Category: Fiction

Of Books and Dreams

Fiction by | March 20, 2016

I always find the time to read a book before going to bed. Sometimes I dream about that book, especially when I fall asleep while reading it. Last night I had read some chapters of a book on Italian grammar, and before I knew it I was already dreaming of running for my life, being chased by some possessive Italian pronouns.

Luckily I outran them, and I eventually came across a bar called Second Conjugation. Indeed, inside, some irregular Italian verbs were having a good time.

“Hey, you’re new here,” one of them said. “What are you?”

Since I was in an Italian grammar book, I needed to blend in. For a few seconds I thought of a plausible reply, and I came up with this: “I’m a singular, masculine Italian noun.”

“You don’t look like it, but well, you’re in the right place,” he said. “This is a singles bar. See those pretty nouns out there? There are a lot of them here. But here’s the catch: it’s hard to tell whether they are masculine or feminine.”

“It’s not that hard, is it?” I said. “We just need to know their final letters, right? -o for the guys, -a for the ladies.”

“Obviously, you haven’t met ‘colera’ and ‘mano,’ il mio amico.” He laughed.

“‘Mano’ is feminine?” I asked.

He said yes and pointed out why “mano,” or “hand” in English, is always feminine: “You know, when you are all alone, your hand is your girlfriend. If you know what I mean.”

I made a nervous laugh. To regain my composure, I said: “Yeah, Italian is a crazy language. We have female poems but male sonnets.”

He didn’t laugh. I was now more nervous. What am I doing here, I thought, talking to a group of irregular Italian verbs? What if they found out I’m not really an Italian noun? I slowly motioned to go out, but the two of them, “sedere” and “simanere,” asked me to sit and remain.

“It’s my pleasure. But as a singular, masculine Italian noun,” I said, in an attempt to be confident and witty, “I have some declension and possession to do. You know, I would like to spend time with you, but, you know, for now, I should decline—to possess that singular, feminine Italian noun out there.” I grinned and, with a wink, added: “If you know what I mean.”

They all turned their faces towards me as if I said something wrong. Their faces turned red. Some of them stood up, clenching their fists. Obviously, the Italian irregular verbs had a change in mood. It was also tense. To get my way out of this impending trouble, I immediately ran outside—but only to be chased again by the possessive Italian pronouns, which were still in pursuit of me.

I cannot remember what exactly happened afterwards, except that I awoke to the sound of the alarm clock, the book on Italian grammar in hand. On page 16, on the possessive case of nouns, the book says: “Italian nouns are not declined. Possession is denoted by the preposition ‘di.’”

Jade Mark B. Capiñanes is an AB English student of Mindanao State University-General Santos City. He is fascinated with books, dreams, and their connection with reality.

 

Dayang-Dayang

Fiction by | March 6, 2016

(A re-imagination of Ibrahim Jubaira’s “Blue Blood of the Big Astana”)

I.

Although the heart can no longer remember, the mind can always recall. The mind can always recall, for there are always things to remember: joyful days of privileged childhood; playing tag along the seashore; learning to love, lose, and everything in between. So I suppose you remember me, Jaafar.

The day of your arrival caused quite a stir in the astana. I was told that we were expecting someone who was supposed to take care of me. No one could have prepared me for you, five year-old Jaafar. You were made to live with us. We were around the same age back then. I didn’t know I could be looked after by someone who probably had the same wants and needs as I did.

From my bedroom window, I watched your Babo wipe snot from your harelip. She really loves you, noh? She treats you as if you were her own. I was still watching you hug your Babo with your little arms when Amboh knocked on my door. She held my hand as we descended the stairs. It was time to go down and meet our newest tenant, five year-old Jaafar.

“Why are you like that?”

You seemed taken aback by my question. I could not blame you. But your harelip still held my attention. I have never seen a person with such deformity before. I could not stop staring at it.

“What happened to you?”

Your Babo explained how you got your harelip. My chest tightened with guilt by the time she was done. I did not know how such accidents could happen, and how much it affected an unborn baby. Still, I could not hold my flinch back when you tried to kiss my hand.

Despite the harelip, you were a good servant, Jaafar. You obeyed every single order without hesitation. Appah and Amboh only had good words for you whenever your Babo came to visit. But you wet your mat almost every night. I never did such a thing, and you were born one Ramadan before I was. You cannot blame me for laughing whenever your mat gets soaked after another night of failing to hold your pee in.

