I Really Just Want to Write

Nonfiction by | June 20, 2010

I’ve always said it: I just want to write. Some of my classmates in Creative Writing were born to become professors passing on their knowledge to the next generation of students, others were born to edit, to analyze other writers’ works, and to put together papers that become chapters of textbooks. I firmly believe that my niche in this world belongs to writing. And so I became a web content writer.

But the life of a web content writer is not as glamorous as it sounds. I can assure you, the pay is just as bad. On the other hand, I encounter situations my former classmates do not.

In my quest for a better paying job and in the misguided belief that I needed to step up my game, I accepted online editing work for a company based in the United Arab Emirates.

My new employer was the head of human resources of a drilling company. As to what the company was drilling, I could only venture guesses: oil? water? sewage? Sensitive documents never came my way, but what editing work that did kept me busy for days on end.

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149 Minutes

Nonfiction by | June 13, 2010

Nervous, I inserted my ballot into the PCOS (Precinct Count Optical Scanner) machine. I was nervous because the PCOS might reject my ballot like it did to the woman’s before me. She had to insert it six times before her ballot was counted. Less than a minute passed, and the words, “Congratulations! Your vote has been counted” appeared. I sighed. I was done.

What the COMELEC (Commission on Elections) said was really true. With the automated elections, the counting of the ballots would no longer take a long time, unlike the manual elections. But it’s too early to celebrate. Lest we forget, the searching of polling precincts, the lining up—all that, too, is part of the elections. And there are so many things that can be said of them. So many, in fact, that I don’t know where to begin.

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Saturday Soul Searcher

Fiction by | June 13, 2010

Elsa smoothed her hair as she got to the university entrance. A glance at her watch showed it was 4:55. Just in time for her regular 5pm Saturday mass. It was actually an anticipated Sunday mass. She made it a habit to attend this schedule to allow her to loll in bed the whole Sunday while watching TV or DVD’s. Given the possibility that the priest might give a long homily, she would be out of here by around 6:15. Then she would take a tricycle ride and still catch up with her favorite TV program on showbiz news.

But the chapel seemed full as she came near it. Definitely, this was not her day to show off her fashionable get-up to full advantage. In the past, she would usually walk down the center aisle and head towards the front seat near the altar, her head held high. Reluctantly, Elsa walked towards one of those plastic chairs set right outside the chapel’s door. She found a corner seat beside a small artificial pond. She glanced furtively to her right. Good, there was still an empty seat between her and the other churchgoers. She was about to place her small bag there when a young girl hurriedly sat down.

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A Million Feet Scurry

Poetry by | June 6, 2010

inspired by “Curtain,” mixed media on canvas by Ivan Macarambon

It’s the millipede burrowing through the threads of a rug
that did it. A sign of wet weather, I’ve seen one or two
this afternoon, racing down the elbow of wall
and floor, the grout between tiles its tracks.
Where are they heading, punctual
little trains heading for a wreck under my heels,
or against the wall under the handle of a broom,
little, black, rusty nails bent in the middle
like a sloppy strike from an untried wrist?
Appointments wait in cold corners,
behind toilets, the inevitable,

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Your Name

Fiction by | June 6, 2010

“Eleonora Amador?” the receptionist asks as she looks at around. Could she have been expecting the old woman to stand as the name was called? When you stand, she looks at you from head to foot then smiles wryly.

You are confident that you look your best today. You wear a ruffled blouse paired with skin-tight black leggings. You look even younger than your past twenty last November. You nod your curl-crowned head thinking of how many times people have wondered about that name of yours and how many times you have had to claim it as yours.

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Salamat, Kuya

Poetry by | May 30, 2010

Nangandoy ko nga motubo og paspas aron maapsan tika.
Napul-an na ko sa pagsul-ob sa imong tinuboang sapatos
nga baho og mga langyawng pangandoy.

Ang mga tinuboan mong sinina guot na kaayo
sa akong dughan. Kanunay ko nga gahilak kon masimhotan
ang nahibiling tinagoan sa imong ilok.

Unsaon, kay lagi, matod ni tatay ‘pobre ra ta’.
Sigon ni nanay, ‘mapuslan pa man na.’
Unya karon, ang imo na pung brip?

Kon may kamot lang ning akong kinatawo,
manampong gyud ni.
Pero sige na lang. Katapusan na ni.

Kay sukad karon, matod mo,
ang imong sul-obon kay panty.
Hay, salamat, kuya.

—-
Paul Randy P. Gumanao is BS Chem Student at AdDU who loves to write poems

Venerations

Poetry by | May 30, 2010

I hold them in open palms
Clipped with my thumb
I cradle them, as one cradles something sacred
I watch as they burn a fire short-lived
I watch them
Glow, ghostly in this heavy darkness
Bringing silence to those who gaze
They leave white smoke trails
Trailing off to unknown planes
Carrying with them prayers I have not uttered
As they strip their way down
They leave ashes in their wake
Filling the air with sweet pungent fragrance
Enough to wake the dead

—-
Fritz Gerald M. Melodi finished BA Psychology from Ateneo de Davao University.

Me, Through You

Poetry by | May 30, 2010

for Bryan Carlo Manos

Each time your hand
touches mine
or some other part of my body,

I shiver until I have goose bumps.

Each time your hand
travels on my hair, my skin, or the sole of my left foot,
the world lights up until
I see nothing but a big, bright ball of light.

Each time your hand
maps me
and some other parts of my body,

I feel
my
self.

—-
Hiyasmin Espejo is a writing major at UP Mindanao and was a fellow in this year’s DWG Writers Workshop.