ALPAS Journal Vol. 2 Issue 2 by ALPAS Journal

Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Please enter with a kind heart, an open mind, and leave with a thirst to come back for the arts.

About ALPAS Journal is a bi-annual online literary and art publication for Filipino writers and artists. After a night out in the vibrant city of Melbourne, Australia where countless art festivals and literary journals are widespread, one question was raised: Where can I find this in the Philippines? The only thing left to do was to create an answer for that need. Inspired by the dream to provide a free platform for both emerging and established Filipino writers and artists, the journal was born on March 2017. From the Filipino word “alpas”, meaning “breaking free or loose”, the publication aims to deliver works that blur boundaries, encourage curiosity and wonder, and challenge stereotypes. In ALPAS, creativity is unbounded. Because ALPAS is a not-for-profit publication run by a team of nine, we choose to collate works digitally and at little cost. What we offer is a gratis soapbox, a podium, a room to which everyone has a key.

Anneliz Marie Erese

Editor-in-Chief/Fiction Editor

Mitch Balladares Poetry Editor

Dominic Dayta

Nonfiction Editor

Marian Sophia Cruz Photography Editor

Ienne Junsay

Visual Arts Editor

Allen Esteban Layout Editor

Ricardo Rey Catapang Contributing Writer

Katrina Alyssa Torrefranca Online Coordinator

Cover Artwork by

Tito Tonio

@alpasjournal alpasjournal@gmail.com www.alpasjournal.com

E d i t o r ’s N o t e Dear readers, We hear stories from our grandparents, parents, neighbors, friends, lovers. We listen to a stranger’s tale. We write to ourselves. The words we hear are, in some way, history. They all have happened in the past and we are powerless, unable to change it. But then there are the stories we dream of because they are unbelievable, magical, and enchanting—the myths no one could prove to be true. But as writer Ann Patchett puts it, “Who makes things up? Who tells the real story?” We can only look back because it is how we make sense of the present. We retell the past because then and only then they become real again. In the modern century, we might as well proclaim that this is, indeed, the future. However, there are still many countries that value their histories, their myths, and their origins. In Fiji, they show hospitality by serving their guests a drink called Kava, a cocktail made from squeezed roots and is mildly narcotic. In New Zealand, the Maori still practices the Haka, a powerful group ceremonial dance which involves stomping of the feet, grunting, and rhythmical shouts. Before beginning any formal event, Australians show their respect to Country by acknowledging Traditional Owners and paying respect to Elders past and present. In the Philippines, we consume telenovelas based on mythical creatures and legendary heroes. The children’s section in bookstores is peppered with folktales about the origin of fruits—pineapple, mangoes, and bananas. Many people still prefer to be crucified during the Lent season to show their faith and devotion to God. And many more, especially the younger generation, travel to the mountains of Kalinga to get traditionally tattooed by Whang Od. ALPAS Journal’s fourth issue pays homage to the Philippine history and myths that we have come to love. Joaquin Kyle Saavedra tells the heroism of a young girl in his fiction piece “The Lost Myth of Bai-Ani”. Kevin Amante shares the beautiful story of his grandmother’s inks in the character sketch “Baybayin All Over Her Face”. In her poem “My Mother Was a Storyteller”, Leigh Dispo pens longing and loss through her mother’s tales. In Tito Tonio’s “Kiss sa Bayad”, he shows a Pinoy-style creation of man, inspired by Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. Finally, in the photographs “Para Lagi Kang Ligtas” and “Ang Itim na Pusa”, Princess Lovella Maturan showcases the deeply embedded beliefs of Filipinos in religious sacramental and bad luck. In the following pages, Filipino creatives constructed a world that is not from scratch—these are worlds inspired by our truths, our past and our hopes. They have created something familiar. I hope that each one of these works would resonate with you and you find, somehow, that you are understood. Enjoy! Yours truly,

Anneliz Marie Erese Editor-in-Chief/Fiction Editor

c o n t e n t s Fiction Sa Gitna nang manga Cuentong Bayan at Casaysayan.......................................18 The Lost Myth of Bai Ani.......................................................................................23 Ang Lasang Patis..................................................................................................52 Nonfiction Baybayin All Over Her Face.................................................................................. 46 Photography Para Lagi Kang Ligtas............................................................................................08 Bantay.........................................................................................................14 Ang Itim na Pusa..................................................................................................39 Jeepney....................................................................................................41 Lights...........................................................................................................51 Into the Abyss.......................................................................................................60 Loom of life...........................................................................................................61 Swerte........................................................................................................68 Poetry Manlalabas.....................................................................................................09 War Journal: Broken Arrow..................................................................................10 Liham Para Kay Joven..........................................................................................15 The Four Musiciansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Walk.....................................................................................32 The Parable of Tumaliktik.....................................................................................37 We................................................................................................................38 Coming!.............................................................................................................42 My Mother was a Storyteller.................................................................................44 Untitled.............................................................................................................66 Pula ang tunay na kulay ng lupa...........................................................................68 Visual Arts Kiss sa Bayad.........................................................................................................16 Imagined Realities................................................................................................22 Ishmael................................................................................................................31 Moralitree Series 1, 2 & 5....................................................................................32 Twin Paradox........................................................................................................36 The Horse Man......................................................................................................59

Bakunawa.............................................................................................................64 Diwata...................................................................................................................67

