Ihangyo sa Bulalakaw

Fiction by | June 10, 2012

“Nay, tinuod ba ang gisulti Lola Marta nga sa tiilan nianang bangaw dunay nagtapun-og nga mga bulawan?” pangutana sa unom ka tuig nga si Toto samtang ginahapuhap ang balhiboong iring nga nagpauraray sa iyang paa. Ang misay pod nagparayeg, sige kinig tilap sa kamot sa iyang agalon.

Mihunong kadiyot si Patricia sa iyang pagpanilhig ug gilingi ang anak nga naglingkod sa bangkito simpig sa talamboanan. “Di na tinuod, Dong. Usa ra na ka tumotumo sa mga karaang tawo,” tubag niya.

“Tumutumo ra diay na, Nay? Kanang bulalakaw, Nay, nga mahulog unya mag-wish dayon ko, di pod diay na tinuod?” laing sukit sa anak nga nagtan-aw sa bangaw nga nag-arko sa halapad nga luna sa Sitio San Roque.

“Aw, oo, uy! Kay kon tinuod pa na, Dong, hagbay ra tang nakahilwas sa atong kapit-os ron,” ni Pepay samtang nanglimpiyo sa ilang kosina.

Milingi si Toto kaniya nga mora bag napalaw sa iyang gibutyag. Gialsa niini ang misay ug gibutang sa kilid unya miakbo sa bentana.

“Nganong nangutana ka niana, To?” ni Pepay.

“Kay daghan man unta koy gustong i-wish, Nay…nga unta madato na ta, kanang parehas kasapian ni Japhet og Nato aron mapalitan pod ko nimog mga bag-ong sinina, sapatos ug daghang mga dulaan.”

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Water Wounds

Poetry by | June 3, 2012

The pure present is an ungraspable advance
of the past devouring the future. In truth,
all sensation is already memory.
— Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory

To know, you must remember, you said,
standing before water, as you hurled
pebbles into the air, watching
with utter pleasure, the trajectories
of their graceful fall. And the rippling
you dismissed as a minor ache
of distortion, fleeting disturbance
of a mirrored sky. See,
no scars when the water heals.

Numerous nights, I dreamed
of all those pebbles you threw,
gleaming, white under moonlight.
Now the pond is gone. Nothing
remains to gather, lovingly,
with cupped hands—only stones
different from each to each. But
what matters most? Only this:
the potent myth of an eternal moment,
this heart-quickening sensation
of how the voice of still water,
receiving a white pebble into its body,
mimics the perfect way you say “ah!”

—
Maiq Bonghanoy, an editor, received his degree in creative writing from the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Okey Ra, Basta Gwapa: A Monologue

Play by , , | June 3, 2012

Character: Miranda, a 27 year-old saleslady. Wears a white long-sleeved blouse, a navy blue knee-high skirt, and black high-heeled shoes. Her long black hair is neatly ponytailed.

Setting: At a department store. Men’s wear section, outside a fitting room.

A male customer exits from the fitting room. He hands over two t-shirts to Miranda, pretends to be on the phone, and quickly walks away. Miranda folds one t-shirt neatly and hangs the other back on display.

She smiles.

Miranda: Uy! Ikaw man diay na. Kumusta naman? Ako? Okey ra. Mao lang gihapon, trabahante diri sa G-mall. Sa una sa pangkids ko na assign. Pero karon nabalhin ko sa men’swear. Dali ra tong pambata. Dali ra kaestorya ang mga mama. Dali ra atimanon.

Kapoy kaayo manarbaho uy. Mag make-up pa ka. Kailangan puti imong nawong, unya pula og lips, human pink og blush-on para dili murag luspad ba, para presentable gyod. Sige na lang kay malingaw man pod ko mangarte sa akong kaugalingon. Bahalag tag-isa ko ka oras sa samin basta motrabaho ko nga gwapa. Siyempre no! Human naa pa gyod ning mag-heels-heels ba. Dili ra baya gyod ko anad mag-heels-heels kay naga tsinelas ra man tawon ko kon molakaw. Natakilpo bitaw ko ton kas-a. Da! Danghag man. May gani sulbad ra og tutho-tutho ug haplas-haplas og dahons bayabas. Pero unsaon ta man wa man koy mabuhat. Mao man ang rules. Maong mutuman na lang pod ko kay mawad-an man sad kog trabaho kon di ko mosunod.

