Poetry by Alden Arsèn | December 30, 2024
Usa ka dangaw ang mipataliwa
sa atong kapalaran.
Nagtapad ta niining dyip
nga naglatas sa kadalanan sa V. Rama.
Kulongon ang imong buhok
nga gipaak sa pulang pugong,
samtang ang imong duha ka itom nga ariyos
giduyan-duyan sa huyuhoy.
Poetry by Jay Bryan La-ag | December 30, 2024
Sa dihang may nakahinabi ako nga biyuda,
walay mga luha nga midayan
sa iyang mga mata,
ug ang kanal-kanal niini gauphag pud. Gani,
wala puy pagpanghupong sa iyang ubaog,
walay gabitay nga dag-om
nga mingkumpayot sa iyang tabon-tabon,
ug wala pud mopakita og pagkalarag
ang tabonon niyang liryo.
Nonfiction by Jewel Mansia | December 30, 2024
I was around eight when my mom told me she wanted a grandchild with blue eyes. We were just hanging out in the backyard, sitting beside each other on a hammock, when she said, “Gusto ko ng mestizong apo!” She told me she wanted to see them in person, as blue eyes aren’t something you typically encounter in ordinary Philippine settings.
“Mestizo” is a Spanish word that originally described a person of Spanish and indigenous descent. Over time, the meaning evolved to a broader definition: a person of mixed race. In the Philippines, a mestizo is someone who is half-Filipino and half-foreigner, or, in simpler terms, a “tisoy”—someone with evident Caucasian features who is conventionally attractive.
Fiction by Iona Mendoza | December 16, 2024
You said goodbye to Attorney Ramos when you clocked out. The solid pine doors of the firm were expensive, heavy under slim hands. But you are healthy. You take good care of your body. You pushed them open easily and walked over to your Jeep, a pretty white thing.
You drove to that gym in Sta. Ana, the one you don’t like. You always complain that it’s too crowded by the time you get off work. Still, you go inside, strip off your blouse, and swap the skirt for a pair of tight leggings. You grew up nicely, didn’t you? Wide hips, full lips, long legs. I could stare at you every day. I do.
Poetry by Domar Batucan Recopelacion | December 16, 2024
Growing up, I watched your hands
build things—
tables and benches
for the kitchen,
and even the abohan
when it looked like it was falling apart.
Fiction by Jenny Manongas | November 25, 2024
It was already too early in the morning by the time Henry finally hailed an empty jeepney to lead him straight home.
“South Villa, kuya?” he asked with the kind of urgency only possessed by someone who had 15 missed calls from their mom. The jeepney driver, a tired old man, squinted at him over his eyeglasses and mouthed a confused “Ha?” back at him. Henry repeated himself, much louder this time, and the old man nodded sharply. He rushed to the back of the jeep and sat near the exit as the vehicle started moving again, turning the corner of the demolished mall now barricaded in a blue reminiscent of its logo.
Poetry by James Bryan Delgado | November 18, 2024
Yesterday, I hung the mirror
on the farthest wall.
From a distance, I watched myself
read every number on the scale:
too heavy, too small.
I lay in bed, starved,
and fed on your words instead.
The curves of my body were funny to you,
and I’m sure you did not mean to laugh,
but I refused to welcome
any more meals that day.
Poetry by John Lloyd Sabagala | November 18, 2024
dahil ang pag-ibig natin ay hindi isang bulaklak na tumubo lamang sa isang paso, kundi sa isang banayad sanang lupa ng nabunturan, handog ng buwan at kamatayang mga banal. ngunit hindi natin kayang yumabong nang husto dahil sa mga damong hindi naman dito sa atin galing ang pagtubo. sa pagkakaalam ko, bago pa man dumating ang diyos ama, anak, at espiritu santo, may basbas na ng buwan at kamatayan ang ganitong uri ng pag-ibig. kinuha na lamang ang sustansya ng regalong lupain ng mga dayuhang halamanin na siyang nagpunla ng napakalubhang sakit na halos di na kayang agapan pa. kaya hanggang ngayon, naghihikahos pa rin tayong mamunga, nahihirapan pa ring magpalago, pinipitas na kahit hindi pa dapat.