Para Lagi Kang Ligtas Princess Lovella Maturan

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Manlalabas Carlo Hornilla

The shiver of the top branches, The creature making them shake I have no plans to run. The weight of rocks is pulling my shorts loose, as if walking alone at midnight is not hard enough But my Lola sent me. She craves for mefenamic. Says she is crushed by headaches. I fear her more than I do you. My Lola’s mother, my great-grand, was a healer, was an amulet-maker. My lola, the teen with the taga-bulag she took from the dresser, passed this same path, remaining unseen by the caravan of soldiers. Those snake-like slit-eyes, those bayonets, those fingers never touched her, she says the taga-bulag is powerful, almost atomic, near nuclear. She warned me about you. Take some rocks, some fist-sized ones. There is a manlalabas by the mango tree. I have seen him when I hid. The slit-eyes did not see me. Did not see me. Did not see me, she said, before crying out. I guess she really is hurting.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

War Journal: Broken Arrow Geraldine Fernandez

"There is only the question: When will I be blown up?" ~ William Faulkner

[ Call us by our skin tone ] My name is holy ground refugees pronounce it A-li-yah with kneecaps that are more poetic than white-vinegar mouths colored with racial slurs. I am darker than Pinatubo soil stubborn dirt that finds a home in mother's fingernails [Do you remember her planting red flags in the backyard? She said they will grow hard as fire-trees someday] and you, brother, are washed white as pure coke by books and soliloquies that shape the wayward wings of blue falcons. Fly home, you bastard fly home find nest between mother's breasts return to her cradle and rest your revolution.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

[ Broken arrow ] The moon is a geisha tired of parting herself to bleed light. Tell mother I remember her eyes are confession halls dark with forgiveness tell mother it's over the bayonets have been cast toward the breasts of our hidden foes underneath these war-clothes. Tell her this is not jihad self-sacrifice is for lambs and the war has baptized me "pig". Tell mother it's over the moon is a geisha tired of parting herselfÂ to bleed light.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

[ 21 guns ] { bang bang bang } their wailing ghosts haunt our wakefulness { bang bang bang } mother's eyes are washed red with San Miguel Light, ears have fallen deaf to the tune of Lupang Hinirang "bayang magiliw perlas ng silanganan alab ng puso sa dibdib mo'y buhay..." { bang bang bang } and my chest is a kitchen sink stuck with a broken faucet drip-drip-dripping hate unfiltered as tap water. P(e)acemakers are lousy plumbers. { bang bang bang bang bang bang }

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

brother, watch your sister's arteries become the Colorado river --blood loss never sounded so attractive { bang bang bang }Â compose yourself, says mother the world is watching, says mother none of us plan to break down yet deep down, we are as fucked-up as the Battle of the Somme. { bang bang } mother reaches for her fourth bottle I for the shotgunÂ { bang ! }

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Bantay Jizzelle Gado

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Liham para kay Joven Manong Emman Buksan mo ang iyong isipan, Joven, Tantuin mo ang larawan ng kasalukuyan; Sa saklaw at sukat nito’y ‘di mawari, Kung ano’ng kathang-isip sa kasaysayan; Ilang dantaon na ang lumipas, Nang gawing parausan ang iyong bayan Ng mga dayuhang mayayaman; Tayo’y nagsilbing mga bata Sa gawa nilang palaruan! Mismo sa sarili nating tinubuan Ang nagsilbi nating mga laruan, Habang tayo’y pinagkakaaliwan At hinahalakhakan! Oo, Joven Sa kabila ng ating mga pinaglalaban Ay nagmistulang mga baril na patpat, Nagbibigay ng hungkag na alingawngaw Ng mga hataw at putukan; Pagkat ‘di umabot ang aming mga sigaw Sa inaasahang mga kabataan. Ano pa nga ba ang silbi ng kasaysayan Ang palakpakan ba dahil sa kabayanihan O ang kapalpakan na dapat isiwalat? Tumawa pagkat naaliw sa kahangalan O ang mapikon ka sa katotohanan? Suriin mong mabuti, Joven, Ang pagkakaiba ng kathang-isip sa kasaysayan; Kung ano ang dapat hangaan Sa dapat mong matutunan; Dalhin mo ito sa iyong kabataan Dahil kung patuloy na magiging bata At lumaki kang ‘di nagtanda, Ay walang parangal sa kasaysayan Ang dapat igawad, Kundi’y tunay na kathang-isip At pawang isang palabas.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Kiss sa Bayad Tito Tonio

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 1

Sa Gitna nang manga Cuentong Bayan at Casaysayan Danilo “DJ” Ellamil Jr.

Patauarin sana aco nang Panginoon Nating Nagpacasacquit para sa ating manga casalanan sapagca,t, cagahapo,i, tomongo sa acquin ang isang indiong alipin opang mangompisal, nagnanasa dao siya sa cañang pinsang lalacqui gayong lalacqui din siya — parang aco,i nagcamali nang pandinig dahil sa cabila nang cabotihan nang Dios Ama sa Langit ay nagaua niya itong pagtacsilan. Maloha-loha ang indiong iyon habang nagcucuento — napa-Hesus acong bigla! Mula pagkabata’y magkasama na kami lagi ni Intoy. Hindi man siya nakapagsasalita ay nagkakaintindihan kami. Sa umaga, sa pagtilaok pa lámang ng manok ni Mang Anto, kasabay rin nito ang pagmulat ng aking mga mata. Dali-dali akong pupunta sa banyo upang maghilamos at kaagad na