You were everywhere, Jaafar. I did not want any other playmates. They did not have a harelip like you did. There were times when I could not tell whether you were laughing or crying. I liked to play with you to see how your harelip reacted to the things I did. You even laughed along with me, even if you knew you were laughing at yourself.

I loved bringing you with me to my Mohammedan classes. My classmates, much like me, also found your harelip interesting. We tell you to do the most mundane stuff, like talk, or laugh, or eat, and your harelip became our class clown.

“Dayang-Dayang, do you need me to do anything else?”

“Jaafar, smile for them,” and you would gladly do whatever I asked you to.

“Uyyy! Jaafar has a crush on Dayang-Dayang!”

“Dayang-Dayang has a harelipped boyfriend!”

“Do you like him too, Dayang-Dayang?”

These jokes from my classmates brewed something in you, Jaafar. I could tell. You liked it when we swam together in the sea. Afterwards, you washed my hair and rubbed my back, even if you did not need to. You took Goro’s beatings originally intended for me. I never asked you to. You know I would never do all these things for anyone, ever.

You were at your lowest point when your Babo died. I did not know how I was supposed to treat you during that time.

“I’m all right, Dayang-Dayang. I just want to be alone,” was what you would say whenever I would ask you to go to the beach and swim with me.

So I left you alone, Jaafar. But I overheard your conversation with my Appah. He was wondering why you refused my offer to visit the beach, like we often did.

“No one will love me like my Babo did, Pateyk.”

 

II.

We grew up together, Jaafar. You witnessed how I bloomed into a young teenager. I witnessed how you grew into a fine, young man. Your harelip stayed with you, even if everyone eventually grew used to it. The trips to the beach stayed, but the routine we have previously established went away with our innocence. During a particular time at the beach, you muttered a question nervously.

“Would you like me to rub your back or wash your hair, Dayang-Dayang?” I raised an eyebrow at you.

“Are you out of your mind, Jaafar?”

That day was the first and only time I left the beach alone. The days that followed were spent pretending that never happened. Things were back to normal after that. I never did learn to hold my laughter in during your attempts to capture my attention with your infamous harelip.

My other friends were starting to get married, one by one. Amboh hinted at arranging my marriage to a young Datu from Bonbon soon enough. I could not object. I did not know if I wanted to object. After all, my life was planned out before I was even born, and I could not ask for anything more. Appah and Amboh never deprived me from the luxuries they could offer. I had everything I needed and I was given anything I wanted.

“Do I deserve any of this, Jaafar?”

You looked at me, and your harelip trembled slightly as you raised your hand to touch my face.

“Don’t ever let anyone think you don’t deserve the world, my Dayang-Dayang.”

Appah arranged for a huge dinner to introduce me to my husband-to-be. I did not dislike him, but I did not like him either. The real issue was I did not know a thing about him. But I had to admit, the young Datu’s physical appearance did not hurt.

Appah wanted us to get married as soon as possible. The days that followed our first meeting were spent for pre-wedding flurries. The only thing I had to do was to fit what I had to wear for the occasion. Everything else was up to Amboh and Appah.

I should not complain. I had every reason not to. I am one of the most blessed daughters in the world. But I did not want to be away from my parents. I was not ready to leave the big astana behind. All my life, I was with people I trusted. Why am I being forced to marry a stranger?

But there I was, waiting for my life to take that terrifying leap it won’t recover from.

The wedding day came two weeks after we met. Datu Muramuraan knew so many people, I can hardly keep count. So that was what the astana extension was for. Appah wanted our astana to accommodate these people who came to celebrate the union of two strangers in the name of marriage.

I caught you watching us, Jaafar. Your harelipped smile made me stifle a laugh in the middle of the supposedly sacred ceremony. That little exchange was my favorite memory during that night.

 

III.

On our first night as a married couple, I forced myself to be intimate with Muramuraan.

“Dayang-Dayang, I will take care of you.”

I let him take care of me.

I let him explore my innermost crevices.

I let him roam every part of me.

