06C

Poetry by | December 30, 2024

Usa ka dangaw ang mipataliwa
sa atong kapalaran.
Nagtapad ta niining dyip
nga naglatas sa kadalanan sa V. Rama.

Kulongon ang imong buhok
nga gipaak sa pulang pugong,
samtang ang imong duha ka itom nga ariyos
giduyan-duyan sa huyuhoy.

Mihunong ang 06C sa eskina sa Espina.
Ug sa imong pagkanaog, gikulipa
sa pugong ang imong buhok, nanamilit
og kinalitkalit ug kinawatkawat
nga halok sa akong tuong aping.

Ug karon,
ang mipataliwa sa atong kapalaran
ang dili madangaw nga kamingaw,
samtang mipabulhot ang dyip
paingon sa utlanan sa V. Rama.

06C
Translated by Jade Mark Capiñanes

A handspan was all that separated
our fates.
We sat side by side in this jeepney
traversing the streets of V. Rama.

Your kinky hair
was clamped by a red clip,
while your two black earrings
were swayed by the breeze.

The 06C stopped at the corner of Espina.
And as you got off, your hair,
chucked by the clip, bid farewell
so suddenly, brushing stolen
kisses on my right cheek.

And now,
what separates our fates
is an immeasurable loneliness,
as the jeepney sped onward
to the end of V. Rama.

Alden Arsèn was born in Zamboanga City, Philippines where the croaks of the frogs were the first lullaby that put him to sleep. He usually writes short stories, essays, and poems when intoxicated by liquor or loneliness. He lives for Sally and his three dogs: Nala, Deib, and Luci.

Sa Dihang May Nakahinabi Ako Nga Biyuda

Poetry by | December 30, 2024

Sa dihang may nakahinabi ako nga biyuda,
walay mga luha nga midayan
sa iyang mga mata,
ug ang kanal-kanal niini gauphag pud. Gani,
wala puy pagpanghupong sa iyang ubaog,
walay gabitay nga dag-om
nga mingkumpayot sa iyang tabon-tabon,
ug wala pud mopakita og pagkalarag
ang tabonon niyang liryo.

Matud pa sa uban,
ang kasubo, ang pagbangotan,
masukod sa giladmon sa punong
nganha sa mata sa biniyaan,
apan diay, dili kini tukma,
kay matod pa niya:

ang kasubo, ang pagbangotan,
mao ang paghilak nga dili mahigawsan og luha,
ang danguyngoy nga walay pagbakho,
ang pagtulon sa kamatuoran
nga dili moagi og pag-usap,
ang pagpanawag nga walay masampit.

Sa dihang may nakahinabi ako nga biyuda,
nanugon siyang i-asoy ko:
dili tanang nangamatay
magbuy-od,
ug dili tanang makighinabi
buhi.

When I Spoke with a Widow
Translated by Jade Mark Capiñanes

When I spoke with a widow,
there were no tears streaming
from her eyes,
and the lines around them were dry. In fact,
there was no puffiness around her eye sockets,
no dark clouds
clinging to her eyelids,
and no trace of weariness
in her brown irises.

People say
that grief, that mourning,
is measured by the depth of the hollow
around the eyes of the bereaved,
but this, simply, is not true,
for she said:

grief, mourning,
is the weeping that sheds no tears,
the sobbing without wails,
the swallowing of truth
you cannot chew,
the calling out when speechless.

When I spoke with a widow,
she asked me to tell this:
not everyone who has died
is at rest,
and not everyone you speak with
is truly alive.

Si Jay Bryan La-ag usa ka yanong magbabalak kinsa ang kagikan masubay ngadto sa Sindangan, Zamboanga del Norte. Sa pagkakaron, nagtudlo siya og katitikan sa usa ka SUC sa Cebu ug nagpuyo sa habagatang bahin sa probinsya niini. Siya nanghinaot nga ang pagpamalak magpadayon sa pag-abante ug madawat ang mga bag-ong tubo. Siya usab miyembro sa Bathalad Sugbo.

A Grandchild with Blue Eyes

Nonfiction by | December 30, 2024

I was around eight when my mom told me she wanted a grandchild with blue eyes. We were just hanging out in the backyard, sitting beside each other on a hammock, when she said, “Gusto ko ng mestizong apo!” She told me she wanted to see them in person, as blue eyes aren’t something you typically encounter in ordinary Philippine settings.

“Mestizo” is a Spanish word that originally described a person of Spanish and indigenous descent. Over time, the meaning evolved to a broader definition: a person of mixed race. In the Philippines, a mestizo is someone who is half-Filipino and half-foreigner, or, in simpler terms, a “tisoy”—someone with evident Caucasian features who is conventionally attractive.

My mom and I were among the many Filipinos obsessed with them. Back then, I saw them as the most attractive people in the world. I admired their bright white skin, blonde hair, tall height, pointy noses, and blue eyes. My mom wanted me to find a man with those features—an American, essentially.

My search for “the one” began before I even got my period. I was a naïve young girl, eager to make my mom’s wish come true. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t handsome, rich, or intelligent. As long as he had blue eyes, I would marry him.

But it wasn’t as easy as I thought. When I learned about genetics in high school, I realized that a child wouldn’t automatically inherit a parent’s rare trait. I was never good at science, so I asked my classmates to calculate the probabilities for me.

“Only 50%, Jew. You need to make sure blue eyes are his dominant trait.”

