RAW #1: Junk

This was an attempt to start writing more often way back in 2004. Unfortunately, this was the only product of that experiment. I’m trying to start writing more again, though, and while I’m sort of concentrating on writing plays, I’ll probably feel the need to do a short story every now and then.

So now I bring to you the first product of RAW (Random Acts of Writing), originally posted on my LiveJournal on June 01, 2004: Junk.


R.A.W. #1: JUNK

Angelo was bored.

It was yet another wet Monday afternoon, after yet another searing hot Monday morning. This inconvenience was part of living in a tropical island nation. The air was cool, which made Angelo lazier than usual. It did not help that entertainment was in short supply, as with most weekday afternoons. The usual soap operas from different countries were on at that time, for one thing. He’d also exhausted his limited supply of video games, books, and DVDs (both original and pirated, though the later outnumbered the former by a count of five-to-one).

And thus, Angelo was bored.

Angelo fired up his computer, ready to hit his favorite websites (Hotmail first, hacked porn sites later). He tried to connect to the internet, but apparently there was no dial tone.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Foiled by his latest, admittedly not-very-brilliant plan, Angelo decided to rummage through his pile of assorted crap. He had been meaning to sort his collection of bits and bobs he’d collected over the years, but cleaning up had never been a strength of the males of the human species. He’d somehow always found an excuse to ignore the growing mountain in the corner of his room, but today there was no escaping rummaging through it all.

Angelo sighed and started picking at the pile of junk, resolving to finally get rid of crap he didn’t need or want. A sticker for a college organization he was an inactive member in? Tossed in the trash can. A Philosophy paper hastily written in half an hour, meriting him a C+? Ripped to shreds. An old, battered romance novel he bought on a whim at a bargain books sale? Hmm, set aside for further consideration.

Then he picked up something which stopped him in his tracks.

It was a framed picture of Angelo with an ex-girlfriend, Fiona. It was taken during one of their out-of-town trips many summers ago. The smiles were genuine, and the chemistry between them was almost tangible. As for the picture itself, it was in pretty bad shape. The frame was broken, and the exposed portions of the picture had since faded. There were more than a few creases, as well as various stains, the sources of which Angelo did not want to think about.

There were many things about that picture Angelo did not want to think about, actually. Fiona was one of them. Of course, that could not be avoided now that he held that picture in his hands.

It would have probably made more sense for Angelo to simply throw this picture away, letting it rot alongside the org sticker and the Philo paper. Instead, Angelo picked up his cellular phone, went through the unit’s phonebook, and stopped at Fiona’s number.

Angelo stared at it for some time. Many thoughts were running through his mind. Should he call her? Is this even her number? Would she like to talk to me? Does she even remember me? Will she be wearing one of those cute baby tees which accentuate her ample bosom?

It was the thought of Fiona’s ample bosom which finally drove him to press “Call” on his phone.

Angelo pressed the phone against his right ear. Ring. Angelo took a deep breath, trying to let the blood rush to places other than wherever it was rushing to at the moment. Ring. He suddenly began to worry about what to tell her, if she ever answered the phone. Ring. What excuse would he even have for calling her? He didn’t even have a good reason for this call. Ring. More importantly, would she be wearing that baby tee which accentuates her ample bosom?


Angelo couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even believe Fiona would answer.

“Angelo? Are you there?”

“Hello, Fiona.”


“Um… gee… terrible weather we’re having, huh?”

“Cut to the chase, Angelo. I’m sure you didn’t call me just to talk about the weather.”

“I missed… miss… you.”

Fiona chuckled. “Seriously?” She chuckled some more, much to Angelo’s confusion and dismay. “No fucking way. You miss me?”

“Well… yes,” Angelo said, a tinge of hurt in his voice.

Fiona chuckled more. “Need I remind you, Angelo, that it was you who broke up three years ago? It was you who stopped answering my calls? It was you who pretty much decided things were over between us, as well as the terms of said break up?”


Fiona cut him off. “Listen to me, Angelo,” she said, her voice suddenly grim and serious. “Don’t feed me that bullshit about missing me after three years of completely cutting me off from your life. What brought this on, anyway? Don’t tell me you still have a picture of me somewhere in your sty of a room.”

Angelo looked ashamedly at the picture he held in his left hand. He wanted to lie and say that he didn’t, but that window of opportunity opened and shut as soon as he hesitated. Fiona tried to muffle a chuckle in response, but failed miserably.

“I suppose that’s typical of you,” Fiona continued. “You’ve never really been good at letting go of any of that junk in your house. After all, you DID save that receipt at the restaurant of our first date. Laminated it, even. Anyway,” Fiona sighed, “you broke this off. Three years ago, Angelo, three fucking years ago. Sure, I was devastated then, and if you’d called, I’d be ecstatic. But – and I don’t think I need to repeat this, but given how dense you can be, I really should – that was three. Years. Ago. Angelo. You broke it off. I’m over it.”

Angelo couldn’t respond. How could he respond to a female who was speaking rationally for a change?

“I don’t even know why I’m wasting my energy and saliva on you,” Fiona said, rolling her eyes (or at least Angelo imagined she’d be rolling her eyes right about now). “Besides, my battery’s running low. Bye.”

And with that, the call was abruptly ended. Angelo stared at the picture and the cellular phone in his hands. He wondered why he even bothered calling at all. Damn her and her tight baby tee and her ample bosom, he thought.

Angelo deleted Fiona’s number from his phonebook. He ripped the picture of the two of them together into many little pieces, dumping them into the trash can where the old org sticker and shredded Philo paper and other assorted pieces of junk were. He then continued to rummage through his pile of forgotten memories.