by Carljoe Javier

Image by cottonbro studio on Pexels. (All photos and videos on Pexels can be downloaded and used for free).

RJ could always stand to lose a few pounds. That’s what he would joke about anyway.

Even at his healthiest and fittest, which was a good ten years behind him, there was a little bit of flab and just enough chubbiness in his cheeks to make him look like a giant baby. Try as he might, his body seemed to just be that way. He had friends who worked out less than him, ate more than him, and yet they looked more fit, more muscular. It was genes, now compounded with aging, which kept him round. It was those same things that, up until a few months ago, forced him to work out more and try to eat even healthier just to stay overweight and not tip into obesity.

So when Kahol appeared before him one night RJ considered the demon’s offer.

M.R.R. Arcega graduated from the University of the Philippines with a bachelor’s degree in Journalism. In 2001, her Filipino-language screenplay, Pagkatapos ng Paalam, took second place in the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards. In 2009, her short story collection, Post-it Notes from Far Away, was among those recognized by the National Book Development Board in their Galing Pinoy, Basahin! program. Several of her features, essays, poems, and short stories in both English and Filipino have been published locally and internationally. Currently, she works as a manager for a small Philippines-based translation company.
Her story, Ang Mahiwagang Kahong Pamasko, was the first Filipino story published by PGS in December, 2011.

by M.R.R. Arcega

The streets around my home are flooded 365 days a year. The level rises or falls depending on the tide, but there’s not a moment when there’s no water.

We’re talking absolutely filthy water. Households and corporations have thrown waste into it for decades. On bad days it turns black. But really it chooses its own colors. Some days, it’s a brownish orange. Some days, it’s an algae-filled green.

And there’s an indescribable smell everywhere. When you wade into the water, you can expect to come across floating bottles, cans, or plastic bags containing God knows what. And no matter how many times children are told not to swim in the sludge, they still dive in, splash around, and get it in their eyes and mouths. 

Trixia Marie C. Policarpio is from Marikina City, Philippines, and is a BA Creative Writing undergraduate at the University of the Philippines Diliman. She delves into both fiction and non-fiction, crafting stories and essays that navigate the spectrum of human experience. She explores various genres, blending imaginative storytelling with thought-provoking insights as reflections of her curiosity in the world. She’s had personal essays published in Inquirer Youngblood and Positively Filipino magazine, and a realist fiction piece recently accepted for Bente-Bente Zine Volume 3. “Reverse Frankenstein” is her first published speculative fiction story. 

by Trixia Marie C. Policarpio

Image by Karola G on Pexels (All photos and videos on Pexels can be downloaded and used for free).

One. Two. Three months…They say the post-breakup slump is supposed to last three months, enough time to hide out, cry it out, and then come back glowing—especially if you were the one left behind. 

But here I am, nine months in, still feeling like I’m barely holding it together. Every small thing just drains me. Every time I catch myself in the bathroom mirror, I can’t help but notice how awful I look. My hair’s limp, falling flat around my face like it’s given up. My forehead’s too wide, and my skin—god, my skin—looks dull, like it’s lost any glow it ever had. Pimples dot my chin and cheeks, not to mention the deep, purple bags under my eyes. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—the worst part is the way my body feels like it’s sagging. It’s like I’m torturing myself by not moving on, yet I can’t seem to stop. My head knows what I should do, what I shouldn’t feel, but my head and heart just aren’t in sync.

Meeting up and hanging out with people feels like a nightmare now. Just the thought drains me, and I dread those “Are you okay?” looks or the well-meaning bashing of my ex that feels hollow, as if scripted for the person who was obviously dumped. My only refuge, aside from my bedroom, is the library. The strict librarian with her zero-tolerance for noise—even a whisper gets a shush—creates the perfect silence. It’s the one place where I know I won’t have to fend off forced conversations.