The Prisoner

Nonfiction by | May 12, 2019

“Bomba… bomba! Halin dira. Bomba! Ahhhhh… Ahhhhh… bomba!” He would mumble words, words that were hard to understand, plain nonsense for those who pass by the store near his isolated room. People in our neighborhood were used to hearing him shout. Sometimes it was very loud that even the ones living in the next block could hear. Whenever he tried to break free, we could hear the sound of clanking steel.

When I was a child, my mother often asked me to buy ingredients and other things in the sari-sari store. Our neighbor, Auntie Alma, had a store in front of her house so I didn’t need to go far every time my mother asked me to buy something for her. But it was a Sunday and Auntie Alma was out to go to church. I had to walk around the street to find another store so I can buy a sachet of Sunsilk and Safeguard. My mother instructed me to return immediately because my father needed it. I walked to the end of the street and found a small sari-sari store. I was very happy that I didn’t need to walk far to buy the shampoo and soap. “Ayo, ayo!” I called. There was no response except the barking of dogs and a voice of a man screaming. I was surprised and scared for a moment. I stepped back a little and hesitated to buy but I remembered my mother’s instruction. I looked at the dog and noticed that it had a leash so I was confident that it would not hurt me. I looked at the small room connected to the house of the store owner where the voice of the man came from. It was locked. I took a step forward and peeped inside the store but there was no one. “Ayo, ayo!” I called louder so that the tindera would hear me. I thought that she was watching TV because I could hear the sound in full volume. When she didn’t come, I called louder, competing with the barking of the dogs and the screaming on the other side of the store. She went out of their house and walked toward the store. I noticed that she was a bit mad because I called her. I asked for the things I needed in exchange for P14.00. When I got the sachet of Sunsilk and Safeguard with me, I turned toward the room, curious about the man inside. “Ante, sin-o nang sa sulod sang kwarto? Sagad tana ka syagit ah. Kag ngaa sa guwas sang balay niyo ang kwarto niya?” I had a lot of questions in my mind but she just dismissed me and told me to go home straight.
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To the Passengers I Sat Beside with on the Bus Home

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

Forgive me for not looking
or for looking at you too
intensely in the eyes before
I settled myself in, or before I
answered, “no, lingkod lang” when
you asked if I was with someone.
I apologize for letting my arms
graze yours, accidentally,
sometimes, only to see what
it is like, again.

Once, I let myself think you
were someone else, or I
a different person. I hope
you didn’t find my presence
too big, as it often, always, takes
up more space than it deserves.

David Jayson Oquendo is an Electrical Engineer based in Davao City, Philippines. His works have appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, Dagmay, and Cotabato Literary Journal.

How Are You?

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

A writer is sometimes vague
with the world and its gentlest demands,
it finds itself from being vague and all,
the pen is an irony;
it truly ensnares the subtlety,
the ardor, and the incongruity;
and yet it incarcerates the hand
that harnesses it
from the ordinary and the naïve,
what disaster it truly brings
only the heart can truly fathom,
and when no word can bear the slight,
only the soul can truly writhe,
the solitude of a writer’s shadow,
enchanting to the dream,
agonizing as reality in the dawn,
what are we but fainting letters
amidst the wave of life,
what are we but troubled outlines
wrestled into oblivion,
and yet the pen is incognito
lashing hearts within
truly tempting, truly cunning
for the human heart is but naïve
but a writer disdains the humor
refutes the slumber
encumbers the pain
for there is luxury in writing
a thousand words
into the deep
for there is no one surer
left alone and forsaken
but the writer who cannot sleep
heeds the cry of the river
and hears the echo of forever,
a writers walks ingloriously
in this world or the next
entrenched into the bosom of life
estranged from this withered road
all but tread the footsteps
of the cold, damp feet
what price does a writer pay?
to make known
the last gasp of light
from feeling and deceiving
from shedding the greatness
of life in a glimpse;
tis’ the life that knew
the pen never forgets
how vague summers can be
and in the burrow of crowdedness
I lay still and vague
and where these trenches may lead
only the pen knows.

Paulo Morales is a senior high school teacher at Badas National High School in Mati City.

