Words by Julienne Loreto • August 15, 2026

Fiction • Short Story

Since the typhoon, I haven’t been able to check the date or the time. I might be eighteen, or I might still be seventeen.

After my classes, Mama and I visit the cemetery. The sheer abundance of people leaving food and flowers in front of the burial vaults makes me think that it’s still early November. But that can’t be right. 

I’m pretty sure a little over a week has passed since the storm hit in the final days of October. Kalag-kalag should be over by now. No, these people aren’t here because of a holiday.

Grief inexorably multiplies. I know this now. When I lost my sister, I was nine. Naively, I thought that would be the end of it. But death has only continued to claim more people. My aunt, my friend, my grandmother, my grandfather, my other grandfather.

And now we’re leaving squash flowers and our last mango for Anhing Daisy, the last of my grandparents. Mama is wracked with sobs. I stare at the heart-shaped fruit, grateful for the hollowness in my chest. That damn dog did me a favor.

***

I know it’s nighttime, at least. That’s hard to miss when you’re drowning in darkness. Mama has spent days reminding me not to waste our candles. Even now, the downpour is still heavy. The lampposts have fallen, shards of the broken bulbs littering our streets. 

Our cabinet blocks our storm-battered window. At the moment, it’s the only way we can achieve privacy. So tonight we’ve got no lights, just the faintest glow from the moon piercing through the perforations on our roof. 

I lie down on our banig, eyes closed. The floor below had dried up after the storm, only to get flooded again a few days ago. By necessity, we’ve been sleeping on top of our kitchen table, on its hard, plastic surface.

We’ve wrapped all our other belongings in our only blanket. My phone, which is basically just a brick following days of no electricity. Mama’s sundang, which she used to harvest mangoes before the storm knocked all of our trees down. My books and notebooks. The candles. Spoons, forks, and plates. She’s put them at the edge of the table; there’s nowhere else to place them.

“You know, dai, you can use one of the candles. You can light one up and finish your homework,” she says. Her tone is unusually soft. For a moment, I assume that our cemetery visit has made her sentimental.

But when I pause, I hear what sounds like two people conversing outside. But their words are unintelligible, sounding like plaintive cries.

“I don’t have any deadlines coming up,” I reply.

“Sure you do. What about your article for the school paper?”

She doesn’t care about the school paper. She just wants to keep the conversation going. The quieter it is, the harder it is to ignore the wailing. “They’re not people, Mama. They’re just cats,” I say.

“What?”

“The crying outside. It sounds like two people, but it’s just a pair of cats.” I saw them last week. One is silver with dark stripes, the other orange. They meow loudly at each other and it sounds like two people having a crying contest.

“Oh…” Mama says, “I love you so much, nak. You know I’m not like you. You’re such a brave kid.”

I don’t feel like a kid, though I don’t feel quite grown-up yet either. I’m not sure that Mama really loves me. What I do know is that she’s still scared.

I drift into a dreamless sleep. Several hours later, sunlight pours through our window despite the wooden cabinet in front of it. I stir awake. 

I open the door to peek outside. The crisp morning sky makes me understand why other people are. The world above remains pristine, while ours sits in ruins.

Rusty tin roofs have flown off some of the houses. The roofs that remain now bear holes. The storm also cracked several walls. Floodwater, mixed with filthy sewage, still fills our streets, rising up to my knees when I walk outside.

Staring at the puffy white clouds and untouched blue, I get why you’d want to pray to whoever might be up there. The others’ faith is enviable, but I’m incapable of believing in anything except for what I can see.

And I did see that thing. I saw it.

***

Our English teacher, Mrs. Calag, was the one who recommended me to The Rafflesia staff. “She doesn’t write like she’s seventeen. She writes like she’s older, with such sophistication!” she’d told them. The school paper often assigns college kids to be the editor-in-chief. Someone like me would normally just write for the high school division.

It’s strange how distant six months ago can feel. Back then, I read a lot, which I guess made my writing rather nice. I loved reading. I don’t love much of anything these days.

Still, I need to submit a new article soon. Mrs. Calag offered me an extension. Of course, we just survived a typhoon. Of course, she’ll extend the deadline. Of course, of course. But I refused it. I don’t need an extension. I already know what to write about.

“Dog bites man” is too pedestrian to be news; this was one of the first things Mrs. Calag ever taught me about journalism. “Man bites dog,” on the other hand… now that’s a headline.

