Pagpag kon Kandado

Fiction by | September 21, 2026

Ang inosenteng batang maraming katanungan – mga tanong na minsan may sagot, minsan wala, at minsan napag-iiwanan ng misteryo. Sa puntong ito, siya’y napatanong: saan papunta?

Lugar na balot ng halaman. Tahimik. Masyadong tahimik.

Paglabas ng ni-rentahang sasakyan, napunta siya sa lugar na maraming taong nakikilala, ngunit hindi niya kilala.

Pa, asa man ta karon?
Naa ta sa balay sa igsuon sa imong lola, nak.

Nag-usisa ang bata sa paligid. May mga taong masaya sa muling pagkikita, mga taong wari’y ngayon pa lang nagkakakilala, at may ibang kalungkutan na lamang ang dala. Ngunit ang mga emosyong ito’y nagtatapos sa pagluluksa.

Maraming sasakyan ang nasa labas. Mga taong nakasuot ng puti, kabilang na ang kanyang pamilya.

Oh, sa mga tagtungod, pwede mo mosakay diri sa van. Mga anak, apo, igsuon.

Sa isang sasakyan na may puting kahon sa loob, nakita ng bata ang kanyang lolang sumakay. Walang pag-aalinlangan, bumaba siya at sumabay sa kanyang lola, naiwan ang kanyang ama’t ina.

Sa hindi umabot ng isang oras, inilagay ang puting kahon sa isang sementong kahon. Sa paligid, ang mga pighati ay nagluluksa. Sa kabilang banda, may mga kapamilyang namimigay ng pagkain.

Dahan-dahang lumapit ang bata. Kumain siya.

At nang oras na ng pauwi, habang umaandar na ang makina ng sasakyan, may isang batang kumakain pa rin.

Day, hutda nana. Ayaw na dalaa sa balay kay bawal na, mag-kadena!

Hindi niya naintindihan.

Ilabay nana, dalia ayaw na hutda! Dili mag-ana kay ang mahitabo ana, mag-kadina ang atong pamilya. Magsunod-sunod ang patay. Dili mo motuo? Pag tuman nalang mo.

Nang gabing iyon, pag-uwi nila, napansin ng bata ang isang puting kahon sa kanilang sala.

Hindi niya alam kung saan iyon nanggaling.

Ngunit bago siya matulog, may narinig siyang kumakatok mula sa loob.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

Jennedy Juezan was born and raised in Davao City and has always loved writing about the romanticized realities of urban life. Since pursuing her Master of Arts in Literature, she has been exploring her identity as a writer and discovering new ways to express her perspective through literature. Along the way, she found herself drawn to the art of flash fiction, where she captures emotions, moments, and stories in a few carefully crafted words.

Balik-Balik

Fiction by | September 21, 2026

Panahon sa COVID, kato Agosto 8, 2020, mipanaw akong Lola. Nag-umbangol akong mga iyaan kay mibiya na ang ilang mama, among Lola. Mao kato ang pinakauna nga mawalaan kami ug usa sa among mahal sa pamilya.

Wala pa mabalsamar akong Lola, dili kami pagawson sa gawas. “Diri ra mo sa sulod, bantayi inyong Lola, ayaw mog hawa.” “Ngano man?” “Kay basig ilisan ang lawas sa inyong Lola ug walay mubantay sa iya.”

Pasado alas 5 sa buntag, gikuha sa St. Peter akong Lola aron ibutang sa lungon ug preparahan ang haya. Miabot ang St. Peter alas 5 sa hapon sa Agosto 9, mao kato ang unang haya sa amoa. Samtang nagtáod sa trapal, gisabit sa akong uyoan paboritong karsones sa akong Lola ug miingon, “Kini, syarog muulan pa ni.”

Sa adlaw sa vigil, busy ang tanan sa pag-andam ug pagkaon para sa bisita. “Bawal jud iuli ang pagkaon pag gikan sa patay kay sundan jud ka ana niya.” “Ngano man sundan?” “O basin aron dili mahurot ang pagkaon dayon,” pasiaw nga ingon sa akong kuya. Matag adlaw, among sud-an puro ra baboy—pinirito, sinabaw. “Mama, nganong wala man niy mga gulay-gulay?” “Ay, bawal ang gulay nga magkatay-katay kay mukatay sad ang mamatay.” Wala ako katingog kay tanan bag-o pa sa akoa.