BGR

Poetry by | May 5, 2019

There’s a vein – blue
running across your face
a striking contrast
to your pale skin
like grains to a marble
add character to
an otherwise expressionless
mask you wear playing
a geisha China doll

There’s a light – green
flashing in front of me
a persistent signal
to my eager hands
like trained lab rats
my fingers trace
the contours of your face
which is smooth and gentle
and cold and dead

There’s a thought – red
ready for a full stop]
an intention killed
before it can free
trapped desires and
demons from pretty boxes
your dwelling place
in most cases outlined
by faraway glances

Rory Ian is a physics teacher.

Watching Movies in the 70s

Fiction by | May 5, 2019

I’m a Gen Xer and I love movies.

It saddens a movie freak like me that the movie house of my youth, Timber City Cinema in Tandag City, has gone kaput and become display center for all things China.

In mid-90s, during the dying years of Timber City Cinema, watching movies meant sweating bullets from heat; inhaling cigarette smoke; resting one’s feet on the seat to avoid contact with rats the size of cats; and evading raindrops falling from the holey roof.

During heavy rains, a puddle would form on the orchestra floor, between the screen and the first row. And from the balcony I would watch the movie on that pool of water because images were less blurry.

In the 70s, movie houses were enclosed by foldable gate grills. Behind the grills and encased in glass cabinets were movie posters under the “Next” and “Coming Soon” labels. And outside of the grills, tacked on both sides of a plywood panel were still pictures under the “Now Showing” label.

As we waited for the movie house to open at 1 o’clock, we would entertain ourselves by gawking at these posters and photos.
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Ulan-init

Fiction by | April 28, 2019

(lugit gikan sa sugilanon)

“Hooooo!”

Gibira ni Nenet ang pisi nga nagtapot sa ilong sa kabaw, mihunong kini sa pagkadungog sa iyahang singgaak. Nagtungtong siya sa buko-buko sa mananap nga ganina pa naghalhal. Walay klase, mao nang nanghakot silag lubi kauban ang iyahang maguwang nga si Teban, disi-saes anyos ug manghod nga si Pawpaw nga dyes ang panuigon. Tig-isa silag tugsak sa iyahang mga igsoon, gama kini sa kawayan nga adunay hait sa punta aron madagit ang lubi nga ilang ipanulod sa ilahang kariton.

“Punu na!” tubag sa igsoong si Pawpaw paghuman og hakot sa lubi.

“Siiii!”

Gipitkan ni Nenet ang lubot sa kabaw, misutoy kini sa laing punoan. Nagpasiaw si Pawpaw tungod kay nagkumpayot kini sa likod sa kariton. Nag-una iyahang Manoy Teban sa agianan arun susihon ang dalan kon aduna pa bay mga lubi nga angay ikarga. Sa dihang nakita sa iyahang maguwang laki nga wala nay lubi nga nahibilin, mipauli na sila.

“Una na lang mo Noy kay mangita pa kog lawa-lawa diri. Ibaligya nako kang Justin.” asuy sa kinamanghuran.

“Tagaan na lang takag damang unya sa balay, gilaming nako to. Dako kaayo to.” segun sa ilahang manoy Teban nga gikuha ang pisi kang Nenet. Walay nahimo ang manghod ni Nenet nga si Pawpaw busa misakay na lang kini uban niya nga kadtong higayona mibalhin sa ibabaw sa kariton ug nag-ingkib og turok samtang gahigda.

Naabtan nila ilahang tatay nga gikaestorya sa anak ni Don Ramon nga ilahang amo, ang tag-iya sa yuta nga gina-ugmad sa iyahang anhing lolo Tito nga usa ka Waray. Nahisalaag kini sa Mindanao sukad pa niadtong 1980’s ug miabot dinhi sa probinsya sa Sarangani kon diin sila nagkaila ni anhing Don Ramon.

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To Pull A Hook

Nonfiction by | April 28, 2019

(excerpt from an essay)

“AKO NA POD kuya bi,” my younger brother Sean said while trying to take the fishing rod from me.

“Paghulat gud,” I told him, moving the rod out of his reach. “Nagahulat na ang talakitok sa akoa o.”

“Ganina pa man ka.”

“Lima na lang ka labay,” I promised him. I whipped the line out into the sea, away from the shore.

