Poetry by Jobelle Obguia | October 31, 2010
Sa bula ng beer
May nakakubling tamis
Sa bula ng beer
Ngiti ay pagtangis
Sa bula ng beer
Mundo’y higit na maganda
Sa bula ng beer
Napuno ng akala
Sa bula ng beer ibinurda
Mga yapos at pagsinta
Sa bula ng beer naniwala
Sa walang katuparang sumpa
Sa bula ng beer nakatala
Mga wikang agad nabubura
Ang bula ng beer at aking mga luha
Sa pait hindi nagkaiba
—-
Jobelle Obguia graduated with a degree in Business Management from Ateneo de Davao University.
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | October 24, 2010
Someday, when science makes it possible for us
to put up convenient stores in space,
we’ll build one and do business and live our days
by selling everyone pure unadulterated stars
It’s sure to sell like crazy since everyone
wants something stellar, something brilliant,
cosmic and quaint, yet familiar
enough for comfort.
Something like all other things—
kept in order in neat shelves,
tagged with fixed prices,
readily available over the counter.
And when on the verge of being black holes,
they’d remain just as convenient—
instant escape to inescapable places, the end
of all things, the universe’s Doomsday special.
—-
Allen Samsuya studies creative writing in UP Mindanao. He was a fellow at the Davao Writers Workshop 2009.
Play by Darylle Rubino | October 24, 2010
Characters:
Elmer, 26 years old, dressed in semi business attire, a drug runner
B, 23 years old, the younger brother of Elmer, in shorts and t-shirts, unemployed
Ely, 27 years old, a mob member, the right hand of the boss of a mob, he has a gun at the waist
Setting:
An apartment. On centerstage is a sofa and in front of it is a small coffee table. There is a TV on the right side of the stage, opposite to it is a dining table for two. There is a lighter on the coffee table, a foil under it and a burnt spoon. The room is a mess, the floor is not swept, shirts and pants are scattered. The main door to the apartment is at the right side and a window behind the TV.
Nonfiction by Ruel Soriano | October 17, 2010
Tandang – tanda ko pa ang paboritong itanong ng aking mga guro noong ako’y nasa elementarya pa lamang. Tanong na paulit – ulit pinagagawan ng isang sanaysay sa aming mga mag-aaral lalo na pag umpisa ng pasukan, o di kaya’y wala nang maisip pang ituro ang guro o di kaya’y pagod ang kanyang lalamunan sa pagpapaliwanag ng kung anu-ano.
Ang tanong na: Ano ang gusto mong maging paglaki mo? At bakit?
O, di ba napaka simpleng tanong pero gugugulin na ng mga mag-aaral ang kanilang buong oras sa pagbuo ng komposisyon tungkol dito. Kung minsan pa nga ay magiging takdang -aralin pa dahil sa hindi matapus-tapos ang komposisyong ginagawa sa klase.
Poetry by Vida Mia Valverde | October 17, 2010
Splintered into a myriad pieces
A noiseless breaking
Into bloody shards and salty droplets
The world stands still.
Resting on the ground
Feebly glistening in the sun
Turning every which way
Searching for the whole
Nothing resounds.
Poetry by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca | October 17, 2010
I am a bullet.
Small. Insignificant.
A speck in the air:
hardened mote of
tears from the rock,
molten from fire,
and drowned in water.
Fiction by Edmond Julian dela Cerna | October 10, 2010
She turned from the open window to the man sprawled across the bamboo bed, observing his nakedness and stillness, which reminded her of a corpse. She stared at his slightly parted lips, from which, a long time ago, affection was uttered, and from which, recently, came words of contempt and abuse. She looked at his brown skin, which she used to bathe with kisses in their sweaty and sultry lovemaking; at the coal-black mass of hair on his armpits, against which she snuggled when they lay spent, exhilarated; and at his chest rising and falling in cadence with his round abdomen. It was at his chest where her eyes stopped because from inside, she knew his heart beat, no longer for her but for the mere mechanism of it, just a muscle pumping blood to his veins, and pumping faster whenever his temper flared. She also knew that the same heart had already weakened upon seeing the pubic hair across his navel; it was caked with blood. On his groin, right above the sagging scrotum, was a bright red stump, from which there were rivulets of blood coursing down the side of his buttocks and the inside of his thighs.
Poetry by Hannah Louise Enanoria | October 3, 2010
And the books will still be there on the shelves, detached souls,
That emerged once, drenched
As shining mangos under a tree after the rain,
And consumed, tasted , delicious fame
Despite defying seasons, crawling ants,
children stoning, the earth in motion.
“Even if” they said, “our pages are worn to shreds,
Shabby and brown, or a fly has been preserved
Between sheets, so much durable
than we are. Whose delicate heat
chills the heart and memory, scatters, expires.”
I imagine when I will be faced out
Replaced by audio, video books – nothing ensues,
no bereavements, no harm, it’ll still be television shows,
Make-ups, money, women, a moment with music.
still, the books will be there on the shelves, able-bodied,
ripe because of people, and also sunlight, crowning.
—-
Hannah Louise Enanoria is a 4th year AB Sociology student of Ateneo de Davao University.