Years flew by. I have learned how to tend a family. Waking up meant another day of looking after the people I love the most. The time has come. Finally, I am being referred to as Amboh. My husband has been nothing but good to me. Together, we live a peaceful life in Bonbon with our beautiful children.

Amboh and Appah could not be happier. The astana buzzed with life whenever we come home to visit. My sons came to love the place we grew up in. Where were you, Jaafar?

“Dayang-Dayang, we couldn’t find Jaafar after your wedding,” Amboh answered me as she combed her fingers through my hair.

I could have made you come with us. You could have lived with us, Jaafar. You did not need to be away from me. I did not want to be away from you. I did not know how to live without you, harelipped Jaafar.

Visits to the astana became less frequent after things got hectic. My sons grew old enough to go to Mohammedan school. On weekdays, I had to wake up before anyone else did. I had to take a bath and prepare the things they needed for school. I cleaned the house up a bit. Afterwards, I had to cook breakfast for everyone. No, I did not have anyone to help me do all these. Life is so much different from the one I was used to. But I grew used to this one, too. The love from family I made with Muramuraan was enough to keep me going.

That is, until Muramuraan got arrested. Jaafar, I did not know life could get this cruel. He dragged Appah with him to a mess he insinuated. I did not know he was brave enough to rebel, Jaafar. I did not know he could risk the life we built together for something he was more passionate about. To top it all off, Amboh died after Appah got arrested with Muramuraan. Everyone has left me.

But I had to be brave, too. Not in the same way my husband was, but in my own way. My sons did not have anyone else to depend on. I would never, ever, let go of the most precious gems in my life.

Jaafar, I was thankful the day you decided to show up. I thought you were dead. I was finally starting to get used to not depending on anyone, Jaafar. My sons needed me, my sons had no one else but me. But when you showed up, I could not hold back my tears. How I missed that harelip!

“Oh, Jaafar!” I hugged you with all the days I forgot to remember you.

Catching up meant having to accept how much you have went on without me.

“I live in Kanagi now, Dayang-Dayang.”

“What are you doing here in Bonbon?”

“I’m here for business. Panglima Hussin has cows he wants to sell.”

I wanted to ask if you were married, Jaafar.

“I see you’re a landsman now, eh?”

“Why, if Dayang-Dayang can live unlike the old days, then I can, too,” you were chuckling.

I felt ashamed of where I stand now. I turned away from you as I felt tears brim my eyes. I am sorry for being rude, Jaafar. But you do not need to see me crying now.

“May I go now, Dayang-Dayang?” I could not do anything but hope you saw me nodding my head. The sound of your footsteps disappeared after a little while. I was certain you would never leave me, Jaafar. I was ready to welcome you back into my life.

But I do not deserve you. I have been nothing but horrible to you, and it is unfair of me to expect the opposite from you. But you must know that I could never forget you, Jaafar. You are still everywhere—you and that harelip of yours.

Emmylou Shayne L. Layog is a student of the Creative Writing program of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Tequila Sunrise

Fiction by | February 6, 2016

“Wa ko kasabot sa akong gibati,” akong gihunhong sa akong kaugalingon. Naglingkod ko sa tunga-tunga sa simbahan sa San Pedro. Wala kaayo ko gasimba o unsa. Wala gani ko naghunahuna nga muadto diria apan kalit ra ko nilingkod ug nagtan-aw sa mga pagbag-o sa sulod sa simbahan. Wa ko kasabot sa akong gibati. Ako na usab nahunahunaan. Nagtutok nalang ko sa suga sa luyo sa krus sa may altar. Ako nalang gilingaw akong kaugalingon sa kaanyag sa altar aron modugay akong paglingkod. Wala man pod koy laing gibuhat.

Lipay ba ko sa akong kinabuhi? Hangtod karon di nako mahunahunaan kon unsa ko kasuwerte isip usa ka indibidwal. Di man maingon nga pangit ko ug dili gyod kaayo ko hitsuraan. Wala man kaayo ko galisod sa kwarta kay makapangita man gyod ko ug paagi para makakuha ug ikagasto sa mga kinahanglanon nako. Utukan ko, kabalo ko. Madiskarte, alangan. Kontento? Dili. “Ang tao dili gyod makuntento,” ingon sa pari sa atubangan. Wa na nako mabantayi nga ning-apil na ko sa misa. Ug kay kabalo naman ko nga madugayan pa ni, ug wala koy interes mangalawat, nitindog ko ug nilakaw. Sakmit dayon sa cellphone aron ingnun naay nanawag. Para dili kayo ulaw.

