I don’t blame them.

Sitting next to me are my three-year old brown loafers, my backpack, and the curvaceous, lingering scent of the woman who helped me make a mess of my bed sheets last night. I couldn’t have cared less about the gray-haired pair’s stink-eye stares. They didn’t have a trace of womanhood left on their veined legs anyway.

I sit on this bench in hopes to find someone interesting. Someone who’d question my choice of clothes, or just someone who’d tilt her head towards my direction and ask me why I laid my things about the way I did atop this leprechaun-green park bench.

I would want that interesting someone to be a girl, by the way.

So everyday, I would sit on this very spot. I would wait for the wind’s crescendo, and count from one to three. And as always, on perfect cue, 57 pigeons would make their superfluous landing on the grass. The last thing the grass needed were 57 pigeons. It needed watering. But these pigeons are funny little creatures.

I meant it too, the thing I said about the pigeons. You see in a flock, when one says “I want to go there, croo, croo,” and decides to fly away, the 56 will croo in agreement and lift themselves off from the ground, in a grander, more superfluous movement, flying off to somewhere nice. Somewhere pleasant and jasmine-scented. Somewhere like Neverland.

Girls. Girls are funny little creatures too.

You see when one decides to go for you, all of them will come a-flocking. They’d go to someone nice. Someone tattooed and night-scented. Someone like Neverland.

Someone like me.

My first Pigeon Girl, the Pigeon Girl who started it all, met me in this park. She sat next to me and for a while, we stared at a man with blue overalls pull down the nation’s red, white and blue from its rightful pole. My gaze caught hers and they started talking. Her eyes said they wanted to lock with mine for a little while, if it’s possible. Mine screamed yes, oh yes.

Soon, our lips started talking. We talked and I took her licorice breath in, took it with me in my mind, and before long, I took it in with my dry, excited lips.

That afternoon, the wind blew and I knew then. The flock was a-coming.

Pigeon Girl the First, she told me all about Brooklyn that day. She told me why the whole borough mattered. I told her I wanted to get lost in Brooklyn, Brooklyn the town that mattered.

Her eyes sparkled. In that park, where trees you can never ever climb bragged green, green leaves that glistened, her eyes lit up. I felt like molasses.

I saw Brooklyn on her face that night. I even saw it on her freckled back. I heard the J train pull over, it pulled over on my bed post, and she got in. Draped in my bed sheet, she got in and waved at me as I lay down on my bed, with a small smile on my lips.

After that night, oh how the Pigeon Girls came a-flocking. They cocked their little necks and crooed and pecked, and I gave them all a piece of Neverland.

I’m Neverland, I’d tell them with my eyes. And they’d recognize me right away.

On this very same bench where I sit, a preacher once sat and our eyes had a conversation. His eyes were tired yet elegant. They were the most beautiful pair of eyes I ever did see. He wordlessly looked at me and I felt like the shade of ten thousand red chili peppers invade my cheeks.

Wake up, son. Wake up and live, he spoke with his eyes.
I furrowed my brows and told him that I am fully awake. That I am fully alive.
No you’re not, he replied.
I am, I insisted. I’m Neverland!
Neverland. Neverland doesn’t exist. And neither do you.
I do! I feel, I touch. Pigeon girls see me! Ask the pigeon girls!
Pigeon girls only exist in non-existence. They only exist in you. You’ll see. So wake up, son. Time’s a-ticking.

And then he stood up, he shook his head. He stood up straight like a retired soldier. Like he had the world’s repository of truth riding on his shoulders. His black hair glistened in the late afternoon light, and I stared at him in awe. The preacher man, he left towards a direction I’ve never seen anyone go towards before. His strides were long and fast, and I stared at him, wanting to speak to him but not wanting to know more.

That night, a Pigeon Girl lay sleeping on my left arm. My arm fell asleep but I was wide awake, paralyzed by the preacher man’s hauntingly beautiful eyes. The moon, she turned and fumbled in the sky.

I am the amazing Neverland, I thought to myself. My arm finally woke up, and sleep came to me as the sun came chanting its way towards its rightful spot in the western skies.

I woke up late with a headache. I stared out the window and I swear, I felt like the sun’s moved closer to my third-floor apartment while I slept. Something was off. Something went wrong.

I walked about my apartment, paced around and around, feeling like I’ve lost something but I don’t remember what. I drank coffee. I checked my pockets and my bag, but I still felt agitated. I felt like I’ve lost something.

I drank the three drops or so of coffee left in my cup and stared out my window. My headache worsened and I felt like the screws of my left arm were unhinged. Then I remembered Pigeon Girl the 47th. Where’s the Pigeon Girl from last night? I didn’t hear the train pull over. I didn’t feel her stir and leave.

Then the thought hit me like typhoon.

I may have lost the Pigeon Girls.

I went to the park without taking a shower. I needed to see if I’m still Neverland. I needed to see the pigeon girls. I laid my things about the leprechaun-colored bench and sat down.

I waited for four hours. Then I saw her.
I saw her and she was radiant.

She was summertime and candied apples as she sat on the bench. She did not ask me about my shoes, or my bag. Not even a peep about my tattoo. She just sat there, all peaceful. I stared at her, and with my eyes I told her my name.

I told her I was Neverland.

She looked at me and whispered, I know who you are, with her enchanting eyes.
Do you want to talk about Brooklyn? I asked her.
No, not really, she said.
But Pigeon Girls talk about Brooklyn all the time, I said.
I’m not a Pigeon Girl, she replied.
What are you then?
I’m a girl. I’m a jobless girl sitting on a bench.
So where are the Pigeon Girls then?
There are no Pigeon Girls.
There are Pigeon Girls! They stay the night and fly away. Pigeon Girls see me. Pigeon Girls see Neverland! I exclaimed.
Maybe you’re not Neverland, she said.
But you said you knew who I was! I’m Neverland!
I know what I’ve said. I do know who you are.

