Flagpole Tyranny

Daylight is fast fading. There are shadows rising amid the setting sun, creeping around the corners. Shit is about to happen.


Recently, there had been a power shift, which rocked the very foundations of our origins within this certain company that we, as of this writing, are currently working in. It is a fun job; suffice to say, to the point where some responsibilities may have slipped now and then, including a serious fuck up or two. But the place, somehow, had retained its harmony – at least, within the confines of our department, which is located far away from the office politics – well, the smaller grunts, actually, such as yours truly and the newer batch after me are safe from any politics to some degree. At some point, we are used as live ammunition or a scapegoat to make certain the ones above us continue to rule as they see fit.


As I’ve said, this job is fun. We only worked, really worked, on Thursdays and Fridays, ensuring our product comes out with the highest possible standards there is to journalism. It is not always, possible, but we do put our best efforts into it, at times. We also got to toy with some of the newest gadgets around, and the boss doesn’t mind us using it for as long as we work here. We get to travel, with allowance, and bring that allowance back home to add to our savings – if we’re lucky, the sponsor would throw us a bone or two, something we would either keep or sell for more cash. We only hold a modicum grudge for having Saturdays as part of work schedule, and we literally do not do anything there, except engage in dialogs to other departments, and play the PS4 with them, or watch the latest horror movie.


Our workload is little, our boss had been lenient, our salary is shit – it doesn’t even hit the equivalent of $500 – but our perks thus far, have been amazing. One of our bosses even won a Vios, which he sold for a steal. Beyond that, it’s the continuous learning experience on the writing craft, because, most of us there are shitty writers from some backwater town or province.


The power shift had changed some of that. Majority from the former and new departments have been raising concerns, complaints, that the boss is now being a dick. Just recently, the boss had his crosshairs locked on the new department, for their mishap on failing to go to work on a Sunday. To simplify things, something big happened on that day, and they were expected to go work, on a Sunday, without being told so. To their defense, the new department focuses on the company’s social media maintenance, which can, if you think about it, be done at home. Personally, they shouldn’t really think ill of it too much, as the other people – like me – sometimes have to go to work on Sundays and holidays.


My colleague had somehow dug info that the once simple boss with a humble number of stocks has actually bought a larger part of the company, promoting him to god-like status. Everyone agrees, nodding in unison, that that was the reason for his flagpole wielding tyranny. This has been semi-proven after speculations from tidbits of information that comes our way. Such as the episode where the boss had pointed out to the new department that he is above the hierarchy, telling them, that he is on top of all the other bosses and if they do not like it, they can leave.


My personal opinion is this: I don’t give a flying fuck. The boss is being a boss, but he still beats the shit out of other bosses that shoves a stick up their employees’ asses – Lord forbid, if there is such literally – he continues to maintain a composure, which makes him still easier to approach than the rest. Based from my friends’ experiences, as of this writing, in their current workplaces, their bosses are total D-bags. They almost literally want to gouge the eyes off their bosses, crucify them, and leave them intestines uncoiling in the ground for the dogs to feed on.


My colleague and I had been given extra work on the main department, which isn’t so fun. It is exciting, and adrenaline pumping, but not fun. This is, what I believe, a punishment for the times of being late too often, and fucking up every now and then. We had become too lenient to our own responsibilities and had received its big pointy end. We had been given sufficient amount of time to reprimand our mistakes, and we had done so, only to falter again later.


The boss being a total dick thing is an exaggeration, blown up like an oversized sex doll. And this entire thing is our just desserts. It isn’t pleasant, and we have hope things will somehow balance out. In the meantime, I’ll bother more on how to be awesome on my own.

Odd Dreams

I get odd dreams. A paradoxical sensation of things that happen in this flat, spiraling universe of never-ending conspiracies and thought-assassinations. We fleet into this realm in and out of existence, escaping into worlds by our own design.

In one such world, the earth has shattered. Things that could have been, the Ghosts, rose from the cerebral depths. Or perhaps, these Ghosts have made themselves real – real as in, the personally-designed world – their hands held up high, waving. They were there, watching me alone in the harbor, them, sailing off to some distant coast into farthest reaches of oblivion. Never to be seen again. Locked inside some copper chests and dropped down to the sea. I’d like that. I waved back to them, and I awakened, always feeling a part of me has been freed.