Wa gihapon ko kasabot sa akong gibati. Naguol ko sa usa ka butang nga wala ko kabalo. Maayo nalang nakasabot ko gamay nga naguol ko. Naa koy sugdan sa paghunahuna unya. Ningbaktas napud ko nga walay destinasyon. Di ko sigurado asa ko padulong, basta magbaktas lang ko. “Sir, ikaw ra o naa kay kauban?” pangutana sa lalaki atubangan sa usa ka imnanan. Sosyalon siya nga imnanan sa Rizal. Kanang mahal ang ilimnun. Ningsulod ra ko dayon nga wala gitubag ang lalaki ug ningdiretso sa mismong bar. Gihatagan dayon ko og baso nga naay ice ug gipuno ni ug murag Tanduay pero dili mao ang humot. “Para sa imong bug-at nga gihunahuna sir. Sa imong kaguol. Libre nang whiskey sir basta mo-order pa ka og laing cocktails.” Ningtando ra ko ug ningisi. Plastic kaayo nga ngisi, kay kabalo ko nga wala ko nalipay karon. Ningtan-aw ra ko sa gipasalida sa ilang TV. Kataw-anan dapat siya nga salida apan wala jud ko nakangisi sa tanang pakatawa o panghitabo. Usa ka whiskey ug grape margarita na ko. Wala man nuon koy nahunahuna nga solusyon, o kinahanglan ba gyod ni sulusyonan nga kaguol. Ningbayad na ko og 300, sobra kaysa sa akong mga nainom, wa pay apil ang libreng whiskey. “Sir salamat sa sobra nga tip, huwat ra sir hatagan ta ka og pantiwas.” Nagandam siya ug duha ka shot glass ug nagduwa na sa iyang mga gamit. Gihatagan ko niya ug shot sa Daquiri daw. “Pampatulog sir, cheers.” Gisabyan ko niya og shot ato. Ningisi ra ko pagkahuman. Di na siya plastic. Ninglakaw nasad ko, apan karon kahibalo ko nga naa koy gusto adtuan.

 

Alas otso na katong nakasakay ko og barge padulong Samal. Ningpalit sa ko ug isa ka kaha nga sigarilyo sa Convi didto sa pantalan, human nisakay dayon kog habal-habal diretso sa may resort sa San Remigio. Pag-abot didto kay alas nuybe na kapin. Kasiplat kog usa ka motor didto sa may parking; basig panag-iya kini sa tag-iya o tigbantay didto. Mahuman og bayad sa entrance nilingkod ko dayon sa may lingkuranan atbang sa dagat ug nagsindi og yosi.

“Ikaw ra usa?”

Nalagpot ang yosi sa akong kakurat. Ningtando nalang ko ug nakatawa. Wa ko kasabot apan nahanaw kadali ang bug-at sa akong dughan. “Sorry brad,” ingon niya, apan nakatawa pod siya sa akonng kakurat. “Problemado ka no? Ikaw ra man isa.”

Ningtando ko utro ug nagdagkot usab og yosi. Ninglakaw siya dayon samtang gibilin ang cellphone sa akong tapad. Pagbalik niya kay nagdala siya og icebox. Dala kuha sa usa ka botelya sa Tequila. “Para sa atong mga problema ug aron mostorya ka, karon kay magkauban naman gyod tang duha, mag-inom ug storya nalang ta e.”

Nagstorya mi sa among mga problema. Nangatik ra ko sa tibuok panahon nagstorya mi. Wala man pud god ko kabalo unsa gyud akong problema. Mahuman sa problema kay puro na kinabuhi namong duha among giistoryahan. Namakak nasad ko. Mahumag hisgot kabahin sa among kinabuhi kay mga politiko nasad among naistoryahan, unya ang ideyolohiya sa NPA, ug ang relihiyon. Maayo nalang halos pareho ra ming duha ug tan-aw sa maong mga butang. Nahurot na namo ang sulod sa botelya apan murag wala gyod mi nahubog ato. Nagyosi nalang ming duha ug gihuwat ang paggawas sa adlaw. Gugma na among nastoryahan ato.