You’re no one.

With that she left. She went away and the small breeze that accompanied the late afternoon weekend died abruptly, as if it decided to follow her wherever she went.

I stared at the things I’ve laid down on the leprechaun-colored bench. I stared at my shoes, my bag, and the cloying and obese scent of reality next to me. As if on cue, one pigeon flew by from a nearby tree and walked towards me.

The pigeon stared at me with his red dots for eyes and I tried to make conversation. I tried to ask him where the Pigeon Girls are.

Hey, man I know this is a long shot, but do you know if the Pigeon Girls moved to another park? Or hey, did they move to another borough? Do you know where they are right now? I asked him with my eyes.

But this pigeon, he didn’t want a conversation. He moved in, pooped on my right foot, and flew away.

Pigeons. What funny little creatures.

Madison, that’s her name. She stirs my metaphorical cup of joe, if you will; she is fine, so fine.

Madison goes for a daily swim in my mind as I ride my beat up car to work. There, I would stare at her for brief moments from across the hall. She would tinker with her computer, hum a few songs, eat her small lunch, and be on her way home.

Madison had the simplicity I always wanted to see in a person with a real pulse, the kind that they describe in novels and cornball romance movies. She was the girl who would become the prom queen in that irritating high school movie you once watched with your friends, the one you watched out of curiosity. Only she never became the prom queen. She never had a transformation in the end – she never wore the red slinky dress and the slutty black shoes. She never left her charming self behind for a yearbook photo op with the popular quarterback and the canned applause. She remained to be her simple self, with her chunky glasses, her empty pocket and her lopsided smile.

She’s just your queen, but never the prom queen.

Madison was part of my perfect weekday routine. She’s the reason why I don’t mind the ten-hour shifts, the non-existent career advancement, the stale coffee they brew on the yellowish pot in the pantry.

Madison. If you keep perfectly still after saying her name in your mind, you’re bound to hear a pretty song or two. That’s her.

It was a cold post-winter day and Madison wore her ocean blue scarf to work. She sat down, removed the tattered scarf that matched her last name, placed it on her desk, and smiled at me from across the hall.

At the office, you can always tell when the boss is coming. You hear her heels tap-tap-tapping on the clear white floor, and the exaggerated type-type-typing sound as everyone’s keyboards scream with pretentiousness.

After a series of loud tap-tap-taps, the boss showed up at Madison’s cubicle. Madison, the boss said. She looked up from her pile of papers for the day. With a furrowed brow and a smile she greeted the boss.

Come with me to the office, she said. Madison stood up, straightened her skirt and nodded.

I didn’t have lunch that day. I just stared at my computer monitor, and typed random words just so it would seem like I was doing something productive. In reality, I really was doing something productive. I was waiting for Madison to come to her cubicle.

The ten-hour work day became eleven, eleven and a half and finally twelve. But I sat there, donning a blank face, typing in words that didn’t make sense. Madison never came out. She never went back to her cubicle.

I went home but had no sleep, and the prospect of drinking some of the stale coffee the office offers tempted me in ways I cannot even imagine. As I entered the office door the next day, I walked fast, hoping to finally talk to Madison, to ask her what happened yesterday, to maybe finally invite her for coffee after work.

As always, Madison’s cubicle was clean. But this time, her piles of paper and her computer were gone. Everything was gone, even her ocean blue scarf.

I waited for the tap-tap-tapping sound on the floor so I can ask my boss what happened. I have never spoken to her before, my boss I mean, aside from when I applied for my position 7 years ago. She seems like a swift robot, ready to pounce on any opportunity to break your neck by making you work long shifts and dismissing you curtly if you ever try to weasel your way out of it.

Before the day was over, I found myself standing in front of her office, staring intently at her door, thinking of how to ask her where Madison is. I remember thinking of starting things off with a small joke, or maybe an off-the-wall limerick. But robots don’t believe in jokes. They wouldn’t get limericks either.

I almost fainted when I heard her say come in, with a clear-cut voice. I looked up and tried to see if there was a camera above my head. There wasn’t. I went in.

Did you have a fun time staring at my door? She asked, without looking up from her laptop.

Uh, well. How did you know I was there ma’am? I asked as I fiddled with the pen in my pocket.

What do you want? Tap-tap-tap she went on her keyboard, as she purposely ignored my query.

I meant to there’s this uh, a colleague that uh, well she

For the love of sanity spit it out. Be a man for once in your life.

Where’s Madison Blue?

She left.

Where did she go?

Where do you think people go when they leave? They go far away. Liberia? Around the corner? I don’t know where she went. She just did.

But you talked to her. You made her come here, to your office. You were the last to speak to her ma’am.

That doesn’t mean that I know why she left.

But what did you tell her?

I told her that she was doing an excellent job, and that she was finally up for a promotion. But she just smiled at me, declined and left. How the hell am I supposed to know where she went?

But.

Some people can’t handle change. Ms. Blue might be one of those people. She’s resigned to stuffing her nose with dusty piles of paper for the rest of her waking life. What can you do?

She can’t just leave. It just doesn’t make sense.

She doesn’t make sense. Now if you’re done ranting like a little girl, please get the hell out of my office.

As I closed her office door, I realized that she never looked at me during the whole conversation. Not even once.

