Ghost on a Log
Poetry by Hannah Joy Luyao | June 7, 2015
For Bernice, In Memoriam
Nonfiction by Betsy Tulio | June 7, 2015
I vividly remember that one Christmas Eve. Unlike all other Christmas Eves when the house is filled with the jubilant air of a family celebrating the holidays in torn gift wrappers, a sumptuous feast, and the warmth of contented hearts, on that year, December2011, the house seemed empty and cold.
I stared out the window with all the lights out; it was festive outside our house. The streets had parols and there was the occasional firecracker followed by a yell and the scampering of feet – we live three hours away from Davao so the banning of fireworks was unheard of. The scene outside was quite a contrast compared to the lifeless house that forgot about Christmas.
As a family tradition, my mother would prepare our Noche Buena feast on the day itself. Typically, it is a tiresome day of making sure that the ox tongue is boiling away over firewood. This would be the star of mother’s lengua in white sauce; her delicacy known all over Nabunturan. On top of that, there is also the carbonara, karekare, and baby backribs to take care of. Mother also prides herself with making the best no-bake blueberry cheesecakes in town. A recipe she has perfected over the years.
In Need of Care
Nonfiction by Ella Jade Ismael | May 31, 2015
Adopt
Origin: Middle English, from Middle French or Latin; Middle French adopter, from Latin adoptare, from ad- + optare to choose
transitive verb
1: to take by choice into a relationship; especially: to take voluntarily (a child of other parents) as one’s own child
2: to take up and practice or use <adopted a moderate tone>
3: to accept formally and put into effect <adopt a constitutional amendment>
4: to choose (a textbook) for required study in a course
5: to sponsor the care and maintenance of <adopt a highway>
intransitive verb
: to adopt a child <couples choosing to adopt>
(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)
——————-
“Paano pala namatay ang mommy mo?”
“Diabetic kasi siya”
“Hala. Dapat ikaw mag dahan-dahan ka.”
“Di man. Di man ako maapektuhan.”
“Bakit man?”
“Adopted kasi ako.”
I am an adopted child. My parents told me when I was 10 years old. They thought it was the right time to tell me that I was because I was starting to ask questions and wondered why people looked at me differently during family gatherings. I also wondered why my playmates would call me ―adopted whenever we had a fight during one of our games.
“May gusto kami sabihin sa iyo”
“Maalala mo noon na may nagasabi sa iyo na adopted ka lang?”
“Totoo?”
“Oo”
That was how my parents broke the news to me that I was indeed an adopted child. My tears that night represented every moment of my childhood where I felt confused why my playmates teased and why my relatives looked at me as if they were wondering how and why I got in to the family.
My mom said I met my real mother once. She wanted me to remember that day. She wanted me to remember the scene when I saw this woman sitting in front of her desk, crying. I did remember. But I couldn’t picture out the face of that woman. I couldn’t even remember how I felt when I saw that woman. My mom said I could meet her again. I said yes. But deep inside I felt it was unnecessary because I was not looking for her and didn’t feel the need to see her.
Louis Vuitton
Fiction by Teresa May Mundiz | May 24, 2015
My mother’s boss, Louie Vergara, called home looking for my mother. It was nine in the evening and my younger sister had just fallen asleep. My father who works night shift in one of the posh hotels in our city had left earlier in the evening.
So it was only me and Mother who were still up and awake in the house. I was zipping the back of her gown when the phone rang. Father usually calls home to check on us. But it would be much later.
Lately, Mother has been attending business meetings with her boss, she told me one time when I was putting away her make up kit, that I would often think she must be a very good employee.
Mother shooed me to pick up the phone.
Mermaid Dreams
Poetry by Loraine Jo | May 24, 2015
Old golden days of a little mermaid
With a bright red tail and pale skin
Swimming the shallow waters of blue
And endless building of gray sand castles
Quite a distance from the shore
Guards the red-tailed mermaid
Is a tranquil man in his sixties
Clothed in his faded orange shirt
Finally the sun tired of shining
Kisses goodbye the vast turquoise sea
The little mermaid leaves her tail
And seeks solace in the senescent eyes
Now where the little mermaid swam
Are fish cages floating side by side
And where the aged man stood guard
Is an empty longing space
—
Loraine Jo is a Secondary Education student from Balingasag, Misamis Oriental.
tunggahilan
Poetry by Joyce Duhaylungsod | May 24, 2015
ang
imong
o
tin
sama
sa imong
mga saad
mga pulong
baruganan
prinsipyo
pagkadiyosnon
pagkarelihiyoso
pagkamatarong
pagkatawo
sama ning
balak
hiwi
—
Joyce Duhaylungsod nakahuman sa korsong Edukasyon ug us aka magtutudlo sa usa ka unibersidad sa Dabaw.
I Live to Die
Nonfiction by Jet Hokin Paclar | May 24, 2015
I can still remember the laughter and smiles we shared together, the happy Christmas songs we sang, the fun games we enjoyed, the delicious food we ate and the wacky poses we did in front of the camera. Who cares if the wind is already tormenting the leaves of the trees outside? Who cares if the light keeps on turning on and off? And who cares if PAGASA raised the storm signal to number two? It is our Christmas party, for God’s sake! It is the last time we will meet each other for the year; we should be enjoying and celebrating the birth of the Lord. Who cares? We never had an idea that that was really the last Christmas party of our friend nor did we know that indeed that was the last time we will see her, ever.
She went home earlier than any of us. Before she left she said “thank you”, in a happy tone. We never knew that those were the last words we would hear from her. We tried to stop her but she explained that her parents already want her home since it’s already passed ten o’clock in the evening. Even when she left we continued the party. Who cares? We never knew what would happen three hours later.
Chicken Tinola
Nonfiction by Jennie Arado | May 17, 2015
We have more than twenty chickens in our backyard. Our compound is huge and we allot almost a third of it for the chickens. We have a net fence tied from our east side of the compound to the west, and the covered part was where all the chickens are left to roam, lay eggs, and eat. My father is never into cockfights and the chickens are actually there for the family’s entertainment—or something else to keep us busy.
The hens do not lay eggs regularly, and sometimes they get rotten before they even hatch because the hens are too lazy to even sit on them every day. We cannot sell their eggs, even the good ones, because they are never good enough as the eggs sold in the market place. The eggs are either allowed to hatch to new chicks or, sometimes when we forget to include eggs on the grocery list, our chickens’ eggs end up in the frying pan or in the refrigerator egg compartment.
We never have income generated from having these chickens around but when I notice that my parents goes to the chicken house first thing in the morning to feed them, I feel the importance of having the chickens with us. They are sort of chores my parents look forward to. And even if they do not smile or dance while they feed the chickens, I know it makes them happy to do it twice or thrice a day.