Archive for the ‘Short story’ Category

Forgetful Me.
August 20, 2008


By Pol Arellano

Geraldine lives across the street.

She has been my neighbor for almost six years now.

She’s quite easy on the eyes – Slim, a gorgeous brunette.

Her almond shaped eyes are taupe. I know this because my favorite baseball cap is in that same exact shade.

She has a beauty mark on her left brow. It grows bigger when she smiles.

Her dark hair frames her rosy cheeks, and hides her scar, at the right side of her forehead.

She’s a looker, alright.

One day she painted her whole house pink.

Pink, of all colors! Not the delightful shade of pink, the disastrous kind – a cross between metallic and something else horrid. It’s the kind that makes a passerby think that he’s lost in an alternate universe. A horrifyingly pink alternate universe.

Thank goodness she doesn’t have plants.

Or dogs.

It took me about three days before I had the courage to push her wooden pink gate.

And stare at her pink brick pathway.

And ring her little pink doorbell.

“Just a second!” as always, she shouted.

Hey, her voice is sultrier. It’s almost as if it’s sexier. I swear, she sounds like someone famous.. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I..

She opened the door.

But I’m not quite sure if she is Geraldine.

“Uh, I’m looking for Geraldine. Is she home?”

“Billy.. You silly, silly man! It’s me, Geraldine!”

She can’t be Geraldine, she just can’t be!

Her eyes, they’re no longer taupe, they’re astoundingly blue.

Her beauty mark is gone.

Her hair is blonde. Short, with bangs.

And highlights, even.

“But, you’re not her.” I said.

“No, Billy, it really is me.” She said, full of confidence and conviction. She even smiled a bit wider, which emphasized her cute dimples.

Geraldine doesn’t have dimples.

“But I’ve known her for six years, she looks nothing like you.” I said, starting to frown at the attractive looking woman in front of me.

“Billy, listen, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea? You need a warm cup of English tea to warm you up and bring you to your senses.” She smiled even broader this time.

I didn’t think it was possible to smile that wide.

Aghast at my own abandon, I walked inside the little pink house.

Maybe it was the inner Bond in me, or maybe it’s the inner Depp that pushed me to come with her inside Geraldine’s house.

My shoes trampled a pink runner. Hah, serves Geraldine right for putting a pink runner on top of a pink floor. This place is ridiculous!

The lady made me sit on a large, Victorian couch, which is needless to say, pink. She left me for a while at the company of Geraldine’s pink coffee table and pink television set.

And pink walls.

And pink cabinets.

And pink duck ornaments.

I was beginning to suffocate with all of the pinkness.

She came back, finally, with a tray. (Pink, of course.)

In the tray, there were two small tea cups, intricately designed ones. (Which happened to be pink, by the way.) There was also a tray of English muffins.

Need I say the color of the muffins?

“Here, Billy, have a cup. And please do try the muffins, I made them myself.” She said proudly, her smile permanently tattooed on her pretty face.

“Thank you for the tea, miss. But I really, really need to see Geraldine. I have to ask her something.” I said as I slowly took a sip of the tea. When I noticed that the tea was also pink, it was too late. I already took a couple of swigs. Spitting it out is futile.

“Billy, I really am Geraldine. What must I do to convince you?” she said, starting to look hurt.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that I really know what Geraldine looks like, and sounds like. You look nothing like her. Your voice is different too. Please tell me where Geraldine is, I really need to ask her something. I’ve known her for six years. I know her. And she’s not you.” I slowly said, staring at her face, gauging her facial reaction.

She just sat there, nodding her head as I spoke.

She was freaking me out.

“What makes you so sure that I’m not Geraldine, Billy?’

Her forehead was creased with lines now, but the smile never left her face. I noticed that she wasn’t drinking her tea anymore. She just sat there, staring at me intently, gauging my facial reaction. Is she studying me or do I have bird shit on my hair?

“Just tell me where Geraldine is, okay lady? I just want to ask her a question alright? Just one question. If she’s out, tell me where she is and I’ll fetch her.” I was beginning to lose patience. She was getting on my nerves.

“I can’t, Billy.” She said, almost apologetically.

Yes, that’s when I lost my temper. The woman is a complete weirdo. She was freaking the hell out of me! She started to look more sinister by the minute. Her eyebrows became furrier; her eyes were a couple of shades less stunning. She was aging right before my eyes.