And so today, like the rest of my ten-hour workdays, I sit here, typing random words just so it would seem like I was doing something productive.

In reality, I really am doing something productive.

I am waiting for Madison to come back to her cubicle.

An inner child’s view of love and possession.

I was getting worried
I thought my kite wouldn’t make it
But then I saw its tail flutter
Like a butterfly in heat
Amongst the ink-blotted sky
And I smiled

This isn’t the season for kite-flying,
Or so they said
But I couldn’t disagree more
Kites will dance
Even if the wind
Refuses to cooperate
Yes, my indigo-bellied kite
Shall fly
High up in the sky
And the rhymes will get better after
Each flutter
Or
They will just stop
As I smile

My kite beats hers
And any other kid’s for that matter
Because my kite can
Grin
And enunciate
The words spoken by your grandmother
When she was still in her flour-sack undies

My kite is unlike any other
It smells like bread rolls and
Buttered onions
Laid out on a Midsummer’s day picnic
My kite smells like a virgin
For my kite is a virgin
Flirting with nothing
Not even the sky
Or the Eagles
Or your brain

My kite sounds like
A concerto
Of one-legged violinists
All ninety-nine of them playing
For the last time
Crying for glory
And roses
And canned applause
And maybe even a goodie bag

My kite beats all iPods
And all Tower Records
My kite is a symphony
Created by strangers and sweethearts
Under the white and blue protection
Of the trusty transit

My kite beats hers.
My kite is unlike any other.

I need not worry.
You’re already mine.
Smile.

He’s meek, this man; the man who could

And all who walk like he be should

He captures light and traps each beam

And puts the Lord on prime esteem

Good odes he keeps in heart and mind

And teachings of the One most kind

Service, he draws on talent; flair

For those who need the utmost care

How meek! This man, this man who could

And be like he I pray I would

With works of good he mutely plods

He trusts the truth – that praise is God’s

Dedicated to a man who believes that service is sacred and for all the people who share the same faith.

Some people get angry when strangers open their mail. Seeing their husbands getting it on with their blonde dental hygienists does it for most 30-something, middle-class wives.

Me, I only get angry when my wife dies.

I’m one of them simple types, I guess.

She had a problem with her heart, the doctor said. They did everything they could – opened her up, made her drink millions of serious-blue and sterile-white capsules. They took pictures of her insides, stitched her back up. They did that to her for eight years until that humid day in August.

On that same humid day, a crow hung out at my mailbox. He didn’t move, nor screech his signature screech. I went out and approached him. He shook his head and flew away towards Mr. Diaz’s yellow-brown chimney, never to be seen again.

I should have known that it was the day that she was going away, going away with the crow.

The doctors gave her a break that day – at long last – because no one deserves a break more than her. I watched as they pulled a blue blanket over hear head and I could have sworn I heard her sigh and mutter “Finally!” under her breath.

She does that sometimes.

*

Eternity is what five months and two days feel like, and after she left, I’ve grown accustomed to this spot on our porch where I sit and wait for my tears to finally arrive from who-knows-where. That’s all I do everyday. Work, eat, wash the dishes, and wait on our wooden porch.

Losing the ability to cry is not too much of a bad thing, really, I don’t mind at all – it’s just that my wife was a great wife, and she deserves to be grieved upon.  I want to give her at least a couple of tears, or a sad face, or anything that would express how terribly I miss her and her “unbecoming” burps and the way she brushes her hair and the way she’d smile when I made love to her.

When Stalin died, some people cried.

My wife, she’s no Stalin.

She deserves the tears.

*

On the seventh day of the seventh month since she went away, I dreamt of her. She was wearing her favorite robe, the blue tattered one. Her hair was pulled up like a ballerina who’s off to rehearsals. She moved towards the porch, looked at me, made her eyes smile, and sat down next to me.

She was stunning.

Ned, honey, she said in her soft bedroom voice, what the hell are you doing?

I’m waiting for my tears to come, sweet pea, I replied.

You know that they’re not coming, they’re contented where they are, she said while fiddling with her robe a bit.

I swiveled and faced her. Where are they? Why wouldn’t they be coming back to me?

They didn’t leave a note? Last I heard they went to New York to go after their dreams.

Why would they have dreams?

Honey, she said patiently, not having dreams is your thing. Not everybody else’s.

I have dreams; I’m dreaming right now, I said all defensive-like.

Dreaming and having dreams are like ice cream and gelato. They’re both good, but one’s just better than the other.

Yes, I sorta figured that out too honey.

Well then, take your butt inside the house; your ass is beginning to dent our porch.

Okay.

Oh and honey?

Yeah?

Go get ‘em hard.

Will do, sweetcakes.

*

It was a chilly, almost starless night.  On my way to the Skyscraper City, three vehicular accidents welcomed me. It was a Friday night after all, the man on the radio said, and people were coming from all over the world to dance in the famous clubs, or eat at the famous restaurants, and they were always in a hurry.

Hurrying to get to the City That Never Sleeps strikes me as odd – why would anyone need to hurry when it never even closes its lids for a quick nap anyway? She’s going to stay up for you, no matter where the hell you’re coming from.

She won’t lock the door.

*

I woke up feeling lightheaded. Asked myself twice where I was, and answered once – I was at the Holiday Inn. I got up and brushed my teeth before I could ask myself what I was doing going on a 2-day hiatus from work, driving for seven hours straight without even stopping to pee, just so I could look for  my tears.

Yes, I’m a 48-year-old balding man looking for his dream-filled tears in New York City.

*

I stopped by a McDonalds and ordered coffee. Outside, hundreds of people swarmed by every direction, holding their mobile phones to their ears, talking to people somewhere in the universe who’re probably just walking alongside them.

