Signos: A Fiction Anthology of Filipino Supernatural
Tilde Acuña, John Bengan, Daryll Delgado, Amado Anthony G. Mendoza III, and Kristine Ong Muslim, eds.
Paperback
ISBN: 979-8989490233
Radix Co-op, October 2025, 140 pgs

There is a casual pretense we often have in science fiction and fantasy (SFF) communities that what we do represents global visions, or perhaps that what we do is at the forefront of global culture. Take, for example, some of our most prestigious awards, such as the World Fantasy Awards, which has “World” as its first word; or the Hugo Awards, which are presented at Worldcon, again with that word: “World.” Yet if you examine most of our top magazines, events, and awards, what is featured or celebrated is usually works produced in the US, occasionally in the UK, and only rarely in other countries. Strange, since there are cool works being produced in lots of other countries. In fact, globally, tales that are in some way “speculative” have been told for a very long time. Which is to say, in SFF communities, it can sometimes seem like we will claim to be at the forefront of global culture, or that we are celebrating genre as a global phenomenon, without taking much time or energy to look at what the rest of the globe is actually doing.

So, it was with a fair amount of glee that I started reading my advanced copy of Signos, which offers fiction created by individuals from the Philippines, written for readers in the Philippines. In a number of cases, these are stories that we in the US might not otherwise have easy access to, all curated by a handful of writers who wish to see these works find more readers. These stories arise from and respond to life in the Philippines. Each entry has its own concerns, but recurring concerns include colonialism, language, class, the nature of the land itself and the way people move through it, and more. The way these concerns are addressed, and the details of each narrative, are specific to the individuals writing them, and to a different cultural context than my own, so I will note that there are probably nuances that I missed. The possibility of misinterpretation is probably higher than if this were a collection of stories from Californian writers, for example. It is inevitable that each of us brings our own set of experiences to a story, and that we interpret a lot of what’s on the page through the lens of our own understandings. That said, I’ll share my thoughts on a few superb pieces, and I encourage you to buy the book and greet each piece on its own terms, as much as possible.

Signos: A Fiction Anthology of Filipino Supernatural begins with “The Last of the Sama-sellang” by Sigrid Marianne Gayangos. The opening effectively immerses the reader in an overwhelming sense of the wild, evoking mystery as well as a slight sense of dread; particularly, that feeling of being in a place which is so much larger than yourself that you feel a bit helpless. That sense of immersion prepares the reader to encounter the Sama-sellang, the last of its kind, a fantastical creature who is on the verge of dying. By grounding the reader in the sensory and the real first, as well as that feeling of dread, the reader is better able to accept the idea that the Sama-sellang is real. The Sama-sellang has been used for its scales, which can be removed (with some violence) and sold to make people rich. Through this process, it has been abused to the point where it is literally on the verge of death. The story could perhaps be seen as a metaphor for the way that humankind abuses nature or any number of such things. In fact, one of the characters comments on the greed of humankind. Regardless of interpretation, it has a really solid, very brief foray into the speculative, and a great way to introduce the rest of the anthology. Importantly, while the unnamed protagonist has traveled to a remote island for unknown reasons (other than to witness the death of the last Sama-sellang), the person who is taking care of the Sama-sellang in its last moments, named Mr. Tsai, has a clear respect and reverence for the creature, demonstrated by his compassion, by his caretaking actions, and even by the way he dresses: He has put on finery, the way one might dress up for church or a funeral, to witness the death of the last of these creatures. The difference between the visiting point-of-view and Mr. Tsai could also represent the idea of the differences between those who understand a people, place, culture, or story, and those who do not, those who only view it from the outside, understanding a little but ultimately not deeply enough to give it the reverence it deserves. Perhaps those of us who come to this book from outside of Philippine culture can take a lesson from this and engage with these stories with the most respect possible, understanding that we are seeing them in our own ways, but that we may not see them in the ways that their target audience will. Yet we can still attempt to appreciate and respect the beauty that they offer.

The beginning of “From the Book of Names My Mother Did Not Give Me” by Christine V. Lao is utterly arresting, and the possibilities that it opens up for either terror or suspense or for something deeply moving (or all of these at once) intensifies its arresting nature. The concept presented is of a strange individual who, socially, becomes what other people want by being quiet and placating, despite their strangeness, but in this way getting close—instead of being a pariah. It’s a trick that many who have felt they are outsiders might find simultaneously touching and alluring, because: Who doesn’t want friends? Even if the requirement is passivity and self-repression. It’s a situation which is kind of horrific but carries a knotted set of truths. The initial section is brief, just a few paragraphs long, yet it feels complex even as it feels compelling, speaking to gender and loneliness and self-discovery through a speculative framework. By the end of the section, dear reader, you understand a few things: the short segments of the “story” are each inspired by or in reference to European names; each segment is a mini story in itself; this writer is brilliant. Each piece is similar in that each uses striking narrative to get right to the heart of the reader, delivering an assemblage of emotions, visuals, and thematic truths that all feel important. Metaphor, imagery, and the weird come together to blend into seamless, wonder-infused perfection. Truths that are felt are explored and laid bare yet never explained, so that it’s up to the reader to embrace them, to understand them with one’s soul, and to understand perhaps that these kinds of truths are best shared through story. The pieces collected together as a unified story warrant careful rereading and meditation to explore the ways that segments connect with each other as well as the ways that they do not. This perhaps reflects the ways that, as people, we experience moments in our own lives—that our lives can bear similarities to each other, but that they are never exactly the same. After reading the story, thinking back on the title reframes the pieces, giving the reader more to reflect on, potentially reshaping the meaning of each piece as well as the overall meaning of the pieces together. I personally call this brilliant writing.

