Make a Wish

Nonfiction by | December 15, 2025

When my nephew Jeff turned eight, I saw what a grand celebration looked like through his eyes. We had two kilos of grilled tilapia, a pack of his favorite hot dogs, a loaf of bread, three bottles of Coke, and a 350-peso bento chocolate cake that made him smile all night long. But most importantly, we had Uton bolok from our neighbor, literally, rotten fish. This was all his mother could afford while working away in Manila.

When she called that evening, Jeff’s first words were about the Uton bolok. He bragged about it because it was his mother’s favorite. He talked about his birthday, how happy he was, and his visitors, who were all his cousins. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was sweet how he could easily take pride in the simplest things. My siblings and I grew up like that, too, never with the luxury of asking for more. Gratitude, I suppose, was something we learned early; we were told to be thankful, and we understood what it meant to have just enough.

Growing up in the rural side of town, I don’t remember craving anything fancy. Food was just something to fill the stomach and keep us going. But when I left for college, my world widened. I wanted to taste, see, and know more about what life was like beyond our small Kohu back home. 

Kohu is a Tboli word for kitchen, and ours was special. It stood outside our house, with no door and one side completely open. Anyone could come and go. Most of our neighbors had theirs the same way, which made sharing easy. If smoke wasn’t rising from a family’s Kohu, it meant they hadn’t cooked their meals yet, so someone nearby would always send food over. Looking back, maybe that’s why life felt lighter. Continue reading Make a Wish

Kalaw Street

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

I went back to this place in Tangub,
 where I could still hear the beeping of tricycles,
 smell the smoke from the Libot Tangub vehicles,
 and watch the golden shower leaves brush gently along the streets.

The place is still the same — simply home.
 Nothing has changed, except for Manong selling malunggay pandesal
 And the tarpaulins on the street corners printed with Bible verses.

As I walked, I found myself standing before a familiar name — “Kalaw Street”.
 Memories came rushing in like lightning.
 I remembered everything that happened here, 

the laughter and the tears we shared,
 the one piece of “kwek-kwek” we bought from Kuya Suki,
 the five-peso buko juice from Manong George.

It has been eleven years since I last came here — nothing has changed.
 It is still the old street that holds the memory of you — of us.

This street witnessed the crash of your red Yamaha motorcycle.
 the place where your body fell to the ground,
 and where your blood was scattered across the road.

It was on Kalaw Street where I last held you in my arms,
 and looked into your eyes —
 before you said goodbye.

Aaron Diapana is a Literature instructor from Northwestern Mindanao State College of Science and Technology. He considers writing nonfiction, poetry, and essays in his leisure time.

Halok Wanpipte

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

Kapila gipasundayag sa salida og sonata sa radyo—
ang tawo dili buot mag-inusara,
sama sa tihilap ug maya nga mobayaw sa lagyong kahumayan,
makatagbo og pares nga makigdalit:
sa pagbukot og habol, sa kabugnawon sa kagabhion,
sa pagpamainit og tabliya sa sayo sa kabuntagon,
sa panag-uban, sa pagpaulipon, sa pagkamalipayon.

Apan subo pamalandungon:
basta bayot o tomboy, taman ra’g huna-huna og damgo.
Kinahanglan kwartaan,
kinahanglan nindot ang lawas,
kinahanglan mahal ang mga butang.
Ako nga uyamot pa sa pit-os, niundang na’g damgo—
kay wala’y tinuod nga mohigugma, ako nakaamgo.

Hangtod nga niabot siya sa akong kinabuhi—
lagom pero baruganan,
pobre pero nag-uros-uros ang kakugi,
di himansinon pero hitsuraan,
sama sa libro nga nibag-o sa akong tinoohan mahitungod sa gugma.
Wa nako damha, nga ako iyang giilad og gipangwartaan ra.

Sakit, pero nganong wa nako tagda ang iyang mga ‘pero’?
Sakit, pero di angay katingalahan.
Sakit, pero akong sala kay akong gitugyan, bisan kabalo na daan.
Wanpipte, kung halok.
Tripipte, kung hikap.
Paybpipte, kung tibuok lawas.
Pero kung gugmang tinuoray,
nganong naay presyohay?

Carlos Martin Benanwa is an Iliganon writer whose work revolves around gender, Indigenous lives, memory, and the quiet violences that shape everyday life. Grounded in the landscapes of Northern Mindanao, his writing reveals how survival, tenderness, and identity are intricately connected in the stories of the communities he calls home.

Surely, The Cosmos Was Made By Someone

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

I write all my marrow-deep desires
in a tender list, cast it into
a prayer, a super-condensed,
nuclear hope, ready
to welcome me—once truly
answered—as a surprise,
in a gentle, slow gust,
an anti-explosion, in a big
crunch, towards the singularity,
that is me, like a hug, in the warping
of matter around the Maker’s cosmic
finger as They tap
on the wishes that I held
inside my clasped palms,
like the first nucleus, to reveal
the grandest evanescence,
that is
this life.