See, though: the thing that bit me resembled a dog, sure. It looked like one of those brown-furred mongrels with long, thin snouts.

But when it got closer, I realized its ears were far too big. Its eyes glowed red, and I’ve never seen a mutt with claws like that. Whatever that was, it was no ordinary dog.

Mama is still sleeping next to me when I take one of my notebooks and start to write. Fortunately, the water around us is also starting to dry out.

In my article, I describe my encounter with the thing. My hands are mechanical, my words clinical. 

On the first sunny day after the typhoon, I went to the forest behind our house. I was picking squash flowers, Anhing Daisy’s favorite. On my way home, carrying the orange blossoms in my arms, I encountered what appeared to be a dog.

But upon closer inspection, the creature had glowing red eyes, peculiar claws, and massive ears. This thing lunged at me and tore my skin apart, grabbing my heart and feasting upon it in front of me.

I do not know why, but the attack left no visible marks on me. My clothes were clean. I sustained no injuries, but did begin to feel a sharp pain in my chest. One might assume that my lack of a heart feels lighter on my ribcage, but in its place is a void with a lot of weight. From that day onwards, I have felt only nothing. I feel it acutely.

As I finish my piece, a helicopter enters our neighborhood and drops small cans of sardines. Out of a dull sense of curiosity, I step outside.

Someone screams, “Nakadungog ang Ginoo nato!” God has heard us! But when I look up, I do not see God. I see a banner with an overly smoothened, pale face smiling down at us and the words “Padayon! From Senator Eduardo Bugtong III” rendered in big, chunky letters.

The cans thud on the damp cement roads. Our neighbors scramble to grab as many of these as they can. Mama even joins in. I walk back inside our house and put on my uniform: a green pleated skirt and a plain, worn-out blouse.

“Dai, it’s Saturday today. Why are you putting on your uniform?”

“How’d you know it’s Saturday?” I ask.

“Well, I went out and spoke to Mrs. Managbanag next door. They’ve got a generator, so they know the time.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. The neighborhood is asymmetrical like that: a house like ours, tiny and damaged with no electricity or water, can stand next to a mansion with a generator and fully stocked fridge.

“You should go out too,” she says. “It’s a sunny day. Look at those other kids.” We both observe some children sailing paper boats in the floodwater on our street.

“Those are little kids,” I say. “I’m…” I figure my birthday must’ve passed by now. “I’m eighteen now, Mama.” Not a kid anymore, though I don’t know if I’d call myself a woman.

“I know, dai. But you’re still young. All I’m saying is that you can’t waste your life doing nothing.” 

Your life sounds strange to my ears. Not a kid, not a woman… I don’t quite feel alive either.

“Wait, I have something to show you. Ta-da!” Mama finally reveals the item behind her back, a big bottle of cola she bought from Mrs. Managbanag. I try to smile, wishing I could still feel the correct emotions – happiness, gratitude – for this surprise.

She pries open the lid on each can with a rusty knife from our drawer and we eat cold sardines with cola. It’s the nicest meal we’ve had in a while. 

After that, I’m out of the house, as Mama requested.

I don’t know where else to go but school. I trudge up the stairs. I pass the classrooms, including mine, and stride into the faculty room. I often hear the teachers chattering, but instead they’re eating their lunches quietly.

“No electricity? Until now?” asks Mr. Cruz. He’s one of the older gentlemen in the faculty. His hair and beard are streaked with white, skin leathery.

“No water either. We just drink the raindrops from the hole in our roof,” Mr. Yap replies. His voice is hoarse. He’s one of our young teachers, with a head full of hair and peach fuzz on his sandy skin. But he looks different, worn down.

Those are the only words I hear. I knock on the doorframe politely. The teachers look up from their food, eyes dull and red.

Mr. Yap sniffles. “What are you doing here, dai?”

“I’m looking for Miss Calag. I just need to submit something.”

He blinks, and almost loses balance, though he’s still sitting in his green plastic chair. “Maybe you can submit it on Monday—”

“It’s extremely important,” I say.

He pauses again.

A young woman puts down her sandwich. “She’s just buying snacks,” she tells me. “What did you wanna show her?” She has brown skin and sleek black hair tied into a ponytail. When she smiles at me, her eyes light up. 

She looks like she has some spirit left, unlike the rest of us. I wonder who she is. If I saw her with the college kids, I would assume she’s one of them. Probably a fresh graduate.

