by Rochita C. Ruiz

Image from publicdomainpictures.net

. . .  strangers meet on a distant world,

. . . . . . .  are they still strangers? 

-Hebr Hesni, 10^th elder of the Tindugan Council-

It was early in the morning when Fyra saw the stranger for the first time. It was dark and cold, as mornings were on Avikande—made colder still because spring had yet to make its mark. 

The soft beeping of the sensors had woken Fyra from sleep and for a moment she’d felt panic grip her by the throat. She’d been dreaming of their final days on Sedulur, dreaming of that moment when Hebr Hesni pushed Dema into her arms and begged her to flee. 

She rose quietly and checked on Dema before she walked to the security panel.

She’d woken an hour before sunrise, which meant there was time enough to do her rounds before the others arose. Her limbs cracked and popped as she stretched to her full height. 

On the loop display, she could see someone standing at the edge of the southern field. The loop was an old model so the visual wasn’t clear but there was something about the one standing there that made her think of the Welah Asih. 

Agitation marched all along the markings on her back. She reminded herself that the Asu had no power here on Avikande. Reminded herself that they were safe and out of reach of those who had sent out the gatherers and harvested members of her commune. 

On the loop, she saw the stranger kneel at the edge of their field. Once, long ago, someone had come to their commune in Sedulur in the same way. 

“I want nothing more than to learn at the feet of the Hebr Danda,”that Welah Asih had said. 

The memory was a bitter one for it was Danda who had breathed life into Fyra. In the early days of the harvesting, Danda had gone to see that Welah Asih their self. They had never returned. 

Gone, Fyra thought. And with them, the most vital link to Fyra’s lineage was also gone. 

She shut the door on her grief. 

How trusting they’d been. Opening their borders, allowing strangers among them, believing in words of friendship, and letting down their guard. They’d learned the hard way, that friendship meant different things to different peoples. 

“What are you doing there?” She wanted to ask now. But she didn’t walk out the door. She wasn’t ready to confront the stranger. Not yet. Not now, when it was still dark. 

Paolo Chikiamco is a Filipino writer of prose, comics, and interactive fiction. He is the editor of “Alternative Alamat: Myths and Legends from the Philippines” and his work has been published in anthologies such as “The Sea is Ours” and “The Best of Philippine Speculative Fiction.” In the field of comics, he’s the co-creator (handling the writing duties) of “Mythspace: Ignition”, and “A Sparrow’s Roar” and “Muros: Within Magical Walls.” He has also served as a judge for the Graphic Literature category of the National Book Awards and is the creator of the #RP612fic Twitter hashtag. 

He published his first short story in the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories Volume 1, Issue 3 in 2007 entitled “Homer’s Child”. And returned when it went digital, under the guest editorship of Yvette Tan, with his story Malvar in 2011. 

by Paolo Chikiamco

 A “council”? Really? That’s what you’re going with?

You gonna wear brown robes too? Break out some shiny lights and talk to me about the Force? More like a farce, am I ri– 

Ow, muscle fiber that hurts! Quit it! You old ‘mangkeros have no sense of humor.

Huh? Well, that’s the closest you’re going to get. I can’t cuss, can’t swear. Not anymore. 

Oh, I used to, all the time. You ask Mr. Antrada over there, and he’ll tell you. No, I think you deserved every word you cranky old fudger. Oh, I know him well, he was my Dungan teacher. Proud to be one of those terror profs, aren’t you, old man? Except that teaching “style” has forest consequences when you’re teaching how to cause harm through sheer will. How many of your students ended up with the albularyos, flopping around boneless because you forked them up with a sumpa?

Nica Bayona, originally a playwright and screenwriter, is currently taking up her MFA in Creative Writing at De La Salle University. Her notable works include her debut play, A Trip To The Moon for the Benildean Theatre Festival and Henry and the Barefoot from the recent Short+Sweet Theatre Festival held in Manila. She also writes poetry and fiction. “Children of the Bridge” is her first published short story.

by Nica Bayona

 Obet is never late.  But I’ve been waiting for almost an hour now that I finished counting all the concrete trucks bound for San Juanico. It’s been four years since they started building the bridge and the trucks would always arrive before sundown. I never really understood the huge, rotating barrels behind them but just recently, Obet’s father, Tiyo Jun got hired to drive one so I asked him how they worked. Driving trucks is the only job I’ve seen the old man do ever since I can remember, all kinds of them, so it only makes sense that he jumped at the opportunity the moment it was offered. Add a base wage and a promised pack of cigarettes and Tiyo Jun is good to go.

“The trucks have to keep mixing the chunky stuff inside so they can use it right away,” I remember him saying. Tiyo Jun seems so happy doing it day after day. I wonder if I can drive one of those too when I grow up.