After only about seven sips, the coffee went cold. So I went out and started my search. I saw two potbellied policemen sitting on a bench, waiting for something evil to happen. I don’t know if I’m the evil they’re waiting for, but both of them looked at me and nodded slightly.

Good day, officers, I said.

Yes, sir, what can we do for you? The older of the two asked.

I was wondering where in the city I could find lost tears? Ones with actual dreams?

Lost tears, lemme see. You could try Times Square, heard a woman found her childhood there. It was sorta a big deal and everything. Happened late last week I think. The other policeman said, while chomping on a blue gum.

And how do I get there?

Walking’s pretty much how, the older policeman said.

Thank you, officers, I said with a smile.

No problem sir, be careful. Lotsa crazies. The gum-chewing one said.

*

Walking around Times Square is like walking around a small multicolored, neon-lighted room filled with a million or so people walking around with cameras hanging from their necks. Every now and then you’d have to duck or wait or walk faster because you’re in the way of a glorious picture-taking.

No sign of my tears anywhere.

I noticed that traffic lights were treated just like the fancy billboards. They’re just there to look at. Red doesn’t mean stop, green doesn’t mean go, and yellow is just that color mustard is made of. Here, all you have to do is to not hit a pedestrian. No, scratch that. Just don’t hit a New Yorker and you’ll be fine.

I saw an African-American man wearing a Spiderman outfit, his hair braided and thick. He was trying to sell me one of his $10 designer bags, but I told him I’d have to ask my wife if she wanted one. He looked at me, winked, and smiled for the Japanese boy who was taking a picture of him, probably to show off to his friends back home.

The afternoon came like a thief, agile and unnoticeable. I sat down on one of the red chairs and contemplated if I should ask the get-a-freakin’-room teenage couple if they could move a little, just so it wouldn’t like we were having a threesome. But then one of the pigeons landed near me, and cocked his head to the left three times. I noticed that the Indian family that used to be there had already left and I could move freely to the left. So I did.

Thanks, I said to the pigeon.

Yeah, well, he replied, eyeing a piece of bread an old lady scattered on the ground for the pigeons to devour.

Shit, those freakin’ maniacs, he said.

Do you want me to carry you there? I asked.

What the hell do you mean “carry me there”? I can effing fly there if I wanted to, you idiot! He exclaimed, his eyes bulging with anger.

Sorry, sorry, the last thing I wanted to do was offend you, believe me, I apologized.

Idiot, he muttered, cocking his head towards the direction of the seventeen hundred pigeons on the ground trying hard to get a piece of whatever edible it is lying around on the ground.

Would you mind if I asked you to eat a hotdog with me? I asked, trying to gauge his facial reaction.

Now you’re talkin’, the pigeon said. He gave a slight smile and flew on my left shoulder.

*

What brings you to New York? Came here to watch other tourists spend $15 on a stupid mug too or what? The bird asked after he’s eaten the last of his hot dog.

I’m looking for my tears actually. Do you know where I could find them? I asked him while wiping my mouth with a napkin.

Chances are you’re never going to find them. He said while looking at a Chinese man jumping up and down the street, ecstatic about something he heard on his phone.

Why not? I asked.

Because then you’d have no reason to come back. And she doesn’t do things like that.

Who’s she?

Are you freakin’ kidding me?

No, not really.

Who the fudge else? New Freakin’ York, that’s who she is! What the frick do you think she does when she stays up all night?

What?

She makes sure that everything everyone loses stays lost. She keeps them in her cupboards and cabinets and Ming vases and underwear closets. She hides them behind subway seats, underneath the Empire State building, scatters them all around Chinatown, hangs them on Liberty’s torch, and tucks them inside every I Love New York shirt known to man.

Why would she do that?

She keeps it hidden so you’d come every damn year to look for them.  So you’d have all the reason to come back. All the freakin’ reason to come back here and waste time with her. She’s a very lonely girl, you know.

Oh. I said.

So chum, the pigeon asked, when are you comin’ back?

*

I dreamt of her again, my beautiful wife. This time she was next to me on the bed, reading her favorite cookbook. I snuggled close to her and hugged her with all my might.

I felt her warm skin tingle, and for a moment, I felt like swimming the English Channel. One-handed.

Hon, she said, her voice all bedroomy and wonderful.

Yes? I asked, closing my eyes.

She told me to tell you that she’s still not sleeping and that she’s waiting for you.

Yeah, tell her to keep the door open till next weekend, will you love?

After you kiss me, she said, maybe I will.

By Pauline Arellano

A short story I wrote years ago.

They carried me.

Slowly, ever so slowly down the pebbled, meandering path. The sun, the wondrous myth, was in a state of LOOK AT wrath.

He was wicked, oh yes he was. Iwas under his painful spell.

