The Writers' Guild Philippines

The Writers' Guild Philippines consists of Tumblr Writers from the different parts of the country grouping together as one to share their writings to everyone.

This blog is also designed to foster the friendship and/or camaraderie among the members of the guild.

This is our official TAG.

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Legends say that, when it rains, it is the god of the sky crying for his lost love. But the truth of the matter is this: in the beginning, there was no rain, not even a universe to speak of.

There was just the both of them, two gods together in the void. They did not even have names for each other then. Names, after all, are born out of causality and separation. But in the nowhere and nowhen before all else existed, time and division had no meaning.

They made love together, hand in hand, in the darkness before existence. Each touch tingled with the potency of creation: as she took his girth into her embrace, he caressed the small of her back with his fingertips and she trembled, exhaling a sweet breath of newborn stars.

They held each other, together alone in the primordial void, whispering to each other oracles of futures yet untold.

Together, they created the universe. But it would not be a painless birth.

The physical laws that the had set into motion necessitated an internal observer, a solitary watcher who could fix the universe’s initial state and ensure its stability as it expanded; it also required an outside caretaker, a custodian to watch over its unfolding.

The beginning of the universe was the end of their union, and the echo of their parting would fill the sky forever. Thenceforth, across all time streams and all realities, the memory of that painful birth would haunt the dreams of all living things. All races would know them forevermore by the names dictated by their chosen functions: Alunsina, the Lone One, and Tungkung Langit, Keeper of the Sky.


An excerpt from “Keeper of My Sky” by Timothy James Dimacali, published in Alternative Alamat.

The problem with loving writers is that their words are enough.

I remember a friend telling me this and I still believe it. I have been in love with writers, artists—three to be exact—for the past four years, and words they say always make me feel good about myself; their prose alone would take me places. For a moment I would be looking directly into their eyes, then gone in another. I would be lost in a forest, or in the city. The mountains, the sea would take my breath away. It would drown me in the deep blue of the sky, then throw me out in orbit, to the farthest galaxies and before I reach the end of the universe they would pull me back again, until I feel myself burning and burning, and I can look into their eyes once more and it would be enough.

Writing me a letter would make me feel electricity on my skin. There would be tremors, and the pavement I am standing on cracks. To my left, waves as tall as skyscrapers would emerge from the shore; to my right, lava would flow out of an erupting volcano. Above me, dark clouds form, ashes and rain, snow and hail, fall all at once then each and every cell in my body would be vibrating to the sound of my name being said, functioning as an element in their poetry. They would destroy the world, and me with it, and as they finish the letter I would be whole again and that would be enough.

While kissing me, they would breathe into my mouth, and I feel myself filling with life. Their lips would travel from mine, to my cheeks, to my neck, my shoulders, and up again to my ears, whispering things I loved to hear. I would lose the ability to open my eyes, or to open my mouth without moaning words that aren’t even words. I would bite their skin, and even my own until it tears and blood would flow, though all I taste is the sweetness of honey. I am intoxicated. We would twist and turn while words are still pouring out of their pores like sweat.

Not long after that, there would be multiple explosions under my skin, past all the thick layers, like stars exploding one by one, continuous, until they say the words “I love you”, and all I can see and feel is light. That would be more than what I asked for. I would breathe normally again, regain all the functions of my body and mind until they decide to write something for me again.

And when they leave, which is the inevitable, they would take everything away, and what others say would never be enough.


For Euric.

(via joshexmachina)


by Marjorie Evasco

I. The Teaching

It was never a question of grandeur
But of some secret power, hinted at by the
Slight quiver of wings before the flight
At the thought of conquering vertigo or the fear
Of being lost in that sea of blue intensity,
And the unforeseen encounter with angels.
There is always a point to be reached
Higher than moon or brightest star, the unmarked
Heights that counterpoint this rootedness,
Magnetic pull ascertained by the heart
At the sight of these farther reaches.
We would leave the learned and loved things
Of previous flights, maps rendered useless
By another desiring, for worlds change accordingly.
It is our personal universe, this impenetrability:
Ourselves not knowing what alien moons and stars
Are in the dark of this not knowing ourselves.
“We should not wait but seek to seize
That sudden luminosity.” It took me a while
To learn to look the sun in the eye,
To burn and then to fly.

II. The Memory

And there is no question of going back
Only a matter of going further,
Each perspective of height presenting
The pale landscape of the past reflecting
The peculiar glow of memory: our gestures
Were horizontal then, and intimate —
Hands clasping, arms locked, bodies melting,
In recognition of one’s own kin, this human feasting.
But in this spaciousness, self unmoored
There is one theme to flying: to fly alone.
For in the rarer regions only dying stars collide
And survival lies in the tracks of one’s singular orbit.
It is solitude that is the necessary caliper
With which we chart our present reach
Or measure the feel of infinity.
“If we are to fly in no time at all
From here to the eternity of stars,
The exact measure of the distance spanned
Is the point where we are.”
The wings of the luminous bird beat alone,
I feel it, even now, deep in my bones.