Adlaw sa lubong, gihatod among Lola sa lubnganan. Miadto mi sa simbahan aron misahan ang iyang kalag. Giuban ang mga braha ug mga gamit sa lubong. Gitawag ang myembro sa pamilya aron musuong sa lungon. Adunay misinggit, “Ayaw na mo ug balik sa inyong giagian.” Wala ako milingi ug mibalik pa.

Sa dihang mibalik akong ig-agaw si Gwen kay nabilin iyang cellphone, daghan ang mitawag sa simbahan. “Nibalik si Gwen.” Mi-contact sila aron mangita ug piso nga manok isabay ug lubong.

Lima ka tuig ang milabay, mipanaw mama ni Gwen.

Joemar James Bansil is a graduate of the University of Southern Mindanao–Kidapawan City Campus with a Bachelor of Secondary Education Major in English. He is currently pursuing a Master of Arts in Literature at the University of Southeastern Philippines, where he continues to deepen his passion for language and literature. He currently teaches Research at the Philippine Women’s College of Davao. As an educator and storyteller, he is passionate about using stories and words to inspire, connect, and give meaning to human experiences.

Hinay nga Pagkawagtang sa Lagaslas sa Cabulig

Poetry by | September 21, 2026

Padayon ang pagdagayday sa tubig
nga gikan sa sapa sa bukid,
paingon sa suba sa Cabulig.
Mahanoy ang lagaslas niini
samtang nagadakdak sa bunal
ang mga dagang inahan sa daplin,
aron mawagtang ang mantsang dalag
sa bisti sa ilang mga batingot nga pinalangga.

May kasikas usab sa lawom nga bahin,
samtang nagtabisay ug nagduwa ang mga batan-on;
puno sa kalipay ug pagsinggit-singgit,
hawan sa kaguol, kay ang tino lamang
mao ang kasadya nga dala sa kabugnaw sa tubig.

Walay sama ang gasa sa kinaiyahan!
Apan sa pag-agas sa katubigan,
mao sab ang pagkahanaw sa mga balas sa ilawom.
Walay puas ang pagpangsako sa grabas
aron isagol sa pagpahimutang sa mga balay sa kalungsuran.

Nanganindot tuod ang mga balay ug establisyemento,
Padayon sa kanunay ang trabaho ug negosyo
apan ang suba padayon sa pagkalawom
nga mamahimong hinungdan sa kadaot
og pagakatumpag sa pundasyon sa kilid sa yuta.
Padayon lagi ang pagsaka ug asenso sa kalungsuran,
ibabaw sa gilubong nga buhi nga kinaiyahan.

Nympha Amor H. Eugenio is a public secondary school teacher in DepEd Misamis Oriental Division. She teaches Creative Writing under the Special Program in the Arts (SPA), nurturing the next generation of local writers.

Post-Midnight Snack Epiphany

Poetry by | September 21, 2026

Over a few crusty plates on the sink
in a tub of soapy water, I wish
and pretend the world
is mine. Over this brief respite, my life
belongs to me. All of a sudden, I remember
ambitions. I remember how to dream,
in the last light before all becomes dark again.

I remember how my hands
are capable of transformations. All
of a sudden, I have with me things
that would know desire to be saved. All
of a sudden, I become my own god
and all the ones that are drowning,
I give breath, lift them to the light,
and see them spotless.

In strict successive suddens,
I learn to leave my stale morose grain
by softened grain at the maw
of the poor, hungry drain. I rinse
my hands until the last grime disappears
in its appetite. Then the kitchen is dark again,
and I remember nothing in the morning.

James Bryan Delgado was a fellow of the 2018 ADDU Summer Writers Workshop and the 2025 Davao Writers Workshop.

Mubalik rako

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

It was Sunday. Molave Street was bright with the noontime sun. The doors of the neighborhood homes were wide open, letting the wind sweep through the insides. The sound of laughter echoed with the beeps of cars passing by, and children fearlessly running beside the curve of the road, untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by worries of an adult.

