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Second Set

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The next set of four stories is from guest-editor, Yvette Tan, who also guest-edited the PGS Horror Issue. Just as with the previous guest-editor, Charles Tan (no, they’re not related, as they keep on telling many of those who ask), Yvette was able to get a couple of new PGS contributors, Cyan Abad-Jugo and Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon. Following their stories will be a returning PGS contributor, Paolo Chikiamco, and then Yvette will grace us with one of her own.

I feel particularly happy that Cyan’s and Marguerite’s tales are on the longer side–about 7000 words–a length that would’ve given me trouble in the print format of the digest because cost-concerns limited the number of pages I could use per issue. The web format eliminates that concern, but I remember being told by an experienced web-developer to be wary of the TLDR syndrome (“Too Long, Didn’t Read”). So we’ll be having Cyan’s and Marguerite’s stories split into two parts each, posted a week apart so that we will still have these two tales published within the coming month.

And please do share your comments on the stories. I, the guest-editor, and the author in particular, would love to hear what you think of their work. And not just of the stories! I welcome any thoughts on the site itself. Heck, I’d welcome even a “Hi”.

Okay, enough of this. Let’s get going with the second set!

The Jar Collector

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3

Along Emerald Avenue is a small park, one with trees and benches and green grass. On most days, a lot of people pass by, either to smoke or to lounge around as they wait for friends. But today feels different and I am all alone save for the stranger sitting beside me.

Her perfume is thick as if concealing another scent. Her features are a perfect ensemble: from smooth white skin, a curvaceous figure, and eyes that are slanted just right to give her that exotic look that hints at both Asian and European ancestry yet confirming neither.

At first she ignores me and I her but one tires easily of listening to the wind. She relents first, looks at me, and asks a question.

“Can I tell you secret?” Continue reading →

Kapre: A Love Story

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25

kapre and girlThis is the tale of Kapre, who lived in ancient trees tangled in shadow. Massive, stubbed fingers the color of faded coffee, scrabbling at tree trunk and bark for sustenance. Irises the color of twin moons, mouth the redness of withered santan. He shinnied up mountains in the heat of day, made nests of dried bones and rain at night. He could see himself in the twisted gnarl of branches, found comfort in the rigidness of bamboo. Nestled in the thickness of wood, Kapre could pretend friendship with plants and soil. Birds found homes within the snarls of his beard. Bees sought honey in the yellows of his eyes. Continue reading →

The Departure

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5

That morning, when they awoke, Julietta had a bad feeling. Nothing she could put a figure on, just a feeling. The sky, for one thing, was different: a strange pewter color. And normally, at that hour of the morning, just a little after sunrise, she could still hear the birds. But today there was nothing.

Her husband rolled over on the bed beside her and groaned. “Is Alex up yet?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Julietta answered.

“Better get him up, he’s got a long way to drive down the coast.” Continue reading →

What You See

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7

He was finally bored that morning in September, and what he did he would later blame on the confluence of things. Mercury in retrograde, for one, although he did not exactly believe in horoscopes, unless it meant the stars aligning for good fortune, preferably in shoes or jewelry. Then there was, for another, the restless claustrophobia of the quarantined.

This was exactly fourteen days to the date of Paulie’s arrival in Iowa City—all of two weeks since he had come bearing three pieces of luggage that screamed hot pink, flipped his long black hair with his perfectly manicured fingernails as he surveyed his own anticipation for this welcome change of place, then proclaimed the entire idea of autumn in the university town as nothing short of “fabulous.” Fabulous. That was his word for all good things. He was properly dressed for the utterance, with none of that generic travel garb he abhorred in people with lesser sartorial imagination: his five-foot-six frame on the right side of lean was clad in a Donna Karan ensemble in chocolate brown, punctuated with Jimmy Choo snakeskin sandals chosen for their casual elegance as well as for the demands of heightened airport security. The trip all the way from the Philippines—except for the hellishness of its seeming perpetuity—was almost a breeze, except for one tiny bump: those eyebrows he raised at immigration, in Detroit, which was nevertheless something he completely expected, when he was asked upon presenting his travel documents: “You are Paul Andrew Segunda?”

Continue reading →