LitOrgy 7
Events by Yas Ocampo | September 6, 2015
The Compromise of Heights
Nonfiction by John Patrick Allanegui | September 6, 2015
In the southern part of Davao City, there were as many coconut trees as there were rustic houses. The trees proudly stood at different heights and formed dancing shadows on our rooftops.
If one drove south and traversed the span of General McArthur Highway, he or she would encounter the expanse of green spires to the right and the so-called rich kids of my high school alma mater, Ateneo de Davao, to the left. Up ahead, Mt. Apo stood as a majestic background, forming a splendid tapestry behind a then emerging urban space.
When I was younger, I believed that a skyline spoke of a city’s own wealth and progress. And in more ways than one, this was true given that the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago were often objects of fascination in Hollywood movies during my time. To me, greater heights meant greater progress — in the same manner that a rural area’s development meant a Jollibee store opening doors for the first time to people close to its proximity.
It was no surprise that a few years before the year 2000, I became an 8-year old witness to how people regarded the Marco Polo building as a sacred symbol of Davao’s ability to keep up with the modern times. Everything beyond it, however, was still flat. This observation made me conclude that my hometown has only humble beginnings and a slow pace for progress.
Maayong Pasko
Poetry by Sums Paguia | September 6, 2015
Nahapinan sa kadulom sa kagabhion
ang hilom nga eskinita diri sa Krustaal
diin makita ang mga borikat
nga mokapyot sa mga posteng guba
nga mao untay modan-ag
sa maong agianan.
Apan imbis makasaksi ug panglibod
tali sa usa ka borikat ug parokyano,
wa may laing makit-an kundi
ang kadulom sa eskinita taliwala
sa gakipat-kipat nga siris
didto dapit sa Shanghai. Imbis mga bae nga
mabaw ug niluparan ang malantawan
nga gadukoduko atubangan
sa mga hubog didto dapita,
mga gagmayng bata nga gakanta
ug sonata bahin sa paghimugso
sa manluluwas ang makit-an.
Gitunolan ug singko sentabos
daw gipapahawa.
Pila kaha ang ihatag nila
kon bae nga gaawas-awas ang dughan ug
galakra sa nipis nga spaghetti ang mga atngal
ang mikanta atubangan nila?
Gidundon nako’g tanaw ang mga naglakat
nga bata, ‘aha kaha ni sila mamaingon?’
Hinaot unta nga dili guba
ang mga poste sa unahan,
aron naay modan-ag sa kadulom
sa ilang baktasan nga eskinita.
—
Sums, from Ateneo de Cagayan, is a normal student by day, and a majestic Unicorn by night.
in the cabinet
Poetry by Teresa May Mundiz | September 6, 2015
I found your brown jacket in the cabinet
It smelled of mothballs, cockroaches, and grime
I remembered, you have not let me washed it
It was too dirty, you said. Then, you
Hung it in the cabinet despite the dirt
I took it off from where it was, checking
The pockets, maybe, for some letters you might
Have written before you
Left. Empty. I folded it
In my arms the way you would
Have me do with your jacket
And placed it back inside
But this time, I will also replace
your old clothes and
the feelings you
never tried to unfold.
—
Teresa “Maymay” Mundiz graduated with the degree in Creative Writing from UP Mindanao. She writes whenever the ‘urge’ comes.
Pastilan
Fiction by Reyl Espirituoso | August 30, 2015
“Dili ko hubog.” Ingun sa akong usa ka barkadang lalake. Nawung niya! Klaro na kayo ang panagat niya sa among lamesa sa imnanan. Ayaw ko hukmi nga kuno kami pala-igit. Dili tawun. Usahay lang mi maglipay-lipay sa usa ka buwan. Kini laging estudyante ug mga kunong mga Iskolar ng Bayan. Dugay dugay napud ko diri sa Dabaw ug daghan napod ko natun-an nga maayo ug dautan. Di nata magihapay. Hapit hapit napod manirado ang among bar nga nasudlan ug hapit hapit napud mi mahuman. Sige ra mi og tabi, katawa, sayaw, ug dulag baraha. Giabtan na gyod mi og kakapoy ug hapit na usab mahurot among kwarta.
“Tagam!” Ana pa akong higala nga bayi nga gatutok sa suka sa kanal, hubog kaayo ang barkada namo nga lalake. Walay lain magdala ani pauli kon dili ako, silingan lang mi og boarding house. Ningpara na ko og tricycle ug gitudlo sa driver kon asa padulong sa amo. Maygani kay duol lang among puluy-anan sa among napiling partyhan. Pastilan! Sirado na ang gate sa among boarding house, himala ug una nakauli ang palahubog namong tenant. Pero alas dos pa man? Ugma buntag na gyod ko kauli ani. Ako na dayon gihatod ning akong barkada sa pikas balay, diretso sa iyang kwarto ug ako na lang siyang gihukasan sa iyang sinukahang t-shirt mahuman mapahigda sa nagtapad nga baga kaayong foam nga iyang kama. Maayo kay t-shirt lang niya ang nasukahan, damaka sa gago uy. Diretso napud ko ninghapla sa pikas foam nga way palong ang suga kay hapit na pud ko mabarag.