I could hear them from where I sat, separated only by the blurry plastic screen of the sari-sari store I was keeping watch over. Occasional murmurs slipped in but were never understood.

The silence on my side and the joy of the other felt uncomfortable. The noise felt so far away despite the short distance, like I was only meant to listen. Envy lingered in my mind for a moment before vanishing as the first customer of the day approached.

“Unsay ato angkol?” I gave a practiced, amiable smile.

It was Friday. She said we were going somewhere nice and that I had to wear my best clothes. I stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, looking like a mountain of rags, and settled on one. I guess a hand-me-down faded red dress with fewer patches could work as one. It smelled like old, wet paper, but I have never worn it. I never knew I was allowed to wear a dress.

“Inig abot nato didto dapat mag binuotan ka,” she said as she fixed my collar. It was folded inside.

“Opo,” I said like an automatic response, staring at her. There was a curve on her lips I had never seen. Or maybe never directed at me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed easily. Maybe I should have asked questions. But she smiled at me after years of scowls and frowns, and disgusted scoffs.

Continue reading Mubalik rako

The Red Stone Pendant

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

I could feel the sticky jelly in between my fingers while I scraped the jelly cup clean, pretending I could taste the strawberry flavor in it.

I turned my gaze toward the roaring television that my Lolo was so engrossed in. He was on the edge of his seat as Manny Pacquiao threw a punch.

“Tua ra! Sige sumbaga! Humana!” He shouted and cheered, while his face was just inches away from the screen and no one could ever bother him.

Meanwhile, there was my Lola, sitting in her favorite chair while combing her short, wavy hair. She has a  fair complexion, narrow eyes, round face, red colored nails, and what caught my attention most, was her gleaming gold and silver jewelries.

“Ma, kanak da yaang singsing mo kay masigahay,” I pleaded with a sweet smile but she was not moved by it.

Instead, she pulled out her jewelry box and got a fancy looking silver necklace with a red stone pendant.

“Kani na imo, dayai kini ha hatag dako kanmo.”

It was the fanciest thing I had that time, so I had it with pride and charm. I wore it in school, making sure my classmates will notice it and I could have the reaction I want to hear. But, I was getting conscious every time someone noticed it. 

Continue reading The Red Stone Pendant

This is where I grieve you,

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

on the ascent, Manila in sight
filtered through cabin windows, a city alight

and i am alone. a row to myself, i wonder
is it normal, the emptiness

in night flights, the silence in sleep,
the permanence in loss, the quiet

within, the numbness
i anticipate upon arrival.

i welcome unpredictable
rain, hope against turbulence, i remember—

remember, i carry like luggage
every conversation, sermon, whisper

i grew up with, in reluctance, your words
rooted in my silence, in my leaving.

i anticipate upon descent
grief lost in the air, perhaps

only in transit, can i hold the sadness
in childhood, the sadness

within, the loss
i now carry like luggage

every candle, flower, prayer
i offered, in reluctance, my words

silent, i can only remember.
in my leaving again, i welcome your memory.

Cheska Cortejos was born and raised in Cagayan de Oro City. She graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from the University of the Philippines Diliman. She has been a member of Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC) since 2019.

The Weight of Air

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

For Nanay Lucing

Your chair rests hollow,
like the loosened edge
of an old woolen shawl
frayed with forgotten prayers,
spun from a thread
you weave and pull,
packed with promises.

A quiet tear dampens this blue mat
where your light still lingers.
A slow drift of dust hung in the hallway
marks another year without you.

The silence remembers
how you kept the peace—
the steady rustle of your rosary beads,
the sharp, sweet scent
of camphor and dried liniment,
the low kettle whistling over morning coffee,
and the patient rhythm of your hands
smoothing out the wrinkles
of our folded lives.

How do seasons turn
without your knowing,
as you drift toward other fields
to tend a garden of starlight
for our collective peace?

How many silences will pass in this room
before grief stops feeling
like an open doorway?

I wonder whose hands will reach
to hold my shadow
when the dark begins to break—
as I breathe these heavy verses
into the quiet air.

Gino holds a Bachelor’s degree from Xavier University Ateneo de Cagayan. He was a fellow of the 2010 Davao Writers Workshop and the 2015 Cornelio Faigao Writers Workshop.