by John Alfred F. Rabena
My room was silent as the professor gazed at the class record. Despite the calmness around me, I had this awful, uneasy feeling that something might occur.
Alas, he uttered my surname. My sweaty, shaky hands struggled to turn on the mic. He asked me to discuss the case of Chu Jan vs. Bernas and explain how the Supreme Court decided the cock-fight dispute.
I stuttered as I tried to remember what I’ve read. Suddenly, I heard a bizarre sound of wings flapping in the background.
Two seconds later, I heard a booming, high-pitched “tiktilaok!” Chickens in the neighbor’s yard crowed at the top of their lungs, as if they were the only ones in the neighborhood.
My spine chilled, my lips turned pale, and my heart pounded fast. I thought I would swoon but I held my ground and took a deep breath before beginning again.
I waited for them to fall silent, worried the professor would take notice of my prolonged inner monologue.
As I was opening my mouth to utter another word, the chickens were at it again.
“Tiktilaok!”
I felt myself flinch from the sound. This time, it felt different. Louder and more intentional.
They continued to caw as I finished my recitation. Always feeling closer than the last. The moment I was muted, the world around me quieted, no wary sound of wings nor askew sound came from the outside any longer. It was perplexing.
That sound haunted me, even after the class had ended. From then on, my hands trembled every time I had to turn on my microphone.
It felt like it always knew when to strike, its round, yet obscure, eyes were closely observing my every move.
When will this end? I sighed in frustration.
“Tiktilaok!”
THE BARRISTER 