“Naa koy nabasahan ba. Kabalo ka ang halok daw bug-at na og pasabot, dili na siya palami lang, o para sa gugma lang. Usahay makahipos na sa mga butang nga kun-ot, sama sa kinabuhi,” ingon niya sako dungan tan-aw sa nagabag-o nga langit.

Ningtando ra ko kay hanap sa ako iya ginapasabot. Naglutaw na guro akong hunahuna tungod sa yosi, ilimnon, ug pinulaw namo. Katpng nakit-an na namo nga naa nay hayag sa kapunawpunawan, ningtindog ko ug niadto dapit sa may tubig. Kanang igo ra maigo sa dagat ako tiil kada bagnos ani sa baybay. Ningsabay siya.

Nitindog mi didto hangtod mihayag na gypd ang langit.

“Bakakon kayo ka.”

Nakalingi ko ug nakuratan sa iyang pag-ingon ato.

“Tan-awa, namakak gyud ka.”

Gigunitan niya akong kamot ug gibira ko kalit hangtod duol na kaayo amo mga nawong.

“Mokun-ot man god imong agtang inig mangatik ka.”

Gihalukan ko dayon niya ug wala ko kasabot ngano pod nga nibalos ko. Lami siya m-halok, ug wala ko namakak sa pagbalos sa iyang halok. Ningisi siya ug diretsong nilakaw padung sa among gamit, samtang ako nagpabiling gabarog.

“Bakakon pod ka. Wala may nahipos sa mga kun-ot sa akong kinabuhi,” akong ingon sa iya.

“Wala ko namakak. Tan-awa, taod-taod mahipos na nang kun-ot sa imung agtang.”

Nakangisi ko sa iyang giingon. Kanang tinood na ngisi. Samtang gasaka ang adlaw sa hilayong dapit, nawala akong kaguol. Bakakon lage siya, dungan kun-ot sa akong aping.

Reyl is a 5th year BS Architecture student from University of the Philippines Mindanao

Si Dodo ug ang talisawop nga adlaw

Fiction by | January 3, 2016

Nagkadungsingot si Dodo sa iyang pagbinugha sa kahoy aron gamitong sugnod. Dinhi man god sa Bario Obrero, halos tanang tawo naggamit sa kahoy sa pagluto sa ilang inadlawng pagkaon. Pipila lamang ang nakagamit sa gasul. Kadto ra gayong tubigtubigan sa katilingban …kadtong nagtrabaho sa goberno ug ang mga asendiro sa tubo.

Kaniadtong Marso, natapos ni Dodo ang edukasyong sekondarya didto sa Bais National High School. Ug kay bakasyon naman, maoy iyang kalingawan ang pagbughag kahoy. Anak siya sa usa sa mga tapasiro sa asendiro og tubo sa Bais.

Gibati siyag kakapoy. Busa miundang una siya sa pagbugha aron trapohan sa labakara ang singot nga midagayday sa iyang tampihak. Apan sa kalit lang, dihay misangpit sa iyang ngalan gikan sa iyang likorang bahin.

Milingi siya ug maoy iyang nakita si Junjun, iyang silingan ug kasaring sa BNHS.

Continue reading Si Dodo ug ang talisawop nga adlaw

Mr. Webster, Spider

Fiction by | November 22, 2015

Be careful you do not get an appetite for words or you may end up like Mr. Webster, a hopeless word addict, helplessly becoming every word he ate.

There was once a spider with a round gray body covered with yellow stripes on the upper part of it, fuzzed all around with tiny feathers, even on its thin wiry legs. He wore eyeglasses that were so tight they stuck to his head even when he climbed up a steep wall or walked upside down on a leaf.

Mr. Webster was his name. He was always collecting words. He would scuttle onto a book shelf when nobody was looking, go into the loose pages of a book and read and read and read. When he came upon a word he liked, such as “refurbishment” or “incantatory” or “felonious” or “derelict,” he would stop to think, rocking on his long legs while he thought about the word, what the word could mean, and try to use it in a sentence over and over in his mind. He was quite a genius, this Mr. Webster.