And yet my grotesquely painted skin of impeccable ivory was oblivious to the myth’s punishment. I attempted to PEOPLE IN HERE look down, to catch a glimpse of my unrealistically pale toes but then I remembered my masters’ orders. I was a statue – a beautiful and perfect ornament. I was the dutiful effigy with an arm outstretched in an uneasy arrangement. I was not to drink, to move, to blink. My duty for my wonderful fatherland was to listen – listen intently to the plans of the wicked. I must go to the land of the demons whose AFRAID TO MOVE plan is to devour the fertile soil that is my realm. My corporeality is wrapped in remarkably pallid paint, to mask my flesh and being. I trained all my life for this. My masters, they taught me to slumber with my eyes wide open. They taught me to imprison myself inside – to scream without even a hint of sound, to cry without a trace of a tear, to protest without a suggestion of a voice. They told me that my sole purpose HOW LONG was to serve my land with my charmingly chiseled features. From thereon in, I accepted my fate. I was to become a statue. And now I was one – a statue, a hearing statue and nothing more. They carried me as I posed my deathly pose towards the enemies’ land. I was a gift, a darling gift of peace, or so my masters said, for the cruel traitors to admire. As the path towards my short journey reached its near end, I willed myself to be strong. The men carrying me were getting weary; I can feel their unspoken agony though their lips are sealed shut. Or were their lips shut? My ears, they seem to know the things that I must listen to – even my pale ears order me around; they control my being, my pale ears. They do. The walking ceased, the silence frightened me. The weary men silently vanished into the woods. Alas, I was facing the wooden giant that served as the DON’T KNOW portal to the enemies’ lair. A low man yelled violently and the next thing I knew I was being carried towards the glittering perfection of their palace. After numerous footsteps, queries and laughter, I was positioned in a provocative spot.

What grandeur! Golden tapestries greeted my monotonous eyes. I was amazed. This is not a task, this is a handsome sanctuary, I thought. I smiled my mute smile and started to do my duty. But my ears, they grew red in anguish! O, bright red! Like ripe red tomatoes I used to handpick and eat at my dear aunt’s farm. And CARRY I realized that I should reprimand myself for having been blinded by this house of evil. My ears, they hated me, I felt their disgust through their crimsonness. I must do what my masters told me to do – to listen – and nothing more.

Three days have gone and I am yet to blink. I have heard nothing but petty chatter since I’ve arrived in this place. Such vile nonsense! The ladies-in-waiting and their scandalous affairs, the servants and their hidden hatred, the beastly indolence of the low men, the infidelity of their lords! This is nothing but a house of senselessness! The masters have been wrong! These people, these barbarians, are AGAINST HER WILL incapable of acquiring wisdom. They cannot formulate intelligent tactics! They are animals, all of them!

I closed my eyes in disgust.

I opened them only to see a servant drop her cleaning cloth. Her eyes were filled with fear and her loud shriek pierced my terrified being. I am done for! My heart throbbed its way down to the pit of my empty corporeality. All is lost! They shall discover the truth and I shall die in bloodied despair! Where were my masters? They have been wrong! This mission is a folly, a trap!

I ran. I could hear the resonant sound FURIOUS of a hundred or so low men behind my mannequin-like back. I reached the wooden gates and saw the flabbergasted faces of the low men manning the gates. In their state of shock, they were unable to move, which gave me a few seconds to push the wooden gates and run towards the woods. The angry low men were holding their swords and spears, LEFT running fast to get a hold of the phony statue that is I. I ran in perfectly perplexed circles. The woods played its haunted game of “never-get-back” with me and I was beginning to lose hope.

The earth shook wildly, as if the earth was dancing for rain and the reeds, those ugly reeds began to grow, higher than the oaks. Out of each vile reed popped the heads of my masters. They were taunting me and laughing at me! They cried “Stupid whore!” over and over. Those beasts! They are the true monsters! Those animals! My ivory skin was GET IT beginning to fight with my perspiration. Think, think! I commanded myself. I loathed my masters and feared for my life. The low men were coming! I could smell their musty aroma. I loathed myself for being gullible and stupid. All my training had been wasted with just a locking of my lids. My disgust for these animals MOVING led to an asinine act – such a viciously dimwitted act closing my eyes have become! I decided that before those monsters could consume my body with their lust and wrath, I must do something. I must save the only element in my body that is truly mine and mine alone. My hand found its way upwards, towards my expressive eyes. And before pain set foot, I clawed TRYING at my right lid and freed my guilty eye. As the earth brutally trembled, blood rushed. It enveloped my pale cheek and ran down my scanty white gown. My ears speak of the nearing beasts. My left eye cried at the hideous reeds while my masters laughed at me, laughed at my blood-soaked dress, laughed at my stupidity. I held my wonderful eye near my slow-beating chest as the ground shuddered intensely.

The low men were coming.

They were near.

A statue, I am no more.

—

Jeez, look at her. She’s just lying there.

Yeah. Gimme a light.

You’re not supposed to smoke here.

Who’s gonna tell on me? All the people in here are freaking retards.

Ok, ok.

How can she just lie there with her arm bent like that? Can’t she like, feel numbness or something?

I think it’s as if she’s afraid to move. Hurry up and finish that, the doctors might smell it.

Wait a sec. Hey, hey, hey, it’s already quarter past five, time to say “so long” to the freaks. Man, could this internship be any stupider? I never felt so damn afraid and violated at the same time. ‘Know what I mean? A retirement home is better than this place. Anything’s better than this place! We should have kissed more asses in the university.

Don’t call ‘em freaks.

Well they are.What are we going to do with her?

Who? Sleeping beauty?

Yeah.

I don’t know. Let’s wait till she snaps out of it.

What? How long is that going to take? She’s been like that for 3 hours already. I already immunized Mr. Smith, and you know how long that takes, c’mon.

Well what are you suggesting that we do? Carry her to her ward?

Well, yeah.

Isn’t that, like, bad for her or something?

So? Like she’ll scream and tell the hospital directress that we carried her. C’mon man, I have a hot date tonight with a real girl. Good thing too, ‘coz my plastic mistress is beginning to stink. Let’s get moving.

I don’t know..

C’mon! Don’t be such a wuss. I can’t believe you’re actually afraid of a crazy chick.

You’re crazier than her.

Shut up and carry her. My pits already stink. I need to take a bath or nobody’s getting laid tonight.

