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.

Tartanilya Travails

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

He is no Sleipnir, gifted with speed
And his master, no Odin either.
Mortal man and an even more mortal beast
Plying the concrete though narrow Badelles Street
Stopping by every now and then
To pick up pasaheros
Who climb up the tartanilya to sit behind his master
On the box seat, back hunched from the burdens of life,
On one hand a whip that is hardly used.
An old woman struggles to climb up carrying her basket
Filled with vegetables and who knows what;
A young girl, in a graduation regalia, wearing high heels
Nearly missing the step-plate; her mother behind her,
Sweaty clothes sticking to her skin, make-up melting on her face.
He is no Sleipnir, and his master no Odin either.
They are not traveling by sea or sky nor to the underworld,
Just through the concrete though narrow Badelles Street,
Bearing the burden of the burdened.

Therese Padilla Abonales is a native of Iligan City in Northern Mindanao. Her stories have appeared in Mindanao Harvest, the now-defunct Panorama of Manila Bulletin, and NCCA’s Mantala Literary Journal. She was a fellow of the 28th UP National Writers Workshop in Davao, the 4th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and a senior writing fellow in the 29th Iligan National Writers Workshop.

Bag

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

Ito ay bag na aking dala sa eskwelahan
Saking hirap na mga balikat ito’y pasan
Mabigat man minsan na ito ay sakbitin
Mas mabigat ang liwanag saki’y binilin.

Sa loob ng bag na ito’y di lamang kagamitan
Bagkos pag-asang magdadala ng kaginhawaan
Pag-asang kalakip ay ang matayog na ekspektasyon
Akong kanilang itinaas upang siya ang mag-ahon

Ako raw ang pag-asa ng pamilya
Kasama ay ang bag na aking dala
Ako ang huling alas na inihain ng aming tahanan
Ang lalaban sa laro na tinatawag nilang kahirapan.

Ngunit ako’y natatakot rin
Pagkat labis nilang hangarin
Isang tungkuling di ko ninais tanggapin
Sa balikat ko’y tahimik na nakabitin.

Ngunit gaano man ito kabigat di ko ito bibitawan
Sa halip ito ay aking iingatan at pangangalagaan
Pagkat habang sinasakbit ko ito patungo sa paaralan
Siya namang hakbang ng pamilya ko palayo sa kahirapan.

Kent Nathan S. Mortilla is currently a Grade 12 student. He loves writing poems about his feelings and experiences as a form of self-expression. This poem was written during days when exhaustion and doubt weighed heavily on his heart.

Har

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

Har… lingkod diri sakong kilid,
tan-awon natong mag dugo ang langit!
Naa ko’y dala isa ka bag na aligotgot.
Kan-a ning mga bildo sa akong kagahapon.
Ali, Har, ayaw lang gud kaulaw.
Mura’g samin ang tubig oh!
Aha paka…
istoryahan natong kalibutan,
samtang naka atubang ta sa dagat!

Har, ikaw ang tubig sakong kinabuhi.
Nagpakalunod ko ani
Mawala lang ang namilit nga balas sa lawas
Pero salamat ha
Gi-paak ko diri ug niknik!

Har, talikod
Ibton sa nako ning mga bildo sa imo likod.
Waka kabantay ani?
Ikapila taka gi-ignan?
Naka-ungkit diri sa lubi,
akong mga bilin para dika makalimot.
Paduol sa mga nag-bulang bawod.
Magpabukot ta diri
Sabay natong sumbagon ang dagat.

Gikapoy naka, Har?
Ali, higda sakong mga paa.
Tan-awa gi unsa ug pintal ni adlaw ang langit.
Tua pa, ning halok pa sa tubig…
Diri lang sa ta karon, Har
Unya nata uli.

Jone Harry Gatela earned his bachelor’s degree in 2025. Beaches have always been a source of comfort and inspiration for him.

Palabas

Fiction by | May 25, 2026

This story won First Prize at the 7th Satur P. Apoyon Tigi sa Mubong Sugilanong Binisaya 2026. This story is presented in serial form this May 2026.

GIDUKO ni Miguel iyang ulo aron malikayan ang mga mata sa mga reporter. “Ang sunod nga pangutana alang sa inyong katapad, Colonel Peralta. Kanang lalaki nga naka-black jacket. Sir, nganong nisalmot ka sa maong kalihukan?” Kalit nga namugnaw si Miguel sa nadunggan. Dili niya mapugngan ang pag-pangurog sa iyang mga kamot. Ug wala siya kabalo kon unsay angay nga itubag sa pangutana sa babayeng reporter. Kalit nga nahilom ang sulod sa conference room, tanan nagpaabot sa iyang tubag. Tanang kamera nakapunting kaniya, nagrekord sa matag lihok nga iyang buhaton.

