Warmer bed.

Big City

The city is a big place.

In the city, it’s easy to disappear into the night.

I do it all the time.
In fact, I go by many names now—
entropy, deceit, temper.
Mania.

“I’m not gonna be able
to sleep tonight, am I?”

“For as long as you have me,
no, I don’t think so.”

“And why is that?
Is there a way to shut you off?”

“I wish it were that easy.
You’ll have to find a way around me—
thoughts are bothersome sometimes.”

“Sure is.”

Public Transport

A great many blur
stood next to me
while waiting for
the public transport—

I looked around.
Peered over.

There were quiet
sighs of discomfort
and consistent patting
with handheld handkerchiefs—

The absent look
of weary commuters
crowded the conundrum
masked by silence,
running late for home-cooked meals
and late-night maladies—
necromancy;
pornography.

A woman, nursing a faux leather
handbag, offered a seat
to an elderly man.

And I thought:
It must be awfully nice to get married someday.

To stay up later than usual
with a stay-at-home wife,
to stay away from the noise,
from all of these—

from the great blur;
the great wave;
the constant pull of gravity.

Dark Circles

I keep still, lying on my back in the bedroom in the middle of the night. I think it was past midnight—the clock said 1:35 a.m. What is that? There’s a dark spot amassing on the ceiling, with rings of dried water around it. Something the rain must have left behind—like a residue of the past. A dark secret that has been accidentally told.

My uncle once talked about dreams—what they would look like if they ever made it out of the dream world. Maybe if he were still around, he’d try to convince me to stay away from it. I probably wouldn’t listen. I thought it looked like a piece of a shadow, though—cut off at the hems. It got stuck, and now it just won’t go away. It wasn’t there the last time I was here.

When was that exactly? Last night? Two nights ago… I couldn’t remember for sure. But there was a woman—yes, a woman was here before. She had that stare—the type that lingers, the kind that peers through your soul. Yes, the dark spot on the ceiling somehow resembled her gaze… hollow, noncommittal, but it stays with you. You could say honest—too honest for my own good.

I’ll go back to sleep. Maybe this is just a strange dream. Maybe, somehow, this dark spot on the ceiling will follow me back to where it belongs.

The Incident at the Convenience Store

Late at night, I was inside a convenience store for a quick snack. Well, that was the initial plan, but I’d been there for more than an hour, staring at the trees. I think people stare at trees when they have nothing else—when they don’t know what to do anymore, looking for answers that might fall off them.

I was out of a job, and the little money I had saved was running low. I bought two packs of cigarettes and a disposable Bic lighter and sat by the widest window in the store. I caught myself thinking: why do I even bother trying to look for a job? I don’t have kids—well, not anymore. I’m fifty-six. I’m practically at the twilight of my life, so why bother?

The girl at the next table was eating microwave pasta with a pink drink. It looked like a meal you’d have on a bad day. I told myself I have to remember to get the same one tomorrow. The girl must have been waiting for someone—I could tell. She kept checking her phone every two minutes and trying to call someone, but for some reason, she couldn’t reach them.

Soon, two tall guys arrived and sat at her table. All three of them kept looking in my direction, then they’d resume talking. At first, I thought it was nothing. But then the two guys stood up, came over, sat at the vacant seats near me, and started chatting.

“What’s up?” said the guy on my left. “Do you like staring at defenseless little girls?”

“Yeah, do you like messing around with kids, padre?” added the other.

“Of course I do. Like, don’t you?” I knew I’d get myself into trouble by saying this, but at that point, I didn’t really care anymore. I figured they’d already made up their minds before approaching me—no point arguing. So why the hell not? Might as well make things a little interesting while we’re already at it.

Both guys stood up. They looked even taller standing so close. We got into a brawl. I think it lasted less than fifteen minutes, but it felt much, much longer. When you get into a fight, you don’t really think. You just let your instincts take over. All you hear is the pounding of your heart and the voice inside your head reminding you—not to forget to breathe. And breathe I did. I kept swinging, mostly hitting nothing but air.

Top Cat

In a dark alley, the king of all cats sat atop a trash bin. That meant no other cat could get to it before the king had its fill of all the edible rubbish.

On its royal perch, it surveyed the extent of its dominion—where stray cats took refuge in makeshift shelters made from discarded boxes and fruit crates. The king kept the lowly strays in line through its loyal subjects: the cold wind and the occasional rains.

The Deed

A man went to see a doctor, complaining about a bellyache. The problem was that he couldn’t fully describe the pain—for him, it was like describing a Pollock painting: it had no consistent form, nor did it embody one.

The doctor asked a series of questions as the man lay on the examination table: family medical history, past illnesses, his diet over the past two weeks.

He felt like a sprawled lab frog about to be cut open.

With both hands, the doctor pressed on various parts of his abdomen—on either side and just above the pelvis—watching closely for signs of pain on the man’s face.

When asked, the quiet man said the pain level was a nine—a form of question he appreciated. He wished people talked this way—short.

He mostly did manual labor—work that required little to no interaction with people. He’d clock in, work to the employer’s expectations, and head home. As for relationships, if he ever needed to bed a woman, he would simply pay a professional. Life, for him, like this one, kept complications at bay—no frills, no entanglements.

After some tests, they later found it was cancer—likely two, maybe three months to live. The doctor handed the man a pamphlet to help him carry out what needed to be arranged; all he had to do was fill out some forms.

“It’d be best to spend the remainder of the time with family, see old friends, maybe take a short trip somewhere quiet,” the doctor said—all in under a minute. The man thanked him and stayed silent for the rest of the conversation.

The problem was, the man had already been residing in a place of quiet for years, living alone in a one-room apartment. “That deed has been done, doctor,” he said, peering out the window, where he could see an old tamarind tree. Its dark, creased branches stood still in the gust of the monsoon wind, amidst the faint chatter of pedestrians walking past—oblivious to its imposing stance.