Speak for yourself, stinky. She’s heavy. Watch out for her arm.

Can’t we just fold her arm?

Don’t, you bimbo. It’s bad enough that we’re carrying her against her will. Don’t make it worse.

Ok, ok. Man, what a heavy chick! I wish my date won’t be as heavy as her, jeez.

She used to be a soldier, you know? Hence she’s muscle-y. Put her down gently, I said GENTLY. We shouldn’t have moved her. Doctor John will be so damn furious if he finds out.

He’ll be angrier if he found out we left this loon at the corridor. She must have been the female Rambo, shit,  she’s heavier than me! All the soldiers in the world are gonna turn out like this chick and there’ll be no one to fight for us. Man.

Shh! Shut up. Where’s her right shoe?

I’m not a freakin’ prince for our heavy Cinderella right here.

We left her shoe. Go get it.

Fine.

Shoe.. shoe.. where the hell is that.. ah. Here it is.

Jasper! Jasper! Get the hell in here!!

What? What’s wrong?

She’s moving!

What?

She’s moving!!!

So? She’s got to move some time.

Just get the hell in here!! She’s having a seizure or something!! C’mon!! Oh shit! Oh shit!!

What?? This better be.. Oh crap!!

Hold her hands! Hold her hands right now! HOLD HER!

I’m trying!

Try harder!! Hold her! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, MAN HOLD HER!

Oh jeez, her eye, she took out her damn eye! Hold her freakin’ arms! HOLD HER DAMMIT!  I’ll get help!

You see, for my birthday, I want to get a big, beautiful Darbie Doll, with pretty eyes and long legs. I’ll tie long ribbons on her hair and they will dance and write my name in the wind, all cursive and pretty-like. I’ll make her dresses in the colors of rainbows and candies. It will be great, I just know it.

I asked Inang to buy me a Darbie Doll about a hundred million times already. I always tell her not to get me just any ordinary doll, but the doll – the Darbie Doll I had in mind. I even made a drawing of it, just so Inang won’t buy the wrong kind. I colored it, and all, and it’s very pretty. I taped it on her bedroom door, so whenever she’ll go out of the room, she’ll remember to buy me a pretty, pretty doll.

Inang tells me, day after day, as she cooks her delicious meals, that I can’t have a Darbie Doll.

I guess the drawing isn’t all too pretty.

She’ll say, with a slight smile “What on earth will you do with a doll, float it on water?”

This is the part where I’ll say that my Darbie Doll and I can do so many things I can’t even say it all! My tongue gets tied up in hundreds of knots just thinking about the games we’re going to play, the places we’re going to go to, the people we’re going to meet. Inang would just nod her head, half-listening to my extremely good explanation. She’ll cut me off by asking me to taste whatever she’s cooking. It’s almost always Sinigang na Sugpo. The yummy, sour, clear soup always shuts me up. When Inang starts to peel off a humongous shrimp’s shell for me, I would forget what day it was. She’s a good, good cook. No, she’s the best in all of Mindoro. I promise.

You see, we live in Talipanan, Mindoro. Inang owns this big bamboo shack just in front of the beach, and rents our rooms to tourists during the summer. We have seven rooms, and I swear they’re all very, very clean. I know because I clean them all very, very well. There are lots of big and air-conditioned hotels near our house, but the tourists like ours the best. This is because Inang is the best cook in town. You should see the different kinds of people who compliment her cooking. Mr. Doe, an American visitor even asked me once if I was willing to exchange mothers with him. I frowned and said it depends. I asked him if his mother is the type who buys him dolls. Otherwise, I said, my brow furrowing even more, he can forget about it. He bent over, looked me straight in the eye for what seemed like hours and said, “You may want to close your eyes and wish real hard for that, honey.” He winked at me and I looked at him like he was the most awkward man on earth.

Did I mention that I go to school? Well I do. I’m in the fifth grade. I walk about a kilometer a day to get to school in town. My teacher is Mrs. Perla. She’s nice. She lets us read stories, write essays and do our numbers. I hate math, but I don’t mind it that much. Mrs. Perla makes things easier for us. She just smiles at you and you learn. I know it’s stupid, but it’s like that, really. Anyway, she gave me a story book one day. It’s about a kid named Dolly who went to school with her big, beautiful doll. She always kept forgetting things, like her money, or her way home, or her name, or something. I forgot what the story was about, really. All I can remember was I liked the idea that Dolly goes to school with her doll in tow. That’s when I decided to get Inang to buy me one for my birthday.

That would definitely mean no more walking to school alone for me. But four birthdays have passed and I still don’t have a Darbie doll of my own. Inang keeps on getting me swimsuits and dresses.

It’s depressing.

One night, when I was sweeping the sand off from the porch, I heard someone call my name. It was so faint; I thought I was just imagining it. But then the sound grew a bit louder, and I was certain I could hear it – it was my name! A girl is calling out my name! Luisa! That’s me!

I ran like a madman down the porch and felt the sand tickle my rose-colored soles. With each step, the girl’s calling my name became more real, more reachable. I felt like if I extended my palm, I can feel it, all solid-like and charming.

My brain was filled with nothing other than that alluring sound, that I didn’t even notice I was knee-deep in the water. I stayed put, listening to my name being called out in the vast aqua. The longer I stayed, the louder it got. The waves lapped at my knees, shoving their way against my chocolate legs. I can’t hear the waves though. It’s as if someone turned off the sound and replaced it with the swelling hum of my name, being repeated over and over.

I stood there stunned and very, very happy, as the sound grew louder, louder, louder. It was my Darbie Doll, calling out to me. It just had to be her! I stood there, feeling perfect.