Itum ug Ugis
Poetry by Salle Ian M. Cartin | August 30, 2015
Nilung-ag sa kalderong itom nga nabuntagan sa abuhan
Pasaluman sa kapi nga duga sa mais nga sinanlag,
Sugaton ka sa magtigiay nga kolor diha pagbundak sa adlaw
Para ilang malampusong panagsagol sa imu ipatilaw.
Ug palamian pa sa isda nga nikuyot
Didto sa iyang kadugayong pagkamatay,
Palanguyon pag’ayo didto sa niinit nga bahaw
Pasulura na sila sa imung baba nga nihubas,
Kay wa pa ang luwag nga mahimung katigi.
Katab-ang,
Katamis,
Kapaait
Ug Kaparat,
Kauban sa imung dila sila lima managsagol
Malata sa ngit-ngit ug magduga og kalami
Mahulog sa usa ka danlog ug diha mahuna-hunaan
Nga ang pinobreng pagkaon lisud labawan.
—
Salle was born and raised in Baganga Davao Oriental and finished a degree in Bachelor of Arts in Communication Arts at the University of Immaculate Conception, Davao City. An Associate Editor in college, Salle attended National Student Press Convention.
Vignettes
Fiction by Tiu Fujikawa | August 23, 2015
Juna Subdivision
A low-density residential enclave of the old rich with plants (e.g. Calachuchi, Macopa, Sampaguita) for street names. Flanked by NCCC Mall to the north, and the Jesuit-run Ateneo de Davao Grade School and High School to the east. The century-old Philippine Women’s College sits in its heart. Some of the streets are unpaved and will be muddy after a drizzle, and impassable after a downpour. Notable for its inoffensive domestic architecture, many of the houses are single-level structures, with wide front lawns, low fences, and grottoes of the Virgin Mary. A striking exception is the abandoned Ampatuan mansion (one among many), with its twenty-foot perimeter walls hiding its insides from outside view.
We met at a party at one of the lines of townhouses on D-Street. The facades were identical, and it took me two wrong tries – I didn’t know what the host meant by the third unit, whether it was third from the left or the right – before I got the house right. I buzzed and you opened the gate. I was greeted by your 5’11” wiry frame and wry smile. Your blue shirt was soaked in sweat from playing beer pong, and you took your thick black-rimmed glasses off, betraying your deep-brown eyes that only showed itself if the light hit your face. You led me to the host, grabbing my arm then letting go of it once you realized your slip-up. It didn’t take much to find her, with her long pink hair and chrome hoop earrings. She was leaving for the Netherlands and she invited all of her friends, which were mostly college freshmen and sophomores. I was the oldest one there, having been in university for over six years.
I couldn’t hear anyone through the electro music, but I couldn’t talk to anyone anyway. Everyone was engrossed in their own little worlds. A couple were playing Jenga, some were playing beer pong, yourself included, and the rest were just sitting on the giant plush couch talking (or at least trying to) to each other. Save for the host, I didn’t know anyone. I excused myself outside to smoke. I could hear you shout about something (probably beer pong-related) as I went out the door. I haven’t made up my mind about you. I wasn’t even sure if you were like me. Half a pack of Marlboro Lights and a mug of beer passed by, and I went upstairs to one of the bedrooms, looking for a quiet spot to lie down. A boy and a girl were there, your friends, also looking for a respite from downstairs. “Come here,” the boy said, tapping his hand on the bed. “Let’s talk.”
The boy majored in political science at Ateneo de Davao, the girl, interior design at Philippine Women’s. We were talking about things we had in common – music, movies, how we hated it downstairs – when you walked in. You were obviously drunk and the boy helped you to the bed. You said something about going home and not letting your mother find out before passing out. The boy removed your glasses and emptied your pockets – car key, wallet, iPhone – and placed everything on the side table. I grabbed your phone and thumbed through it. You had Hozier and the soundtrack to Across the Universe on your Spotify. I saved my number on your phone and placed it back on the side table.
Approval
Fiction by Michelle Andrea T. Asagra | August 16, 2015
1.
Your fingers glide across black and white piano keys, and the music leaves a pounding in your head—a storm in your chest. You can’t explain it, but it’s the same feeling you get whenever you ace a test or reach the topmost part of a Ferris wheel ride. You’ve never liked heights, but seeing the world from so high up has always left you awestruck and a little breathless.
You think playing the piano is like riding a Ferris wheel, like having wings and having another world at your fingertips. And when you play, you aren’t your brother’s shadow or the perfect kid that your parents expect you to be—you’re just sixteen-year-old Anton Go.
You like losing yourself in the music and drowning in the crescendos because if the music is good enough, you don’t even have to be Anton, just a pianist losing himself in his art. To be honest, you don’t mind getting a little lost every now and then because sometimes you like the worlds inside your sheet music more than the real world.
“And that’s it, great work today, Anton.”
The music comes to a stop and you swivel around in your chair to face Ms. Rivera. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been practicing really hard.”
“You should be, the contest is on Friday after all, and I don’t want you freezing up onstage. Have you told your parents about it yet?” She flashes you a warm smile and you feel her long and bony fingers resting on your shoulder.
Mrs. Rivera was the first piano teacher you ever had, and when you were seven, you thought she was the best piano teacher in all of Cagayan de Oro city—maybe even the best in all the world. You used to idolize the tall and bony woman who played with all the confidence you wished you could have, and you remember how you used to give her flowers from the garden on Valentines and little presents during Christmas or her birthday.
She used to be the coolest grown up ever, and you think she still is.