I approach her and ask, “Who are you?”

She laughs at my bluntness. “I’m Miss Natin-ao, but you can just call me Elle, if you’d like. I’m new.” She offers me a hand to shake. I glance between her radiant face and the proffered hand, before taking it. I’m used to bowing. Being reverent, deferential.

I give Miss Natin-ao — or well, Elle — Miss Elle? — my notebook. I sit down beside a big window. As she reads, I silently observe the yellow bell trees shedding dewy petals outside.

About fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Calag finally returns. She’s wearing red lipstick as always, making her fair skin look even lighter. She’s quite old, even older than you might think from her petite frame and thick hair dyed auburn. She’s actually in her seventies or something, but still moves with a lot of energy.

“Maayong hapon, Ma’am.” Miss Elle does a little bow. “Your student here is eager for you to read this.” She hands Mrs. Calag my notebook.

“You really want me to read it now, my dear?” Mrs. Calag adjusts her thin-framed glasses with an amused smile. I nod.

She offers me one of her lidgid rolls, which I take. When I unwrap the leaves, the lidgid is soft, warm, and golden. The sweet scent of cassava fills my nose. I bite into the rice cake while Mrs. Calag reads my article.

Several minutes pass, and she coughs.

“I’m done.” Her tone is blank, her face inscrutable. Certainly a far cry from the bright, amused smile she had at first.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she tells me. “A dog biting you in the woods must’ve been frightening. But frankly, it’s not an interesting story. Remember what I taught you?”

I nod again. “‘Dog bites man’ is too mundane to be interesting. A news article needs to be something unusual, like ‘Man bites dog.’”

“Good girl.” She pats me on the head, before training her gaze upon my manuscript again. “Red eyes? Sharp claws?” she mutters. “It just sounds so silly, like a kid wrote it.”

“I’ll write something better, Ma’am,” I say.

“I’m sure you can. I look forward to your next Rafflesia article.” She gives me a smile.

I make my way out of the school. But before I can walk past the green gates, someone grabs my arm. I whirl around and see Miss Elle.

“Hey. I read your article,” she says, brows furrowed. Letting my arm go, she lowers her voice to a near-whisper. “I know that some people might not believe that you met that thing.

“But I met it too when I was younger. It took my heart too and I could no longer feel anything after that. I felt empty inside. I didn’t have hobbies or interests anymore.”

I don’t know what to say or do, except blink at her. She continues, “Our elders call it a sigbin. But you can get your heart back.” She gives me a small, pale yellow stick, with roots that look like a hand’s fingers. 

“This is a tagupaypay,” she says as I hold and examine it. “My grandmother gave this to me for protection. I’ve taken back my heart already, though. Go get yours.”

***

The floodwater has dried when I arrive home.

“Ginoo ko,” says Mama, wiping our stove with one of her dresses. She glances up at the hole in our roof, which is still dripping rainwater beside the stove. “I hope it lasts this time!” When I walk inside, she says, “Nak!” Beaming at me, she chirps, “So where did you go?”

“Plaza with my friends,” I say. A lie. “May I visit the forest?”

“The forest?” she echoes. “Dai, it’ll take some time for the mango trees to regrow.” She gestures to the raw fish swimming in oil. “I’m about to fry some fish, though.”

“I get that. I just need some fresh air, Mama.”

She frowns slightly, but says, “Okay. But be back by dinner!”

I nod and step out to the back of our house, the tagupaypay buried deep in the pocket of my skirt. I pick up Mama’s sundang. Carrying the trenchant blade, I tread the path lined with golden petals.

I pick blossoms from the squash growing on the ground as I go deeper into the woods. I remember the exact spot.

“Show yourself,” I say. The winds swirl around me, as if picking up my challenge for the sigbin.

A pair of massive, furry ears pops out of a thicket. A narrow, vaguely canine head next. Eyes red. Razor-sharp nails protruding from its paws.

I drop my sundang. The blade thuds softly on leaf-strewn soil. But I’m not scared. My mind is clear. I leap at the sigbin and grab it, sinking my teeth into its flesh.

After dinner, I light a candle and open my notebook, pen in hand.

---

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julienne Loreto (they/them) is a writer born and raised in Leyte, now living in the United Kingdom. They are the editor-in-chief of kasing2. You can also find their work in other magazines like The Line of Best Fit (UK).