I must have stood there for a million trillion minutes but I felt really, really perfect. In fact I was feeling so perfect that even when Inang made me kneel down on a pail-full of mung beans as punishment for swimming in the dark, I didn’t mind. I didn’t even feel anything. That’s just how perfect it is, that sound.

The next day I went to school, and no one even noticed that my knees have small circular marks on them, so it was a great day. Mrs. Perla taught us history. She taught us about the different nations that went here to become very high people, like kings, and presidents, and movie stars, and stuff like that. She asked us one by one what we thought of Spain, Japan and America. Marie, my classmate with two craaaazzzyyy-looking pigtails, I swear, raised her hand and told Mrs. Perla that the Americans should have colonized us. Imagine all of us, she said as her hair bobbed up and down and sideways, will be American citizens! Think of the prestige, she exclaimed. Yes, that’s the word she used, prestige. She started talking about how many boxes of chocolates we’ll get to eat, and how many pairs of rubber shoes we’ll all get to wear. I started to feel my very peculiar knees and stopped listening at prestige.

If we were to become Americans, does that mean that we would have yellow hair? And fairer skin? No, we’ll get to have Darbie Dolls everyday! I guess it’s not that bad, after all!

I started walking home, the beach on my right. The sun wore a pretty orange, pink and violet skirt on the wide blue sky. I thought of Darbie Dolls, one for each day, imagine! Different hair colors and dresses and personalities – different dolls everyday!

I faced the beach and closed my eyes and wished real, real hard for different Darbies everyday.

When I opened my eyes, the sun looked like she’s ready to undress and put her skirt in her closet. The water was scolding me, “Get home, girly” she says, “or I’ll spank your soles with my long, blue arm before you know it”. I walked home. I felt like drawing something pretty.

I called out to Inang and waited for her to come out of her kitchen to greet me. When I got tired of standing and waiting, I went in.

Funny, I couldn’t smell anything being cooked.

I went inside her room, but she wasn’t there. I barged in all of the visitors’ rooms, but she wasn’t there either.

Finally, I went inside my room. There I found a Darbie Doll lying on my green and white flowery bed.

I couldn’t believe it, it was a perfectly beautiful Darbie Doll with green hair and a pink dress! Inang finally went and bought me one! I can’t believe my luck! And it’s not even my birthday!

I danced vigorously, without making any sound, just like one of those old black and white films. I jumped like I just won the lottery. Finally! A Darbie Doll!

We played dress-up and pretended to be cheerleaders, movie stars, homecoming queens, secretaries, babysitters, hairdressers, and housewives. We had awesome fun! Just then I remembered I haven’t eaten yet. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 10:15 PM. My eyes were beginning to grow heavy, and I just couldn’t wait for Inang anymore. With my new Darbie in my arms, I went to sleep with a smile that sparkled like the stubborn star you see even at noon.

The next day Inang was still out, so I went to school with an empty stomach. But it didn’t matter because I was proudly holding a Darbie Doll! I couldn’t wait to show it off! I’m the only one in town with a Darbie! Marie is going to eat her pigtails when she sees my Darbie!

When I got to school everyone was silent. Nobody moved. Nobody looked at anyone. Mrs. Perla died, my classmate said. Nobody even looked at my Darbie.

The principal asked us to read silently and to not make any noise. We were released early but the skies wore a dark blue velvet dress, with a long, black shawl. She was paying her respects to Mrs. Perla and I understood. She was a great teacher after all.

I went home with an angry tummy and expected to see Inang there. But she was nowhere to be found. I went inside the kitchen and ate bananas and apples. I searched for Inang all over the house but there was no trace of her. She just vanished in thin air.

I went to my room to find three brand-new Darbie dolls lying on my bed. Three! I was so incredibly happy! I couldn’t believe it! How could have Inang brought me these? Where was Inang so I could thank her with all my heart! Three more Darbies!

We played all night! We pretended to be princesses, disco queens, soap opera stars, fashion models, bikini queens, and singers. Before I knew it, it was 12:30 AM. This time I fell asleep on the floor, throat dry from singing the mosquitoes to sleep with all my other singer dolls.

I overslept and missed school. I woke up at ten, washed my face and went straight to the kitchen. I got an overripe apple that’s already mushy to the touch and ate it. My stomach hates me and I understood just why. I decided to go look for my Inang.

I went out and looked for Inang. I walked past the coral cove. I walked over to the Iraya Mangyan community and young Mangyans looked at me in wonder, their round eyes seeming to question my walking barefoot past them.

I went past the falls, the ditch, the mountain. I saw cats making love, and pigs running from imaginary wolves, but Inang was never there. I felt teary-eyed and alone as I walked my way back. The sun was getting ready to leave the horizon.

I rubbed my eyes to shake off the forming tears.

I got home.

It was unusually dark, like the moon intended to face her dark side on our small house.

My heart stopped beating for twenty seconds. I know – I counted.

There were tens and thousands of Darbie Dolls in my house. I couldn’t even see the floor! They were all smiling and sitting down, like they were waiting to yell “surprise.” They’re eyes were all lit up, like they knew a secret that they wouldn’t dare tell. I ran to the kitchen, yelling for Inang to come out. I stepped on Darbie heads and bodies and feet, but I didn’t care. I checked all the guest rooms but only Darbies greeted my pale face.

I dashed to my room and opened the door.

There I saw the biggest, most beautiful Darbie Doll in the entire history of forever. It was as big as my bed, and it looked like a real woman. She was exactly the Darbie I wanted – she had endless legs and phenomenal hair. It was sitting still and looking out the window, as if admiring the beach view.