I had no idea what they meant by a dominant trait (this is my confession to all my science teachers that I just winged it back then). My classmates took deep breaths and tried their best to explain the topic to me.

For years, I believed that a rare trait, like blue eyes, meant a stronger gene. Turns out, the rarer the trait, the harder it is to inherit. That day, I realized my child could also inherit my black eyes, especially since they’re my dominant trait. All my family members have either black or brown eyes. That lightbulb moment made my plan even more specific: I had to find a man whose entire family had blue eyes. I needed to be sure.

So it became my mission. At some point, it turned into my purpose. I searched for those blue eyes in magazines and films. I studied English diligently until it became my favorite subject and, eventually, my college major. I memorized “The Star-Spangled Banner” and learned all the U.S. states. I prepared myself to become a full-fledged American citizen one day.

My goal was to give my mom a grandchild with blue eyes. I never even bothered to ask her why she wanted it so badly. At the time, I believed it was the key to making her truly happy. She rarely smiled and had been strangely indifferent since I discovered what was in Dad’s camera.

But as I grew older, the road to happiness led me to other paths, and I found myself tempted to explore the unfamiliar.

My mom and I were so close that she even knew about my biggest crush in high school—the short boy with black chinito eyes. She also knew about the others: the one shorter than me who turned out to be gay, and the rest who weren’t particularly remarkable. None of them were mestizos. They were all Filipinos, and most of them radiated the rainbow.

At 20, all I had in mind was the slow burn of falling in love with my classmate—a Filipino with dark skin and black eyes—which didn’t work out in the end. I also tried matching with different guys on dating apps, including those with blue eyes, but being with someone from a different race felt like a betrayal, as if I were a traitor to my kin.

I’ve always found it hard to adapt to a culture that’s too different from mine. I didn’t want to marry someone who couldn’t understand my kanal jokes or my sudden Bisaya puns. I couldn’t live in a place without organic ingredients for my favorite sinigang. I couldn’t imagine paying too much for bananas. I couldn’t bear the cold; I already shiver when the electric fan is set to 3. And I couldn’t imagine missing caroling and singing karaoke during Christmas.

Marrying an American isn’t just about having blue eyes and bright white skin; it’s acculturation. It’s forgetting the lyrics to “Lupang Hinirang.” It’s missing monthly fiestas and traditions. It’s eating burgers and pizza for dinner. It’s speaking my mother tongue only during video calls. I couldn’t trade my pride for blue eyes.

At 24, sixteen years after my mom told me she wanted a grandchild with blue eyes, I finally understood what she really wanted: freedom. She wanted to live in America. She believed in the land of the free.

Before she got married, she told me she had an ex-boyfriend who now lives in America. If she hadn’t met my dad, she would’ve been living there today—and I wouldn’t even exist. But I do, and I guess I felt obligated to make that American Dream a reality for her.

Before I could tell her I couldn’t, she died.

That dream was buried with her in 2016.

My mom spent her remaining years in the Philippines, wearing old, tight shoes that gave her blisters. She never had the chance to step onto the land of the free.

She always told me she wanted to separate from my dad, but divorce isn’t an option in the Philippines. Our country doesn’t believe the depth of your wounds is grounds for divorce—not even for annulment. And even if my mom had considered the latter, she didn’t have the money. Marriage is tying the knot, but no one warns you about the abrasions when the rope gets too tight.

I remember standing up for a class debate about divorce in the Philippines. I argued that marriage is a union between two people, so when it becomes too crowded, one should be granted the right to leave. I fought for women’s rights to be free from abusive marriages. I had seen it on television. I had read about it in books. I witnessed it in my mom’s eyes. Although my dad never physically abused her, what he did echoed in my mom’s eternity and reverberated in me.

I didn’t win. Instead, I was humiliated like a heretic for having such “liberal” beliefs at 14.

“This is not how a Catholic should think!”

Trembling, I looked at the nun officiating the debate with the eyes of the Fallen Angel at the Musée Fabre in Montpellier. She was passionately defending the sanctity of marriage, while I was fighting for my mom’s freedom. From that moment, I began to see religion in a different light.

I am a Catholic educated in three Catholic schools. I served the Church three times a week: Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. I was surrounded by people whose faith seemed greater than mine, and I believed in their ability to heal the world.

That’s why I was bewildered to discover that their empathy is selective. They say you can only know a person’s pain once you experience it yourself. For me, though, believing that someone is hurting is enough.

How does a Catholic think? Does it mean adhering to your marriage vow, “Till death do us part,” even if your partner has disobeyed the sixth commandment? Is breaking your vow more sinful than committing adultery?

My mom, along with other women in the organization she belonged to, endured the infidelity of their husbands until their last breaths. They couldn’t do anything. Even if they tried, we live in a country where reputation is valued more than respect. Women are dictated to submit to their husbands. The Scripture says so. The blind fanatics hurl Bible verses at you when you try to escape a punishment you don’t deserve to repent for.

My parents were no longer happy in their marriage. I was young, but I knew. I witnessed how their tight hugs turned into fleeting gestures, how they used to sleep in each other’s embrace until the bed became too small to accommodate their space. I learned early on that love can pivot from ardent gazes to long, silent stares at the ceiling.

I was afraid of it. I didn’t want to get married and have kids. My grief built high, solid walls to keep me from following in my mother’s footsteps. I was a confidant to my solitude, and providing solace for another had become strenuous.