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

tutungo sa bahay ng aking pinsan. Matagal na naming gustong pumunta sa Bundok Arayat. Marami kasing nagsasabi na naroon daw ang diwatang si Maria Sinukuan. Pagkatapos, kung sakali man na makaakyat na kami sa Arayat, pupunta naman kami sa Los Baños dahil naroon daw si Maria Makiling o kayâ naman, sa Cebu — naroon daw kasi Maria Cacao. Pinalaki ako sa mga kuwentong bayan. Kahit pagód si Ama gáling sa pagbubuhat ng troso na gagamitin sa paggawa ng barko, pinauupo niya pa rin ako sa kaniyang hita upang kuwentuhan. “Kapag po ba malaki na kami, magtatrabaho na rin kami para sa mga

Kastila?” pagtatanong ko sa kaniya. “Huwag mong isipin ‘yon,” sasabihin niya. “Sulitin mo muna ang pagiging bata. Saan ba natapos ang kuwento ko kahapon?” Aabutin ang aming kuwentuhan hanggang hating-gabí. Madalas, pinagagalitan ako ni Iná. Huwag ko na raw kulitin si Ama. Sa tuwing naaalaala ko ang mga bagay na ‘yon, hindi ko maiwasang maging malungkot. Pumapasok pa rin sa aking isip ang imahen ni Ama. Nanghihina, walang pag-asa. Bago pumikit ang kaniyang mata, sinabi niya sa akin na huwag daw akong papayag na maging alipin ng mga dayuhan. Ilang buwan din akong nagluksa sa kaniyang pagkamatay. At sa mga buwan na iyon, hindi umalis sa aking tabi si Intoy … at ang mga kuwento na iniwan ni Ama sa aking kamalayan.

Agapito dao ang pangalan nang indio — cahit na hindi aco macapaniuala sa cañang sinabi ay pumicit na lamang aco,t, pinacquinggan siya nang taimtim. Homanga aco sa tapang ni Agapito sapagca,t, nagaua ñang icuento sa acquin ang manga iyon — napatingin toloy aco sa cañang maticas na catauan, sa malalacqui niyang braso,t hita, sa cañang leeg — isang imahen ng perfectong lalacqui — Panginoong Dios Amang Cadaquilaan, patauarin mo aco! Madalas kaming gabihin ni Intoy sa paggagala. Hanggang sa aming pagbibinata ay walang pagkakataon na nahiwalay kami sa isa’t isa. Magkasabay kaming tinulian, magkasabay tumubo ang mga buhok sa aming katawan. Ngunit

hindi kami magkasabay na pumasok sa mundo ng pag-ibig. Nang pumunta kami ni Intoy sa bayan, nakilala namin si Imelda. Sa unang beses pa lang nilang pagkikita, kahit hindi nakapagsasalita, ay alam kong nagustuhan na siya ni Intoy. Kasama niya ako sa panliligaw rito; ako ang nagsasabi ng kaniyang mga nais sabihin; ako ang kumakanta sa tuwing siya’y nanghaharana; ako ang nakasaksi sa unang pagdampi ng kanilang mga labi. Ngunit nang naging magkasintahan na sila, unti-unting lumayo si Intoy sa akin. Hindi na kami nagkakasama sa pagpitas ng mga prutas, hindi na kami nakaliligo sa ilog, hindi na muli pa naming napagusapan ang pagpunta namin sa Bundok Arayat. Nawala na rin sa aking isipan si Maria Sinukuan. At sa mga sandaling iyon, napuno lalo ng katahimikan ang aking buhay. Ilang gabí na rin akong hindi lumalabas ng bahay. Kumalat kasi ang balita na nasa aming lugar na raw ang mga Gabunan mula sa Visayas. Ang mga ito raw ang pinakamatanda sa lahat ng aswang, at kahit hindi gabí ay malalakas ang mga ito. Hindi nila kaagad pinapatay ang biktima dahil ikinukulong muna nila ito. Upang hindi magduda ang mga naiwang kamag-anak nito, ihahalintulad nila ang puno ng saging sa anyo ng biktima at ito ang ipapalit sa kaniya. Ang pekeng tao ay dahan-dahang magkakasakit hanggang sa tuluyan nang mamatay––iyon ang oras na papatayin na ng mga Gabunan ang totoong tao na kanilang ikinulong. “Huwag kang lalabas, Emilio, kung ayaw mong ikulong ka ng mga Gabunan,” sasabihin pa sa akin ni Iná.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Ngunit alam ko naman na hindi Gabunan ang iniiwasan ng mga tao rito, kung hindi mga guwardiya sibil na gumagala tuwing gabi at binubugbog ang mga taong natatagpuan nila sa kalsada.

Quitang-quita co ang pagtolo nang pawis sa cañang leeg, at alam cong totongo iyon sa cañang dibdib habang siya,y nagsasalaysay. Cacaiba ang acquing nararamdaman ngayon, omiinit ang acquing boong catauan na para bang binobohosan nang comocolong tubig. Cung caya ko sanang cohanin ang agua bendita at ibohos ito sa acquin ay ginaua co na, ngunit hindi aco makaalis sa acquing quinaoopoan! Hinahanap-hanap ko si Intoy. Ilang araw rin akong nagsinungaling sa aking sarili na makalilimutan ko rin ang aking pinsan. Ngunit, napagtanto ko na parte na siya ng aking sistema. Bigla akong napapikit nang naalala ko ang kaniyang hubad na katawan, ang kaniyang mapulang lábi. Normal naman siguro ang pagkakagusto ng lalaki sa kapuwa niya laláki dahil noon pa man, nangyayari na ang bagay na ito. Naalala ko ang ikinuwento sa akin noon ng aking ama — ang kuwento nina Sidapa at Bulan. Noon daw, ang Diyos ng Kamatayan ay nakaupo sa tuktok ng kaniyang bundok. Nakita niya ang pitong buwan na nagsasayaw. Humanga siya sa taglay nilang kagandahan at unti-unti, nakadama siya ng pagmamahal sa mga ito. Gayunpaman, napagtanto niyang mayroon ding mga diyos na nagmamahal sa mga buwan, kagaya na lámang ni

