Poetry by Christian Jane Centina | November 9, 2008
A cigarette butt fell from his fingers
after all the sparks, red and hot,
had been blown away
by the rush of wind.
The acrid smoke,
his mint breath,
the ashes,
together.
Then his hand pulled another stick
like the way he picked girls
threw them away
then and there.
—-
Continue reading Of Cigarette Butts
Poetry by Tita Lacambra Ayala | November 2, 2008
The chico brown feel and
scent and taste of you
keep me shamelessly honeyed
honeyed for hours after and
I can taste you even more
in my midmorning coffee,
even when you have been gone a week.
I taste you everywhere.
When are you returning from the
restlessness of our travels?
Poetry by Yul AV Olaya | November 2, 2008
Nagsalita ang mga bala
Nangaral
Natutong tumula
Namulat sa apoy
At alingawngaw na katahimikan
Sa kweba
Ng magazine kung saan
Marami silang nagsisiksikan
Kung saan ang teritoryo ay
Ginuguhit ang hangganan
Ng mga daliri’t
Gatilyo
Fiction by Janice Manguiob, Karl Raymund Austria, Purificacion Cartajena, Ronald Jay Rama | November 2, 2008
Bahin ngini na istorya sang iso na Mandaya. Ngini na istorya yahitabo kuno sang pirmero na kalinaw ngawong yatapos da ing giyera. Ngansian na simbahan awon bagasay na kuros.
Awon adlaw na yanilhig ngini na iso, tanto ng pagpanaw-panaw naan ika-banggaan naan yang bagasay na kuros. Nakay wa kasayod na iso ag mag tabang-tabang sang pari. Awon ngawong yang iso daw unan ngiyan iistorya naan. “Sin-o ing yaglansang kanmo? Unan ing sala mo na i-aman saan kaw nilan? Wa pa kaw gayud nilan bado-i. Hala, awon karsonis ko sang kuwarto dahon ko lang ngawon ngani kay ipa-suot ko kanmo. Igutom da kay unay kay abay kaw magbitay ngansaan. Mal-aw pagpanihapon adahan takaw ng makaan. Apangutanahaon takaw uli nasa i-amansaan kaw nilan?”
Continue reading Ing Ginoo sang Kuros asta yang Iso / The Crucified Lord and the Boy
Poetry by Nonoy Narciso | November 2, 2008
Usa ka balak-dula
Gabii na sab. Ilatag ko na pod ang banig, labi na sa bugnawng gabii, ang likod way laing ikasalig. Nangatastas na kining banig. Mikupas ug miyatyat na. Hapnigan nakog baga nga habol aron di sakit higdaan.
Isangit ang higot niining moskitero. Sa paglabay sa panahon dili ko na madali-dalig syumoy kining tali sa lansang (mokatawa). Gakurog akong mga tudlo. Ipiton og unlan kining parte sa moskitero nga nabangag aron dili makasulod ang lamok. Usahay mosindi kog katol, unya payak-on kini sa botelya. Ang aso morag panganod sa ibabaw sa moskitero, apan morag dili na madutlan ang lamok niini.
Sa dihang andam na ako mohigda, ang mabilin nga suga mao lamang ang lamparilya. Ang kayo niini morag gapirok-pirok, gakipat-kipat mora bag mapawng, nahadlok, giyaga-yagaan og gitik sa hangin nga molili ning payag.
Fiction by Joey Ayala | October 26, 2008
St. Peter’s Cathedral looms gray and granite-heavy over the Legislative Building which cowers in pain-peeled splendor from across San Pedro Street.
St. Peter is the saint with the rooster. The Patron Saint of the Cockers, the Guardian of the Gates, the Accountant of Sins with the giant leather-bound ledger in the sky.
In front of the Legislative Building is the Cathedral Drive, so named because of the cathedral across the street. At night Cathedral Drive turns into Chicken Avenue.
Chicken Avenue is where all the market vendors who sell undressed chicken at daytime barbecue their unsold chicken at night.
Fiction by Arifah Jamil | October 19, 2008
Khadijah and I have become the wisps of the royalty that you have surrendered.
The mirages of the bai-a-labi in you are constricted inside our ancestral house. They occasionally find their way to your old room, probably lamenting the four-poster brass bed now coated with the dust of abandonment.
Do you remember the landap you have asked your distant cousin to weave for us? You said it would be better if we have the same color, but the design of course shall depend on whether we like ours to be intricately shaped or modestly lined.
Fiction by Arifah Jamil | October 19, 2008
His name was.
We met under the guise of longing—for salvation, for liberation. We talked about the crescent atop every roof of masjid one sees around. I commented on the bais who wear their hijab with such zeal that only their eyes are unveiled. Such niyat to cover their aurat—not all women willingly envelop themselves in symbolic black. He nodded his agreement while looking at me. I was, on that day, wearing my favorite white blouse and my red veil draped on my neck.
He was from the other side of the Lake.