I believed that single blessedness was my vocation in life. My eyes had seen enough tragedies, from witnessing my parents’ marriage slowly lose its essence to watching my mother catch her last breath. I became brittle, like dried leaves left unswept in the backyard of an abandoned house. Small, silent steps of a visitor were enough to shatter me.

I let them shatter me, hearing the sharp crisp of my fragments as they stepped on me.

Love gave me my first tattoos, then broke up with me two weeks after my dad’s passing in 2021. The tattoos are imprinted as a reminder of my resilience.

Love also made me French toast because I didn’t know what it tasted like. In French, it’s called “pain perdu,” or “lost bread” in English. It had to end because I had already found myself.

Now, love climbs mountains with me, hearing my silent screams of sorrow. And if it shatters me, I won’t resist. I will travel with the gust.

All of them were Filipinos. None of them had blue eyes. I was silly for thinking it was as easy as locating words in a word hunt.

As much as I despise smelling the stench of corruption, hypocrisy, the pollution from a congested jeepney, and having barely enough monthly salary, I was hopeful to see the country in a better light. I was rooted in a purpose that I was to contribute to its arrival. It was my mom who told me I should be makabayan. She told me I should become a lawyer who fights for women’s and farmers’ rights.

I may not have become a lawyer, but I knew she succeeded somehow. As early as elementary, my teachers encouraged me to join in different competitions that would showcase my love for the country. I even received a comment on the back of my report card that I was observed passionately looking at the flag while singing the national anthem. I volunteered for the national elections. I speak for different advocacies in our locality. I teach literary theories that will make my students understand the complexities of the world.

Yet, her dreams for me were contradicting. She gave me wings to flee from my country to become a mother of a child with blue eyes, but I was no Icarus.

My mom loved her country, and I know she loved me, but her desire for freedom resisted and pleaded to stay with me. I consoled her trauma and took care of it like an evacuee in the midst of a storm. It was a lost cause who found shelter in my solace.

The storm has to end somehow, and I have to let it go. This is my way of letting it go.

So, how will I give birth to a child with blue eyes?

I won’t, and I guess my mom will never know.

But if she’s looking above from heaven, I hope she’ll forgive me for being just like her, for going back to what hurt her the most: the love of a Filipino, of course, with black eyes.

I just hope my child won’t write about me wanting to have a grandchild with blue eyes because I couldn’t fulfill my dream of being free.

I hope I’ll be free to soar in the sky above the ocean—blue, like the eyes of the grandchild she couldn’t have.

Jewel Mansia is currently teaching at Ateneo de Davao University–Senior High School while pursuing her master’s degree in literature at the University of Southeastern Philippines. Writing is her way of preserving her memories of her departed parents.

My Girl

Fiction by | December 16, 2024

You said goodbye to Attorney Ramos when you clocked out. The solid pine doors of the firm were expensive, heavy under slim hands. But you are healthy. You take good care of your body. You pushed them open easily and walked over to your Jeep, a pretty white thing.

You drove to that gym in Sta. Ana, the one you don’t like. You always complain that it’s too crowded by the time you get off work. Still, you go inside, strip off your blouse, and swap the skirt for a pair of tight leggings. You grew up nicely, didn’t you? Wide hips, full lips, long legs. I could stare at you every day. I do.

You think getting a workout in, whenever you can after work, is more important than the long wait at the Pelotons. You’re such a good girl.

You were there for an hour and a half, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. I wanted to wipe it off you. I didn’t mind the wait outside your shower, listening to the water run until you were finished. There’s nowhere else I need to be. Want to be.

Fully dressed, you climbed back into your car, though you drove barely twenty minutes before you stopped at the grocery for salmon and kale. You paused by the produce section, eyes caught by the display. There’s nothing special about it. The mangoes were ripe, apples in a dozen colors. Next to them, plantains.

It’s funny, because you hate plantains, but you examine each bunch for the signs of perfect quality. When you were satisfied, you got back in your car and drove down to your house in Poblacion. When you got home, you tossed your keys on the coaster and your bag to the floor.

When you walked to the kitchen, your eyes passed over the place from where I watched you. Even if you knew about this window, it wouldn’t change anything. Even if this place was gone, even if you burned it, or cemented over it, I would find a way. I would follow you anywhere.

Your kitchen is a modern dream, sparkling white and costing a fortune. You fried your salmon and prepared your salad, and your husband will be home later tonight, so you put his serving in the fridge.

You have such a nice life. Such a good husband. But I know you still think of me.

I know, because you pulled out a pot and sugar to make minatamis, even though you make a face whenever the taste lands on your tongue. You always did. You served them up when they were done, soft and still steaming.

You brought two plates of it to the place from where I watch you. They’re the color of honey and just as sweet, though it was hard for me to taste them, back when I was sick.

You did the sign of the cross over your chest as you whispered, “I love you, mama. I hope you’re proud of me.”

You turned the lights off and retired upstairs. I love you too, my girl, and I am so proud of you.

Iona Mendoza is a 17-year-old senior high school student who has loved writing and reading since age six.

The Carpenter

Poetry by | December 16, 2024

Growing up, I watched your hands
build things—

tables and benches
for the kitchen,

and even the abohan
when it looked like it was falling apart.

Such things a father should have done.
But instead you

did all the work. Silently
you sawed dusty planks and hammered rusty nails

so that we had somewhere
to place our plates and our asses.

How did you manage
to make something sturdy

out of wood scraps?
I will never understand why

you chose this life,
only that you did what you could for us,

for me. Ma,
I watched you build things.

