Poetry by Genevieve Mae Aquino | October 3, 2010
The shortest distance between us
is the line that begins on my palm,
travels past a row of cubicles,
exits the revolving doors
and goes around the corner
of the Open University buildings;
meanders along the highways
onto the southern tollway
then with the crisscrossing wires
of the Manila Metro Transit rails;
Poetry by Fritz Gerald M. Melodi | October 3, 2010
We write to reclaim a part of ourselves about to be lost in time. To put in cryostasis, a part, a moment of our lives so heavy, so important, so significant we cannot trust our memory to keep it. So we write. To capture a fleeting nest of emotions that wrapped an experience, to nurture an imagination of what could have been. It is to craft into things that can be understood what your being has expressed not in human terms understandable. It may be a flight of the spirit into worlds known only to your universe. Or a profoundest experience so mundane as a clock or a sunbeam. We write to allow the public a glimpse of the private with the risk of being understood or maligned or both. It is to bare oneself, but still with clothes on, words, words as clothes.
—-
Fritz Gerald M. Melodi finished BA Psychology with minors in Philosophy from Ateneo de Davao University.
Fiction by Sheila Mae Milla | October 3, 2010
“You are your father’s daughter.”
She remembers how her mother used to say that to her, to spit those words to her as if pronouncing a curse, as if being her father’s daughter is a curse. Maybe it is.
Fiction by Krisini Nanini | October 3, 2010
He pulled her hand hastily and brought her to a dark alley away from a lonely lamppost.
They walked deeper and deeper towards the shadows until total darkness enveloped them.
He pinned her to the wall, his lips devouring hers, gentle and fierce, then suddenly her tongue forced its way into his mouth. For a moment she felt surprise, then he responded to her excitement. Roughly he pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him. Tentatively he let one hand cup her breast and she coiled her leg on his hip. He slipped his hand into her dress and under her brassiere.
Fiction by Seneca Nuñeza Pellano | September 26, 2010
My name is Ling-Ling and I am speaking from inside a jar. My place is no ordinary piece of container. Back in 1993, when my husband won a small-time lottery in Australia, he backpacked to China and spent a fortune on antique porcelains. One of the precious things he shipped to Australia is this huge Chinese porcelain jar from the 16th century, painted with blue intricate scenes of ancient Chinese life. But I am Filipino inside a Chinese jar in Australia. Is this an instance of globalization? At least I know I have finally ended up in an exquisite and expensive place.
Poetry by Elmer Sayre | September 26, 2010
Early morning when you left without saying goodbye
Frantic about meeting a schedule or so
You should have wakened me up
To cook omelet for you and pack your lunch
For the long trip to meet your schedules
Wiping the early morning sweat from your brow
As you go.
But the schedule has to come first
Early as early can be
You may have prodded the pedal to the floor
Squeezing the last gasoline drop
One hundred twenty measures to the hour.
Later at night I could no longer expect
Your light kiss as you arrive
From meeting your schedule or so
Your cold body arriving
In a hearse of the funeral parlor
In Bacolod we hired to pry
The crumpled car open.
—-
Elmer Sayre is a Dipolognon now living in Initao, Misamis Oriental, as a gentleman farmer and a free-lance social development consultant.
Fiction by Arifah Jamil | September 19, 2010
Bismillah. I smoothen this cream liberally on my face covering every inch of skin, looking at the mirror for missed spots. I read the label on the product again and again. I wrangle with doubt. The cream is authentic. It is from Saudi; purely pharmaceutical. Unlike the intertwined reasons for my divorce. Katao. Maratabat. Hormonal imbalance. Our lack of blood relations. But I am still wearing my wedding band. As if I am still his wife and he will be at arm’s length at the slightest ruffle of my malong.
The walls at home box me in regret. I become a coward. I run somewhere else, slipping off convenience. I watch luxury slip away.
Nonfiction by Sergei Reyes | September 19, 2010
Truth-seekers, they call them, but it is a moot description for men like journalists. I say so because there are many who are in the field just guarding their politics; that is, protecting their own interests. And I say so because of the fact that no article written is ever unbiased under any byline. Simple: objective journalism is a myth, and the same can be said for truth. Or maybe not?
Always, the journalist hunts down stories and sometimes we are led to believe that these are true. I doubt that they ever find a convincing end though, so they unearth and ask more to get that finale that satisfies their selfishness. But I doubt that they ever reach that as well because if they did, they would stop.