Tomorrow Night

Fiction by | October 3, 2010

He pulled her hand hastily and brought her to a dark alley away from a lonely lamppost.

They walked deeper and deeper towards the shadows until total darkness enveloped them.

He pinned her to the wall, his lips devouring hers, gentle and fierce, then suddenly her tongue forced its way into his mouth. For a moment she felt surprise, then he responded to her excitement. Roughly he pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him. Tentatively he let one hand cup her breast and she coiled her leg on his hip. He slipped his hand into her dress and under her brassiere.

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White, Brown, Old, Young

Fiction by | September 26, 2010

My name is Ling-Ling and I am speaking from inside a jar. My place is no ordinary piece of container. Back in 1993, when my husband won a small-time lottery in Australia, he backpacked to China and spent a fortune on antique porcelains. One of the precious things he shipped to Australia is this huge Chinese porcelain jar from the 16th century, painted with blue intricate scenes of ancient Chinese life. But I am Filipino inside a Chinese jar in Australia. Is this an instance of globalization? At least I know I have finally ended up in an exquisite and expensive place.

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For Dina

Poetry by | September 26, 2010

Early morning when you left without saying goodbye
Frantic about meeting a schedule or so
You should have wakened me up
To cook omelet for you and pack your lunch
For the long trip to meet your schedules
Wiping the early morning sweat from your brow
As you go.

But the schedule has to come first
Early as early can be
You may have prodded the pedal to the floor
Squeezing the last gasoline drop
One hundred twenty measures to the hour.

Later at night I could no longer expect
Your light kiss as you arrive
From meeting your schedule or so
Your cold body arriving
In a hearse of the funeral parlor
In Bacolod we hired to pry
The crumpled car open.

—-
Elmer Sayre is a Dipolognon now living in Initao, Misamis Oriental, as a gentleman farmer and a free-lance social development consultant.

Sakeenah

Fiction by | September 19, 2010

Bismillah. I smoothen this cream liberally on my face covering every inch of skin, looking at the mirror for missed spots. I read the label on the product again and again. I wrangle with doubt. The cream is authentic. It is from Saudi; purely pharmaceutical. Unlike the intertwined reasons for my divorce. Katao. Maratabat. Hormonal imbalance. Our lack of blood relations. But I am still wearing my wedding band. As if I am still his wife and he will be at arm’s length at the slightest ruffle of my malong.

The walls at home box me in regret. I become a coward. I run somewhere else, slipping off convenience. I watch luxury slip away.

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Demanding A Universe

Nonfiction by | September 19, 2010

Truth-seekers, they call them, but it is a moot description for men like journalists. I say so because there are many who are in the field just guarding their politics; that is, protecting their own interests. And I say so because of the fact that no article written is ever unbiased under any byline. Simple: objective journalism is a myth, and the same can be said for truth. Or maybe not?

Always, the journalist hunts down stories and sometimes we are led to believe that these are true. I doubt that they ever find a convincing end though, so they unearth and ask more to get that finale that satisfies their selfishness. But I doubt that they ever reach that as well because if they did, they would stop.

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Hyposmia

Poetry by | September 19, 2010

Maybe it was not the sea-breeze
you smelled but your tears
after your long try to understand
fragrance.
I tell you, a bouquet of roses
is not enough for you to smell
love.

My comrade loves you. Ask him
to crush the fallen petals
of lilies and orchids in the wild.
Let him perspire.
The scent of sweat is sweet
when offered for love.
Then forget about the flowers.

Go with him in the jungles.
He will tell you which river
is safer to cross.
Rivers, unlike seas, keep
more danger. He knows it.
Because of the water’s smell?
Perhaps. With the enemies
around, a river stinks.
You may not be able to smell
the danger of that river.
But his breaths and whispers
will tell you the fragrance
of the word trust.
You are not alone, with him
and with the masses.

No cure for your hyposmia?
Ah, I regret, my friend.
Your crush’s cologne may smell good.
But did he know you cared?
Smell is not a feeling.
What feels better is to have
someone with you who would savor
the sweetness of a mango.
Or maybe someone who would leave
another set of footprints
beside yours, along the shore.

—-
Paul Randy Gumanao is a BS Chem Student at AdDU who recently attended the IYAS Creative Writing Workshop 2010.

Summer's Tears

Poetry by | September 19, 2010

limitless, yet limited.
i’m back to my one-two beat.
lips sweetly bruised,
i’m at the best location
at the almost perfect hour
the moments of which
i don’t really remember.

your heat
and the firsts of many things
and nothing new
are what make this summer sizzle

and what put summer’s tears
to utter shame.

—-
Krizia Banosan Garcia makes the most of life being a tambay.