And if anyone asked someday
how I made myself,
I would tell them about your hands.

Domar Batucan Recopelacion is a graduate of Bachelor of Secondary Education (English) from the University of Mindanao Digos College. He lives in Matanao, Davao del Sur.

The Meet Cute

Fiction by | November 25, 2024

It was already too early in the morning by the time Henry finally hailed an empty jeepney to lead him straight home.

“South Villa, kuya?” he asked with the kind of urgency only possessed by someone who had 15 missed calls from their mom. The jeepney driver, a tired old man, squinted at him over his eyeglasses and mouthed a confused “Ha?” back at him. Henry repeated himself, much louder this time, and the old man nodded sharply. He rushed to the back of the jeep and sat near the exit as the vehicle started moving again, turning the corner of the demolished mall now barricaded in a blue reminiscent of its logo.

With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his wheat-dyed hair and patted the pockets of his gray sweatpants, double-checking that he had his house key and money. He was so screwed—his mom was going to kill him. He’d done this several times since junior high school, yet the fear never really went away. Grimacing, he glanced at the time on his phone; the lock screen blared “3:11 AM” back at him. The notification of his mom’s missed calls remained ignored over a photo of Taylor Swift on stage from afar during her concert that he had attended. His sharp features and the severe look on his face reflected back at him as he slid his phone into his back pocket. Henry rested his elbow on the open window, gazing out into the night.

The air whipped past his face, carrying a scent that churned his stomach and made him crave sinugbang manok. The jeepney’s speed straddled the fine line between slow and fast despite the empty road, the lack of urgency clashing sharply with his own mounting anxiety. He rubbed his bare biceps for warmth, trying to ward off the sudden iciness inside the vehicle. It dawned on him that he’d completely missed dinner.

Henry’s blood ran cold with worry. How could he explain to his mom that he’d lost track of time playing a competitive online game with friends at a computer shop? He knew her walis tingting and the spittle from her shouting would hit him first before he could even utter the word “Valorant”!

As he cycled through the stages of his anxiety, Henry turned away from the window and noticed another passenger sitting diagonally from him. The person was pressed close to the corner wall behind the driver’s seat, hunched forward with a bag clutched protectively against their chest. Though he would never admit it—to anyone, not even himself—Henry flinched at the sight. Cloaked in shadows, the other passenger blended unnervingly well with the darkness. Their pallid face and milky white eyes, fixed unblinkingly on Henry’s head, looked like a floating, disembodied face.

When they passed under a streetlight, Henry caught a spark of amusement in the person’s eyes. The man seemed to be watching him like he was a noontime variety show, probably finding the unconscious twist of anxiety on Henry’s face hilarious.

To mask his surprise, Henry quickly cleared his throat and let out a small laugh before saying, “Ah, hello po.”

The stranger’s eyes bore into him before they responded with a croaky, decidedly male voice, “Hi din.”

The stranger’s eyes bore down on him. “Hi din,” they croaked in a decidedly male voice. The man leaned back, his head turned toward the window as his eyes fell shut, the breeze tossing his voluminous, inky curls this way and that. His chest rose and fell slightly with the long inhales and exhales he let out.

Henry found himself staring at the stranger’s slim, pale face, lit up from time to time by the golden streetlamps they passed in succession. A faint hint of stubble shadowed his jaw, as if he were attempting to summon a 5 o’clock shadow to obscure the youthfulness in his features. He wore a ratty plaid shirt with the top few buttons undone. Around his neck hung a plain ID sling in a color Henry couldn’t quite discern in the dim light. He had on dark jeans so tight they clung like a second skin, paired with dirty imitation Converse sneakers. Resting on his lap was a deep blue JanSport backpack adorned with a scattering of button pins ranging from album covers Henry recognized as Taylor Swift’s stolen originals to a few school department mascots.

Feeling a little curious and eager to distract himself from the inevitable scolding awaiting him at home, Henry cleared his throat to catch the other man’s attention again before scooting a little closer.

“Late night sa school?” Henry asked, striving to sound casual.

The other man hummed in thought. “Maybe,” he answered blandly in a rough but quiet voice, then cleared his throat of phlegm and coughed. “Ikaw?”

“Same,” Henry replied with a grin. The other man raised a brow—not quite annoyed, but almost impressed, as if recognizing he’d been played at his own game. He rolled his eyes and huffed in disbelief, a hint of a small smile on his face. Henry let out a short chuckle before adding, “I’m Henry.”

The other man hummed in thought before replying, “Tony.”

Henry felt like they should probably shake hands, but seeing Tony’s hands wrapped tightly around his bag, he decided against it. The silence settled over them and gnawed at Henry like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Breaking the quiet, Henry commented on Tony’s name with a Marvel reference. Tony retaliated with a quip about a controversial English king. The banter eased the tension, and soon they were trading remarks about why they were heading home so late.

“Para sa akin, may two types lang ata ng tao na nasa labas pa ngayon,” Henry claimed, holding up one finger. “Either you’re a student with a deadline,” he added, raising a second finger, “or pauwi ka from a bar. Which of the two are you ba, Tony?”

“Third option.” Tony raised three fingers before curling them back around his bag. “Graveyard shift sa call center.”

As Henry put his own fingers down at the realization, he nodded with a contemplative pout. “Alorica?” he guessed blindly. He wanted to continue their little game of modified 21 Questions, so he just said whatever came to mind.