III. The Flight

No more is it a question of defying gravity
But of skies waiting. Self spread between
Wingtip to wingtip, the beak perfectly aligned
With its aim, we probe the heavens
For dust particles, debris of ancient explanations
For this longing to explore worlds and know them,
As self is, by name, known.
We can never foretell what it is that waits;
We are divers, respecting our fear for the vast and deep
Yet knowing, back of this fear is our own daring
For coral kingdoms outspread and glowing
Or sirens chanting secrets between the reeds.
But again, we may find a white nothingness only
And our eagle eyes go blind with knowing
Such fatal purity. Perhaps, we shall fall upon
The void of black stars and we shall feel them
When we lose all sense of being
And this precious luminosity of wings
Is swallowed in a quiet singing.


Room 84 ang kwartong tinuluyan ni Karl nang unang beses siyang mag-motel. Nawala siya sa byahe noon, ‘di sigurado sa sasakyang jeep at sa bababaan dahil sarado ang inaasahan niyang LRT na maghahatid sa kanya sa napagkasunduang pagkakitaan.

            Kinakabahan siya. Iniisip niya kung ano na lamang ang sasabihin kapag nalaman ng nanay ang kanyang pinaggagagawa. Pakiramdam niya’y may maliit na boses sa kanyang kaloobang nagsasabing ‘wag nang ituloy ang balak, i-text ang kikitain na sa susunod na lang dahil may kailangan pa palang asikasuhin, ngunit ‘di na muling kokontakin. ‘Di rin mawala sa kanyang isipan ang posibilidad na makabangga sa daan ang kakilala mula sa trabaho at magsimula ng tsismis sa maliit nilang opisina. Pero isang beses lang naman, pagkumbinsi niya sa sarili. ‘Di pa naman niya nasusubukang makipagtalik. Wala namang masasaktan sa gagawin niya. Hinubad na lang niya ang sapatos at inilagay sa tabi ng bedside table. Ipinatong niya sa lamesa ang malaking backpack. Nahiga siya sa kutsong nilatagan ng puting kobre kama. Puti rin ang punda ng mga unan, ng kumot at twalyang magkapatong na nakatupi sa ibabaw ng upuan. Bughaw ang pintura ng kwarto, parang ang maliit na fish pond na nadaanan niya papasok ng motel. Salamin lang ang palibot ng banyo, kitang-kita ang maliligo mula sa posisyon niya.

            Danny ang pangalan ng callboy. May hitsura, medyo chubby, malaki ang titi. Buti na lang at nagpost siya ng picture sa Craigslist, isip ni Karl. Hindi naman niya sinasadyang mapunta sa website na iyon. Napagtripan lang niyang i-type sa search bar ng Google, “callboys Manila.” Nagulat siyang kakaunti lang ang mga lumabas na resulta, gayong sa pagkakaalam niya ay talamak, kung hindi man tinuturing bilang isang industriya, ang prostitusyon sa Pilipinas datapwat maraming batas na nagbabawal dito. Nagsimula siyang mag-scroll. Taas-baba, bumabalik-balik, binabasang maigi ang mga detalye sa ilalim ng mga link. Pumindot ng isa. Nag-load ang website at sa bungad pa lang ay nakabandera na ang larawan ng mga lalake. Mga nakataas ang braso, direktang nakatitig sa lens ng camera. Kuha sa mga studio. Pinili niya ang isa, binasa ang mga comments. Satisfied ang mga costumer, puro papuri sa performance at ugali ng binata. Hinanap niya ang presyo. Negotiable daw, pero pumapatak sa dalawang libo ang fee. Hindi pa roon kasama ang pang-motel at condom na gagamitin. May additional na bayad din kung gusto ng kakaibang oil sa masahe.

            Naalala niya ang pera sa loob ng bag, ang natira sa sweldo niya matapos magpadala sa mga magulang. Tatlong libo para sa pagkain at pamasahe sa isang buwan. Kung kukunin niya si Marneil, limang daang piso na lang ang matitira. Sinarado niya ang tab at naghanap muli. Makalipas ang ilang oras na pagsisipat ng mga profile na may larawan, edad mula labing siyam hanggang dalawampu’t walo, Manila area, nakita niya ang hinahanap niya. May pag-aalinlangan bago niya i-dial ang mga numero ng contact details sa telepono. Ngunit dala ng pagkasawa sa porn na na-stream at na-torrent ni Karl, kumagat siya. Isang ring bago sumagot ang malalim na boses.