Naa pa ning palda-palda na hastang mubua. Tong kas-a lagi sa jeep. Wa ko kabantay. Hapit lagi milugwa akong bilat. Nipis pa ra ba tawon akong panting gigamit kay wa pa ko kapalit og bag-o. Hasta lagi. May na lang gani gi-alerto ko ni manang mamaligyaay og kinason sa akong atbang. Ulaw kaayo to ba.

O! lagi sa men’s wear ko na assign. Sus kining mga lalaki mas pili-an pa man intawon sila kaysa sa mga bayi. Pili diri, pili didto. Ukay diri, ukay na pod didto. Mosukod ani nga mga design human lahi nga size kuhaon. Dayon, mu-ingon rag…

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It's Not Always Sunshine in the East

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

She died crouching in the vertical box;
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

Somewhere, outside the door,
hermit crabs are running away from the dark,
trailing tattered strands of
torn yellow ribbons.

Torn yellow ribbons tied
through holes, on clotheslines
and on the dented barks of coconut trees
standing in lines outside the house,
guarding the house
as military troops storm the streets with
their bayonets; screaming, thirsting for soft flesh–young flesh.

And little girls flee,
near the sea, through the city, into the woods,
not wanting to be seen.

Like hermit crabs
they flee
and they hide

only to die crouching in the rice dispenser
with grains of rice occupying every available space
there is to occupy.

—
Bam Baraguir majored in Asian Studies at Ateneo de Davao University. The poem was written while the author spent some months in Myanmar for a volunteer work with an NGO. She was born, and lives in Cotabato City.

High School, Years After

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

(for my MSU-IIT IDS batchmates)

You sit where you are: at the heart
of the city, its mechanical throb
booming in your chest, or perhaps
under the shade of acacia trees
by the sea wall. The horizon hides
a life long over. You are there
also, in the old high school building,
yellowing in the pages
of a forgotten yearbook,
rusting in the trophy room
weathered by the glance of children
in polo shirts and pink skirts,
children who were once you,
you understand, even as you outgrew
yourself, those kalachuchi trees
in perpetual autumn. You have all
fallen like flowers. Into your
respective plots of soil. All else you leave
to the wind, to the passing
kick of black shoes
amid the crunch of gravel.
Or else you wait to be picked up and sniffed.
You sit where you are.

—
Raised in Iligan City, Arkay Timonera was a fellow at his hometown’s National Writers Workshop in 2010. He studies in Silliman University.

Unta

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

Misubang na ang adlaw,
nagpahiyom pa gihapon ang bulan sa kawanangan.
Ning tip-as sang paglantaw,
Nagahulat sa pagtabon sa kahayag.

—
Ralph Andy Ranario studies Bachelor of Science in Accountancy at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan.

To Date a White Guy

Poetry by | May 27, 2012

I know what they’re thinking.
When they look at me,
they automatically assume
that I spent more hours
sitting in front of a computer
rather than get a career
and that probably
I was the kind to always want the
easy ways out of life.
They will start cracking jokes about how
you rescued my family from poverty and how
big my budget was for papaya soaps
and pedicures, which never did a lot
for my “native” look anyway,
this money, which came from you anyway.
When I talk, I’m sure they will listen.
They will listen to every
word, watch out for incorrect prepositions,
interchanged pronouns, or a run-on sentence. Sometimes,
I want to indulge them and say an
unforgivable grammar mistake, but I can’t.
I’m well-read, well-versed and eloquent, fuckyouverymuch.
They’d think that we met in Boracay,
spent a weekend together, then brought you home to introduce you
to my family–they’ll even try to guess which
godforsaken probinsya I must’ve come from
and debate whether electricity or good Internet
connection was running there.
They’d assume you came to see me and
marry me because I will take care of you and be your
official caregiver, and you’d be my ticket out of this third world,
not because we are madly in love.
Maybe they’d even throw in a joke or two
about how we may never fight because whenever
we start to, it would end by you saying, “Green card”.
Honestly, I know all of these.
I know all of these by heart.
I can feel it in my
bones, feel the weight of the words
they so want to speak. I feel
the heat of their stares and the pangs
of their disappointment. And I know,
that every time I seem to prove
them wrong or when we look ridiculously happy, I know
they’re jealous of me.
Yes, they’re jealous of me.
Their own racism is killing them. And that,
when I know, I always want to bask in its glory,
feel the moment; I’ll carry it on my way home,
put it in an airtight bottle,
bathe in it every waking morning.

—
Karla Stefan Singson currently leads her Davao-based events and PR outfit, PREP (PR, Events and Promotions). She also writes for print and online media.