The only response Tony gave him was a grin—too wide—as he sank back into the shadows. “It’s your turn to answer,” he said in a rough, reprimanding tone. Despite this, his voice remained consistently hushed compared to Henry’s, making the edge of his words seem softer. “Option one or two?”

“Alam mo naman siguro. I’m a student,” Henry replied, pointing at the dark blue sling around his neck, the university name printed on it. Tony’s eyes glanced down at his chest, where the sling rested. Henry felt the stretch of his tight black shirt as he preened under Tony’s intense, narrowed gaze. “College.”

Tony hummed thoughtfully—something he seemed to do habitually—as he considered Henry’s words.

“No offense, pero parang ka-edad lang lagi tayo,” Henry added before sputtering out an immediate apology. “Sorry if personal siya masyado, pero do you go to college din ba?”

The smile Tony gave him this time seemed a little shy, dimpling his cheeks. “UM. Dira lang pud sa Matina kay short walking distance ra sa akoang workplace.”

“Course mo?” Henry followed up quickly before pointing at himself and saying, “CompSci. Third year na.”

“Educ, graduating,” Tony replied proudly before coughing. “Sure jud ka na because of school ang rason nga late ka niuli karon?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest.

“Calling me out like a teacher already?” Henry teased and playfully raised a brow. He sighed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, you got me. I was playing with my friends sa comp shop.”

Tony let out a small, deep chuckle that had Henry’s stomach suddenly doing flips. Maybe it was hunger, or maybe it was something else. He couldn’t really say. “Unsa pud inyuhang ginadula didto?” the other man inquired between coughs, the narrow whites of his eyes contrasting with the darkness around them.

Henry gulped before answering, “Dota, League, Valo.” He paused, staring into Tony’s shadowed face, searching for some feeling that could only be found in the silence. “CSGO minsan.”

“Ga-dula pud ko’g CSGO, actually,” Tony said as an afterthought.

Henry’s enthusiasm was akin to a dog going into heat. “Really?!” He practically jumped in his seat, leaning in closer. “So, do you play Valo too?” He heard a distant rumbling, but it was probably just his stomach begging for any semblance of food.

Of all the reactions Henry predicted, he didn’t expect Tony’s wide grin to shift into one of genuine confusion. “Valo?” Tony echoed, a small frown creasing his brows as he let out a small cough. “Karon ra ko kadungog ana na game.”

Henry’s mouth gaped open in surprise. He’d never met anyone who played CSGO but hadn’t heard of Valorant. Then again, that might’ve been a biased opinion, considering all the CSGO players he knew were from Valorant. “Hindi mo alam ano ang Valo pero galaro ka ng CSGO?” he asked, his face showing borderline scandalized disbelief. Still, all hope wasn’t lost. “Feel ko magustuhan mo siya. Same-same lang din sila ng CSGO. Kinda.”

“Kinda,” Tony repeated with a slight tilt of his head, his lips forming a moue of curiosity. “Sige, i-try nako na if magka–free time ko.” The smile Henry gave him could rival the brightness of the absent sun.

They briefly discussed their preferred strategies in first-person shooter games, and Tony laughed in response before sharing his own, flashing a wide grin that showed more teeth. His eyes crinkled into narrow slits, as if there was an inner joke somewhere that Henry missed. The hair on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end, prompting him to place a hand over it. Distantly, he thought that if he saw the same look on anyone else, he’d be running for the hills. On Tony, however, it was almost endearing—he’d even go so far as to say Tony looked kind of cute.

At that realization, Henry felt something flutter in his chest. “If you ask me? Feel ko madaming students magkaka-crush sa ‘yo, sir.” He practically purred the word, playful enough to come off as a friendly joke but not desperate enough to reveal his own interest. Tony’s laugh, as he threw his head back, made whatever was fluttering in Henry’s chest spread its wings and multiply.

Tony’s laugh was punctuated by coughing fits until he was wheezing. When Henry tried to reach out, Tony merely waved a dismissive hand, so Henry just stared at him in concern the entire time. Unfortunately, the small bottle of water in his bag was empty, save for a few drops.

As Henry continued to explain the similarities and differences between Valorant and CSGO, their conversation somehow shifted from online games to Taylor Swift—an unexpected leap, but definitely unwanted. At the mention of her name, both men seemed more engrossed than before. If Henry had been hearing bells earlier, now he could envision their future all laid out before him. A chill of excitement ran down his spine at the thought.

“Swiftie diay ka?” Tony asked, giddy. “Wala kaayo koy friends na Swifties kay puro mga seryoso kaayo ang mga kauban nako sa school ug sa work.” The man seemed a little sullen after revealing this. “Mao siguro na di na kaayo ko updated sa iyaha.”

Henry looked at him, his expression softening at the thought that he might stand out in Tony’s world in some way. Unconsciously, he reached out and placed a hand over the other man’s wrist—noticing how alarmingly warm Tony was to the touch. “Well, pwede naman na ako ‘yung first mo.” The other implication of what he said hit him only after the words left his lips, causing him to flush and pull away as Tony flinched. His only saving grace was the dim light, which made it difficult for either of them to see the other clearly.

Tony bit his lower lip as he glanced down with hooded eyes at the spot where Henry had touched him, bony fingers brushing the area. Henry noticed how, at that angle, the shadows of light from outside fell across Tony’s face, highlighting the hollowness of his cheeks. The pronounced lines of his cheekbones gave him a severe look. Henry couldn’t help the sudden urge to halt the jeepney and take Tony to the nearest Jollibee, just to see him well-fed.

