The New Dentists

Cholo Luistro

Our words are like dirty ice cream
Dripping from our fingers
On the hot Philcoa sidewalk,
Our dude-pare-tsongs the garbled mix
Of strawberry, ube, and macapuno
Melting under the eight-ray sun.

It’s almost like the real thing,
Like how it’s supposed to taste
Miles from where we stand:
The accent of frost basking
In the sweet scent of rustling pine.

ISEMISEMISEEEM!

IMMARTIIMARTIIMARTI!

The askals from the jeepneys bark,
The sticky air reeking of their voices
As they flip through their Bulldogs
Like Mang Mario does
When he’s done browsing the Inquirer
For the numbers he didn’t bet on.

The tropic sun exclaims as we
Feel the sting of heat
Stuttering from the engines.

We coat our tongues with frost,
Dreaming of a distant land

Where the sidewalk glows with snow

And where the ice cream isn’t dirty.

Cholo is a BA Psychology student from UP Diliman. He keeps himself sane by writing, making music, and hanging out with his awesome Psych friends.

Jen Macapagal

Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon na wala akong magawa kundi ang umupo lang at manigarilyo ay madalas na sumagi sa isip ko si Ross. Dahan-dahang papasok sa lutang  kong isipan ang mga alaala niyang matagal nang nakaimbak sa bodega ng mga kalungkutan at kasawian ko sa linsyak na buhay na ito. Hanggang sa makatulugan ko ang naghihimagsik kong sikmura at tangang yosi. Ross? Ni hindi nga iyon ang tunay niyang pangalan. Ano ba ang malay ko kung ano ang pangalan ng lalaking iyon na minsan ko lang nakita at ni wala pang isang oras kong nakasama. Ni hindi nga kami nakapagsalita ng “hi”, “hello”, o “nice shirt” sa isa’t-isa. At kung anu-ano pang ni. Baka naman nahihibang lang ako at wala naman talagang nangyaring ganoon? Na hindi naman talaga ako nagpunta sa Terry’s sa Visayas Avenue noong October 24, 2008, araw ng Biyernes? Pero duda akong hindi ‘yon nangyari. Wala siyang pangalan pero sariwang-sariwa sa isip ko ang nararamdaman ko sa mga oras na iyon na nakatitig lang ako sa kaniya at inaaral na mabuti ang maamo niyang mukha. Agad ay nasabi ko sa sarili ko na itong taong ito ang gusto kong makasama sa habambuhay. Na kahit na si GMA na naman ulit ang pangulo ng bansa ay ayos lang basta’t katabi ko siya at kahawak ng kamay. Hay, Diyos ko.

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Cholo Mercado

I suppose it’s normal for anyone who loves books as much as I do to feel animosity for anything that exhibits bad grammar or, for that matter, just general unattractive misuse of the English language. I know I did. I remember getting into fights with my friends just because I pointed out their grammatical mistakes a bit too harshly. I used to do it with an intention to condescend, as if saying bad English is a symptom of a greater intellectual malaise. It felt good too. I was like a genius pointing out their excess of commas and sentence splicing, something of a redeeming factor when one considered my general mediocrity. My friends hated me for it, and, to an extent, I hated that they hated me for it—but it made me feel good, it made me feel superior; that is something we all want, and I was entertaining the delusion that I had it. 

I ceased to be a child, however, and eventually—messily—I grew up. Meeting different people and going through different experiences taught me that human beings have more than just linguistic and intellectual dimensions, and these two do not even necessarily  correspond to one another. I’ve met people who cannot speak proper English admittedly, but know a vast number of things to make up for it. I’ve had brilliant professors in college who stumble in their grammar so much that I can count the errors—and a couple who stumbled so much more that I would frequently lose track. I’ve met people who can write poetry in Filipino like you wouldn’t believe, but have trouble making their subjects and verbs agree. 

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Gabriel Angelo Sanchez

Balot na balot ng kaba ang pusa habang naghihintay ito sa tapat ng bahay ng kanyang mahal na si Cheng. Hindi mapalagay ang pusa habang paulit-ulit nitong naririnig ang bawat pintig ng kanyang puso dahil sa pinaghalong pananabik at takot sa kanyang gagawin. Hindi mapakali ang pusa, palakad lakad, patalon-talon, paikot-ikot sa harap ng bahay ni Cheng.

“Bakit kaya wala pa si Cheng? Dapat nandito na siya ng ganitong oras ah,” sabi ng pusa sa kanyang sarili.

Lumipas pa ang ilang minuto at naaninag na ng pusa ang anino ng isang babaeng nakauniporme mula sa kanto na naglalakad patungo sa direksyon nya. Walang duda, dumating na nga ang pagkakataong hinihintay niya—dumating na si Cheng.

