A Chicken neck rolls down the hill while soup simmers on the boiler. Goats are found gutted, strewn around the field in patterns of bleeding. The sun bears down on limbs dismembered, animals scatter around what remains of remains. A farm house is closed while a pair prepare to vacate north. The smell of decomposition begs the question of an onlooker.
When the first body is discovered an old man limps away screaming. Harmless he is received as witness. A plastic bag unzips, falls to the ground and embraces into exchange. Another followers another. One. Two. Three. The field is marked plastic obituary. In the distance a crow eyes the burning flesh of a bullet wound.
Aftermath. Or a crime in which only heroes in uniform are heard. Gunshot. Bullet Wound. Bloodied farm clothes. Stalks of crimson wheat. Sachets of crystal. The narrative that emerges does not really emerge, rather it is mumbled through sobbing teeth. In the night a hunger is understood to exist. No one can figure out what the hunger is for.
In the distance smoke billows against the half-cut tree in frustration. Winds slam the door of a hollowed out home. Here a child sips tinolang manok and asks for his father. Mother hesitates and calls it circumstance. Hundreds of miles away a man is awarded a medal for curbing the travesties of drugs. The audience claps before turning to the next tab. No one remembers the news except for the uncaring archives.
