Category: Fiction

Itik Nga Walay Balahibo

Fiction by | October 8, 2017

Subo palandungon, wala damha sa akong higala nga kalit mawala ang iyang kauban sa balay nga iyang igsoon,iyang bilas og duha pa ka tuig nga bata nga si Ronron. Tungod kay mag- unsa man sila sa syudad og walay diploma og grado, hinoon makakaon man sila, kay pareho man naay trabaho ang igsoon sa akong higala.

Nanguli sila sa ilang yutang natawhan; ang nahitabo, nag-inusara na ang akong higala sa iyang balay. Nagpoyo si Joseph sa tiil sa Mt. Talomo; mogawas siya sa iyang balay arun motrabaho, Samtang gi- ilog na ang kangitngit sa adlaw, og sugaton siya sa mga sitsit sa langgam, timailhan nga nagsugod na ang lumba sa kinabuhi, og sa likod sa Mt. Talomo, ang baga nga gabon maoy telon sa dakong entablado. Matag buntag sayo, mao kana ang programa sa kinabuhi ni Joseph.

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Kindergarten Classroom

Fiction by | September 24, 2017

At the age of four, my father would take me to my kindergarten classroom.
Upon entering the classroom, the door would shut behind me leaving him outside. I cried– afraid of the fact that I am alone and too weak to face the world all by myself – I screamed, and pleaded to everyone to let him stay with me. I slapped the door wishing I could knock it down with my little hands– wishing that I could make my way out and see him.

Struggling to calm me down and shut me out, the teacher just desperately repeated these words, “Stop crying. Your father will be back soon. But, he won’t come back if you keep on crying.”

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Time

Fiction by | September 17, 2017

On the 25th Sunday, the 3rd month of the year, the breaking of the breeze comforted the whole season. The sun was so brilliant engulfed throughout the day, while the chirping of the birds sounded melodiously. They flew here and there, catching each other like lovers missed from hugs and kisses. They were played by the wind blows, swaying their wings against the air, chasing until they found their refuge and rested. Under the monstrous tree they were on, there was a nipa hat, a native, beautifully designed by hands. It was made up of good Nara, a lumber where drawn on it, the lines of the old ways. It was surrounded by the grassy ground but viable to anybody who would like to rest from a journey. But one could ask: was there anybody around that small house? If there was, then who would that someone be?

At 3:00 o clock on that same day, I was on my way home. I walked cautiously as my feet were forceless stepping on the ground. In a far away distance, I saw an old wrinkled woman similarly exhausted as I was, as if losing her breaths. She was panting while her eyes focused to mine. I did not hesitate to come over her to ask where she might be coming from. She dropped down her sungkod without answering my question. The woman collapsed. So, I looked somewhere else but nobody could have been there.
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Jimboy

Fiction by | July 30, 2017

Lola Myrna is a soft-spoken 70-year-old woman who lives with her toddler grandson, Jimboy. She has ash-gray hair, and she keeps mostly to herself.

Lola is well-known in their neighborhood for adoring only two things in this world: her garden and her only grandson.

Her garden is simple but well-kept. It complements the two-bedroom bungalow that sits on it, like a pretty porcelain figurine on a birthday cake. Adjacent to it are two Guava trees and a Calamansi tree which provide shade against the afternoon sunlight when Lola is having a siesta.

Lola used to give her grandson a bath with leaves from the Calamansi tree whenever he had fever. She plucked several leaves and mixed them with the hot bath water. It smelled really good, and she believed it made him feel better.

Beside the Calamansi tree, there are also rows of Santan shrubs on garden, and its red and yellow flowers are in contrast to the greenery.

Like most quiet summer afternoons, today Lola is enjoying her siesta under the shade of the Guava trees while Jimboy is idly playing around near her. She rests on a Rattan rocking chair that creaks every now and then, and beside her sits a glass of Calamansi juice that sweats furiously.

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Si Buktot ug Ang Iyang Kapalaran

Fiction by | April 16, 2017

Bukid sa Buda. Gianak si Veron. Namatay ang iyang inahan sa pag-anak kaniya kay dako ang iyang ulo.  Dili ulo ang nakita sa komadrona kun di usa ka bukog nga nagburot.

Ang bata usa ka buktot. Sadihang nigawas kini, kalit nipahiyom ang bata.  Nakakita na dayon kini. Usa kini ka kahibulongan ingon sa komadrona. Nidako si Veron nga bayot nga bata.Binabaye, hinay molihok, mokiay’g lakaw ug tabian nga bayot nga buktot.

Makalingaw kaayo si Veron og makawala sa kakapoy ug problema. Apan kontra kaayo siya sa iyang amahan ug inahan. Ginapasipad-an si Veron sa iyang mga pamilya, ginapaligid sa pang-pang ug bakilid. Nagadaro si Veron sa ilang uma aron tamnan og humay. Manglaba, magluto, magbugha og kahoy. Ug wala na nakaantos si Veron, nisakay siya og bus, nilayas siya ug nakaabot sa sentro sa syudad sa Dabaw.

