A Constellation of Images

A Constellation of Images Download here: http://www.sendspace.com/file/s7uam5

Kanta ni Matilda

Kanta ni Matilda Ako si Matilda Nga nagapuyo sa Ata Tierra. Pamatii ninyo ining akon estorya Nga makapagluyloy sang inyo mga abaga. Isa ako ka maestra Sa pampubliko nga elementarya. Mahuyugon sa manok kag baraha Ang wala obra ko nga bana. Tungod kay ang akon anak nga dalaga Sa sunod nga tuig college na Kinahanglan ko ang madmu nga kwarta Kay narsing nga kurso ang iya ginapuntirya. Naglakat ako sa Hong Kong para magpamutsatsa Ang natup-an ko nga Intsik nga ama Pareho lang kadaku sa singkit sini nga mga mata ang iya kasingkasing kag konsensya. Wala pa gani ako sa isa ka bulan nga nagaobra Nangimon sa akon ining akon ama Kay kuno ginadolodogsing ko ang iya bana. “Indi ina matuod!” siling ko sa iya, Pero tapat pa gid gani nga nangakig siya Kag wala gid ako pangaman, mga amiga, Nabatyagan ko na lamang ang halok sa akon guya Sang mainit nga plantsa.

Batasan sang Taga-uma

Batasan sang Taga-uma Richard Alayon ‘Ne, pahilog preparar sang panyaga kaya may bisita kita. Barkada ko ini sia sang ako nagiskwela pa sang kantutuhan sa banwa. Sugua anay si Dyunyor nga mag-utang sang isa ka kaha nga serbesa ditdto sa tyanggi kag isa ka kabu nga mani. Patya na lang dayon inang manok nga galumlum kag lakti sang ubad sang saging nga rusing. Sige, P’re kaon pa kag indi maghuya-huya kay bwas na lang kami maaway sang akon asawa. Indi na pagproblemahi Ang akon ulumhan Kay ang binhi Ibayad ko na lang Sa gin-inum ta.

My brother's peculiar chicken

Philippine Literature My Brother's Peculiar Chicken (Alejandro R. Roces) My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got whipped because we argued too much. The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw two chickens fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust. “Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing exactly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the cockpits.” “Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested. “No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said. My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was and took a good look at the chicken. “Why, it is a hen,” I said. “What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?” “No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.” “No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it in fight?” “Sure, I saw it in fight. But I still say it is a hen.” “Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?” “I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.” The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken flapped its wings and then crowed. “There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.” “I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.” We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch. “It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.” “It is a hen,” I said. “It is not.” “It is.” “Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during lunch? What is the argument about this time?” We told Mother, and she went out look at the chicken. “That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.” That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said, “Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked. “No,” Father answered. “Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?” “Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is a rooster.” Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father. “You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.” “I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.” “I know who can settle this question,” my brother said. “Who?” I asked. “The teniente del Barrio, chief of the village.” The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything always carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken and we took it to the chief. “Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked. “That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied. “My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?” “It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said. “Is it a hen, then?” I asked. “It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen like that. It must be a bird of some other kind.” “Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away. “Well, what shall we do now?” I said. “I know that,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.” Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in a nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the University of the Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We took the chicken to his office. “Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?” Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said: “Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this before.” “Well, is there any way you can tell?” “Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are pointed, it’s a rooster.” The three of us examined the feathers closely. It had both. “Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz. “Is there any other way you can tell?” “I could kill it and examined its insides.” “No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said. I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back to the barrio. Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said: “I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.” “How?” I asked. “Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?” “If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said. “All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this Sunday.” So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent. He finally picked a red rooster. “Don’t match your hen against that red rooster.” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native chicken. It is from Texas.” “I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.” “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox. There is no rooster in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.” My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock. The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the centre of the arena. They circled around once and then faced each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over. “Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted. Then a riot broke out. People tore bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut groves and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said: “Do you believe it is a rooster now?” “Yes,” I answered. I was glad the whole argument was over. Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter. Something warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an egg. › Home