“Tell me where she is or I’m calling the cops! I mean it! Tell me where she is lady, or heaven forbid, I’ll carry you to the police station!” I stood up, forgot about the pink cup and spilled pink tea on the pink hardwood floor.

The lady smiled at me, but her smile is laced with apparent melancholia. Her eyes grew dim. She looked tired. She looked so tired.

The deep dimples were gone. I searched her face and blinked my eyes. But the dimples were gone!

Her short blonde bob is not blonde at all. It is gray! Why did I only notice this now? My eyes are playing tricks on me! Why did I ever go inside this house?

“Who the hell are you?? Who are you, lady??” I shouted, moving backward, trying to look for a door, a pink door or any of the other grisly pink windows! I need to get out of this place! My hands were trembling uncontrollably, I don’t know why, but I can’t make them stop, I can’t make them stop! The room was getting pinker and pinker. I hate the damn color! I screamed to make everything stop.

To make everything right.

To push away my fears.

Just like a damn fag, I screamed.


Billy, hush.. Listen to me..


“Geraldine is dead, Billy.

Must we go through this week after week?

She’s dead – Like the way she was dead last year, and the year before that..


..She’s dead Billy, I’m sorry..

..But it is good that you now truly realize that I am not Geraldine.

It is a noticeable improvement. You were able to reason out this time; defend that I am not, and could not be Geraldine, and it is a very, very good improvement..


..Please do come back, Billy. Three days from now.



“Yes Doctor Greene?”

“We’re through.”

Come on In.
July 28, 2008

This is an interesting assignment for our Cinematography class last semester. We were tasked to photograph vandalism on school premises and create a story out of it. Guess the last visitor in the story. Prize: A brand-new fountain.

Come On In

By Pol Arellano

Life has been sour for the likes of me. Or so people thought. Or maybe a part of me did, too. Or still does. After all, we are the Putrid Pradas of this neon-colored graveyard called world. The creative minds behind Britney Spears’ orgasmic dance steps, this season’s modish couture, the brilliant airline commercials that haunt you even in your middle-class dreams, are the ones whom the Vatican thinks are f**king Sodomites bent backwards.

And because they are the Vatican, what they think is almost immediately considered as a religious relic of some sort, thus I took it upon me to treasure their mindset. We are f**king Sodomites. We are f**king Sodomites. Call Rico the hairdresser and set up an appointment. I want my hair to look like an authentic Sodomite’s. Or maybe I’ll just run around the living room a couple of times, rumple my hair and stay true to the f**king part of the equation.

I met Christopher Anthony on the cafeteria one summer afternoon. He smelled like sweat, testosterone and sexual uncertainty. I stared at him as I took a bite out of my sandwich. He looked at me briefly, ate his spaghetti and fifteen minutes later, we were doing the deedinside the Throne, my favorite cubicle. It was hardly satisfying, the hot weather getting on my nerves like a bug that just can’t die, but he did kiss me softly on the lips afterwards, as if he fell in love with me some time during his ejaculation. And for his sweetness he went on my little hall of fame as lover number one.

This guy called me up, saying that he got my number from a friend’s friend and said that I could help him out with something “clandestine” in nature. I could sense that he was a hotshot of some sort, from the way he messaged me to the way he pushed me inside the Throne. He pushed his pants down and mounted me. I couldn’t think straight because his perfume was suffocating me; his smell was murdering the pleasure of the act. I kept imagining his popular girlfriend waiting outside the men’s restroom, wondering what the hell his Student Council President boyfriend is doing inside. But whenever I begin to think that his girlfriend would come wandering inside the restroom and find two thrashing bodies inside the last cubicle, his perfume would pull me back to reality. He finished, shoved a couple thousand pesos in my hand, put on his cap and went out. I called him RL, for his pungent perfume and his snobbishness. I wrote his name on Throne’s door and flushed his money down without an ounce of regret.

November showers are irritating. Especially in Buster_Arouser89’s case, he has to wear white all the damn time, he said. I met him on cyberspace and he expressed his desire to spend some quality time in the Throne. He was clean and robot-like. His movements were almost numbered and I could’ve sworn that he was counting all the way to seventy. When he whisked-off his condom, he seemed to have finished a 15-hour brain surgery. He gave me, of all things, vitamins and told me to take care of myself. For his sterility and health care advice, he was immortalized on my favorite cubicle’s door.

