Maris and Jude

Nonfiction by | April 11, 2010

It is a Friday, 5 am, and Maris comes home after having pulled yet another all-nighter. She goes up to her room and sees her two children, Gabby, six, and Patrick, three, sleeping and oblivious to the creaking door as it opens. Maris enters and sits at one side of the bed watching her children. Her eyes linger on them for a moment, then fall on two travel bags that remind her of her flight to Tacloban City later that day. She glances at her watch, she realizes that she still has to go to work in three hours.

Coming home in the wee morning hours is normal for Maris — at least now it is. She works for two law firms, one in the Office of the Government Corporate Counsel and another with a consultancy for a business process outsourcing company. As the law firms don’t require her to be present daily, she also handles cases in her private practice. It is not the hours that measure the work that she does, it is the load of corporate cases she handles within those hours and after hours. Draining, but Maris does not let this get to her.

But this is not how it all used to be.

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The Young Sultan and the Plague

Fiction by | April 4, 2010

sultan
In the days when the Kingdom brimmed with prosperity and good fortune, the dining room of the Palace flowed with food and wine for the many revelers. Expensive draperies festooned the windows; servants brought in exotic delicacies on platters made of gold and silver.

Now, the days of such merriment were long past. The young Sultan shuffled into a dining room dim and empty. No revelers, no food, no wine, windows closed, an eerie silence pervaded the room. Only a flickering candle on the round table held back the darkness. The sultan said sat on his throne, still uneasy.

While he was though how all this came to pass, the three Rajas, whom he was expecting that day, arrived one by one.

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The River Rages

Fiction by | March 28, 2010

river rages
She slept at the balcony on the banig that Andres laid down for her. He had given her the mat the night after the fire burnt their house down. Earlier that morning, he came to her and gave her money to buy merienda at the store. He had this light aura around him and smiled generously as he had the night he offered his place for Minda’s family. Her mother, Manang Leticia, did the housework for Andres who lived alone in his house near the river.

The river had a stench because of the garbage that the people dumped into it regularly. Minda could hear the wet rustling as pailfuls of dried leaves, candy wrappers, and bottles are thrown on it. The river swelled as the trash mounted and created pools of stagnant water. She smelled them from the balcony and she buried her face in the pillow that had Andres’s hair gel scent on it.

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Keeping

Poetry by | March 28, 2010

So she is my meteor who I foolishly follow
Through the longest nights.
She teases and leaves me a trail
Of all thoughts about her
Till the morning.
A fiery line of promises
Flashed and unfolded
Before my eyes
The moment she crossed the sky
And I saw what could be mine—
She loving me fully,
I making love to her fullness.
The wanting just grows stronger
And the raging desires are just
Depressing me with the fact
That I am left unloved.
So I’ll never get that star
For me to selfishly own.
I won’t ask for more.
I won’t bother God a little.
For a complete love
Will only bring hurt to both of us.
I resolve to keep everything as is.
My heart won’t fear.
It will always be loud and musical.
It will continue to eat all of me
And I will always feel good.
That’s the way it will be.
That’s the only way she’ll get
To love me.

—-
Freidreich C. Layno is a junior writing major in UP Mindanao.

Letters from Bengt, My Swedish Love

Nonfiction by | March 28, 2010

Fifty-two years after our last correspondence, at the age of 80, I discovered while delving into an old bureau a box of sepia-colored love letters—42 in all, with addresses from different parts of the world over a space of four years, 1955 to 1958, from Bengt Birgander, a very blond Swedish seaman whose fervent love for me was undeniable.

We had tried so desperately to get married after a shipboard romance on the freighter MS Mangalore where I was the only female on board carrying my Fordomatic car from New York through the Panama Canal to LA and across the Pacific to Manila—or a total of one month and a week.

In my soon to be published autobiography, I have a chapter on “My Super-blond Swedish Love” where I recount how I finally opened my cabin door to him but refused to give up my virginity. One of Bengt’s letters gives his views on that.

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The Kiram Building

Nonfiction by , | March 21, 2010

(Remembering The Lost Sultan’s Mansion)

The Mansion in Kidapawan designed and built by Sultan Omar Kiram II, locally known as the Kiram Building, was a testimony to the life and artistic merit of a great man of history. With its distinct Roman-Torogan design, it was arguably Kidapawan’s greatest link to its Mindanawon roots. Yet its destruction, and the Kidapaweño’s indifference to it, painfully reveals how unconcerned the people are for their heritage.

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Rehistro

Poetry by | March 21, 2010

Gidahum, gihulat
Lugway pang mga adlaw
Aron masugdan
Unang mga lakang –
Lakang alang sa kaugmaon
Sa kabag-uhan
Apan wa gyud gitagana
Ang pangamuyo niining yano
Kay nganong nagpaabot sa deadline?
Sa way paglangan
Mihuyat, mibarog
Ug nakigbuno
Sa init sa adlawng tutok
Sa taas na nga pila sa kabatan-onan
Inubanan sa dinutdanay
Mipatulo sa singot
Ginagmayng sakripisyo
Wa panumbalinga
Alang sa kahingpitan sa pagtuman
Ning dalan sa tul-id
Nga lungsuranon
Matag istroki sa bolpen
Wa damha ang daw katagbawang
Mitugkad sa kalag
Sa pagsangko
Sa katilingbanong responsibilidad
Subay sa gitakdang katungod
Matag tintang milutak
Nagmalaumon, nagmadasigon
Aron masugdan
Ang unang mga lakang –
Lakang alang sa kaugmaon
Sa kabag-uhan
Andam na
Sa pagpili ug pagbotar!

—-
James Roy Pascual studies accountancy at ADDU.

Home from Binugao, Toril, After a Week, Missing the Enrollment Period

Poetry by | March 21, 2010

Carelessly
you toss your head into the air.
I quickly steal my arm around your neck,
preventing you from falling back.
My knuckles whiten
as my grasp tightens on the rail.
City lights sparkle far into the night,
and this truck revs up, speeds away from this twilight.
The wind washes our faces,
stinging the burns on our cheeks.
Your hair still smells of the sea,
mixed with the sweet scent of beer on my skin.
Back on the beach, how you spilled it on my shirt.
You snatched the bottle from my hand
and brought it up to your lips.
How easily your ears glowed red,
your mouth flowering into a smile.
How giddy the light danced in your eyes as
you ran to the shore, removing your clothes off.
Now, the city lights are closing in
and I toss my head into the air,
wishing summer were not dying too soon.
Forward, it’s time to face those we left behind.
You slip your arm around my waist
to whisper, “We’re gonna be okay.”
Looking back down the disappearing road,
I see the sun’s last wave of heat scattering into tiny lights.
This ride takes only a short while,
and those city lights won’t quiet us down.

—-
Panganud is the pseudonym of an out-of-school youth.