Fiction by Roselle Jimeno | June 15, 2008
Because you are a chef, I must stuff my mouth with your cooking. Beat the eggs well, in the kitchen, on the bed, you always say. Even though you know I can’t cook.
Preheat the oven to 250 degrees. Turn the button. That is all I know how to do.
The fat chicken you had marinated overnight with pineapple juice lacks poise lying in the pan. Good thing its head had been cut off. Just imagine if it was there, you might think it was still alive.
Nonfiction by Carmi Denise So | June 15, 2008
San Pedro, considered to be the center of Davao City, is where you will find the city hall, the cathedral, and various shops. On Sundays after the mass, you’ll see people coming out of the church like soldier ants from their anthill. As you walk away from San Pedro Cathedral, it’s like making your way to the battlefield because you’ll have to squeeze yourself into the crowd, making sure that your belongings are still intact and your cellular phone or wallet is in your possession. Snatchers are everywhere pretending to be shoppers or bystanders so you’ll never notice how they orchestrate their schemes. Everywhere you look, you’ll surely see a swarm of people either dressed in their office uniforms or in their casual wear ready to shop till they drop or just hang around Rizal Park. Continue reading The New Wonders of San Pedro
Poetry by Javin Jet Tevar | June 15, 2008
An overhand knot. Loop like bunny ears.
Another overhand.
With eyebrows almost meeting,
I concentrated
on the simplest
ordeal a six-year-old should ace.
How could he do it so easily? Without
even looking!
Dad smirked at me. His playful arrogance
pleased me.
His brown fingers seemed to twist and turn
like his shoelaces, tying and untying.
My lips mouthed an “O”.
Continue reading Knots
Poetry by Aaron Jalalon | June 15, 2008
When I remember that fisherman
walking out of our house every morning
before breakfast, I think of
how we seemed too distant, his heart,
as usual, far from my own.
Fiction by Joan Marie Yu | June 8, 2008
On my left foot, the white sock with blue stripes is paired with a plain yellow sock. I’m wearing my favorite pair again. The left sock is made of a cool thin cloth, while the other one is heavy and warm.
I can still imagine my mother’s face when she first saw me wearing this pair when I was still in elementary. She was quite hysterical when I told her I wanted to go to school wearing them. My father was very strict about being organized. A perfectionist, you might say. I remember him pointing out that a young man must dress accordingly to earn the respect and trust of his peers. His deep solid voice and few words were enough to make me agree. I never showed them the pair again.
Nonfiction by Vanessa Arellano Doctor | June 8, 2008
Many beginning writers have this complex about them. You know the type. The ones who proudly rub their one and only published work in your face and look down on you as if they’re the ones who control the rotation of the earth on its axis. I can only scoff and force myself to shut my trap, lest I hurl obscenities at them for being too giddy and pretentious.
I admit I was something like this when I didn’t know any better. The first time I saw my name on the paper, I was pumped with so much adrenaline and pride that I forgot to be humble. And at the high times of my braggadocio, I somersaulted and fell flat. Just like that. So I had to get up again, start from scratch, wondering how I was able to write that one damned thing that propelled me to temporary fame, because, all of a sudden, I could not reproduce it. Continue reading Writer Does Not Mean Better
Poetry by Kelly Conlon | June 8, 2008
Before I nodded off to sleep at night
Mama would tell me a fairy tale —
The princess meets her dear prince…
“And then what next, Ma?’
A finger to her lips, she’d smile
“I’ll let you read the book tomorrow.”
When the sun came up
She’d point to the upstairs attic.
There, I sat on a dusty wooden floor —
The prince dances with his princess
to the sound of ten drums, violins,
trumpets, and lyres…
Downstairs, Ma and Pa danced
to the beat of angry voices, cries,
slamming doors, breaking china.
The royal couple now happily wed
Had a bonny daughter in the end…
Clambering down the stairs, I went
“They loved their princess, Ma!”
Pa slapped me very hard
“You and your fairy tales!”
Perhaps I had read the story wrong.
Many nights after,
I would tell myself another fairy tale
of a princess with a broken heart
crying silently in front of the mirror.
My story book went back in the attic, now
Covered in cobwebs, dust,
dried tears, and ghostly laughter—
Ma, you knew it would end that way,
didn’t you?
Poetry by Arian Rey Tejano | June 8, 2008
kung ako
mabuhi pag-usab
pilion nako
ang kinabuhi
sa lapis:
kay kung naa may kapakyasan,
mapapas ra kini.
kay kung mahabol man ang akong paglantaw,
mahait ra kini.
kay kung maglisud man ko’g duyog sa kapit-us,
naa gihapoy mogunit sa akong agi.
kung maupos man ko, apan dili sama sa usa ka kandila
dili ko mamatay.
kung ang kandila mawad-an ug kahayag,
ang akong kahayag mabilin
sa papel nga puno ug balak
nga mudugay pa sa pipila
ka panuigon.