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Luyong Baybay, ang Diyos ng Alon, na kinakantahan ang mga ito. Para mahigitan ang ibang diyos, inutusan ni Sidapa ang mga ibon at sirena na ipaalam sa mga buwan ang pagmamahal niya sa mga ito. Sinabihan niya ang mga bulaklak na mamukadkad at gumawa ng pabango na aabot hanggang sa kalangitan. Inutusan niya rin ang mga alitaptap na ilawan ang daan upang makita ng buwan ang daan patungo sa kaniya. Isang batang buwan ang bumaba mula sa kalangitan. Ito ay ang lalaking si Bulan. Hinandugan ito ni Sidapa ng mga regalo at awitin. Isang gabí, ang dragon na kumakain ng mga buwan na si Bakunawa ay umahon mula sa karagatan. Nang nakita ni Sidapa na nakuha ni Bakunawa si Bulan, dali-dali siyang lumipad sa kalangitan at iniligtas ang buwan. Nang nailigtas ni Sidapa si Bulan, sinasabing ang dalawa ay naging magkasintahan at namumuhay sa Bundok ng Madjaas hanggang ngayon. Marahil, ako ngayon si Sidapa. Nakatingin sa malayo, hinahanap-hanap ang aking Bulan. Bigla akong napatingin sa krus na nasa dingding ng aming bahay. Naalala kong katatapos ko lang binyagan upang maging isang Kristiyano. Mali ang aking ginagawa. Dali-dali akong pumunta sa simbahan upang mangumpisal. Doon, nakita ko ang isang Kastilang prayle, nakatingin sa akin, tila nag-aabang sa aking pagdating.

Matagal ang ginaua niyang pangongompisal. Paano,y icinuento pa niya sa acquin ang cañang cabataan. Hindi co naman siya magauang patigilin sapagca,t cabastosan iyon sa Dios Ama sa Langit; isa pa, ngayon co lang napacquinggan ang manga cuentong iyon — ang diuatang si Maria Sinocoan, ang manga asuang na Gabunan, ang pag-iibigan nina Sidapa at Bulan — subalit hindi talaga napigilan na tomonghay ng aking oten dahil sa cañang guapong itsora. Iniisip co na aco,y babae at lalamasin niya ang acquing kaliuang otong at titikman nang cañang bibig ang gohit sa acquing gitna. Hindi co namalayan na naquiquita co na sa acquing imaginacion ang pagsibasib nang mariin sa cañang masarap na labi. Caagad din

siyang gaganti nang halic at lolohod opang isobo ang acquing oten. Sobalit bigla cong naalala ang mga aral nang Panginoong Dios Amang Cadaquilaan. Ang iniisip co,y isang napakalacquing casalanan, isang crimen na hindi mapapatauad ninoman! Kaagad co siyang ipinatayo at ipinatiguil sa cañang pangongompisal, binayaran co siya nang salapi at sinabing howag nang babalic pa sa acquing simbahan! Pagcaalis ng indio,y nagdasal ako nang mataimtim at ilang beses homingi ng patawad sa Caitaas-taasan. Cinabocasan, mayroon na namang indio na tomongo sa acquin upang mangopisal. Hindi ito nacapagsasalita. Base sa papel na cañang hawak, siya dao si Intoy at nacipagtalic daw siya cagabi sa cañang pinsang lalacqui.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Imagined Realities Karren Barcita

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The Lost Myth of Bai Ani Joaquin Kyle Saavedra

In a far-off farming barangay, nestled at the end of a waterfall, fortified by a singular mountain that cuts it off from the rest of the southern country, a young girl awoke. She rose up from her sleepless slumber and found that her parents were not home. She found this strange â&#x20AC;&#x201C; she was usually up early enough to see the sun rise while her parents would still be snoring in their bed. But now was different.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