            Humikab siya, ipinikit ang mata. Malamig ang kwarto, kumpara sa init sa labas. Masarap matulog, lalo na’t busog siyang nagtanghalian sa KFC kanina. Huling masarap na pagkain para sa buwan, bulong niya sa sarili habang ino-order ang fully loaded meal. Pagdilat ay napansin niyang walang salamin sa kisame. Binuksan ng bellboy ang tv pagkapasok pa lang nila kanina. Umalis ito nang binigay niya ang bayad para sa kwarto. Hinayaan niyang bumirit si Angeline Quinto sa ASAP. Sinilip niya ang banyo saka bumalik sa kama at inilabas ang telepono. 11:30 ang oras ng huling mensaheng natanggap niya kay Danny. Wil b dr n 15 mins. 11:42 na. Kailangan na lang niyang maghintay.


Namatay ang lahat ng ilaw sa isang iglap, nalaglag sa lapag ang mga piraso ng damit ni Danny: pinatungan jersey shorts ang t-shirt at ang t-shirt sa tsinelas. Bago pa malunod si Karl sa briefs niyang kasing bughaw ng mga pader ng kwarto ay napigilan niya ito. Biglang tigil ang mabilis na pagtakbo ng oras sa tingin ni Danny, parang pag-pause ng kanyang pinapanuod na video oras na may kumatok sa kwarto. “Mamaya na ‘yan,” sabi ni Karl. Lumapit sa kanya si Danny. Nag-resume ang pag-play ng pelikula, x10 ang speed ng mga pangyayari.

            Nasa kama, nagpagulong-gulong ang magkapatong na katawan. Nag-espadahan ang dalawang dilang ‘di iniintindi ang lasa at amoy ng laway. Nagtataas-baba ang mga kamay, gumagalugod hanggang sa nagkalaman na ang bunganga ni Karl, labas-pasok, labas-pasok. Napagkasunduan nilang hanggang oral lang, dahil sa kapos niyang budget.

            Hindi niya kaagad naramdaman ang likido sa kanyang bibig—dire-diretso ito sa lalamunan. Halos masuka siya sa lasa, pero ‘di niya magawa. Kasama na ng one piece original recipe fried chicken, rice, isang platong gravy, large orange juice, at large macaroni ang tamod ng callboy sa loob ng kanyang tiyan, naghalu-halo.

            Tumayo siya at pinasok ang banyo. Ipinantulak niya sa lalamunan ang tubig mula sa gripo. Hindi pa rin nawala ang lasa. Naghilamos siya at saka lumabas, pinipigilan ang sarili para dumuwal, kinuha sa secret pocket ng bag ang malutong na papel ng isang libo at inabot kay Danny. Nakabihis na ito. Wala nang salamat o paalam, o sa susunod na lang, na lumabas mula sa kanila. Imbes, si Danny ang lumabas ng kwarto.

Naiwan si Karl sa loob. Isang libo na lang ang natitira sa suweldo. Nasusuka pa rin.


by Mabi David 

In the beginning
of this season’s rainfall
the ground groans.
Alimuong. Its name 
mimics the dry earth’s release
of past summer’s heat.
As children, we were taught
never to dance in the streets
during alimuong. It created
a cursed pain in our bellies.

Today, this downpour confines me
inside my home. I sit and stare
at my wet garden, revealing
muck-stained rocks now smoothened
by the whelm of water, the dust
dribbling off the leaves.
Your visit has just ended and
I have your scent rising from my skin.
Like the smell of sweet humus
which the farmer ploughs and turns
to become a rich bed for blooms.
My stomach quickens. Life
is lured out of its sleep from rain
with the most fragrant of fingers.

Hindi ako makapaniwala sa ganda ng tulang ito. Liban sa pagpapakilala sa akin sa konsepto ng alimuong (o ang variant nitong alimuom), na siyang nagamit ko sa ilan kong mga kwentong naisulat, ay ‘di maikakaila ang walang palyang pagsasama-sama ng mga elemento ng isang tula.
Mula sa pambungad na “In the beginning”, na allusion sa unang libro ng bibliya (Genesis), alinsunod ang iba pang linya—lalo na sa ika-20 hanggang sa huli—at salita—gaya ng earth, children—sa iisang ideya: simula. Sa mga salitang ito lamang, unti-unti na tayong magkakaroon ng pagkaunawa sa dinaranas ng persona, kung ano ba ang simulang iyon, kung ano ang nararamdaman niya patungkol dito, at kung paano siya nito maaapektuhan (o naaapektuhan).
Naging magaling din ang paggamit sa mga talinghaga: ang alimuong, ang pagbisita ng ulan, at ang wet garden na sa tuwing binabasa ko’y ‘di ko maiwasang mapangiti. Isama na rin natin ang music sa mga linya: isang halimbawa ang “In the beginning/ of this season’s rainfall/ the ground groans.”
Ngunit ang pinakanagustuhan ko sa lahat ay ang mahusay na pagtatago ng susi na siya namang nais gawin ng tula. Naging mahirap, ngunit masarap na pagsusulit ang pagbabasa ng mga linyang “during alimuong. It created/ a cursed pain in our bellies.” at “Your visit has just ended and/
I have your scent rising from my skin.”