MY FANCY FOR fishing started with envy. I was hooked to it after seeing an episode of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on television. The titular character and his rowdy gang of country boys had run away from their homes and were fishing in the Mississippi River to feed themselves, competing who had the biggest catch in the process. I watched with envy as they roasted the fish over open fire and devoured them when they were cooked.

I was seven years old back then at my grandparents’ farm somewhere deep in Polomolok, South Cotabato. There was nothing much to do except for the daily trips to the river that my grandfather and I had to take to tend the cows. People in Polomolok mostly farmed for a living. On special occasions, a cow, maybe a goat, and a couple of chickens would be butchered for a feast, but the daily diet consisted of vegetables, which was virtually everywhere, and fish—fish from the market and fish from the river. My grandparents were able to buy fish from the market, but I wanted to try eating fish that I myself had caught.

Fishing was originally developed to find food in the wild for survival. As time progressed, fishing evolved to include the activity as a pastime. Recreational fishing is a luxury for those who have pockets full of money with time on their hands to cast carbon-fiber retractable fishing rods with high-end reel and a line of nylon connected to a floater or a sinker with a plethora of colorful artificial baits, one for each type of fish. While this is so, the tackle, or the entire fishing equipment, used in Polomolok only consists of a good-length bagakay for a rod, a coil of thin, transparent nylon, and a single hook. Baits can be found wherever there is moist and healthy soil.

“Tay, bakal na bala sang bunit,” I requested my grandfather one day.

“Sa sunod ah,” he answered.

The dialogue continued for days.

Same plea, same answer—always sa sunod, sa sunod, sa sunod.

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Duhiraw

Fiction by | April 21, 2019

(lugit gikan sa sugilanon)

Kinahanglan niyang mopasar bisag unsa pay mahitabo, bisag unsa pay dangatan ug kinahanglang mosunod ang tanan segun sa iyang laraw bisag unsa pay paagi. Kon mahibaw-an siya nga dunay problema sa iyang pag-eskuyla, labinas iyang grado ug sa eskuylahan, dakong katalagman ang gibahad sa mga ginikanang OFW. Usa na niini ang pagputol unya sa buwanang alawans. Simpol kaayong butanga, apan dako na alang niya. Ambot kon tig-absent ba pod sa lain niyang propesor nga maoy iyang buhat sa akong sabdyek. Mao gani segurong nahadlok kay takilid man gyod ang iyang estanding naho. Wa pa man pod ko idungog nga manghagbongay, o teror ba kaha hinuon. Madunggan man dayon ang pedbak mahitungod sa abilidad sa usa ka titser ngadtos mga estudyante labinas paborito ug wa nila ganahing propesor kay mokatap man kinis hungihong sa tibuok kampus morag karangrang nga molating sa tibuok bagtak.

Apan makapatahap gyod ang kanunayng pagteks-teks ni Jen nako.

Nagsugod ang tanan pagkahuman sa prelim eksam. Human ko nagkompyut sa grado, nakita nakong wa siyay eskor sa tanang eksam. Wa lang nako ni panumbalinga. Prelim pa man pod. Di pa kritikal nga hugna sa semestre. Di na nako problema kon sumahon. Wa koy mahimo gawas sa panid-an ang iya unyang sunod nga buhaton. Labing maayo kon magbinuot na siyag su’d sa akong klase, magtuon kon ting-eksam ug mohatag sa tanang asaynment ug resirts nga akong pangayoon.

Samtang nanguli kog papel pagkaugma, nakamatikod kong permi siyag pasiplat sa akong gilingkoran bisag nahibawo siyang wa gyoy papel nga itunol niya kay wa man gyod siyay bisag usa sa tulo nga akong gipangtunol. Pawa ra seguros hilas aron ingnon nga duna siyay gipaabot o lahi ba kaha ang naumol nga diskarteng gimapa sa iyang bagulbagol.

“Sir, naa man ko adtong last quiz nato,” pagduol niya dihang wa nay papel nga nahibilin sa akong kamot.

“19 ganiy eskor nako adto,” dala niyang bag-id gamay nako simpig sa lamesa.
Nasaghid ang iyang bukton sa akong braso. Nanglibawot ang akong balhibo nga nakabati sa kahamis sa iyang panit. Dunay dilaab nga kalit midaaw sa maong saghid nga lisod hukman kon unsa kini ug ngano adtong gutloa.

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