1.
You will move
past the pedestrians
and think of me
and the past
and how I had basked
in your breath
-lessness, once.
The Running
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | August 4, 2013
Limos
Play by Chris David Lao | August 4, 2013
Mga Tauhan:
Rick, 25, nars, nagtrabaho sa call center pero agad nag-resign
Nimfa, 28, pulubi, nagkukunwaring bulag
Mga taong dumadaan
Lugar:
Hapon. Sa labas ng simbahan. Sa may bangketa. May lata sa harap ng nakaupong pulubi. Tumutugtog siya gamit ang harmonika. May mga dumadaan na mga tao. Paminsan-minsan sila ay naghuhulog ng barya sa lata. At paminsan-minsan din ay palihim na nagrereklamo si Nimfa sa mga baryang hinulog.
Nimfa: (Sa sarili.) Ang babarat naman! Ang gagara ng mga damit pero singkwenta sentimos lang ang binibigay. Pero ayos na rin ‘to kaysa wala. (Bibilangin ang mga barya at mabilis silang ibubulsa.)
(Mapapadaan si Rick sa harap ng pulubi. Mahahalata niya ang ginagawa nito. Mapapansin ni Nimfa kaya’t pasimpleng hihirit ng…)
Nimfa: Limos… Palimos po… Maawa po kayo…
Rick: Anong palimos-palimos ka diyan? Hey! I saw you. I saw what you just did, Ate. Kitang-kita ng dalawang mata ko. Binibilang mo yung mga coins.
Nimfa: Kuya… Konting tulong lang po…
Brothers, Part 2
Fiction by Jude Ortega | July 28, 2013
He inspected the plant more closely, and he noticed that a tiny stem at the center had been cut. The stem was still oozing with fresh purple sap. He realized that someone had reached the peak ahead of him and picked the flower.
He heard footsteps on the grass, and when he turned his head, he saw Indirapatra, bleeding profusely from the wound in his arm and chest. The knees of the older datu gave in, and he fell to his side near Sulayman. His palm opened, and a purple flower slipped to the ground.
Sulayman sneered in disbelief. “This isn’t happening. You’re weak. How did you survive?”
“I may not appear as strong as you are,” Indirapatra said, “but I’m not weak. In fact, because of what you did, I found out I’m as strong as you, maybe even stronger.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re not stronger. You just deceived me. Tell me, Indirapatra. What did you do? Before we went up here, did you make a deal with a demon to help you get through the traps?”
“Don’t accuse me of doing such things, Sulayman. I got here on my own strength and skills.”
“How did you get through the crocodiles? Uncle has never taught you how to fight them. It’s only me whom he taught. Whenever you are with Father learning about statecraft and other worthless matters, Uncle would take me to the jungle and teach me how to capture and kill beasts.”
11:12
Poetry by Ric Bastasa | July 28, 2013
inside our pockets
is the privacy of our own stones
outside our faces are the familiarities of
our traditions
when we party
we say the same words actually
we fear
other people’s anger
we cannot afford to disappoint the
visitors of our
common faith
the usual mess will be there
part of the party you know
sometimes we let go
we let loose what is too tight in our necks
we spit what is bitter outside the windows of our
tongues
there is always time for restraint in a few glasses of
alcohol
there is a time to make our mouths shut up
tying our tongues like ropes on
the railings of the house
of civility
personally i do not like this party where we turn into
decent fools
choosing the words
afraid of the truth
always fearing that we should have broken some rules
of engagement
most of the time we deny what our hearts are looking for
cold hands clasps another cold hands
empty heads bang with other empty heads
on hollow sounds of flattery
one time i left the room where the party was going on
it was 11:10 in the evening and it became too intolerable
i need to be alone in order to be free
i imagine you and i love this atonement
when you still do not mind
how i feel
i am complicating it with so much restraint
because even if i am now outside everybody
i still retain
the decency of what is right and wrong which i always
carry around.
—
Ric Bastasa, is presently working as MTC Judge of Roxas, Zamboanga del Norte. He finished his BS Chemistry in Ateneo de Davao and Law in Andres Bonifacio College in Dipolog City.
