It is 3 o’clock; the perfect time to have a snack in this cool, air-conditioned restaurant. A couple walks in, trailed by two little children. The man stays at the doorway and surveys the room for a table while the woman heads for the the bar to ask for a highchair. The smaller of the two children, a boy of about three, latches onto his mother’s navy blue skirt. The girl romps her way to the toilet and turns the knob. It is locked. She stamps a foot and runs to her father, who has chosen a table by the window and is now reading the newspaper. He feels his daughter tugging his sleeve. He lowers the paper and glances in the direction of the toilet and pats the chair next to him. Sit down and wait for your turn. But the little girl refuses to sit. Instead, she walks back to the door. She shifts her weight impatiently: first on one leg, and then the other. She does this for a while, the intervals becoming shorter as her discomfort increases. Finally the door opens and an elderly woman walks out.
Tagum Fairy Tales
Nonfiction by Seneca Nuñeza Pellano | May 9, 2010
I will be the first to admit that as a kid, I never grew up reading fairy tales. The lives of Cinderella, Little Mermaid, Snow White, and Little Red Riding Hood were never stored in my personal memory box. I have often wondered what my outlook would have been had I been initiated into these fairy stories early on.
Tiny Stolen Moments
Poetry by Iryne Kaamino | May 9, 2010
i tuck my soul along with its wings
inside a small soap box under my bed.
in its place are white uniforms and a cap
chasing money trains to purchase their dreams
yet once in awhile, on stolen seconds just like this,
for a little air; i gingerly take them out
feed a little sunlight
dust off pleading cobwebs
while sewing the edges of my moth-eaten dreams.
—-
True to the persona of the poem, Iryne is a clinical instructor drawn to poetry. The panel praised this piece for its genuine voice and its melancholic rhythm.
Madonna
Poetry by Erika Navaja | May 9, 2010
Dad fetched me one afternoon,
Five-o’ clock,
In my kindergarten classroom.
He saw me draw on the blackboard
A mother taking her son to school.
I asked him if he liked it,
But it’s just a drawing,
He said, sighing,
Not even applauding such stick figures
With the same smiling faces.
I pulled myself away, and turned back
To continue drawing my first masterpiece,
Only to find my teaching aide
Erasing Madonna and child
Drawn on the blackboard.
—-
While some panelists debated on the voice and perspective of the persona of the poem, one panelist felt very moved by the manner treatment of the subject, in this case, a child’s longing for an absent parent.
Success
Nonfiction by Riza Racho | May 3, 2010
How do we measure success? Each has her own answer to this basic question, and each is correct. It depends, I guess, on where one is coming from, or perhaps, where one is at the time the question came. Since is no right answer to this question, there is only the supposition of its accuracy, of its veracity. From whose perspective will the assessment of such accuracy come? I guess it will be from the perspective of one who had been there.
I measure my success not in terms of how much I have in the bank—for there is not a lot there, just a few measly pesos to tide me over till the next paycheck—nor even how long I have taught in the University. To do so, I think, is inutile, for then, I am but one of the many who have given their best to honor the age-old tradition of greater service for the glory of God. I am but one of the soldiers who march to the battlefront, swinging her gun to the rhythmic cadence of inspired heroism before the guns start to mow us down. I am one of the many who may still live the ideals of a world gone awry, tenaciously holding to what could have been so that this world could become a more habitable one for those who will come after us. So, what, then, is success for me?
Hi Tech: Solutions or Problems?
Nonfiction by Aldory Gevero | May 3, 2010
One of my professors in masters’ education once said, “High tech solutions create high tech problems.” It was his remark while trying to fix the computerized multimedia projector that was having problem amidst our class. His statement struck me as remarkable, since, as a district Information and Communication Technology coordinator, I too have a wide background in computers. Just like my professor, I recognize how useful this new technology is in establishing effectiveness, efficiency, and productivity in this fast changing times. On the other hand, I usually encounter technical problems with the new technology, and we also have the same plea oftentimes. I enjoyed the benefit and comfort of using this technology while sometimes I felt the stress and anxiety it has caused me.
Baby Hopes
Fiction by Alpha Khristine Fortun | April 25, 2010
I didn’t want to see pain in Mama’s face as much as I didn’t want to see anguish in Papa’s. I never wanted to look at their faces twisted in a way that I have never seen before, or hear unfamiliar gasps and cries because they wouldn’t have words to scold me. It was not like breaking my Grandma’s urn, or my mother finding out that I had just transferred the mess inside my room to my locker, piled underneath my clothes. It was much, much more profound and complicated than that. I was pregnant.
His fatherly love
Nonfiction by Enrica Edralin | April 18, 2010
When I was a child, I used to play with my friends after every class. We would play different games each day. But I only remember the game we play on Thursdays – the dakop-dakop. It was a predator searching for its prey type of game. My friends and I would play this high-energy game in the quadrangle of my grade school. I would scream, shout, and run as fast as I could so that the hungry predator would not catch me. When I am caught and become the “it,” I run faster to grasp my prey. Usually, everyone becomes a predator of the game before the first round ends.