Stuck

Poetry by | September 15, 2019

In church, my God hangs
half-naked, stuck
motionless
to a wooden cross.
In front of him
is a sea of heads.
The fans attached to their hands
swivel back and forth;
gusts of air
gently dry off sweat
from their overdressed bodies.

In church, my God is a disk
as small as a thumbnail.
The hands that receive Him
are decorated in gold, silver,
and dirt. His taste is far from
godly. His heavenly crisp
is softened when he rests
on our ungrateful tongues.

In church, my God hangs
motionless,
stuck to a wooden cross.
His gaze is always fixed.
He does not go anywhere
even when the seats He faces
become empty.

 

Koko is a graduate of Ateneo de Davao University. He is currently a public school teacher. He loves vanilla-flavored smoothies.

 

 

The Goldfinch 

Poetry by | September 15, 2019

after Carel Fabritius’s The Goldfinch (c.1654)

Chained to the feedbox
That is nailed against the day-
Light-plastered, unadorned,

Yellow wall, the goldfinch
Looks out at us, its grave
Gaze unflinching as a hill.

See the sun’s glare?
It is the grin stretched across
The face. The chain, the black-

Obsidian, rain-swollen
Clouds shrouded at the crys-
Talline sky. This taut knot

Is sewn on Earth’s palm.
You are within this world’s
Grasp. You, too, are the bird.

 

 

Michael John Otanes, 24, was born and raised in General Santos City, where he earned his bachelor’s degree in English at Mindanao State University. He is a fellow for Poetry in the 2018 Davao Writers Workshop.

At the Transom Window

Nonfiction by | September 15, 2019

A transom window is a framework made of wood or metal that is built into a wall just below the roof. In post-colonial Philippine Architecture, a transom has ornamental moldings with holes carved through to allow light passage and proper ventilation. It is usually installed in the living room on the top of a 10-feet tall wall. One needs to use a ladder or can levitate to reach the transom.

I used to rent a space with such post-colonial Philippine Architecture. I shared the space with two other women renters, but I stayed in a separate room. One of the renters was a former secretary who had to stop her work because she was under chemotherapy for kidney cancer. The two women belong to the same Seventh day Adventist Church.

Two weeks into my stay there, a new lady joined us. The owner of the house, herself a breast cancer survivor, needed a new cleaning lady. This cleaning lady looked very interesting. She had thin lips that allowed her big teeth to cover most of her face whenever she managed a smile. Her long black hair matched the deep dark color of her eyes. She was a 5-foot-tall woman in her fifties. Her name was Ate Liling.

Every day, Ate Liling would bring me biko. She said that I needed to eat because I was very thin. But I wasn’t a fan of the food she offered, so I left it to rot. Ate Liling didn’t like this lack of attention so she would visit me every so often just to chat.

Sometimes, Ate Liling would tell me tales about her family. She missed them so much.

Once, I asked where they were. She said they were gone. They died a tragic death. She said that food served from a wak-wak transformed them into such local beasts so the people in her community hunted and burned them to ashes. Ate Liling was a very good storyteller. Often, as she laid down the details of her past, I would find myself wandering into the darkness of her eyes convinced of the madness. As soon as she noticed that I was drawn into her tale, Ate Liling would laugh so hard, her face smothered by her big set of teeth. If I didn’t understand her humor, I would have thought that Ate Liling was deranged. “You know what wak-wak wants?” she would ask,”they want to feed on fresh babies. But sick people are tasty to them, too.” Her stories were wild, so I gathered that she probably had a traumatic childhood.

Continue reading At the Transom Window

Home (Part 2)

Fiction by | September 8, 2019

They were having dinner at home later that evening. Aunt Laura had prepared bihon and fried tuna. Alegria made a joke about politicians, which caused Uncle Reyes to spill bits of bihon on his shirt. They were eating and laughing together. Then Tristan said, “I want to go back to Zamboanga.”

“Are you tired?” Alegria said. “Do you miss it there?”

“I just want to go home,” Tristan said.

“Don’t act like a child,” Alegria said. “It’s better to visit Mom and Dad in November. You still have classes. And I’m busy with work.”

They did not understand. Tristan again stuffed a large amount into his mouth, that he could not completely close it while chewing. “One at a time, Tristan!” Aunt Laura reprimanded. “Equal to the size of the spoon.”

“He’s not a child anymore, Laura,” Uncle Reyes said.

“He sure is acting like one.”

Tristan dropped his spoon loudly on the table, which only Alegria noticed.

“Hey!” Alegria said. “What’s the matter with you? Stop saying nonsense like that. Finish your food.”

Then the anger of Tristan was kindled against his sister. “Who attacked our city?!” Tristan shouted. Uncle Reyes stopped midway, and Aunt Laura, drinking water, spilled some on her neck. “Wasn’t it the MNLF? They separated us from mom and dad. Aren’t you angry at all?”