Berano
Poetry by Mark Daposala | July 21, 2013
Nagkahuot ang alimuot
karong udto, ug buot ko
nga matin-aw unta
ang akong hunahuna,
labi na ning panahona. Apan
ikaw nga naghigda tupad
nako—ikaw ang bugtong isla
taliwala sa nagkatag
kong dughan.
Kon dagat pa ako,
hagbay ra nahagkan
ang imong baybayon.
Bisan tuod nasaag ta
sa pagbanlas sa panahon,
mahimuot ko kon mabati mo
gikan ining tanan,
kining hapuhap
taliwala sa kaigang
sama sa unang uwan.
—
Mark “Ton” Daposala was a fellow at the 1st Xavier University Writer’s Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 27th Faigao Writer’s Workshop.
Crisanta Macapili
Poetry by Marion Guerrero | July 21, 2013
Beyond the shadow of Arayat, the stalks glisten in ripe gold in the sunshine
And the breeze gave it a flattering sway — seemingly sending a message coded in dance. In a week or two, the rest of the barrio including me will do the same dance in the rhythm of harvest. Dearest, the happiness of their harvest is a world away from the sadness of their planting last July.
For it was in the same rainy Sunday that a letter bearing the gobernadorcillo’s seal took you away from our humble hut to fight the Moros in the South –it took away the reason for my every breath. Unlike the harvest, I do not have the same sweet hope for any letter from you to arrive anytime soon.
I have come to accept that the saddest news would be the notice of yet another vandala and not of your unspoken pain. Tonight, as in the previous nights since you left unwillingly, I have kept you alive in my novenas as what the Agustinians advised
And just like the gilded ricefields open and yielding to the farmers,
Dearest husband, I yield the promise of your return to the will of Heaven.
—
Marion B. Guerrero was the first Manuel E. Buenafe Fellow at the 15th Iligan National Writers’ Workshop. He was also a fellow at the 3rd Western Mindanao Writers Workshop and the 1st AdZU Creative Writing Workshop. In all these events, he wrote in Chavacano. He is currently a faculty member of the Languages Department, School of Arts and Sciences of the Ateneo de Zamboanga University –his alma mater.
Brothers, Part 1
Fiction by Jude Ortega | July 21, 2013
Indirapatra and his younger brother, Sulayman, reached the lakeside almost at the same time. The people cheered, but in a few moments, they became quiet when they found out that Sulayman’s boat was empty.
“This is surprising,” the rajah said, addressing both the crowd and his young nephews. “Datu Sulayman, the greatest hunter and fiercest warrior in the sultanate, came out empty-handed today.”
Instead of appearing ashamed, Sulayman stood in his boat with a smug look in his face. No one could guess what he was thinking.
The rajah turned to Indirapatra. “My nephew, kindly show your subjects what you have for them.”
Indirapatra nodded. He addressed the people. “It has been months now since a giant crocodile appeared in the lake and started attacking human beings, forcing our fishermen to stop working and causing shortage of fish supply. I assure you, though, that the chieftains, under the orders of my father, the sultan, are doing everything they can to have the monster killed or at least driven away. For the meantime, please accept the fish that my brother and I catch for all of you. For this day, here’s what my lucky net has snagged.”
Indirapatra jumped from his boat and tipped it over. The people gasped in surprise when a fish as long and large as the boat dropped on the sand. The fish was at least thirty feet long, easily the biggest ever caught from the lake.
Gravity
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | July 14, 2013
We spent our evenings afloat under the stars,
quietly drifting across auroras. This was before
you were lonely. This was before you left
for the rest of the world. Now, elsewhere
in the atmosphere, I am afraid that I too have
grown fond of gravity, of the Earth, of the down
-ward spindrift of streetlights. Love, I am fearful
that when I finally fall, I will whisper your name
far too often, far too many times until all my breath
escapes me and I disappear completely before I hit
the ground.
—
Allen Samsuya hails from the Creative Writing program of University of the Philippines Mindanao. He was a fellow in the 2009 Davao Writers Workshop, the 18th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and the 50th Silliman National Writers Workshop.