Poetry by Monique Carillo | February 8, 2015
She knew.
From above the skies
close to burning stars,
traveling planets,
she heard him.
His silver coat gnashing
against forest thorns.
Paws thundering
over earth’s carpets.
From distance high,
she longed
as he had longed
to reach her
in lunatic embrace.
Against all lights
scattered in the night,
she watched him chase.
Yet she could only
barely touch the howl
from the stare of
the wolf.
—
Monique Carillo is a student at UP Mindanao.
Poetry by Krisna Liz Tantano | February 8, 2015
You have a hundred year old’s soul
and a five year old’s lumiere,
A legend’s wisdom
and a newborn’s curiosity
When you fell, you laughed
because you spilled stars
and it painted constellations
on the cold, hard floor
When you flew, you cried
because your wings are wax
and the sun is its enemy
too close and never close enough
They shy away in your presence
because they see a shadow.
A big, black hole
ready to suck them empty
Truth is, you have universes
inside of you
there is too much that
flesh and bones could not contain
You shine so brightly
they’re blinded and think it was darkness
You exist so strongly
they couldn’t resist the force
So fill the blank spaces,
supernova in the void
Breathe in dust and clouds
blink for me, a star reborn
—
Krisna Liz Tantano is a BS Architecture student from UP Mindanao.
Poetry by Ivan Khenard Acero | February 8, 2015
I. Lips
Scarlet arches,
like bow and string
releasing arrows
from Eros’s grip
to my wildest dreams
II. Teeth
Slices of pearls
cradled by the soft
of your lips,
in hiding,
like a symphony of secrets
III. Eyes
Soulful windows opened and hidden
by the flutters
of your eyelids, much like
the blackbird’s wings
to the wonders of the night
—
Ivan is a student of BS Architecture from UP Mindanao with an alarming addiction to milk bars.
Fiction by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | February 1, 2015
After she had some time to think about it, Alyona convinced herself that, in the end, there was really nothing she could have done about it. Sure, she had had a couple of shots of vodka, but not enough to get her tipsy. Larisa, on the other hand, was totally wasted, and that was why Alyona had to drive Larisa’s Samara, a car whose idiosyncracies she wasn’t familiar with. There was the rain, too, and that was why she had pulled Larisa away from the party. The rain made the cobbled roads slippery. The streetlamps flickered on and off and she couldn’t see very well. Not to mention that Larisa, on the passenger seat, must have been dreaming she was still with Dmitri and kept groping her leg. Yes, she had a drink, it was dark, she was distracted, but still…
That man appeared out of nowhere. She wasn’t driving that fast. He had stepped in front of the car. Was he even looking in the right direction? No, he had been looking the other way. He must have been inostranets — a foreigner. She had stepped on the breaks, but the slick road took out some traction from the Samara’s tires.
Fiction by Ivan Khenard Acero | February 1, 2015
Eating kwek-kwek and blending in with the crowd to be as inconspicuous as possible, Marco had been waiting for almost an hour. His target, this time, was Isagani Sarmiento—a paralegal at a small law office in San Pedro. It was almost 5 o’clock but the sweltering heat did not give way to the usual pre-dusk chill. He gave small talks to the tindera but he always made sure not to make himself too memorable. He had on a faux leather jacket with a plain shirt underneath, a Yankees cap, and his usual ragged jeans.
He first met with his client at some low-key bar at Torres.
It was a perfect place for such meet-ups—it was full of unscrupulous businessmen and sleazy police officers, but there was never any crowd large enough to fill even one-third of the room. The music was kept to a perfect volume and only ranged from classic to jazz.
Poetry by Adeva Jane Esparrago | February 1, 2015
Do not make me keep my promises
Easily because
Mornings bring age
You will kiss my tired eyelids
With thinned lips
Sounds pass them
Cracked but still soothing
To my hardly-hearing ears
Reassuring, lovingly cooing
Bringing to mind
The Mayas that we were
Flitting from branch to branch
As if there was no tomorrow
Tomorrow just came to visit
Tutting
Waiting for his overdue call
I found myself wearing my skin
Like my Sunday dresses you used to
Throw on the floor
Now kept neatly folded
Inside the ancient doors
That smell of mothballs and decay
Your hands were Bangkas
Sailing over my smooth seas
Now they are traversing
through rough waves and storms
I fear it may sink
The wires on my head that used
To be the night
Are now ashes
From a well-stroked fire
Which you try to resuscitate
To no avail
Do not make me keep my promises
I used to swear ‘i will never leave you’
But then
One night
I grasped you hand tightly
Then, like my breath, let it slip away
—
Adeva is from Cagayan de Oro City, currently an English teacher in Xavier University High School.
Poetry by Mai Santillan | February 1, 2015
The only wrinkles that you have
are those lines along the
corners of your eyes
when you smile
unlike her
Your countenance strengthens me
the might of
a thousand Spartans cannot match me
You hands
are smooth, unblemished by the
wash cloths and the dish soaps
the detergent you’ll be
handling soon enough
And yet beside you, I am
ancient
It is apt she calls this
May-December
You are summer
and I am at the tail end
of seasons
Soon, I hope
you, like a phoenix,
will rise
and I will remain
with her
—
Mai Santillan is, by day, a freelance writer from CDO. By night, she’s a couch potato. During her off days, you’ll see her wandering around Divisoria to capture mundane yet candid humdrum activities in the city. You won’t miss her. She has this ridiculously huge curly hair often mistaken as a wig. But it’s not. Really.
Poetry by Reil Benedict Obinque | February 1, 2015
I wash your pants
to remove the dirt
of your last night’s infidelity.
Scrub it with patience
and force—
her caress abandoning the fabric.
Rinse it until it’s clean—
the sins dissolving in the water.
Dry it up—
the remains of her perfume evaporating.
Iron it,
to smooth the creases of the cloth,
hoping that tomorrow
I will not wash it
the way I always do:
cleaning someone else’s dirt.
—
Reil is a second year BSED-MATH student from Ateneo de Davao University. His best friends are Literature and Mathematics.