On the other hand. Camaraderie has fallen. Washed away by tides from a velvet sea. A new band of exiles had picked up a small, distraught crew in flames, leaving behind two, all ready burnt to ashes. A shadowed group of people, wearing purple cowls with strange bunny ear headbands in shining bright pink, gathered the ashes of one of the two burned crew. They had taken, the mother-that-will-always-be. She birthed to the world pollen that drove people mad in grief. She too, has gone now, with those bunny ear-wearing cult.

Meanwhile. The girl seen through the Dusty Glass. She too, is among the Ghosts, and the only one that has not set sail yet. She is still here, haunting. She smiles that terrible smile with lips bright red as if she had kissed the bleeding hearts of those she had ripped from. Dried, to a deep dark red, it burns to see her. This day, of all days, she had donned the clothes that made her hard to find. The clothes she wore, you see, was designed for a game meant to damage the eyes, scouring vision into a spiral of whiteness and blood. I might as well call it for what it is, Where’s Waldo?

She too, will fade, in time. Not now, maybe soon. It won’t be her sailing, waving. She will be in the tower behind the two faces of the sun, a malevolent grin in her dark red lips. For now, she will be around. The odd dream of her, has only happened once, and it had been, unsavory. She had been the only one, where I had come too close with. And, well, it involves of some mixtures of saliva, tongues, and massages between lips. And strangely so, her lips and tongue tasted bitter. It had, for certain, dawned on me that it was all a dream. But that bitter taste, felt all too real. Much too real. And I am stuck, between thoughts. What. The. Fuck. Was. Crawling. On my lips. And somehow, touched my tongue?

That, is something I never, ever, want to find out.

Gutter Dogs

It is detestable.

The irrevocable solution slides down on us like an avalanche in slow-mo. There is nothing we can do, but hope to survive the impact. We will be buried, for certain. And we will emerge as survivors, from this cataclysmic implosion of flash freeze, hypothermia, chilblains, and frostbite. To put it likely, we will be hurled into an electric wire-mesh fence. It will be an epic transformation since Kafka, or at least, the first Transformers movie that gave every G1 fans serious butt hurt. I hate you, Michael Bay.

Getting back on track. It falls down to three things: A) We will be reassigned, into the deepest, darkest, corners of this micro-demon world. It is a place where people go mad, and take the rope around their necks when the fire inside them becomes too much to bear. B) No false pleasantries exchanged, because no words are needed. We will be taken to the back alley, where we will be shot in the back of our heads. In the process, we will be made men. That actually sounds like a good thing. Finally; C) The slightest glimmer of hope, where we are granted amnesty – which leads to C.1) Exile, or C.2) A second wind.

That mentioned second wind, of course, will either be temporary and we will be thrown into the gutters anyway. Or, well, a second, honest wind. That doesn’t sound right. Anyhow, by then, either questions have been raised, like, What the Fungus-Fucking thing is happening, or here I am, detested under a spotlight with row after row of empty seats. Enter, the ever-thoughtful, whistles-on-cue tumbleweed.

Suffice to say, what happened was a colossal fuck up. One that is not worth mentioning about. Just know that it was something that cannot easily be forgiven. What matters, is the surge of raw thoughts that wouldn’t shut the F up in my head. So here they, words without meaning, thoughtless ramblings, and visceral screams – I bring you, to the weather… that, wasn’t right. Too much Welcome to Night Vale. I just finished listening to both Old Oak Doors episodes, and they were awesome. Download the episodes, if you haven’t all ready. Anyway, random blathering, yes, and, no, I don’t feel like telling it now. I’ve been writing this entire for some time, and somewhere amid the words, I lost interest in putting those thoughtless words.

They are, after all, just plain nonsensical ramblings. Things about a flotilla of dead things, red skies, phallic-shape things bursting from someone’s chest, a Woman with Blaring Red Eyes, and the Girl seen Through the Dusty Glass, and other things. Maybe, tonight, I’ll jot them down, when I watch Robin Williams one more time in Dead Poet Society. For now, there is only this, and the Goliath known as “You Had One Job.”