James Bryan Galagate Delgado is a fourth-year Medical Biology student at Mapúa Malayan Colleges Mindanao. He is also a fellow of the 2018 ADDU Summer Writers Workshop and the 2025 Davao Writers Workshop.

Weight of Small Dreams

Nonfiction by | December 8, 2025

“What’s your dream in life?” I started my class this morning with a simple question, the kind you throw lightly into a sleepy classroom.

I didn’t expect much. Maybe a few shy smiles, a few half-formed answers, and then we’d move on to the actual lesson. But sometimes, the simplest questions carry more weight than we anticipate.

The first hand shot up quickly, certain and confident. “Gusto ko makasakay ug airplane, Ma’am!” (I want to fly in an airplane, Ma’am!).

Another student nodded excitedly in agreement. Their enthusiasm was contagious.  Laughing, I also admitted that I hadn’t flown in an airplane yet, either.

It made us laugh. Three people on the ground pretending, for a moment, that we could soon ride that man-controlled big bird in the sky.

I thought about how wonderful it was to see them imagine something so free, weightless, and untethered. Continue reading Weight of Small Dreams

Jokes You Can Use When You Have A Dead Father

Poetry by | December 8, 2025

  1. Have you seen my dad? I haven’t either, ever since he followed the light.
  2. My dad always preached about Jesus when I was young. He kept telling stories about the goodness of that son of God. He was dying to be with him. So, once the two of them met, he never came back.
  3. I have been taller than my father since I was 11 years old. He didn’t have a condition that restricted him from growing; he was just six feet under the ground. 
  4. I haven’t been able to contact my father lately. Perhaps they ban phones in heaven.
  5. My old man would not be proud of who I am today. But I don’t mind. What is he going to do, rise from his grave? 

When your audience hesitates to let out a laugh or even a chuckle, as if you can pluck the expression of pity from their faces, you can throw these lines to dispel the tension in the air: 

  1. Don’t feel bad. 
  2. You can find it funny. 
  3. It doesn’t bother me anymore. 
  4. Anyway, he was gone longer than the time we shared together.
  5. My dad will not haunt you. He doesn’t even visit me in my dreams. 

Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles is a writer from Cotabato, Province. He has been a fellow of the Sox Writer’s Workshop (2023), NAGMAC-YWS (2024), and Ateneo de Davao Summer Writers Workshop (2024), and Davao Writers Workshop (2025). 

 

Babae, Baril, at Baybay

Poetry by | December 8, 2025

Ang distansya sa pagitan ng babae at baril
ay pinananatili ang diwa at igting
ng himagsikan at labada.
Siya ang rebolusyon ng pag-aalimpuyo ng mga kalan;
ang sigaw ng katipunan.

Ang pagitan ng babae at bibig ng makata
ay laway at tinta—
minsan, bala ng colt at asin.

Ang pagitan ng pag-ibig at babae
ay hindi bugbog at pasa,
hindi birhen at imahen
kundi ang baybay at himig ng apoy
at hindi ang bigat ng taludtod
na nakakahon sa dibdib
ng bayang paulit-ulit na sinusunog
ngunit ayaw maging abo.

Bago ang huling bigwas
ng buwayang nakakulong sa kusina.
Ang kanyang katawan ay kanya.
Sa sigalot ng karit at bigkis ng ani. 

Aleah Sulaiman Bantas is a queer Maguindanaon writer who hails from the floodplains of Datu Paglas, Maguindanao del Sur. A fellow of the SOX Writers Workshop (2025), her works have appeared in the Bangsamoro Literary Review, Dagmay, and SunStar Davao. Her zines and poetry anthologies have been published under Tridax Zine, Cotabato Literary Circle, and the Socsksargen Writers Collective. She is currently studying at the University of Southern Mindanao.

 

Humba Espesyal

Poetry by | December 8, 2025

Tausi, asusina, ug patis,
Adunay lami nga tambok sa baboy gilahi.
Hiniwa nga dagkong unod, apil bukog,
Ang dakong kalaha gipabukalan na’g mantika.

Ang mga panakot andam na,
Ang mga panakot andam na,
Andama na ang kutsilyo, luwag, ug kutsara.

Sa paglunod sa preskong karne,
Giapilan ug lamas, suka, ug sili.
Sa kada ukay ni Papa, mosiga ang kusina,
Ang iyang sekreto mao lami kaayo,
Mura’g pista sa lamisa, puno sa kalipay ug gugma.

Krisghe Rose Icao is a third-year Literature student who writes from the deepest parts of her own lived experiences. She writes to inspire, to speak, and to express the emotions she once kept silent. Through her poetry, she hopes to reach others who need to feel seen, understood, and unafraid to use their own voice.