Algebra was the sexiest subject I ever had. There’s something about men and numbers that make me swoon. So when the class’ delightful duo, Nathan Dwight and Ian Nathan followed me to the Throne one cold December evening, I knew that it would be a moment to remember. The cubicle was never that crowded and I was never that satisfied. Only when we heard footsteps outside the restroom did we even think of stopping. The twins fixed their pants, promised to do my algebra homework some time if I promised to agree to a group study next week and went out.

It’s been three months and I’ve been getting mysterious letters. In impeccable handwriting, the sender writes of my perfectly formed anus, my wonderful thrusts. He tells me that he knows what I’ve been doing in the Throne. He says he can change my future. He says that I should kiss him, torridly on the lips as he rips my clothes off. I’m guessing he’s a powerful man. And I’m going to find out soon enough. I’m meeting him tonight in the Throne. Wearing my lucky boxers, I sit and wait. He signs his letters with perfect letter Gs. And so I write the letter G next to Ian Nathan’s initials, just in case I wouldn’t get to do it again.

I am, after all, a f**king Sodomite.

And it didn’t end all to well for the likes of me.

My mistress lives in my mouth.
July 28, 2008

By Pol Arellano

I was on my way home when I passed a woman sitting on a battered suitcase in the middle of the road. She waved at me. I looked back and checked if there was someone else behind me.
There wasn’t.

I stopped and scratched my head. Twice.

I stared at the woman. She was wearing a red dress shorter than the hideous scar on her right leg. She had bright eyes, almost shining. Her curves were luscious.

My heart began to beat faster. She was staring right back at me.

Hi, mister.
Oh, her voice was so sexy.

I said and twitched uncomfortably, hoping that she didn’t notice my bald spot.

I have nowhere to go.
She said, with pouted lips. She crossed her beautiful legs. I took a good old swig of my own warm saliva.

You could, you know
She slowly uncrossed her legs and bit her lower lip. A man walked by, she followed him with her gaze. The man took a right before Siping road and the woman fixed her gaze right back at me. I shivered.

.. invite me to live with you.
She flipped her hair, just like in the commercials. She smelled like the ocean in springtime.

I can’t, I mean, I can’t ‘cause
I fidgeted and stared at my leather shoes.

.. my wife, she’s,

Well, I have a wife.

She doesn’t have to know about me, Art.
She stood up and placed her hands around my neck.

I could be your little
She touched my belt and my hands were glued to my sides.

.. wonderful
She licked my cheek. I shivered and closed my eyes.

… sexy, little secret.
She whispered on my left ear. I touched her waist.

So I took her with me. Lila. That was her name.
She sang while we walked towards Siping road. Then she stopped singing.

Are we going to your barrio, Art?
She asked me as I tried to carry her battered suitcase in my left hand.

Uh yes. The barrio.
I said.

But what about your wife? Won’t she know about me?
She pouted and asked.

I’m leaving her anyways. She hates me. It’s okay.
I said, nearly stumbling on a protruding tree root.

No! I want to be your sexy little secret! Sexy little secret!
She shouted at my face. I stopped and stared at her in disbelief.

You want to be a secret? I’m planning to make you my new wife!
I said, momentarily dropping her suitcase.

No! I want to be your sexy little secret! Sexy little secret!
She shouted once more.

But where would you stay? Everyone knows everyone in the barrio. There are no secrets in the barrio.
I told her.

I want to live in your cave, Art.
She slowly said while conveniently showing me her cleavage.

My cave? What cave?
I asked, swallowing hard.

Your cave, the cold one. You know, the cave. I can live there. I can be your sexy little secret there. It will be so much fun, Art. Let me stay at your cave.
She pleaded with those cute pouted lips.

I don’t know what cave you’re talking about, Lila.
I said, perplexed.

Your cave! I can’t believe that you don’t know your own cave!
She exclaimed.

Well, I don’t.
I said truthfully.

Come on, I’ll show you where it is. I’m going to have so much fun there! Pick up my suitcase and let’s go.
She said.

I followed.

She went northward, to a path I’ve never seen before. I saw two identical dark caves.

Is that it?
I asked, pointing to one of the caves.

No, don’t be silly. That’s not a cave.
She said, rolling her shining eyes.

I said.

Then we went down an unusual staircase in the middle of a plateau. She jumped down. She wasn’t wearing knickers.

Here we are, Art!
She said, smiling.

I said.

This is my cave?
I asked.

She said.