My Own Theory of Devolution

My own theory of devolution by Jessica Zafra   You’ve heard of the theory of evolution; if you haven’t, there is a gap in your education. There was a major fuss when Darwin came out of with it in the last century. In this century, even evolution remained controversial in a little town in America, a teacher was put on trial for mentioning it to his students. Apparently, their mommies and daddies were not pleased to hear that they were distantly related to the apes. Mercifully, the apes were unable to express their opinion.   But let’s not go into that. In facts, let’s talk about the exact opposite of evolution that is devolution. If evolving means moving up to a “higher” life form, devolving means deteriorating to a “lower” life form     See, I have this theory about alcohol. The more you drink, the lower you go down the evolutionary ladder. When you start swigging the vodka (or the poison of your choice), you’re recognizably human. A few shots later, the change begins. Your vision blurs. The room appears to be spinning. Slowly, at first, then you feel like you’re inside a blender with some oranges and ice. Your face feels lopsided, and you ask your drinking companions if one side of your face is larger than the other. And when you have to go to the bathroom, walking upright makes you nauseous. You sort of slouch over with your arms down to your knees and do an ape-like shuffle… And that’s when you’ve gone APE. Monkey. Simian. You’ve just rejoined our distant relatives. But you don’t stop drinking, nonono. What, and be a spoilsport? You go on swilling the drink of depressed Russians, the stuff they imbibe because it takes so long to line up for Coke. Soon, you can’t even stay on your feet anymore. Your legs turn into vestigial appendages (meaning they’re there but you can’t use them). And if you have to travel to another part of the room, you crawl over. You slither on your hands and stomach. You even make a cursing noise that resembles hissing. Bingo. You’re in the REPTILE stage. If you’re normally the talkative, hyperverbal sort, you will find that imbibing alcohol not only loosens your tongue, but charges it electrically. First there is a noticeable rise in the volume of your voice. Soon you’ve got a built-in megaphone. Not only do you insult your friends in a voice that carries all the way to the next block, but you also reveal your darkest secrets to people you just met two hours ago. You stop talking and you start speechifying. You get pompous. Eventually you stop making sense. A sure sign that you’ve devolved to the POLITICIAN level, a stage closely related to reptiles particularly crocodiles (buwaya). It is here that you are at your most obnoxious. Fortunately the politician stage passes, although the duration varies from person to person. Some verbose types can go on for hours, in which case it is necessary to force feed them several kilos of polvoron (a very effective mouth sealant). On the other hand, you could tape everything they say, and make some bucks through good old honest blackmail. You keep on drinking, and the alcohol content of your blood continues to rise. Your brains are getting pickled. If you should insist upon driving yourself home, you will make things really easy for the mortuary people. They wouldn’t have to embalm you anymore, they can just stick you in a jar and put you under bright lights for your grieving relatives. You can’t even crawl anymore, so in your warped state of mind, you attempt to swim on the floor. This is either the Sammy the Sperm phase, in which you regress to the time you were racing several thousand other sperm cells to reach that egg, or the FISH phase, fish being lower down the food chain. Soon your body refuses to take any more pickling, and goes to sleep on you. You pass out on whatever surface you happen to be on. Hopefully you land on a surface that is not conducive to pneumonia. (This is why you must make sure friends are present when you drink. If you get smashed, you can be reasonably sure they won’t leave you on the street to get run over by a truck.). When you’ve lost consciousness, you’ve gone as far down the evolutionary ladder as you can. You’re not even a living organism anymore, you’re a ROCK. The next morning, the process of evolution starts up again. You wake up, and you ask. “How did I get here? Where am I? What’s my name?” Your mouth tastes like toxic waste, battery acid, or something that you forgot to put in the refrigerator that developed green spots. Your head is being bludgeoned at regular intervals with an invisible bag of shot.   You mouth vile things – you’re a politician. You crawl toward the bathroom – you’re a reptile. You stand on your legs to reach the sink – you’re a monkey. You throw up, and between heaves, you swear never to touch The Vodka from Hell again. You’re making resolutions you know you won’t keep – Congratulations, you’re human again.

KUNG MAMILI ANG DALAGA

KUNG MAMILI ANG DALAGA Nang may labinlimang Disyembre pa lamang ang dalagang aking naging kaibiga’y ganito ang laging kanyang bulay-bulay “Pagka’t ang ganda ko’y di pangkaraniwan ay pipili ako ng isang liligaw na bata, makisig, mabait, mayaman.” Nang dumalawampung taon ang dalaga at ang pinipili’y di pa rin makita’y ganito ang kanyang nagunita tila: “Hindi kailangan kundi man pustura o kaya ay hindi sagana sa k’walta kung bata’t mabait ay maaari na.” Nang magdalawampu’t lima at hindi rin yata sumisigid ang isda sa pai’y ganito ang kanyang parating dasalin: “Ang gulang? Hindi ko aalumanahin, may kabaitan lang na maituturing kahit matanda na’y puede na sa akin.” At nang tumatlumpu’t ni sinoman wari’y wala nang mabuyong sa kanya’y gumiri tahas na sinabing wa(ang pagkabali: “Ngayon kahit sino’y walang tangi-tangi huwag lang di mayrong sa aki’y bumati.”

Kutsu-kutsu

Kutsu-kutsu Siling nila, hambal kuno, Ambot basta kuno-kuno, Indi ako, ginsugid ko lang, May kulang, may sobra, Wala mahibal-an Basta may kutsu-kutso Nga may kamatu-oran, May kutsu-kutso man Nga patu-patu lang! Hutik diri, hutik didto, “Atun-aton lang ini, Indi ka manugid bisan kay sin-o” Amo ini masami ang pauna Sang isa ka kutsukutsera Sa iya nga pagpa-ambit Sang isa ka kutsu-kutso. “Huo, sige, masaligan mo ako” Ini naman ang pangako Sang isa ka gusto mag-ambit Nga kutsu-kutsero. Kag ila saluhan ang isa ka kutsu-kutso, Nangakig, nagyubit, nagkadlaw, naghagikhik, Kailinit, kailinit…kanamit, kanamit, Indi sila daluk kay sang nahibaluan nagapaambit, Kutsu-kutso lang ugaling nga indi man tul-id! Pagtalikod ni kutsu-kutsera, Nasugata ni kutsu-kutsero ang isa pa, “Dali diri, atun-aton lang ini, Indi ka manugid, ha?” “Aba, huo, ano ina? Masaligan mo ako” Kag sila liwat nag-ambitanay sang ila Kutsu-kutso…. Sa pihak nga bahin, si kutsu-kutsera nga nagtalikod, Nakasugata man sang isa niya ka kaupod, “Dali diri, atun-aton lang ini” “Sige, ikaw sa sakon makasalig gid” Kag ang kutsu-kutso nga ila sugid, Nagbuhin, nagdugang, naglapta, Daw kagaw nga sa hangin ginbuga!