Henry cleared his throat, saying just about anything to ensure the silence between them didn’t cross the line into awkwardness. “A-Ah, sayang,” he said. “I still have extra friendship bracelets pa naman from when me and my barkada went to SG for her concert. Nagdala sana ako para mabigyan kita ng isa.”

Tony glanced up at him then, his blank and steady, half-lidded eyes meeting Henry’s. His brows creased slightly. It was as though Henry were speaking an entirely made-up language.

Henry merely continued. “What’s your favorite album of hers pala? I never got to ask.”

Tony shook his head, his features gradually shifting into one of interest. A lazy smile spread across his face. “Katong medyo bag-o niya na release karon.”

“Tortured Poets!”

“Reputation.”

They answered at the same time. Both seemed taken aback by the other’s response. Henry had never heard silence quite as loud as the one that followed. Tony’s features froze into a smile that lingered as the minutes ticked by.

Henry thought that perhaps Tony’s knowledge of Taylor Swift had fallen off somewhere during the pandemic, and he was simply too busy to stay updated on her life and new album releases. Maybe Tony was one of those Swifties who preferred to stay lowkey, and Henry didn’t want to be rude by pointing out the gap in his knowledge. Besides, both albums were technically black-and-white-themed, so it would be easy to mistake one for the other. Maybe Tony thought Taylor Swift had already released the re-recorded version of Reputation. Lord knows how many times Henry himself had been fully convinced the album had dropped, thanks to TikTok.

Tony coughed a few times into his fist, his knuckles practically bursting out of his skin, while Henry racked his brain for something to say next. Tony’s stomach rumbled again, the sound echoing upward like a plea to the heavens.

“Where ka ba magbaba?” Henry asked.

Tony hummed, his brows furrowing in contemplation before he answered, “South Villa. Ikaw?”

A familiar grin—an echo of the one he’d made earlier—spread across Henry’s lips. “Same.” He gave Tony a knowing look, hoping he’d pick up on it despite the dim light.

Tony narrowed his eyes at him, his lips parting slightly as if he were about to say something, only to press them flat again. Then his eyes widened slightly as realization dawned. He let out a snort before rolling his eyes playfully, one hand covering what seemed to be a wide smile.

Henry chuckled softly, turning away to hide whatever expression he was making behind one hand, his heart thundering in his chest. Through the small, rectangular hole separating the driver from the passengers, Henry caught the old man’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The driver stared at him intently over his eyeglasses, one brow raised in concern, before turning his focus back to the road. Before Henry could dwell on what that look might mean, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. Out of habit, he fished it out and answered, momentarily forgetting exactly why he shouldn’t have done that.

“Punyeta, ganina pa ko sige’g panawag nimong bataa ka!” His mother’s voice burst out, a mix of relieved frustration. “Hapit nako nanawag og pulis—pistiha ka! Abi ko’g naunsa na ka! Nag-gym ra man kaha ka pagkahuman sa imohang klase? Nganong dugay kaayo ka?! Kaulanon na!”

Her shrill, scolding voice sliced through his ear like a knife, forcing him to pull the phone away to a safer distance. He turned to Tony, who was now staring at him with unblinking eyes and a smile devoid of life. The intensity of Tony’s gaze felt like it was burning a hole straight into his face.

Henry’s mother continued to scold him as he began tapping a frantic rhythm on his thigh, his heart racing while his palms grew cold and clammy. “M-Ma, chill. Pauwi na ako, promise.” Henry tried to steady his voice but felt it breaking on the first consonant. “Nasa harap na ako ng, uh… school gani, ‘yung college. Ano gani ‘to? Christian Colleges?” He glanced out the window and saw only a dark sky unmarked by the twinkling of stars, wondering where his mom got the idea that it was about to rain.

“Bantay ra ka pag-uli nimo,” his mom threatened before hanging up abruptly. Henry pursed his lips, staring at his phone as the screen went black. His frazzled, wide-eyed reflection stared straight back at him. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he gulped.

“Sorry na you had to hear that…” Henry trailed off in embarrassment, stuffing his phone into one of the pockets of his sling bag. A sheepish smile crept onto his lips as he glanced down at his pristine white Fila shoes, then looked up to gauge Tony’s reaction. “Praning lang talaga si mom—”

There was misery in Tony’s coal-black eyes, emphasizing the dark bags under them.

“Uy, what’s wrong?” Henry asked, a little worried to see how ashen Tony seemed under another streetlight they passed by.

Tony seemed to snap back to himself before letting out a small smile. It didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Ambot lang, just missing my parents after overhearing your call. Siguro kay ako ra pud isa sa balay,” he shared, letting out a small, inauthentic laugh that ended with a single cough. “Na-miss ra siguro nako ang feeling na naay muhulat sa akoa pag-uli or naay pagkaon sa balay.” He paused, then sighed. “Especially kanang naay mu-alaga sa akoa if naa koy sakit…” The jeepney turned the corner near the police station box and continued down Diversion Road. Henry couldn’t look away from the other man. Tony turned his head to look outside before murmuring, almost to himself, “Kaulion ra gyud siguro ko sa amoa.”

Silence filled the space between them again, a persistent itch that Henry felt needed to be scratched.

“I can walk you home,” Henry offered, the words tumbling out of his lips before his brain could process them. “Pero if okay lang sayo, of course. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I just want to know na you got home safely.”