She climbed down the ladder of the nipa hut; slipped her feet into wooden sandals. She found that most of the barangay were awake, already bustling about and walking towards one direction – the center of the barangay, in the area of Datu’s torogan. Bai Ani rubbed her eyes and followed the people. Further up the mountain was colder than the base so her white-fiber baro and saya were a bit lacking, but it did not bother her. What did was that she found everyone crowding around Apura and Hunao, the two messengers of Lakan Magat. The two were standing upon a wheelbarrow; a carabao was attached to it, lazily waiting for instructions. “Heed, ye all! Heed,” said stocky Apura, the more elderly of them. “Ah, Bai Ani! You are here,” said Hunao from beside Apura. Apura gave her a quick glance, the slightest of approving nods, and began his speech. They spoke fluently in their tribal language which was different from the language spoken at Lakan Magat’s Lakandom. “Heed my words, and be blessed. The forces of Lakan Magat have retreated to their center to fight the attacks of the Unpainted Men. Let us pray to Bathalang Maykapal for their success and safety.” Just the night before, the standing militia of Lakan Magat pulled back their troops from the barangay. They had announced it for everyone to hear – they would become unprotected for they were being called to the north as reinforcements against attacks from the Unpainted Men. Without the mandirigma of Lakan Magat, the barangay was bare naked. Ripe for the taking.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Apura and Hunao stopped for a moment of silence, but the rest of the barangay was restless. Their voices rose from the boiling quiet “What does that mean now?” “Won’t they return?” “We don’t need them! Our maharlika is more than enough!” Apura broke his silence and spoke above the crowd. “Like what dear Sigara said, we have our tenacious maharlika, who will no doubt keep away all dangers from the barangay. For that, we applaud you.” Hunao stepped in. “Unfortunately, there is one danger that we cannot fight against without the strength of an entire standing army,” Hunao paused for a bit, then more quietly added, “Or a hero of legend.” “Do you doubt us, Apura?” the voice of Datu Arado rose from behind Bai Ani. His voice rumbled like thunder, with the promise of loudness, but still controlled. Bai Ani was used to it. Datu Arado stood tall and proud, with numerous tattoos painted onto his muscular frame, like a living canvas. His hair was long, braided intricately, and his muscles were taut and defined. “Do you doubt the strength of this barangay?” Apura turned to Datu. “You know that is not true,” he answered. “I have all the faith in your strength, Datu Arado, but you must be realistic as well.” “Indeed,” interjected Hunao. “We have been informed of danger. A fleet of ships carrying those same Unpainted Men is on

their way to our shores. No doubt they will find our barangay first, and if they are here for the same reasons that we suspect…” “Then this barangay will be doomed,” said Apura. “We do not have any other choice – we must evacuate our barangay if we are to keep you safe,” Hunao continued. More uproar was heard from the crowd, but this time it was caused by fear than outrage.

Bai Ani and her parents packed their things and loaded them onto a carabao. They had managed to finish packing much earlier than the time to leave. And so, Bai Ani slipped out from her parents’ watch as they rested inside the nipa hut. She ran across the barangay on her wooden sandals, looking for a single person. It wasn’t long before she found him – tall, built like a narra tree, with tattoos that covered his chest, abdomen, and biceps. These tattoos he proudly revealed, wearing nothing over them, only long pants and a sash around it. “Silakan!”

“What will happen to our crops?” “How about our children?” Apura and Hunao were both quiet as they listened to the concerns and outcry of the barangay. Bai Ani turned to Datu Arado who was staring down at the ground. His eyes were funnels of ardent rage. “Bai Ani!” a feminine voice spoke behind her. She turned and saw the wrinkled, brown face of her mother. “Don’t dally, child. We must bring some of the chickens and coconut fiber with us. We leave in the morning.” “But mother –” “Hush, child. Come now. Your father is waiting.” Datu Arado watched as Bai Ani was hauled away back to the nipa hut that she had just come out of. ***

The man’s hair – twined together by animal bones – jangled as he turned. “Bai Ani. Why are you here?” Bai Ani realized that Silakan was surrounded by other tattooed men. The tallest one was the same man that had spoken up that morning, Datu Arado. “I seek to ask Datu Arado something but…” She bit her lip. “What are you doing here?” She looked around. “Almost every maharlika in the barangay is here.” Datu Arado spoke. “You have come. Do you wish to join us?” The little girl looked up at him. Anxiety quaked at the bottom of her stomach. “What are you planning on doing, Datu Arado?” He turned to the rest of the maharlika before speaking. “We are the Heroes of Legend. We will not sit idly while they gain a foothold on us. We shall travel to the

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 1

shore, swathed in breastplates and stones blessed by the gods, wearing ornamental bangles and cloaks, to herald them to our isles with the violence that breaks the sky.” “But that is madness! The Unpainted Men have superior firepower.” Datu Arado shook his head. “But we have superior Bala. We shall take their cannons and firearms head on, and their projectiles shall ricochet off of our skins as the agimats take effect.” At that, the maharlika roared, and their souls rose Bai Ani could see their eyes widening, the hairs on the napes of their skin rising, their blades and spears and shields thrusting towards the sky. They were ready to achieve victory. *** Bai Ani left the maharlika as they prepared. Not wanting to return to her house, she strolled along the roads of the barangay, looking and seeing the various families all preparing their goods and items for transport, hooking them onto carabaos and horses. She could see the young boys and girls, playing with their wooden tops and yoyos. Splashing water from the stream. Men and women who would talk to each other in the morning to exchange stories before leaving for their respective works. Fishermen and weavers. Miners and farmers. All of them in a subdued, muted caricature of their daily lives. This harrowing silence had fallen upon the barangay, one that sang of inevitability.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 1

“Ah, Bai Ani!” The girl was beckoned by an elderly man who sported long, silver hair and beard, with a body that has managed to stay strong all these years. His forehead was beaded with sweat once again, as it always was. In one hand was his trusty hammer; rust had already begun to crawl up its steel handle. “Panday Minadeo,” said Bai Ani. She walked up to him, took his hand and pressed it to her forehead. “You are still forging?” Panday Minadeo nodded. “I am.” He grinned widely. “I have all the iron I need here, and I seek to forge the greatest weapon of all the islands.” “What do you mean? You are not… leaving?” Minadeo shook his head. “I’m afraid I will not. Wherever we go, surely it will not have the same amount of iron deposit that I find here, in this barangay. I have also been blessed by the diwata of iron and forging here. I cannot leave. I wouldn’t want all those diwata to become sad.” He laughed. Bai Ani couldn’t help but be infected by Panday Minadeo’s joy, but inside she broke. “But you will be destroyed by the Unpainted Men.” Panday Minadeo shrugged. “We have our maharlika and Datu Arado. If that fails, and I assure you they won’t, then they will be having a hard time with all the weapons I have here.” Bai Ani stared into Panday Minadeo’s eyes. They twinkled with knowledge. With faith. With assurance. She knew, in that

instant, that he would not leave. This was his home. He would not move aside for foreign invaders to step on their land.

you saying Mangacha? We’re not going to die here! Datu Arado is mobilizing his maharlika as we speak.”