“Lovelore” by Francezca Kwe at first plays like a Gothic horror in language, form, and vibe. A Friar commissioned to work in a wild land is kidnapped and taken into the darkest woods. But as the telling elaborates, as various versions and embellishments are shared somewhat in the style of a person explaining the permutations of local legends, the piece implies something about the colonial nature of the perspectives at hand, and the framing of stories, not to mention the almost inevitably terrible behavior of colonizers. This on its own would be a thoughtful, engaging, and nuanced narrative. The next section tells of an odd girl who cured the narrator when the narrator was a sick child. Then it goes on to share folkloric rumors about the girl’s powers, not to mention the sometimes evil-sounding impact on those around her, including interrupting an old man who was potentially sexually abusing his servants. The presentation of the first local legend informs the second, giving the reader a keen, critical, and suspicious eye with which to monitor every detail, creating an enjoyment of the Gothic and supernatural on one level, while also making one wonder: How much of this is colonial bullshit cast on locals to create division, and perhaps even superstition wielded as a tool for control? Where does the fabric of the extraordinary blend with the manipulations of those with some kind of agenda? The final lines of the story bring everything home beautifully, making for another satisfying journey in a book filled with satisfying journeys.

“Pikpik” by Elizabeth Joy S. Quijano (translated from Cebuano by John Bengan) is a very short but fairly powerful story about a young woman who gets a job teaching in a somewhat remote area. Again, the scenery is well utilized to inhabit the sense of the unfamiliar, evoking vulnerability and mystery. The woman is told weird stories about the dangers of the village, and when she arrives, she is asked similar questions about where she is from; she essentially faces the kinds of assumptions her friends and peers had about this place. It is a great way to play with concepts of exotification, exaggeration, and fear, as well as the way that folks who are often the subject of stereotyping (and by extension, prejudice) often do the same thing to others. For example, even as she is regarding them as isolated, the children of the village are expressing surprise at her skill with English, as this doesn’t meet their expectations and stereotypes of someone who is “native.” The young woman does eventually end up getting sick, which fits the potentially erroneous rumors and assumptions about a place that, by this point in her tenure, she has come to love. The ending of the story is simply perfect and takes the concepts and emotions of everything to yet another level, making for a stunning piece of writing.

“Flowers for the Dead” by Maryanne Moll is a sardonic piece about corporate culture, and importantly, the way said corporate culture sucks you in, until you believe and embrace that culture. In fact, we could say the biggest, most fallacious superstition of them all is buying into corporate bullshit. The piece focuses on the rumors of ghosts and other supernatural things, and the fact that the unruly supernatural elements are causing a lot of deaths at a government corporation. The narrative style feels somewhat like a conversation, where the reader is hanging out at the water cooler being told about the bizarre happenings. This style works well here, both speaking to the theme and allowing the author to shift through the various suspicious occurrences. The author plays with gossip, both the general role it takes in idea exchange as well as the ways gossip is believed, and importantly, the way it often distracts from what is real. Gossip provides easier truths than actual truths, the story seems to say, and even those who should know better will accept the theories of gossip over reality. The story may also be saying something similar about superstition and even religion, but at the heart of everything is a company with little interest in actually taking care of its people. In this way, the tale lays out layers of important social concepts, which many readers will find powerful and relatable as well as intellectually engaging.

Look, all of this is a fancy way of saying: This book has awesome stories, you should read it! These stories will speak to you, they will move you, and in some cases, they will give you that wonderstruck sensation you love getting from speculative fiction. Besides, there are over four million people from the Philippines and the Philippine diaspora in the US—everyone deserves access to stories that speak more directly to their experiences, cultural heritage, and the vague mumblings of parents or grandparents. The question shouldn’t be: Why would I buy this book? The question should be: Why aren’t there more books like this? Where can I buy them? Why aren’t they getting more love in review circuits, awards ballots, and genre conversations? SFF readers need to read and celebrate works from a range of perspectives, especially when they are this good! This book will make an exemplary addition to the libraries of folks who love short fiction.