kagaya ng mga nagdaang gabi,
ng ulan ang katahimikan,
pumupuwang sa iyong tinig
na kumakalat sa buong siyudad

kagaya ng mga nagdaang gabi,
ang tubig na tumutulo
mula sa bubong, sinasalo
ng timbang babawasan
ang laman
saka ibabalik muli

kagaya ng mga nagdaang gabi,
ang bawat patak:
tagos sa balat, sa laman,
sa buto, sa kaluluwa
tulad ng iyong mga titig

kagaya ng mga nagdaang gabi,
ang katahimikan:
isisilid ang timba at
magpapalit ng damit
bago tuluyang magtatago sa mga kumot

kagaya ng mga nagdaang gabi,
sa iyong pagbalik
ang katahimika’y


ni Danilo B. Abacahin


sana bumbilya ang lungkot:
patay-sindi, patay-sindi, napupundi;
sa isang pindot, isang pihit,
napapatid ang kapatid ng puso,
pumipikit na liwanag na pumapaso
sa magdamag

sana damit ang lungkot:
suot-hubad, suot-hubad, napupunit;
higpit ng kapit na nakakalag;
sapin lamang o saplot,
hindi balat ng buhay-kirot
na kulay-inip

sana daga ang lungkot:
labas-masok, labas-masok, nahuhuli
kahit nagkukubli sa mga lungga
ng kaluluwa; pesteng puwedeng
lasunin, akitin sa patibong, ipain
sa pusang gutom

sana lagnat ang lungkot:
init-lamig, init-lamig, nalulusaw
sa pawis, nalulnod sa tiis;
hindi binat na habang-buhay
na bumubulag, bumabalot, lumuluray
ng ulirat


Lately, I’ve realized a lot of things about being stuck in the past, cheating the present, and trying to escape the future, I—I’ve been trying to destroy my own cage just to reach on to people and to life. I was like oh maybe if I befriended many people I’ll improve, or maybe if I say whatever they wanted to hear, I’ll be free. I am trying, I really am, to get out of my comfort zone, to experience new things, but I just can’t. This is me, or maybe not. I don’t know and I really don’t care. I’m just not into people. Yeah, maybe I’m just afraid to be rejected, you can say that. But I don’t care. I don’t care anymore if I eat alone, if I walk home alone, if I’ve no one to converse to, if I’ve no any other appointments except for school, my dentist, my parents, and my boyfriend. What bothers me most is that people around me think I am lonely and they should pity me. No. That’s what makes me sad. They try so hard to comfort me when I don’t need it at all. Please stop doing that and just talk to me normally. Don’t come to me just because you pity me. Come to me because you’re interested, you’re curious, and you’re fucking interested to me. Why do you keep on smiling at me and just leave like that? I am okay until you think I’m not. 


Away, farther We surged
from… otherwise decayed trumpets.
Never along hopped certainty
but the strict probability of impulse:
to be dazed and dozed and skid off the highway.
Yet, yes, a cafe not a hotel was awake
in that blank finite hour.
Espresso, please. We ordered. Two—
the cashbox gasped then spat receipt.

So hence We forgot sleep
and continued to drift.

Wind howled,
trees brushed each other’s leaves.
Only the headlight lit the road.
Not the moon nor the stars
but Our tepid car.


The girl made a sauce out of the tomato.

I am certain that the pain I feel revolves around the sun

Making my meat tender until it turns blue to its crust

Ocean by ocean, I by now have filled with the saltiest of tears

Grinding a cloth to tone down the futile scream.

Each of the keys I portray didn’t open any door

Near suicide only caused a ceiling to fall

Even a venomous drug spoiled my attempt to set off.


For how many men have worn skirts to join Tarzan

And devour nameless vegetation to worsen the taste of manhood

Remedy does end only if no female peeps in your farm

And laughs at it until it creates a tomato out of your hood.

Oh, a naughty unavoidable lady acquaintance

Nudged my unripened circumstance!