Lotto

Play by | November 11, 2012

(Base sa “The Lottery” ni Anton Chekhov)

Ang mag-asawa naa sa lamesa, nagameryenda. Si mister nagabasa ug dyaryo.

Dodong

Sus, tanawi ni o. Makipag-away daw ang Pilipinas sa China tungod sa Spratleys, maayo ra ba kung naa gyud tay laban.

Inday

Ay ambot lagi niana uy. Kanang China tanan na lang ginaangkon.

Dodong

Mao. (mobalik ug basa)

Inday

Ay Dong, tanawi daw ang numero sa iswipsteyks karon. Gitaya nako birthday ni Lalang, basig diay suwerte.

Dodong

Sus tuo ka ana uy. Nagasayang sayang lang kag kwarta sige’g taya. (pangitaon sa dyaryo ang resulta sa swipsteyks) Naa diri. Unsa man imong numero?

Inday

Bertday lagi ni Lalang, Dong. Nakalimot na ka sa bertday ni Lalang?

Dodong

Wala, oy! Setyembre 10 man to, di ba?

Continue reading Lotto

Pagmumura ng babaeng hindi marunong gumawa ng tula

Poetry by | November 11, 2012

Anak ng tupa.
Nagbabasa ako ng kanilang mga tula
at wala akong magawa
kung hindi ang humanga
sa indak ng mga salitang
lumilikha ng paraiso dito sa lupa.

Wala akong ganyang kakayahan.
Ni Katiting. Ni Daplis.
Ang alam ko lang ay magbasa
at humanga
at magbasa
at magmukhang kawawa.

Paano ba kasi nila
binuburda ang mga titik
upang makabuo ng tula
sa langit?
Saan ba kasi nila
kinukuha
ang indayog at kulay ng
kanilang salita?

Anak ng tupa.
Pagmumura lang ang aking magagawa.
Wala akong kakayahan.
Ubos na rin ang tinta ng aking mumurahing
bolpen.
Higit sa lahat
wala akong mahagilap
na totoo sa akin

Walang pag-ibig
Walang Ligaya
Walang Luha.
Ang tanging totoo lang
ay ang tulang kinatha ng iba
at hinding-hindi ko magagawa.

Anak ng tupa.

—
Si Djamyla ay apat na taong nag-aral sa Ateneo de Davao University, mahilig magbasa ng mga tula ngunit hindi (raw) marunong gumawa.

Sa likod ng pulang lipstick

Poetry by | November 11, 2012

Dapit hapon ay sumapit na
Oras na para magpaganda.
Kolorete ay nakahanda na at
Ilang oras na lang palabas ay mag sismula na.
Sa likod ng pulang lipstick
Akala ng iba sya’y masaya
Ngunit sa kanyang pag-iisa luha ang pumapalibot sa kanya.
Sa paningin ng madla buhay pag-ibig nya ay masaya
Di alam na puso niya’y nagdurusa’t nangungulila
Sa harap nila siya ay ayos lang
Lingid sa kanilang kaalaman siya’y pagod na pagod na
Sa likod ng pulang Lipstick
Pinipilit nyang maging masaya
Umaasang sa paglipas ng panahon
Sugat sa puso ay maghihilom na

—
Si Ayessa ay isang gradweyt ng University of Mindanao sa kursong Hotel and Restaurant Management at nagtatrabaho ngayon sa isang BPO sa Davao City.

Fragments from/on living a writing life

Nonfiction by | November 4, 2012

Lina Sagaral Reyes was the keynote speaker and special guest panelist to the recently concluded Davao Writers Workshop 2012 held at Lispher Inn last October 15 to 19. The address below was her lecture at the opening of the workshop.

Being with you, a youthful crop of writers grown on the rich soil of Mindanao cultures, I also come home to the Writers Workshop, as a bond of people claiming and reclaiming the right to write.

I come home to the community ritual of writers: for the fellows, a rite of passage; for the panelists, the rite of relaying wisdom (as well as folly?) to the next generation.

It has been a long journey home. This is my first ever workshop in 19 years. The last workshop I attended was held in UP-Baguio in May 1993. On my way home to the island of Bohol via Manila, I hitched a ride on the fellows’ bus to Manila. My seatmate on that transitional ride home was Ricky de Ungria.

But I did not have an inkling that in eight months, I would find myself in the shores of Dapitan, Zamboanga del Norte.

Nineteen years later, as early as February this year, it is the same Ricky de Ungria, now like me also a migrant worker on Mindanao, who would ask me to come and join this workshop.

Continue reading Fragments from/on living a writing life

Sea of Ashes

Fiction by | October 28, 2012

The sea of ashes has pervaded my dreams for the the third time this week. The dream always took place near dawn. I was on a floating platform, standing on a pile of ashes. When I tried to scoop water from the the scarlet sea, a pair of badly burned hands dragged me down. I always woke up with that feeling that I was already consumed by fire. I thought that this was my subconscious telling me to get home quickly, especially now that my Mother had just died.

Home was a small island called Andunay. The last time I was there, trouble was already brewing in paradise. My Father, a prominent man among his peers, wanted to introduce modern tools and gadgets to the Andunayan people. He believed that it was time to abolish traditional ways of living, and even sent me off the island to study in a progressive school.

Continue reading Sea of Ashes

Sparklers

Poetry by | October 28, 2012

It started with a spark
That ignited the excitement –
I was inflamed by what I held
As we celebrated the moment
Our flames finally flickered
In unison.
But our light was dying
Our sparklers
Have been cindered into ashes –
And the ashes
into nothing.

—
Karen Kae Dicdican is currently enrolled in Ateneo de Davao University and is a fellow of the recently concluded 2012 Davao Writers Workshop.

Moving Van

Poetry by | October 21, 2012

No, child.
We cannot take Thina, Daimhin, and Muti with us.
They’re too big.
Just put on your Sunday’s best
and tie your hair into pigtails,
so you can resemble your dolls.
That way, you’re bringing them with you.
No, child.
We cannot bring your crayons.
Not even your coloring books or drawing pads.
They’re too many.
Just put on your shoes with your favorite colors on it.
That way, you’re treading on rainbows when we leave.
No, child.
We cannot carry your story books.
They’re too heavy.
Just hold this piggy bank while I take the safe box.
Our arms can only bear so much.
That way, we take only what’s necessary.
No, child.
We cannot tote your play tent.
It’s too big and too old.
Just like this house, worn out and hollow.
I promise, we’ll buy a new one.
Where we’re headed sells better tents.
Hurry, child.
I can see our ride in the driveway.
Dear child, why are you crying?
We don’t have time.
What’s that, child?
No, child. I’m sorry.
We cannot wait for Papa.

—
Margaux Denice Garcia, a graduate of BS Education at the Ateneo de Davao University, was a fellow of the 2011 Davao Writers Workshop.

This Cup of Coffee

Poetry by | October 21, 2012

This cup of coffee
is the sadness
of your absence
Steam rising
to perfume
the sleepless void
of your absence
Smooth surface
free from the lies
of milk and honey,
refusing to reflect
memories,
or the sweetness of your smile –
mirroring only the emptiness
of your absence
And because you are gone
I have no one to drink
this coffee with
but a hundred years of solitude.
Even ants do not come
to feast on my crumbles
But even as things
cool down
I grow used
to the flavor of this misery,
soon making this habit
a ritual,
of sipping it in afternoons
Refusing
to sweeten
this bitterness
until I am as empty
as the cup
of black coffee
that is the sadness
of your absence.

—
Karlo Antonio David was a fellow at the 2011 Iyas Creative Writing Workshop, and the Silliman National Writers Workshop which was held in Dumaguete.