“Panday Minadeo, here it is.”

Mangacha grinned widely at that. “Then we must be safe. Have faith. Perhaps a Hero of Legend will arrive once again, just like in the alamat, and deliver us from the hand of the conquerors.” She directed her statement to Panday Minadeo, but it seemed she also aimed it at Bai Ani.

Bai Ani turned to the voice to see a short woman with a bandana around her head, keeping her hair away from her face. She wore a green wrap-around skirt and loose shirt. In her hands she held a clay pot filled with sinangag – a delicacy. Fried rice with garlic and pepper. “Ate Mangacha,” said Bai Ani, and she performed the same gesture to her that she did to Panday Minadeo. “Shouldn’t you be preparing your crops?” Mangacha sighed and shrugged. She gave Panday Minadeo the sinangag dish before turning to Bai Ani. “I am not wealthy enough to afford a caravan for all my crops. I was born on this land. I cannot leave it. I am bound to this place. In many aspects, this land is me. If I was born here, then I would gladly die here as well.” “But Ate…” Despite being shorter than her, Mangacha pulled her into an embrace. “It is okay, my child. I will be okay. I’ve lived a good life. You, on the other hand, are young. You should evacuate first thing in the morning, else you forfeit your life to such unwanted circumstances.” Bai Ani pulled away and looked at these two people. The two oldest people in the barangay. Those who could not bear to leave their land. “Hoy,” spat Panday Minadeo. “What are

More importantly, it seemed she spoke it to herself. Have faith. Those words echoed in Bai Ani’s heart as she returned to where Datu Arado and Silakan were. She spoke her feelings. Her conviction fulminating, she thought: I will not let them die. *** They moved in the morning before the rooster crowed. The sun, their guiding light, was not awake so they placed their trust on the moon. “Do not stop,” said Datu Arado. “Continue moving toward the shore.” And they did. All twenty of them, including Bai Ani, Silakan, and Datu Arado. By the time they arrived at the patch of forest right before the shore, where the green met the white sand, they could see the large wooden ships of the Unpainted fleet. The maharlika decided to stay in the shade of the forestry to keep the element of surprise on their side.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 1

“Timoway,” spoke Datu Arado. “What do you see?”

Bai Ani and Silakan both stood at ready, their weapons already unsheathed.

“They are advancing with their wooden ships, but a smaller ship – like a bangka – is moving towards the shore first.”

Eventually, one of the men that seemed like a general for the Unpainted Men arrived on the shore. He brought out a spear, and a sword sheathed on one side. He shook his head, turned, and then ran straight toward where Datu Arado, Bai Ani, and Silakan were.

Datu Arado scowled at the waters. True enough, a small ship appeared and neared the shore. Upon it were around thirty men. “Then we shall cut them down.” “Are you sure, Datu?” “Their ships are nothing against us.” Before long, the smaller ship crashed against the bony corals that ringed the islands. Instead of pushing through, the soldiers began coming down from the ship and swimming to shore. As the first of the soldiers arrived, wearing their steel armor over their soaked shirts, Datu Arado nodded. Instantly, the first soldier cried in pain and fell over. An arrow stuck out of his throat. Two more went down to even more arrows. Silent, like invisible spears of Bala. Datu Arado ordered them to stop with two knocks against the wood of the nearby coconut tree. The soldiers put on their helmets, breathing heavily from the effort of swimming with their armors of chain and metal plate. They brought out their swords and readied for combat against an enemy they could not even see.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Another knock on the wood. Three arrows shot out, flew like lightning and, blessed with magic, pierced three more men of at the beach, flying over the head of the general. Screams of agony. Final prayers muttered to their god. But the general leapt forward with a ferocity that was unlike any Unpainted Man, and he thrust with his spear. Datu Arado unsheathed his blade, stepped forward, and parried it away. In that instant, the rest of the infantry arrived at shore and they charged. Datu Arado bellowed a command. The seventeen warriors jumped out of the foliage, running down to meet the infantry. “Go!” Bai Ani stepped out, screaming as her bolos swung at the nearest Unpainted Man. Power surging through her, bolstering her arms, legs and spirit – something she didn’t think she had before. She cut down the first soldier in a matter of seconds, her swords flying in a weaving practice. From behind them, the Unpainted Men were fleeing. Silakan was hollering, overjoyed.

But as that soldier fell, she heard the distinct sound of thunder. And then – White sand exploded. Something glued her to the ground. Power glued her to the ground. She withstood the wall of white sand that had exploded from below. When the sand cleared, she was alone. Silakan was on his back, staring with glassy eyes at the sky. Datu Arado was nowhere to be found. The seventeen other warriors they had were all mutilated, destroyed, bleeding. Dead. In the middle of the explosion was a crater, upon which a steel ball almost the size of her rested. The ships had opened fire. At that moment, Bai Ani meditated on that one truth – they have failed. The barangay will have to evacuate. Panday Minadeo will die. Ate Mangacha will perish where she was born. The children that played will become dust. She came to the harrowing realization that the horses of the Unpainted Men will eventually catch up to the slow-moving caravans carried by carabaos.

