ISSUE III: Heritage

PROSE
PROSE
Dear God,
There is a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat. I am
uneasy and anxious for the future. Tomorrow I will meet my employer.
Please give me Your blessing for the days ahead. I trust in Your
grace.
They swarmed our beaches in droves, like moths to a flame. Flashes of
red, white, and gold; steel against steel. They marched onto our land—
one step, two step—carrying a white banner painted with red. I heard
the spirits wail in agony as they stabbed into the earth.
By nightfall, the sky was set ablaze, our villages razed to the ground.
Ravished by the burning flames, eyes glazed over, they stared deep into
the ashes of our homes. I stifled a sob as the fire scorched my soul.
Our men remained scattered on the ground in bursts of flesh and bone,
charred to the core. Those that survived suffered just the same.
We were fooled. They had pitied us, nothing more. Clothed us, fed us…
loved us. We welcomed them into our arms, onto our land. We shared
in their adventure and their zeal, they shared in our laughter and our
joy. We learned of their ways, and they learned of ours. We taught them
of our god and our spirits and they taught us of their coin. We prayed
beside them in mass, shared in their bread, and spoke of their God.
But now they burn the world at our feet and hang us from the trees.
Dear God,
I met him today. He seemed nice and kind and gentle. He was friendly and straight-forward. I’ve
never met a man who stared at me so…
I’m to meet him tomorrow again. This time, he said to dress nicely. He likes his girls nice and clean,
whatever that means.
Dear God,
Easy, he said.
Dear God,
My mother would be ashamed.
The mottled bruises, the split on my lip. He promised me kindness for my services…
The first night he had kissed me. The second he had ravished me and the third he
had…
Dear God,
$200 – more than I’ve ever made in a month. I hope she will be proud.
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LETTERS
FROM HOME
Dear God,
Here I am in the House of God. It hurts to pray. When I kneel the leather stings and
the people stare but at least my skin is slowly healing.
Dear God,
As I lay here in the dark—battered and bruised, cold and alone—I can only think of my
mother.
Anak 6 , she had said, holding my hands to her heart. She had looked me in the eyes,
her glistening eyes. They were like almonds. A deep, deep brown. I never noticed that before.
Actually…there were many things I never noticed. Like the way her eyes wrinkled when she
smiled or how her gentle hands pruned in the water, weathered from years of work. Or even
when her breath rattled in her sleep with the uneven rise and fall of her chest. She would hold
my arm without a sound. Old age, she said.
We cried together that night. As I fell asleep in her arms, she held me like a newborn,
cooing and singing to me like before. For a moment, I could forget the clawing feeling in my
chest and the voices begging me to stay.
By morning, she had kissed me goodbye. Her hands, brittle and weak, soft to the
touch, had caressed my tear-stained cheeks. Salamat sa lahat anak. 7
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One.
Two.
Three.
Three lashes—the most they allowed. Benevolence, they said.
We once trusted in the white man. But, after pillaging our homes, one
by one, we were rounded up like animals. They were never satisfied with
those that remained.
The crackle of leather, the flashing of light, the clap of thunder. The
storm had finally arrived.
My husband fell to the ground. Perhaps I had
Screamed.
Red droplets and salty tears dotted the soil. Bursting veins against
mottled skin.
He leaned into my caress as I cradled him to sleep—like father, like son.
The waling-walings would bloom over his grave come spring.
As I fell to my knees, I looked to the sky.
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