Then she abruptly moved and faced me and smiled a sinister smile. I closed the door and ran like crazy outside.

The moon was watching over me as I ran towards the sparkly sand. My tears were racing with my heartbeat; they were trying to see who’s faster than whom. I stared at the water and cried for my Inang. Just then, someone tapped lightly at my shoulder. It was Mr. Doe. He was one of our visitors a year ago. I almost didn’t recognize him – he looked more virile, almost younger. But he still had that look, that awkward look that he has. He was wearing a dark blue suit and was barefoot.

“What are you doing here, mister?” I asked him, my face all covered with tears and sweat that I didn’t bother wiping off.

“Well, someone summoned my mom. A little girl, I was told. And now she said she liked it here. So I guess she’s gonna stay.” He said, giving me a handkerchief that looks like a small flag.

“Where is she?” I asked, looking at his plastic-looking hands. I took the handkerchief but didn’t wipe my face.

“She’s here.” He said, dusting off the sand on his suit.

“Do you know where my Inang is?” I asked him, trembling.

“Yes.” He said, smiling at me.

“I want her back.” I said looking him straight in the eye.

“Can’t honey. You wished it, remember? You closed your eyes and you wished real hard. You can’t just un-wish a wish. That’s not the way the world goes ‘round, love.” With that he smiled, tapped my shoulder and left.

I stood alone on the shore, waiting for nothing as the waves crashed mightily at the sand. I closed my tired eyes and fell to the sand. I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the waves that slapped me senseless. It screamed at me, and said “I was right, you do need a spanking. Damn your little black locks, you need to do more than just un-wish. Get going child. Time is running out.”

I tried to stand up as fast as I could but I was dizzy with hunger. The sky was still dark and I felt cold. I grabbed our broom from the porch and buried it underneath the sand near the water.

Then, I went inside our house. It was enveloped in heavy darkness, and it’s really hard to breathe inside.

The Darbies all looked at me; some of them have disarrayed hair, mangled clothes and even dislocated body parts. I squinted my eyes and walked over the Darbies, hearing crunching and breaking sounds with every step. I grabbed two Darbies and started to open the door to my room.

It was time to face the biggest Darbie of them all; she was smiling her sinister smile.

“You heard me call your name, Luisa. In the sea, remember? You have good ears! Way to go!” she said, her teeth unmoving, a smile plastered on her perfectly made-up face. Her voice sounded superficially happy.

“I know I have good ears.”

“Great! That’s great! Let’s play dress up! Let’s play movie stars, or how about princesses? Let’s play Luisa!” She extended her arms; both were stiff, milky-white and had a mesmerizing plastic sheen.

“No I want to play something else.” I told her.

“I want to play exterminators.”

With that, I beheaded one of the Darbies in my hand. The smile vanished from the big Darbie’s face, and she twitched uncontrollably. I stepped on the other Darbie’s body and she twitched again, like she had short wires in her system.

“Luisa, stop it, darling! That’s not the game we want to play!” She said, her smile beginning to turn into something hideous. From a stiff sitting position, she stood up, without bending her knees. She slowly reclined her back and stood up straight. She walked stiffly, like an angry robot set out to kill everyone in sight. Her smile didn’t leave her face.

I ran.

The Big Darbie was chasing me, her legs moving like stiff machines that can kill anyone within its path. I ran down the corridor, purposely stepping on Darbie Dolls on my way out.

“Luisaaaaaaaa! Let’s play Luisaaaaaaaaa! Come here you little piece of shit!” She screamed my name, and I felt my heart throb out of fear.

The Darbie was going to kill me, I thought. I ran outside. The Darbie Doll was right behind me. I searched for the buried broom and waited for the Darbie Doll.

I was panting like crazy. I got one chance. Just one. The Darbie Doll slowed down and looked at me with flashing eyes.

“You stupid little girl. You wanted to play with me! I’m here now, you little idiot!”

“Where’s Inang?” I asked her, panting and sweating in fear and anticipation.

“She’s out playing,” her face contorted into a devilish smile that caused me to gasp. “So stop acting like a stupid little girl and play with me!” Her smile grew wider, an unbelievable feat, as she bellowed out in anger.

“PLAY WITH ME!!”

Her nostrils flared and her phony smile was cracking from pressure on the sides, like it’s to burst from the seams. She twitched like she wanted to crack my skull in hundreds and hundreds of uneven pieces.

“OK, Let’s play,” I said.

“I call this game ‘floating’.”

With that I whacked Darbie’s head with the broom, and she twitched and screamed as I pounded her head and neck with all my might. Guts and bats and spiders and melted plastic and quarters and pennies oozed out from her head.

She screamed a guttural scream that overpowered the shouts of the strong waves and I almost covered my ears but I remembered the game I made up had but one rule – Don’t stop till someone’s floating. She tried to claw at me with her slender arms but I was smashing her without pause, giving out every last ounce of energy I had. My arms were like unfed robots on a hunger-strike gone wrong – they were angry, and so was I.

She fell into the sand twitching, her eyes flaring momentarily then it turned black, like two coals. I pushed her off to the sea, and let the waves strike her as she moves closer and closer to oblivion.

I was so exhausted, I fell asleep holding the broom in my hand on the soft sand. “I won.” I muttered under my breath and felt the rich, velvety sand tuck me in.

The next morning I woke up to the smell of garlic rice being fried, and tomatoes being cut. I heard Inang whistling as she prepared breakfast.

For my next birthday, I told myself as I massaged my aching arms, I’m going to ask Inang for a trusty bicycle instead.