Iboto si Trapo

Nonfiction by | April 7, 2013

Ako si Trapo Ko. Gwapito III.

Kumakanditado bilang gobernador ng Probinsya Gwapito del Sur, anak ng dating Congressman. Dating Mayor rin ng aming munisipyo, matapos mapalitan ng aking nakakatandang kapatid. Tumigil lang ako saglit sa politika dahil nagkastroke ako, pero sa awa ng Diyos pinagaling niya ako. Alam niyang kailangan ko pang maglingkod sa masa, at ngayon nagkalakas ng loob akong kumandidato dahil sa tiwala na binigay sa akin ng mga tao.

Noong nakaraang taon, nagpaparamdam na ako (wag kang maiingay ha?) sa gilid ng mga kalye. Naglalagay ng mga tarpaulin na bumabati ng “Happy Graduation” sa mga nagtatapos, “Maligayang Pasko” naman noong Disyembre. Katabi nga ng mga tarpaulin ko ang mukha din ng asawa ni Senador Villar. Napapakinggan din ako sa lahat ng estasyon ng radyo sa probinsya. Sabi nila premature campaign ang ginagawa ko pero wala namang masama sa bumabati at sa nagpaparamdam. Bakit, may nakakaalam ba? Wala naman akong nilalabag na batas ng COMELEC. Masaya na ako na kahit sa ganyang mga paraan lamang ay mapasaya ko ang mga tao sa pamamagitan ng pagbati sa kanila.

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Bintana ni Juanito

Fiction by | April 7, 2013

Alas singko ng umaga’y gising na ang diwa ko upang maghanda sa pagpasok ko sa paaralan. Lumabas muna ako upang umigib ng tubig. Maya-maya’y batid ko ang pag-dampi ng malamig na hangin sa nanginginig kong katawan. Bigla kong napansin ang mukha ni Juanito na naka dungaw na naman sa bintana ng kanilang payak na barong-barong. Nakatulala na naman si Juanito na tila nililipad ng hangin ang isipan.

Ilang segundo ang nakalipas ng makita ang tanawing yaon ay biglang nilamon ang katahimikan ng isang sigaw. “JUANITO!” Si Aling Letty na naman ito, ang nanay ni Juanito, na tila ba’y umiiyak na tinatawag ang kanyang anak. Biglang isinara ni Juanito ang bintana at madalian siyang tumakbo patungo sa kanyang ina. Ako nama’y binalot ng katanungan ngunit nagpatuloy na lamang sa aking ginagawa at itinuon ang pag-iisip sa paghahanda patungong paaralan.

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Estrella

Poetry by | April 7, 2013

(Alang kang Millefeuille Erin Casing)

Kining gihalad kanimo
labaw pa sa mga titik
nga mapatik sa panid.
Karon, igo ra nako
ang paglantaw diha
sa kalangitan. Asa
ang gilak nga angay
itandi kanimo? Wala
ikabutyag. Sa kahiladman
duna’y usa ka lawak.
Gakang-a ang pultahan.
Sa lamisa duol sa bintana,
imo unyang mapalgan
ang wanang sa papel,
gidan-agan sa kandila hangtod
masamin ang imong
kaugalingon sa bintana
taliwala sa kabituonan.

—
Mark 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. He’s currently working in Cebu and claims he’s a copy-editor by day, and Batman by night.

My High School-College Friendship Frustration

Nonfiction by | March 31, 2013

It’s that time again: that time when I try my best to just close my eyes and drift off into the emptiness of oblivion. Somehow, I cannot manage it. The days now seem to pass by much quicker than I want them to. My time in high school is about to end and honestly, I don’t know what to feel anymore.

When I’m at school, I am overwhelmed by my emotions and I feel like screaming all the time. I’m like a volcano, brimming with molten lava, just waiting to explode.

I often get lonely in my confusion. I then try to think of college and the new life that awaits me there. I have built up this illusion that my life would be better once I get there. I’ll have freedom, independence, and girls. But I cannot escape the fact that my high school friends are not going to be there with me.

They keep on saying that they will visit me but I have my doubts. And I know it will not be the same as before.

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One New Message

Fiction by | March 31, 2013

“Teka. Wait. Ka-text ko pa si Mama…”

Every time I hear those words, I instantly remember my high school days.

Back then, when I said said such a line, especially in front of my barkada, they would immediately assume that I was a mama’s boy. Often, this would be followed by a series of I-have-an-overly-protective-mother jokes. They put on high-pitched voices and went: “’Nak, kumain ka na?” “Yung likod mo baka basa. Magbihis ka na.” and “May pulbos ka d’yan sa bag mo. Ipinasok ka kagabi habang natutulog ka.”

In high school, I recalled that I raged against my mother when she snooped in my email account. I was irritated when she kept asking about my whereabouts, who I hung out with, and if I would have dinner with the rest of the family. Her questions would always be followed by her imperative need to know what time I would be home.

I grudged against her every time this happened. Sometimes, it left me wondering when I would actually be allowed to make decisions of my own and finally exercise my God-given free will. Thoughtlessly, I often ignored my mother’s text messages and even refused to answer her calls, just for the heck of it.

But that was before. In a span of just over 6 months, things have changed drastically and guess what?

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Samurai

Poetry by | March 31, 2013

The professor wanted to wield a katana
many years ago. But even then, he understood
that the world has long since moved on
and that a sword is a thing of the past.
He adores olden blades that are kept undrawn
inside their scabbards. In his sleep, he dreams
of himself in battle, unsheathing a blade
that is as bare and as inconsolable as rain.
He crosses swords with a hundred warriors
in the heart of his moonless slumber. Later,
when he awakes, the professor can only
jump out of bed. Outside, the sun is vengeful
and daylight shoots through the window
like ancient arrowheads.

—
Allen hails from the Creative Writing program of UP Mindanao. He is a fellow of numerous regional and national workshops, and is a regular contributor to this section.

Paperback

Poetry by | March 31, 2013

paperbackI wish I could write
novels
and carve my
name
into the eye
of the censor
I would liquefy
themes, plots
into pools of
vitriol
turn dialogue
into a stalemate
of devices
literary and historical
populate
a heresy
as rancid
as truth
and leave
as a wake
in the river
of others’ immortality
my own
lengthy eulogy

Chuck is born and raised in Davao. He is a graduate of ADDU and now works for a TV station here.

The Power of A Smile

Nonfiction by | March 24, 2013

I was going round and round Iligan City on endless errands and I was dead tired. I was already oblivious to my surroundings, and even to the repugnant smell of the market place I normally complained about. All I wanted at that time was to go home and rest. The jeepney I was riding in was caught in traffic when this beggar hopped on board. He wiped our shoes with a dirty piece of rag. Afterwards, he waited for someone to spare him some coins, or leftover food, or anything that would be freely given. Nobody moved. Nobody even looked at him directly. I only peered at him from the corner of my eyes. I have this self-imposed rule of never giving money to beggars. I gave them food if I had some, but I carried nothing that day. The beggar waited for a long while then went away disgruntled.

This scenario was not new to me. I had seen this repeated many times. When I lived in Metro Manila for almost six years, I experienced worse episodes than this. The beggars in the street of the metropolis made me feel either disillusioned with the rampant poverty in the country, or ashamed that I could not do more for those who needed help. In both cases though, I always felt thankful that I was not the one begging for alms on the streets.

However, this particular mendicant here in Iligan brought back memories of a chance encounter with an altogether different sort of street urchin.

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