Tony seemed to light up a little at his words, clearly amused by Henry making a fool of himself. “Okay ra uy, makauli man ko’g akoa lang,” he said, glancing out the window again with a timid yet lonely smile. He turned to Henry once more with a hum, as if he had just finished deciding on something. “But I’ll consider your offer and get back to you on that, sir,” Tony teased in his professional, customer-friendly voice. The next moment, Tony gave him a suggestive wink as they were illuminated by the passing light, causing Henry’s cheeks to flush and something to stir inside him—both from the implication and from being fed a taste of his own medicine.

The jeepney eventually turned into South Villa, the sky rumbling threateningly overhead. Henry selectively recalled his mom’s words about the incoming rain and wondered why she hadn’t just become a weather reporter if her sixth sense was that impeccable. As familiar houses and streets filled his vision, he wrapped one hand around the metal rail overhead. When he saw the street leading to his home, he knocked on the ceiling thrice. “Diri lang, kuya!” he exclaimed as the jeepney slowed to a halt.

“Diri na pud ko mubaba,” Tony remarked with a cough, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he got off the jeepney. Henry followed closely behind and caught him by the elbows when he stumbled slightly. As he quietly worried about the unusual heat radiating from Tony’s skin through his shirt, he caught the faintest smell of something smoky. The scent reminded him of the sinugbang manok he’d been fantasizing about earlier, and his stomach rumbled along with the sky once more.

When they stepped off, Tony turned to look up at Henry.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” Henry asked, his voice tinged with hope, wishing Tony could see it clearly under the glow of the streetlamp.

Tony wrapped his slender fingers around the thick straps of his bag and squeezed tightly. Under the halo of golden light, he looked like a tormented saint set aflame. “We’ll see,” he replied in a neutral tone, glancing down to hide his expression before looking up at Henry through his long, dark lashes.

Henry fisted his hands around the thin sling of his bag, willing himself not to reach over and tuck a stray strand of curly hair behind Tony’s ear.

Henry watched as Tony walked off, his backpack pressed closely to his back. Tony glanced over his shoulder and gave Henry a little wave, an impish smile on his face before the streetlight flickered off. When it switched back on, Tony had already disappeared around the corner. Henry felt his heartbeat quicken, blood rushing to his cheeks as an unbidden smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He stood there, contemplating giving chase, watching the ghost of Tony’s silhouette with an enthusiasm akin to a man turning 18 and having his very first legal sip of alcohol. Considering that they had been practically neighbors all this time, Henry wished for any excuse to see Tony again—preferably very soon. He made a mental note to ask for Tony’s number the next chance he got.

Despite this, Henry couldn’t help but worry about Tony’s physical state. A part of him debated following to make sure Tony at least arrived home safely. When he finally decided to do so, quick footsteps tracing Tony’s path, he heard the jeepney driver calling out to him through the window.

“Hoy!” the driver exclaimed in a surprisingly booming voice. “Dong. Dong!”

Henry snapped out of whatever state he’d found himself in and turned quickly to the driver, giving him a look that clearly said, “Ay, nandito ka pa pala?”

“Ang bayad, dong?” the driver asked, his expression deadpan.

Henry blinked a few times before processing the old man’s words. He jogged back and pulled out a crumpled 50-peso bill from his pocket and handed it to the driver. Realizing that Tony probably hadn’t paid since they’d been so caught up talking, he decided to pay for him as well. “Dalawa kami, kuya. Sa Matina lang gikan. Estudyante.”

The driver paused with a small frown, smacking his lips before turning to collect Henry’s change from the dashboard. As he examined the coins a little too closely under the streetlamp’s light, he absently asked, “Hubog ka, dong?”

Henry raised a very sober brow, confused. “Ha?”

“Kakita pud ka sa iyaha?” the driver asked hesitantly, turning to him and handing over the change with narrowed eyes. There was something about the serious tone in his voice that instantly filled the air with tension, making Henry stare at the older man.

Henry figured the guy was probably just pulling his leg. What better way to say “Fuck you” to a passenger who almost forgot to pay than by giving them a little scare? It annoyed him a little, especially considering how good his mood had been. But then again, he really was at fault here.

“Sorry po talaga na nakalimutan namin mag-bayad sa ‘yo,” Henry apologized sheepishly, raising his voice a little so the old man could hear him clearly. “Na-distract man gud kami ba.” He wasn’t about to elaborate on the why and how of that statement, fearing that the darkening of his cheeks would immediately give him and Tony away. The old man definitely belonged to a generation that was less accepting of things they couldn’t fact-check using the Bible.

The driver gave him a level-headed stare. “Kakita pud diay ka niya. Katong nakaitom.” He paused, reaching up to adjust his spectacles with trembling fingers. “Basig nakisabay to’g uli nimo, dong, ha. Wala ra ka kabalo.”

The hushed words didn’t fully register in Henry’s head as the man continued.

“Daghan baya daw’g mga dili ingon nato dira dapit sa NCCC,” the old man shared ominously. Perhaps seeing the look of utter disbelief and skepticism on Henry’s face, the driver felt compelled to press his point. “Wala ko kahinumdom na gipara ko niya. Ikaw ra akoang pasahero na makit-an kay nibaba tong mag-uyab ug usa ka estudyante yata to na nakaitom pud sa McDo, atbang sa Ateneo. Wala na ko nihunong pagkahuman nimo’g sakay.”

