Archive for the 'short story' Category

A Work of Pure Genius

May 19, 2007

This was written years ago by my one of my uber bestest friends in the world, Noel (I kept your stuff in my hard drive!). I was totally blown away by this story, and apparently, it took him a grand total of just five minutes to write it. Dude, you’re on your way to perfecting the art of flash fiction. And hey, you should send me your new sketches. I wish you the best of luck in becoming the ultimate Renaissance Man 🙂

Here’s to all the liters of Red Horse which defined our friendship, all the lazy hours  swapping the corniest jokes at Oz Cafe/Brothers’/the Main Lib/Watering Hole, all the conversations laced with absolutely wicked humor (The Impregnator! Soon to be a graphic novel!), all the crazy afternoons spent at arcades trying to whip each other’s asses at racing games, hoops and air hockey…basta! Miss ya supah mucho! Send my love to Angeli 🙂


A Poor Count Dracula Story

It was the 1920s. Dracula was afraid of spires. Dracula was afraid of other buildings atop other hilltops, obstructing his view of the great Transylvanian scenery all around. At night he would rise from his crypt and his heart would sink, looking at the other houses, some that blocked even the sanguine shape of the full moon. More and more houses were being built by more and more people. Peasants were building houses, villagers were building houses, mountains were being peppered with houses. Houses were everywhere. Dracula was afraid of houses. Dracula was afraid of architecture. He could turn himself into mist, bat, wolf, decay, any form of insect and he was afraid of architecture. He was afraid of building plans. He was afraid of the population encroaching his territory. And they were building. He could suck their blood and filch the souls off their bodies and these were all powerless to stop him yet he was afraid of cement and bricks and mortar. Dracula cried tears of blood and he shivered thinking of chimneys and windows and the compactness of stone. He was wary of hitting his head against stone. Dracula would stare at his own castle’s walls and over and over again ram his own body, inhuman, bat or wolf again and again against the hard stone. He did not wish to imagine the pain of hitting the stone from other people’s houses and so he began breaking his bones against his castle’s walls so that he may be made infirm and incapable of traveling out. But the houses were still waiting for him. He had never felt that much fear before.

One night, he stabbed his own heart and jumped from atop his castle’s walls. One by one, the villagers came out to stare at his body. Their laughs echoed throughout the night and a feast was held in the morn. Their houses laughed and ate the Count’s bones.


Apathy is a distorted form of kindness

May 18, 2007

The messages were few and far between, the tenderness in his voice has receded. In due course, correspondence was left unanswered, and he was washed away by the swift ebb of time.

She was shrouded in a plethora of doubts. To her mind, it was the most heinous crime of betrayal.

Years into the future, when she finally acquired the wisdom of sages, she had an enlightened awakening. His deeds were certainly no affront to her person, she acknowledged. In some peculiar way, it was a disguised gift of supreme compassion, for there is no offense more wicked than imparting false hopes to a heart which continues to love sightlessly.


A conversation with L. was my inspiration for this

Memory Differentials

May 13, 2007

She called him one cold night in winter.

“Hey. How are you?,” he asked in a voice permeating with icy indifference.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“It’s been a while since I last heard from you. So, why’d you call?”

“I just wanted to ask…do you still remember the 4th of July, in 2005?” Her question was loaded with undertones of hope that somehow, he might still remember.

“What are you talking about?” There was a glaring dryness and annoyance in his timbre.

“Don’t you remember? The fireworks…the slots in the wall —”

“You called me just to ask if I remember some random night two years ago?” He was visibly irritated.

“Yes…I…I just wanted to ask if you—”

“No, I’m sorry but I don’t recall anything special about that date.” His words sliced like daggers.

“You don’t really remember anything?,” she inquired, in a tone pregnant with sad exasperation.

“4th of July…independence day, right?”

“Yeah, and they had a fireworks display and we—,”

“Well, I’m really sorry but I don’t recall anything. All I know is that the US Embassy sets off fireworks every year to celebrate independence day. I may have seen some of the 4th of July fireworks on TV, or when I was a kid or whatever, but two years ago I don’t really remember if I saw them or not. I mean, that was ages ago already”. His voice betrayed such frost. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

At that point in time, it would have meant the world to her if he had even the slightest recollection of that exquisite evening. “But how could he have forgotten?” she thought to herself. It was just about the most resplendent event they had witnessed together. That night, their fingers were interlocked, and her heart rhythmically erupted with affection for the boy in synchrony with each glorious explosion of pyrotechnics in the sky.

Was the boy afflicted with such profound memory loss for him not to have recalled an otherwise significant event? Or could it be selective amnesia? Did he deliberately forget? Or maybe that night might not have been as momentous as she imagined it to be after all. Maybe it was just a night of meaningless noise and drab multi-colored sparklers. Maybe all along she was concocting memories unilaterally. Or did that incident even occur at all?

The girl was still plagued by questions, but she deemed it best to just surrender. Maybe there really was a sliver of truth to the boy’s statements. In the end, she just resolved to create the same memory, in the distant future, with a boy who would remember.