I’ll stay here. Stay here for the night, Art. I’ll make it worth your while.
She smiled and I thought that for the first time in 17 years, I finally agreed to a woman’s words. It was truly memorable.

And so I stayed.
She made it worth my while. Worth my every little while.

Then morning came.
As I gathered my tie and shoes and prepared to leave, Lila woke up.
She stretched sexily. Her curves looked so delicious.

Where are you going, mister?
Lila asked as she stood up, not bothering to cover herself up.

I’m going home. You know, to my wife. I need to.
I said.

She said. She started to walk towards the cave exit. She opened her large suitcase and hurled out a green entity of some sort. That’s the best I could come up with – green entity.

I looked at her hands that are now covered in green goo. She held it like a piece of corn and started to take a large bite out of it.

I shuddered.

What, what are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen someone eat before?
She asked, her mouth filled with green and black goo that seemed to be writhing uncontrollably within the boundaries of her quick tongue.

I haven’t seen anyone eat something like that before. What’s that you’re eating?
I queried with a scrunched-up nose.

It’s one of my sexy little secrets.
She said, licking two of her fingers at the same time and winking at me.

I said.

Well, what are you waiting for? Off to the missus you go, then.
She said, turning her back at me.

I told her that I’ll be back.
I left.

That night, I left the barrio. Thinking that Lila couldn’t eat that green garbage for the rest of her life, I went ahead and bought her two loaves of bread, marmalade and some grapes. I walked towards “my” cave. No. I mean my cave. I guess it’s really mine after all.

Walking has never been this exciting.

As I neared, I heard music coming out of the cave. Loud music. It sounded like Hungarian folk music, if there’s ever such a thing.

I saw that there were rocks on the pathway to my cave. Big and small rocks formed an army of the most obedient kind, warding possible trespassers and door-to-door salesmen away. Lila must have been so damn bored.

I peered through the cave, almost positive that I would see Lila facedown on her unbelievably comfortable blanket, talking to herself, or hell, her bloody green garbage.

Of course, I was wrong.

Two nuns sat at the middle of the cave, playing a children’s clapping game. They were smiling from ear to ear and singing the game’s song with apparent glee. Lila looked on with amazement in her black eyes. I stood there for what seemed like half a lifetime before one of the nuns noticed me. She stopped clapping and singing and smiling. She stood up and went to the corner of the cave, like I was some sort of a party pooper. I wanted to climb back to the plateau and die there.

Don’t scare Fatia like that! Come over here and sit down! You’re scaring her! Lila exclaimed, obviously pissed at my ruining the nuns’ game and ending her amazement.

I didn’t know you have guests, I’m sorry. I said, feeling like I’m blushing like a newlywed. I looked down on the ground and wished that I peered inside after the game has been finished. I couldn’t see Lila’s face but I could feel a slight glare puncturing my beet-red nape.

There, there Fatia, don’t worry, he is Lila’s paramour. Don’t fret now, dear. The other nun soothingly caressed Fatia’s back, almost like she was comforting a virgin after her first encounter. She kissed her Fatia’s hands and looked at her face with seemingly immeasurable love. Or was it passion?

Fatia responded with a meek smile and stared back at the other nun’s face. She seemed momentarily unaware of her surroundings. And as if someone shouted loud at her left ear and her facial reaction changed dramatically and she looked at me with a silent fear in her eyes. Needless to say, I felt thoroughly embarrassed.

After a few minutes, the nuns started to curl up and talk in hushed tones, their faces so close to each other I wondered if they were kissing in between sentences.

Lila stayed in her side of the cave humming a made-up song.

What do you have there?
She asked me with a small smile.

Oh, some food. Real food. I thought you might get hungry.
I said.

She heaved a heavy sigh as if she was extremely exasperated. As she was about to comment, three bald men came to the cave. They were so quiet that not one of us noticed them approaching. The three men kept glancing at one another. It’s irritating to look at so I stared at the loaves of bread in my hands.

Ah, more guests! Come on in!
Lila exclaimed, brushing off imaginary dust from her dress.

The three men came in without so much as a smile. They positioned themselves in strategic points in the cave. They stood there like guards and continued to glance at one another. The second bald man stood near the nuns. He looked at them and glanced at the other bald men from time to time.

Lila started to hum again. I felt awkward.

The men started to dance. I felt scared.

The nuns started to kiss. I felt shocked.

I wanted to run.

But where to?
This is, after all, my cave.
My cold, creepy cave.

I sighed and started to reach for Lila’s green goo.