The Most Beautiful Princess That Ever Lived

Fiction by | December 5, 2010

Behind the Chinese warehouse, Carla and Agnes gathered metal scraps and any trash worth selling.

“Look!” Agnes pointed at the mountain of rusty tin cans and containers. “We hit the jackpot.”

Their eyes sparkled, overjoyed at the trove. As they carefully loaded their valuable items in their cart, they discovered a big backpack lying underneath.

“Who do you think the owner might be?” Carla asked. She never had a bag before, and she longed to have it.

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When A Lover Sleeps

Poetry by | December 5, 2010

Last night,
I dreamt of you.
Your shadow walked past
the table and chair,
weak and careful not to
wake the mosquitoes
and the neighbours.
To my dismay,
The attention I secretly lust for
went to the fridge
instead of me.
Is that how attractive
a bottle of beer is
than a lingerie (purposely powdered
with perfume)?

Maybe in my next dream,
Your legs, your mouth
and your heart would go
straight to my bed,
where it longs for you.
And only for you.

—-
Melody Ross Tinoy is a nurse who writes for a living.

City Poem

Poetry by | November 28, 2010

The city is the loneliest
      place in the world.
It is full of people
      who do not know
      each other.

—-
The Collected Poems of Tita L. Ayala will be published by UST Press this year.

Remembering Lola Juanita

Nonfiction by | November 28, 2010

A white rectangular wooden box with a polished surface and token curlicued bronze-colored engraving on its sides greeted my sleep-deprived and travel-weary eyes. As I entered the funeral home that early morning, I noted with wry amusement that Auntie Vim and her friends were entertaining themselves with their private jokes coupled with comical dancing.  Mithi was lying fast asleep on the sofa nearest the coffin. The bright lights and heavy scent of flowers were an assault on the senses, very jarring in the cool and quiet air of a December morning.  I nervously and slowly approached the coffin and peered into the wrinkled face of this once proud woman now shriveled and utterly lifeless. As I marshaled my thoughts and feelings, I noted how unbecoming the pink lipstick was against her brown leathery skin. I inwardly flinched when I saw that the white lining of the coffin on which she lay had the texture and look of plastic. I suddenly remembered how she hated plastic plants.

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All Souls

Nonfiction by | November 21, 2010

A week after November first, my family visited my grandfather’s, uncle’s, and my mother’s graves. We decided not to go with the heavy flow of human traffic during the holiday, so we went a week after.

At the grave, my aunt and a few family members gathered around the graves to wipe clean a few smudges on the tombstone and took away some clutter along the sides. After which, they lighted candles, and as my other oriental tradition would suggest (Japanese). As all this was happening, I stood from afar, watching.

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small god

Poetry by | November 14, 2010

I have every material wealth conceivable-
 
A mansion in the hill, fatuous women;
A fleet of cars, fat contracts;
Cupboard brimming, fat belly;
Mile-long bankbooks, fat arthritis;
I crave for more and more and more,
Except that I don’t crave for god anymore-
 
My god is a small god, if anything at all.

—-
Elmer Sayre writes from Initao, Misamis Oriental.