Bai Ani knew, now, that if they didn’t stop the Unpainted Men here, she and all of her family, and all of her barangay, the only thing that she had in this cruel world, would vanish, subsumed to the strength of the Unpainted Men. Something within her blood said that would not be so. “Hero of Legend.” The words bubbled from her like a mantra. She realized that she was crying as she walked over to Silakan’s body. She stared at the young man’s open eyes; they stared glassily at the rising sun. The sun that painted the scene in bloody purple. She bent down and hugged his corpse. When she broke away from the embrace, she carried with her his kampilan. “Hearteater,” she whispered. She turned back to the battlefield and saw that the soldiers were regrouping for another assault. Bai Ani strode across the battlefield, stepped over the cannonball. Bolo in one hand, kampilan in the other. The Unpainted Men watched her as she strode forward, burning with an essence unknown to them. Her eyes glowing with the intensity of the furnace of stars, her hair blazing and floating above her like a corona, her veins burning with heart-sun ichor. Black blood speckled with white dust akin to the serene glow of the moon dripped down her hands. Alone, with the barangay behind her. Her

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

entire world behind her.

Tala crowned her.

A group of soldiers and almost twenty

Above her, Bathalang Maykapal.

cannon ships before her. The sun rose quietly as the moon fell away. And in that exact moment, they were in

The Unpainted general bellowed, and the soldiers approached. Each of the ships fired a cannon. The whistle of a falling cannonball was unmistakable.

the sky at the same time, bridged by stars. Apolaki and Mayari watched her.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The Unpainted Men advanced. Bai Ani strode forward to meet them.

Ishmael Czarina Capulong

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The Four Musiciansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Walk Jord Earving Gandingan

Scaling in the smoky twilight, Humming their spirits out Guided by the whispers from the orange sky. The path turned rhythmic Of marshy notes and stony measures. No rests along the journey. The lady glimmers in its starry gown; The new audience of the unwearied musicians As the torch-flies dances on the greyish bushes. With a flickering red, the stage is on sight.

Moralitree Series 1, 2 & 5 Ja Turla

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The chorus went on. Dynamics heating the Amihanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tail. The lamp post of the forest cove, Signaling the whole rest Leaning on the staves, roaring the battle hymn, Soon weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be at the land. And the woods were glasses of cold water. A soothing lubricant to the wearied chords. Time seemed stood still, In awe.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

As the istruments played on, Mashed with chatters and cheers. New songs were born as the band grew. With the Dryads and the brook sprites, New songs of the free Songs to live by.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

A night of emptying the voice jars.

Curious Winnie Atienza Banatlao

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Twin Paradox Chaunne-Ira Ezzlerain D. Masongsong

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The parable of Tumaliktik Ian Derf Salvaña

The hunched lady paves the road toward town. On her back, the whole mountain of Tumaliktik, the rocky terrains nestling the solidness of the clouds as unknown birds tread the sky. Like the birds, the lady was restless, the sheer kilometer walk displaces the strength of the veins in her legs. What can she do? Herds of cows, goats, of pigs and chickens all on her back. She touches it as it aches of the long walk, strokes the sides of the cone-shaped skin, and finds in her mind her hut and the children she left for the hospital in Poblacion. She must be sweating quick, halting then and now, as she thinks of her dead husband, lost in the moving tectonics of rock mines, of dry earth. Her heart must be pounding, louder than the minute, as she sees no building yet. She sits beside the dusty road after an hour’s climb of the mountain, looks at the sky only to find the absence of birds now, eyes a bit gazing differently, dizzy, and then she coughs with blood. She spits, and on her feet again, she carries her crumbling legs, her worn-out shoulders, and her back, the whole mountain of Tumaliktik, as if not moving, not nearing, not making distance understand the wrinkles hiding on the palms of her feet. But she doesn’t stop, certainly not now when the white weaves on her head become the falling leaves of dying trees on her back. She thinks of her young cocooned within the womb of her hut, limbs tired, somewhere in the depths of her heart. She is now the lone bird of her lone battle in the sparseness of the sun’s light. She is conscious of death, but she carries lives slowly killing her own. She lulls the wind and it breathes the air she has thirsted for. She hums to the moon’s distant shadow and the day’s light faints. She slowly closes her eyelids as her body caresses the cool air from the nearby ocean. As long as she sees boulders, an excessive stretch of lonely land, she will eat dust to move mountains, to carry Tumaliktik on her back, to keep walking.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

We Johannan Valdez

we are just a bunch of kids lost in the midst of an unknown chaos created by the whirlwinds of uncertainty, rooted from our forefathers’ fickle minds; we are nothing but lonely souls craving for warmth, begging to bask under the blankets of acceptance that our ancestors suppressed; we are everything but happiness and love, seeking for help, trying to crawl our way from the darkness, chaining us to the monstrous thing named “Past” ; we are the forgotten children of yesterday, and the damaged youths of today. but we rise from the downfall, we climb with bruised knees and scathed elbows; we are the underdogs of this generation, we are the lost boys from Neverland, we are the brave, we are the courageous, we are the ferocious;

and at the end of this race, we will find ourselves covered with the cloth of care and radiance; we may be the blemished offspring of yore, but we will become the army of the dauntless of tomorrow; and the havoc will remain a memoir of history—for history will not repeat itself, not in the hands of the fearless heirs of heroes; history remains history, and history will not say “I am here,” not again, never again.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Ang Itim na Pusa Princess Lovella Maturan

