by Abner Dormiendo

A teacher in a kindergarten taught the kids, once, about papers.
It was the sound of laughing, simultaneous, almost in chorus
with the sound of tearing. A child learns to read at night
with only the light of his eyes beneath the sheets to read it.
The book says: In year X, a blind boy in desperation–
They like to think that these unfounded emotions, almost
human, bring what the world calls genius– felt the awls
poking through the surface of leather. This was the story
of how the sightless discovered reading. Cows once roamed
the wide fields, and see those broken wood, dirty white? It was
a fence. In the summer of 1999 furious was the language
the bovines knew how to speak. The stampede killed roughly
thirteen citizens, three of them children. This is how following
blind beliefs destroy towns like a misplaced storm. Everything
ends to dust. The rest goes to the incinerator, with the remains
of what only fire can purge. What the fire cannot destroy,
we leave to the ocean to swallow. A writer makes stories,
another one about the sea. Sinking is the only movement
a body knows in water. He writes in an attempt to drown out
the demons. They keep telling him this is not the only way
to tame his ghosts. In the windows of the kindergarten, rain
just fell. From fifty blocks away, he imagines the possibility
of sound– if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to
hear it, the philosopher imagines the sound: violent laughter,
almost simultaneous, to the symphony of empty bullet cartirdges
clanking on the ground. That is not the only thing that fell
that day. They do not talk about it anymore. They let the demons
hang from the ceiling for as long as they could. At days
like these, the victims reach for the claws, wounding the silence.