Anointed Simon

In the emerald forests of the Philippines, where mist curls around ancient trees and rivers sing through valleys, there lives a bird unlike any other — the Philippine Eagle . With wings that stretch wider than a man is tall and a crown of feathers like a king’s headdress, it soars as if carrying the very spirit of the forest. But this eagle, once lord of the skies, is now a whisper of what it was. Fewer than a thousand remain. For every tree that falls, the eagle’s world shrinks. For every bullet fired, its song fades. It raises only one chick every two years, placing its hope in a single fragile life, asking silently: Will you protect me? One evening, an elder sat by the fire in a distant village and told children a story: “Once, the eagle flew higher than clouds, watching over every land — Africa’s savannas, Asia’s forests, America’s mountains. It was a messenger between people and the earth. But one day, humans forgot. They built and burned, cut and consumed, until the eagle bega...

At dawn, the lake lay quiet, its surface shimmering like glass under the first rays of sunlight. High above, perched on the tallest acacia tree, the African Fish Eagle spread its wings, surveying its kingdom. Its piercing eyes scanned the waters below, where tilapia darted beneath the surface, unaware of the hunter’s gaze. The eagle let out a cry — that haunting, powerful call known as the “Voice of Africa.” It echoed across the valley, stirring both fear and awe among the smaller birds that hushed in its presence. For generations, the villagers who lived along the lake had grown to recognize this cry. To them, it was not just the sound of a bird but the voice of resilience, reminding them that strength is found in patience, and freedom is earned through courage. On this day, a young boy named Lemayan stood at the water’s edge, watching. His father had told him stories of the eagle — how it never took more than it needed, how it flew with dignity, and how its survival depended on th...

  The sparrow darted forward and pecked at the golden mango. For a moment, the sweetness filled her beak, warm and dripping like honey. She chirped in delight. But suddenly, the air grew heavy. The wheat around the tree rustled as though something unseen had awakened. The scarecrow’s button eyes gleamed with an eerie light, and its stitched smile twisted into something darker. The raven let out a sharp cry. “Fly! Now!” But it was too late. The branches of the mango tree began to shift. They creaked and bent unnaturally, wrapping around the sparrow like claws. The mango she had bitten into turned black, oozing thick sap that burned like fire. The sparrow struggled, wings beating furiously. “Help me!” she cried. The raven leapt from his perch, diving at the branches with his beak and talons, tearing at the wood. With each strike, the scarecrow flinched, as though its own body was being wounded. Realizing the truth, the raven shouted, “It’s bound to the tree! The scarecrow and ...

When Loving Someone Feels Like Waiting for Them to Notice You’re Still There 🌙 “Sometimes, love isn’t loud. It’s just the quiet question: Do I still matter to you?” There’s something haunting about waiting for someone you love to come back — not physically, but emotionally. This is a story I never thought I’d share. But maybe someone out there needs to hear it. Maybe someone else is stuck in that strange space between hope and letting go . It’s about Simo. And me. We met during a season where everything felt uncertain — except him. Simo brought clarity. His texts were thoughtful, his voice calm, his energy gentle. He knew how to be present, how to notice the little things: my nervous habits, my laugh when I was holding back tears, the way I liked my coffee a little bitter. He just got me. And for a while… we were magic. But as time passed, the space between his messages grew wider. Calls became rushed. “Talk soon” started meaning “maybe in a few days.” I made excuses — he’...

In the middle of a golden wheat field stood a lonely mango tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit. Perched upon one branch was a glossy black raven, sharp-eyed and silent, watching everything that stirred below. Just beneath, fluttered a cheerful sparrow, her wings quick, her voice lively, chirping about how sweet the mangoes must taste. A scarecrow stood a few meters away, arms stretched wide as if guarding both the tree and the harvest. But everyone in the village knew something strange—no matter how many times birds came close, the mangoes never seemed to vanish. It was as though the scarecrow itself watched over them, not just with stitched eyes, but with something… alive. The raven leaned closer to the sparrow and whispered, “Little one, you must be careful. The fruits here aren’t just for eating. The scarecrow keeps a secret, one that even I don’t dare uncover.” The sparrow laughed lightly, brushing off his words. “A scarecrow? It’s only straw and cloth. Look how still it sta...