Samtang nagkurog si Miguel sa iyang paglingkod, iyang gipiyong ang iyang mga mata ug hinay-hinay nga mitungha sa iyang hunahuna ang iyang pamilya ug ang ilang yano nga pagpuyo sa lungsod sa San Juan Bautista. Ang malinawong lungsod diin siya natawo, mitubo ug nagka-pamilya. Didto sa hilit nga bahin sa San Juan Bautista nagsugod ang tanan.

Nakita ni Miguel ang iyang kamaguwangan nga si Princess nga nagbaktas padulong sa ilang balay. Tataw sa nawong sa dalaga ang kalipay samtang paspas kining naglakaw, samtang gipalid sa hangin ang papel nga bitbit niini. Napuno sa lapok ang sapataos sa dalaga. Sa dihang nakita siya sa iyang anak, dali dayon kining midagan paingon kaniya.

“Pa! Tan-awa! Honor napod ko, pa!” mapasigarbohon nga siyagit ni Princess, dayon ni-amin kaniya.

“Uy! Congrats, nak!” Nagngisi si Miguel samtang gitan-aw ang papel nga gihatag sa iyang anak. “Unsay gisulat diri, nak? Parehas ra ba ni sa ubang papel nga gihatag sa imo sauna?”

“Oo, pa! Usa na lang ka semester mo-graduate na gyod ko sa Senior High!” ni Princess og dayong misulod sa ilang gamay nga payag nga hinimo sa pawud, kawayan ug sinasa.

Continue reading Palabas

Pagpananghid

Poetry by | May 18, 2026

Tugoti kong biyaan ka samtang
gihigugma pa tika.
Kon naa na ko sa syudad,
gilamoy sa kaguol sa kasaba,
ang himno sa imong kalasangan
ang akong hinumdoman,
dili ang mga paghot
sa gipangkagid nimong mga iro.
Kon mangutana sila bahin sa imo,
ang katam-is ra sa tubo ang akong ipatilaw kanila,
dili ang basura sa imong tugkaran.
Naa pa tuod ang lakra sa imong tiil
diri sa akong dughan
sa dihang imo kong gibadyakan,
apan tugoti kong biyaan ka
kay naa pa koy gugma.

Domar Batucan Recopelacion writes from Matanao, Davao del Sur. His poems have appeared in Dagmay, Bisaya Magazine, and Mekong Review.

Happy New Year

Nonfiction by | May 11, 2026

I looked at the cracked skin under my nails. A lifetime of nail-biting had caused a constant prickle on my fingertips. I’d grown used to it, like most pains.

I inhaled the cigarette I had just lit. I hated the smell of tar. It burned my nose the same way gasoline did whenever the family car was refueled. Synthetic, acrid. Addictive. At gas stations, I would lean my head out the car window to inhale the fumes in secret before Mom slapped me back inside for wasting the air-conditioning. I hadn’t seen her in five years.

The sun was barely rising as I reflected on the past few days. An anthropologist friend and I had traveled to the uplands to film a documentary on the Obu Manuvu and their New Year practices. It was a beautiful community gathering. Their cultural attire danced in waves of color. The embers glowed so hot I could taste the roasted native chicken in the air. The Datu chanted prayers of thanksgiving in the rites of Panubaran. Great care was taken to preserve and pass down these ancestral practices to future generations. As I watched the children play while their parents prayed along in thanksgiving, the Datu’s words echoed in my mind.

“Let us not throw away our family’s own culture. It will fight for us.”

Even before I ran away, New Year’s with my family was never as vibrant as the feast I had witnessed. But our simple celebration carried hearty meals, shared laughter with my siblings, and Mom’s prayers for each of us. We were not a family big on tradition, but every year after media noche, we would gather in the living room to watch movies. It was warm and delightful. It was home.

Since leaving, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. Once, I attended a party hosted by a friend on New Year’s for those he called “friends without families.” But I had a family. One that, like many things I’d gotten used to, occupied less mental space as the years passed. I knew my heart missed them. I had settled into a life alone by running away from past hurts, but I also ran from those I valued — a family I would fight for.

The sunrise had kissed my skin when I stomped out the cigarette. My last, I told myself. I had made a mental checklist of movies I wanted to watch with my family when my friend asked if I was ready to go home.

I was.

Edwin “Ed” David J. Priete is a filmmaker, educator, and media producer from Davao City whose stories focus on social impact, mental health awareness, and cultural identity. A BA Communication and Media Arts graduate of UP Mindanao, he explores themes of trauma and recovery in his works, which have been featured and screened locally and internationally.