Henry made a face—the kind one would involuntarily make while trying to mask the quiver of their lip and the goosebumps spreading down their neck. The stubborn, practical part of him argued against the validity of the old man’s claims, given his apparent age and declining senses. However, Henry couldn’t deny the unease creeping into his chest at the elder’s words. “Pag-sure, kuya, ba…” he trailed off with a laugh, unsure what to believe at this point. The old man’s face remained impassive, but there was a speck of fear in his eyes. That was enough for Henry to blurt out in self-defense, “Hindi man totoo yang mga multo.”

The driver smiled magnanimously before shrugging. He quickly made the sign of the cross and exhaled. “Ikaw gud bahala, dong. Basta kung ako pa sa imo, muuli na ko dayon. Pag-amping gyud.”

The jeepney drove off with a sense of urgency, leaving Henry standing alone under the streetlamp, his entire body going frigid. His heart raced as he broke out in a cold sweat. The eerie silence settled over him like a distinct itch of trepidation. If he turned around now, would he see Tony’s figure peeking back at him from behind the corner, proving the old man right? Henry gulped loudly, clutching the sling of his bag in a white-knuckled grip.

How the hell was Manong expecting him to walk home by himself after that?

Henry’s heart raced as his mind replayed pieces of his conversation with Tony, his body releasing adrenaline in a sudden fight-or-flight response. He thought back to the details they had shared and tried to make rational sense of the things that had stood out too much for him to ignore. It was his fault for being too trusting, even going so far as to flirt with a total stranger! The heat of blood slowly drained from his face as realization and understanding crept in, his mind finally catching up with the reality his senses had been trying to warn him about all along.

Suddenly, thunder boomed overhead with a crackle, causing Henry to jump in surprise and gasp aloud. The first drop of rain fell on his shoulder, and he told himself the only reason he was running home was because he didn’t want to get soaked. He hummed a tune to himself, but every note seemed to play in the key of Tony’s contemplation.

What did Tony have to contemplate? Did it have something to do with Henry? Not knowing the answer—and being unable to trust his own judgment to come up with one—only made the escalating paranoia in Henry’s mind worse. His mouth and throat went dry when he thought he heard a distant cough somewhere. He released a shaky breath and continued down the road, his eyes unblinking. The air somehow reeked of sinugbang manok. Henry felt sick to his stomach, just a second away from retching onto the cement.

Henry swore the droplets hitting the pavement sounded like footsteps inching closer, making him practically break into a sprint. He frantically reached for the key in his pocket and unlocked the steel pedestrian gate of their house, slamming it shut behind him. As he turned toward the door, completely forgetting the scolding he was about to walk into, he swore he saw the faint stretch of a shadow under the gate—as if someone was standing just outside, illuminated by the streetlamp.

Watching. Waiting.

Henry swore right then and there that he would never stay out that late ever again.

Jenny Manongas is an AB English and Master of Arts in Teaching English Language and Literature graduate from Ateneo de Davao University. She is a teacher by profession but is currently a Promotions Copywriter at Mapúa Malayan Colleges Mindanao. She enjoys reading, writing, and many more. If she had to elaborate on each of her hobbies, she could go on forever.

Love Handles

Poetry by | November 18, 2024

Yesterday, I hung the mirror
on the farthest wall.
From a distance, I watched myself
read every number on the scale:
too heavy, too small.
I lay in bed, starved,
and fed on your words instead.
The curves of my body were funny to you,
and I’m sure you did not mean to laugh,
but I refused to welcome
any more meals that day.

There is no child in my belly.
I do not need your blessing
to wish it gone in nine months.
I lift myself less than I could carry the weights.
I do not know the proper form:
too much, too little. Everything
aches when no one’s watching.
I hold only a pen, a recollection of your voice
telling me I was beginning
to walk with my belly first,
the mirror across the room.

I rolled the yoga mat back into the cupboard
and prayed for your regret.
I know I was warned to count my calories,
but, my God, I should not have listened—
I would not have remembered
the way you spoke that day.

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

ang ibigin ka, amiel, ay isang pakikibaka

Poetry by | November 18, 2024

dahil ang pag-ibig natin ay hindi isang bulaklak na tumubo lamang sa isang paso, kundi sa isang banayad sanang lupa ng nabunturan, handog ng buwan at kamatayang mga banal. ngunit hindi natin kayang yumabong nang husto dahil sa mga damong hindi naman dito sa atin galing ang pagtubo. sa pagkakaalam ko, bago pa man dumating ang diyos ama, anak, at espiritu santo, may basbas na ng buwan at kamatayan ang ganitong uri ng pag-ibig. kinuha na lamang ang sustansya ng regalong lupain ng mga dayuhang halamanin na siyang nagpunla ng napakalubhang sakit na halos di na kayang agapan pa. kaya hanggang ngayon, naghihikahos pa rin tayong mamunga, nahihirapan pa ring magpalago, pinipitas na kahit hindi pa dapat.

ngunit hindi rito natatapos ang pagdami ng mga ugat, ang pagtubo ng ating tangkay, ang pagiging luntian ng mga dahon, ang pagpapahalimuyak ng mga talulot, ang pagpapadapo ng mga bubuyog. lalaki pa tayo. malalanta pa tayo. lalaban pa tayo.

pero sa ngayon, ang ibigin ka, amiel, ay mananatiling isang pakikibaka hangga’t may sakit ang lupain nating ito.

John Lloyd Sabagala holds a bachelor’s degree in Literature and Cultural Studies from the University of Southeastern Philippines.