Author: Liane Carlo Suelan
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From the Top of the Bridge
The river chokes on logs, fallen palm branches, and garbage; on plastic and dead dreams from upstream. From the top of the bridge, the stench of decay assaults my nostrils, and my nose wrinkles in protest. I watch the people below, who live in houses like matchboxes by a stream of spilt gravy over rice,…
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Kuya Macoy
I stood there, leaning on the stone guardrail of the unfinished road by the sea, water crashing upon the seawall, sky transitioning into a burst of hues – peach, cherry, flame. The deteriorating, faux gold replica of Michelangelo’s David stood proudly behind me; his eyes towards the horizon, perhaps watching me, too. I reminisced the…