And sometimes where there was a word he particularly liked, he would cut the word out of the book or magazine with his little sharp jaw cutters and eat the word letter by letter until he digested it. Then he would climb up to the rafters or ceiling of the big library where he lived and there weave a web house where he could sleep until it was time for the next meal.

After a while, he got to be master of the printed word, so that when he wanted to fall asleep, he would go into a book and look for the word sleep, eat it and instantly fall asleep. Or if he wanted to taste something sweet, he would go into a loose-leaf recipe book, look for the word honey and eat the word.

Continue reading Mr. Webster, Spider

Heartless

Fiction by | November 15, 2015

The markings on the chest of the old man lying on the ground glowed brighter than the moon that night. Light blue. The light crawled throughout his already pasty skin. When the last drop of blood fell from his head, which was hanging above the rest of his body, he finally spoke.

He asked me what I was doing there and why I was just staring blankly on a dead headless body. I told him I was hurting and that the body, headless, reminded me of my own. He seems to have tried tilting his head in confusion, but failed. He realized he could not tilt his head without his neck. He stifled a laugh, and said, “Sometimes I forget that I do not have a body.”

I wondered if sometimes the body forgets that he does not have a head, but of course it cannot. It cannot even think. Without the head the body could not even function.

“So you told me that my headless body reminded you of your own?” he asked, breaking my train of thought.

I looked him in the eye and I asked him.

“What is that glowing thing in your body?”

He was disappointed when I answered his question with another inquiry, but he still answered my question. Although, he was hesitant at first.

Continue reading Heartless

Kissing Scars

Fiction by | November 15, 2015

“What is this?” he asked, looking at my arms. I breathed deeply. The tension began to strike.

I stared at him uncertain whether I would reveal to him the truth or tell him white lies. If he were not to poke my arms then surely he would not see anything, would not see any white spots on my skin.

My dad used to tease me when I was a child. “Your husband will be surprised with your first night together.” He laughed. It was a joke. But it bothered me whenever I thought of Lee. What if my dad’s joke would turn into reality?

It scared me, knowing that maybe Lee would be the same as my high school friends.

“Psoriasis! Psoriasis!” They kept shouting even after the class had long been dismissed. It was on the day when my report on our biology class was about the skin as a part of the integumentary system, the organ system that protects the body from various kinds of damage.

I was ashamed of what they did. I could not move my entire body and could not stop from crying. Nobody cared to ask me why I was crying.

“Wala, wala,” I said. “There is something in my eyes.” That was only alibi that I could think of.

I treated them as my “barkada,” but they never went back to the classroom for me. They never even asked me why or what happened. In the first place, they never even knew how painful it was to reveal the entrusted secrets I tried to bury. For three years of being with them, I kept those hard feelings. It was just that I never wanted to destroy the friendship that we have made, friendship that left scars.

Continue reading Kissing Scars

Si Kadon ug Ang Kaliwat ni Rasputin, Part 3

Fiction by | October 25, 2015

Sa naawop na ang tanang daob sa palibot, nakita ni Supremo Ambangon ang walay kibo nga anago sa duruha ka mga manulunda sa tribu sa lingkoranang minaomao. Dihadiha nangurog ang kaunoran ni Supremo Ambangon sa talagsaong kahinam sa paghinunahuna sa kabigot sa mga lawas sa duruha. Dugay na niya kining gipangandoy nga makab-ot ug matagamtaman. Busa, sa walay daghang liko-liko, gimandoan niya sila si Merisa ug Sada nga manghigda na sa laing katunga sa payag-payag. Sanglit ubos sila sa gahom sa supremo sa ilang kulto, walay nahimo ang duruha gawas sa pagsunod sa mando nga sama sa buotang piso. Ilang gipatung-an ang supremo kansang hubo nga lawas gihikom sa ataong kangitngit sa tungang gabii.

Pagkataudtaod, mimando si Ambangon sa duha ka inosenteng ulay: “Kinahanglan habolan usab ko ninyo sa inyong hubo nga mga lawas aron moiway ang kakamig sa higayon.”

Pila ka gutlo…

“Unsa man kining gihimo nimo, Talahorong Supremo, nga nagbalhin-balhin ka man lang kanamong duha ni Merisa”, suki ni Sada.”

“Nagpakalawat na ko ninyo…”

Continue reading Si Kadon ug Ang Kaliwat ni Rasputin, Part 3