Continue reading Home (Part 2)

Home (Part 1)

Fiction by | September 1, 2019

Tristan was twelve years old when they invaded. His family lived in the barangay near the coastline where the rebels landed. They burned down his family’s home, one of the many. The four of them fled on foot: Tristan, his father, mother, and older sister Alegria. None brought anything with them except the clothes on their skins. Alegria was falling behind. Tristan’s mother pulled his hand tightly as she called out to his father, who ran ahead, shouting at him to slow down. His father said something Triste could not remember, because halfway through his sentence his father suddenly stopped speaking.

His mother screamed just as she fell on the asphalt, dragging Tristan down with her. He fell open-mouthed, and a piece of his front tooth broke when his face hit the ground. His mother became voiceless.

He could not remember his mother’s exact final moments. Alegria grabbed him before the image could sink in, carried him on her shoulder as he continued to cry, and ran as fast as she could, never looking back. Tristan didn’t want to, but he looked back.

How long had they been running? He had lost the will to cry. He seemed like a corpse on her sister’s shoulder. Alegria struggled to carry him; he was not a small child anymore, and he was almost as heavy as she was now. But she pushed on, like there was some invisible force screaming at her that she must carry him, else he dies. When she could no longer bear her brother’s weight, she stumbled in an abandoned street and scraped both her knees, as her hands embraced Tristan so he wouldn’t fall with her. Then there were people in the distance, running toward them. Alegria’s legs couldn’t muster the strength. They were coming closer. And they were carrying guns.

Continue reading Home (Part 1)

Not Another Drunken Memory

Nonfiction by | August 25, 2019

I was walking down the unfamiliar streets of Ecoland at 10 PM, when I finally answered my mother’s phone call. I had missed nine calls from her.

“Asa na ka? Pagdali na kay nag-inom imong Papa,” my mother told me with conviction in her voice.

I shivered at the tone of her voice and the thought that my father was drunk once again. When Papa was drunk, we should all be at home, either asleep or doing our usual evening routine. He would start acting like a teacher—checking the attendance of his students. After all, he was my first teacher who taught me how to be a good daughter by always choosing to be with my family no matter what.

I walked towards the bus station, unable to find a jeep. As I waited for our bus to depart, I thought about my groupmates whom I left with tons of work to do. We were all cramming to pass our Movie Trailer for our Literature subject that was due before midnight. I did not want to leave them but I had no choice. I had a greater deadline from a more terrifying teacher.
Continue reading Not Another Drunken Memory

Palayo Sa Aso

Poetry by | August 25, 2019

“Ayaw na ko ihatod,
mahasol ra ka,” sulti nako niya
samtang gabitbit sa akong mga maleta
pagawas sa among purtahan,
nga karon iyaha na lang.

Guot na kaayo ning balaya
para namong duha.
Tulo ka-tuig na sad
ang milabay sukad gitistingan namo
isigo ang usa’g usa diria.

“Di na gyod ka magpapugong?”
sambit niya human gibuga ang aso
gikan sa iyang sigarilyo,
bisyo nga wa nako tuguti
sa sinugdanan–apan kadugayan
kay naandan na lang.

“Unsa pa ma’y dugayan?”
Tubag nako, dayon amin.
Gahulat na ang traysikel nga akong sakyan
padulong kanto,
padulong sa dapit nga layo
sa iyang mga aso.

Apan, sa akong mga kamot
magpabilin gihapon ang baho.

Jasmin C. Arcega is a Creative Writing student in UP Mindanao who loves chicken, ketchup, books, and Super Junior.

Ang Sapatos Ni Inday

Poetry by | August 25, 2019

Samtang ako nagahulat
sama sa usa ka bato sa kilid
duol sa purtahan kauban
ang mga lapok nga pirteng kapyot
sa akong atubangan.
Ako naghinamhinam
sa kanindot sa ubang sapatos
nga nagtapok ug giampingan
sa sulod sa aparador.

Nipungko ko layo sa ila ug naminaw
sa kabanha sa mga butiki nga igat,
ug ang dagan sa mga ok-ok nga kiat,
sama sa makina ni Lola nga buntag-hapon
padayon gihapon sa pagtahi
sa mga klase-klaseng sanina nga gisi.

Ang kahilom sa abog nga madunggan
sa salog kauban ang hangin nga sigeg panitsit
sa puting kurtina ug mosabay ug sayaw
inig mosulod kini sa bintana.
Mga bangko nga murag guwardiya
sa yagpis nga lamesang nagtuwad.

Ang akong pagdahom nga makagawas
sa akong tigoman nga hantod lantaw na lang
sa punoan nga sigeg tutok
sa bintana kauban ang kahayag
nga nagatuyok.
Ug ako nga usa ka butang
mopadayon na unta og baktas
nga naay padulngan.

Shinnen Johann N. Cahandig is born in Bugabungan Upi, Maguindanao. She is a senior high school graduate of Davao City National High School and is currently studying AB Literature and Cultural Studies in the University of Southeastern Philippines.