Habang unti-unting lumalapit si Cheng sa kinatatayuan niya, unti-unti ring bumabalik sa pusa ang mga ala-ala ng kanilang unang pagtatagpo ni Cheng…

Isa lamang siyang normal na pusang kalye, at gaya ng lahat ng pusang kalye, wala siyang pangalan. Patakbo-takbo lang, nagaabang ng basurang makukuhanan ng makakain, walang permanenteng tirahan. Sabi sa kanya ng mga kaibigan nyang pusang kalye NPA daw ang tawag ng mga tao sa mga walang matirhan katulad nila—no permanent address. Hindi naman talaga ito naintindihan ng pusa pero nakitawa na lamang ito sa biro ng kaibigan niyang pusa. Umiikot ang araw ng pusa sa paghahanap ng makakain, maswerte kung may matiyempohang daga pero sa lugar tulad ng Maynila. Bihira ang daga na naglalakad sa kahabaan ng Dapitan.

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Grace Wang

How should I begin? First lines are, as a writerly rule, important. They draw you in—moreso an introductory piece like this. How do I rein your attention in? I could begin with a joke, something that establishes my character as “quirky.” But you don’t need any more quirky types, I’m sure. Enough of them running about and imposing their quirkiness onto you—like what I’m doing right now. But enough about me.

So you think you’re a writer. Your parents look over your shoulder and tell you what a genius you are. Your teacher tells you to read your works in class.  You get positive, one-word comments on your blog. If you are satisfied with that then stop reading this right now and move on with your happy little life. You’ll only waste your time.

I’m writing here for those people who scribble little notes on their tissue paper on lunch breaks. To those who attend to their jobs without quite resigning themselves to it, to those who pay a little more attention to things than other people—I’m writing for those kinds of people. These are the kinds of people who get that itch to say something, to talk about things that other people don’t notice, to show the beauty that others wouldn’t care about. These are the people who can be writers.

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Pepe Serapio

Hi. My name’s Pepe Serapio and I’m here to blow your mind…in a non-terrorist kind of way. Please don’t call the police. 

I’m actually writing this introductory editorial, which was requested by our young Editor-in-Chief, without my laptop. That’s not an important fact for anyone but me. Like most modern writers, I work well with technology. Without it, I’m pretty much screwed. 

Speaking of getting screwed, my laptop died the other day. The blue screen of death killed it. Now I’m trying to piece together this thing with a stiff ballpoint pen and a yellow pad paper that’s too flexible for my taste. This whole traditional thing is both annoying and frustrating. Cholo said that someone said good writers write with a pen. This just goes to prove that I’m nowhere near being a good writer.  

I do like low expectations. Less stress for anything I write means I get more chance to blow everyone’s minds, though I doubt that’ll happen anytime soon. Money makes the world go round and it’s making mine spin aimlessly. 

After reading all that, you probably get the idea that I’m one of those lazy, narcissistic, random and technologically-reliant writers and, by jove, you’re absolutely positively correct. Don’t ask me who jove is, I’m not British.  

Growing up in a feminist habitat, mainly because everyone around me was female, I developed a sense of retarded sexuality. I’m physically a man though emotionally a woman and philosophically a go-between. My strange infatuation with the color pink doesn’t help my case any better.  

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Erika Lianne Garcia

It was difficult to button up the black suit, and view the mirror from up here. The first task of zipping up the yellow skin felt like resealing a zip lock or banana, but applying orange makeup on me without being able to see was easy compared to painstakingly inserting each button to each corresponding hole. Between my hooves, the shiny ebony felt like pieces of glass perfectly formed into tiny ponds from the rain. I picked up my two antennas shaped like lollipops with long handles and screwed them in on top of my head. Carefully taking in lobs of greasy wax and applying it on the tips of each antenna, spreading over my scalp so it would easily blend. I washed off the extra grease, and swung back the mirror to see the full view.

The appointment wouldn’t be until four o clock in the morning, although it was still 10.45 pm a lot of things were on my mind, and commuting would probably be a cumbersome task due to the other preoccupations jumbling in my brain. The collection of thoughts filing past in my head weren’t arranged in a convenient manner, and I felt like a frustrated adult not being able to return the 3D puzzle pieces of squares, circles and triangles back inside the ball, and dried beans being rattled, much too many, inside a tiny box that sound was muffled, and everything you had expected to hear and happen does not. While I lay back on the long sofa, of course to accommodate my neck, taking great care not to crease my suit, I starred at the clock directly placed at my foot, and watched the quiet sweeping of the second hand turn into more seconds and more minutes. I was expecting a call, or a doorbell, or a sound (the microwave) which would say that my dinner was ready, I didn’t know which would come first, either way, the hand still continued to spin, still returning to the same point, while the others moved on. I think I must have dozed off, a monotonous beep could be heard over the microwaves bell, and so I picked up the phone first.

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