Si Ado gi-anak sa Panaga. Layo kaayo nga lugar gikan sa syudad. Mosakay og bus, habal-habal, motabok og tulo ka sapa, mobaktas og pila ka kilometro, mosakay og kabayo, makaabot lang sa lugar ni Ado.

Si Ado, usa ka himsog nga bata ug bus-ok og lawas hangtud nga nidako kini.   Taas ang ilong ug sakto ang barog, ang iyang mga mata daw sa dili ka makabalibad og naa siyay ihangyo kanimo. Hamis pa gyud ang iyang pamanit murag wala gadako sa uma.Mura siya og anak sa adunahan og pamarong og tan-awon. Sa dihang natapos na niya ang hayskol, nanimpad siya sa syudad.
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Katas ng Pawis

Fiction by | February 26, 2017

Umiikot sa ilaw, nararamdaman nya ang init nito. Kumuha siya ng tubig at binuhos ito sa nagliliyab na apoy. Ang bato ay nanghina, napolbo, naging abo at usok sa sanlibutan.

Saksi ang kawayan. Malapista ang saya. Amoy pasko na ang kapaligiran. Sisig, ibang klaseng maanghang na pagkain na nanunuot sa aking lalamunan. Ang tinatagpi-tagping kahoy ay nagsisilbing upuan na bakat na bakat pa ang ugat nito. At sa saliw ng musika ay sabay-sabay na umiindayog ang mga dahon sa kawayan. Samantala ang haligi ay tayung-tayo sa kanyang kinalalagyan.

Ako ay nasisilaw sa liwanag na nanggagaling sa butas ng bintana. Tanaw ko ang liwanag na pumasok sa pagiwang-giwang na pintuan na gawa sa kawayan. Ang hangin ay maaring hindi galing sa langit o baka ito ay bunga lamang ng isang panaginip.

Gusto kong ibuhos ang aking galit sa awit at sayaw. Sa sinuman na kaya akong mahalin ay naaaninag ko ang walang pag-asa sa buhay. Ang lalaki ay hindi sigurado sa kanyang paa ganoon din ang babae.

Gusto kong takasan ang apoy, ang pagawaan ng kutsilyo, ang pagawaan ng uling. Kailangan ko rin ang tunay na pag-ibig. May karapatan ang sinuman mahalin at magmahal. Sadyang hindi lang pantay ang mundo.

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Cruel February

Fiction by | February 5, 2017

Today is the first day of February. But unlike the previous Februaries, this one is not merely the second month of the year having twenty-eight or, as in the case of leap years, twenty-nine days, this month might be daddy’s last.

The smell of newly applied paint could have lured me to stay longer. I like the house better now with its green walls and white ceiling. However, the stench of the canal continues to permeate the house. The living room, empty of appliances, creates a dull and muffled sound to my ears. When I suggested that either the radio or the television should be returned to the sala, I was told that a sick man does not really need much.

I went to visit daddy today. They finally resigned to put his bed in the living room. Hospitals are for those who could afford to postpone death. I would like to think that we can’t instead of we won’t.

He looks thinner now than he did when I last saw him. Strength abandoned him completely. Daddy cannot tuck his cigarette between his middle and forefinger anymore.

The problem of a human mind, I think, is the idea of free association.

We watched an action movie after dinner. Before the lead actor goes into battle against a major drug syndicate, Mama suddenly wailed. She claimed that the actor (his mestizo features, compact physique and arrogant stance) looks like daddy. I agree with the claimed similarities.

But there is a difference. Continue reading Cruel February

Armor (excerpt)

Fiction by | January 8, 2017

(Armor won 1st Prize in the Short Story for English category of the Carlos Palanca Memorial Literary Awards in 2013.)

The week Ronnie was planning to die, one of his neighbors paid him a visit. Ronnie had just come back from the seamstress, bringing home a newly mended sheath dress he would wear for the pageant, when Oliver showed up.

“The Death Squad,” Oliver said. “They’re after you.”

Ronnie considered what reactions were possible. He would back away from the Mylar-covered table where Oliver was nursing his coffee. He would warn him that he didn’t appreciate this kind of joke, not after bodies had been found in empty, grassy lots around Mintal. Instead, Ronnie soaked up his neighbor’s silence, leaned on the refrigerator and lit a cigarette.

Where was the Death Squad when he regularly handed out shabu to the crew of wiry boys who had hung out at his beauty salon? They were hired guns, the Death Squad, who used to go after drug pushers, but lately they’d been taking down street gang members, crystal meth users, petty thieves.
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