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Ang Itim na Pusa XXX

Jeepney Paolo Roberto Lozada

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Coming! Ren Guevara

You shout at first, hidden at the corner, hoping Nanay would not spot your hand inside your small skirt— the slap on your hand she gave you a thousand scoldings before imprints “It’s bad. Do not touch yourself like that.” Next the words flowed From her when she saw you yet again your fingers flowing there. “Ay, salbahe!” Even though you have done nothing yet to salvage. “Listen to your Nanay, iha.” Her voice floats again As you float. “Iha, where are you?” You stop— “Coming!” It feels good (she will not know) not following orders.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Markova Lea Andrea Marcaida

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

my mother was a storyteller Leigh Dispo

my mother was a storyteller. she told me about a man who had to go away, oceans and seas separating them— the mountains resembled her arched back, she said, spooning the spilling sun across the horizon. she waited like that, she said. she waited and waited some more until the night sky covered her breasts and swelling belly button. until the oceans and seas didn’t mean distance but his arrival in waves. she began to wring her hands. she had wondered whether she was tender enough—kind enough, warm enough, bled enough— to be emptied. she breathed in everything just to be filled with nothing. when the dam broke— she called it little monkey, sputtering nonsense into her palms and quivering like a little ghost in her arms. white sheets covered the smell of milk and honey—she said, the sun set into the world without the creaking of bones. she said, the oceans and seas didn’t bother her that much anymore. until

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

it grew wider. like the space she made when she spread her legs and knees apart. like the hollowness in her mouth when she pushed back her lips to form a word. like the gap in her fingers when she reached out to the nearest light switch. my mother was a storyteller— you see, ask her what she had been, what her bones are made of, and you’ll be too scared to know the answer. ask her, you’ll know. ask her and you’ll see the cracks in her feet, the sweat in her palms, the loose flesh underneath the shoulders. she will tell you about the pubic hair blocking the drain. about the leftovers in the dining table. about the polos stained with red lipstick, reeking of alcohol. but she will tell you these and nothing about the oceans and seas in her heart. she will not tell you about the way her back still archs when she stoops low to pick in the laundry. you’ll hear nothing about the way she still wrings her hands, hoping the water will dissolve in on itself, the suds absorbed by the trembling flesh.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Baybayin All Over Her Face Kevin Amante

Her eyes spill out unspoken stories —in the form of wrinkles that etch deeper and longer with the passage of time. From

“Agidaw, apo,” Lola Mila often complains as she tries to stand up. “Taktuhod man, masakit.” She means her knees hurt.

the corners of her eyes, they branch out like patterns on the wings of a butterfly— crawling all over her face, etching curves on her cheeks or fashioning waves on her forehead. These scratches of age may reveal themselves as random graffiti for marking territories, as if declaring, The fine lines

I can only assume that the Visayan word agidaw means masakit, aray or any other word intended to mean pain and hurt. Lola Mila, my maternal grandmother, is the only one in the family with a Visayan tongue. We pick up a word here and there from living with her. For her part, she tries to speak in Tagalog to be understood, especially here in Laguna.

around my eyes are the marks of generations I witnessed coming and going. The folds below my mouth are the stories I wish to tell but can only whisper. I witnessed these lines curve and swirl and dance with the rhythm of time, until they turned themselves into beautiful baybayin: the hushed characters of our history, striving for survival, like every one of her silent stories. ***

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

However, her hybrid of Tagalog-Visayan oftentimes creates her strange ways of saying things. When referring to someone, she usually adds the word “him” before a noun. She interchanges it from being a pronoun to a determiner to an article, such as him apo for “my grandchild” (aking apo) or him Iste for “Cristy” (si Cristy). The term him for her has turned to some sort of a modifier whose syntactic rule she has made all her own. One morning, I tried to humor her with it.

“Lola, hindi po him Cristy,” I explained, handing her a cup of coffee. “‘Her’ Cristy po. Babae e. ‘Her’ dapat.” Sensing my tone, she was smiling when she replied: “Loko man akong him Kibin.” “Yan, tama po. Him Kevin. Lalaki.” *** Lola Mila does not know the date of her own birth. Once we asked her about it, she said that she was told it was raining when she was born, in August. Which specific day and year—and if it was really in August, even she could tell. Always a jester, one of my uncles teased her about it. He told her of the probability of successive rainy days in August. Did it mean we have to celebrate her birthday accordingly, too? To this, Lola Mila crumpled her face into a smile, replying, “Tuyaw man ‘tong him Panke,” which translates to me as “Silly you, Panke (Frankie)”. “Lagi man akong niloloko.” She said she was always being made fun of. She once shared that she only went to second grade. (Or was it third grade?) As it turned out, her short time in school didn’t amount to much. She can neither read nor write, not even her own name. Any transaction requiring alphabets on paper are done with the help of my mother, the eldest of her four children. If she finds it hard to keep letters and words in mind, what more of dates? When it comes to her hometown, she remembers well. Whenever she sees news

on TV about Samar, she never forgets to remind us that she grew up there. Then come stories of loved ones, of family left behind. At a very young age, she went to Manila to work as a housemaid to a rich family. She washed clothes, cleaned the house and took care of their kids. “English speaking man ako, apo,” she would say, bragging to me how she learned a foreign language from taking care of the kids. When I asked her to try what she remembered, she looked at me proudly and said, “Good morning,” “Thank you,” and “No speak English, no speak English.” Only once did Lola Mila visit her family back in Samar. It was after her wedding, bringing with her a daughter and a husband. By then, she had left her work in Manila and was living with her husband in Laguna. When I asked my mother if she could remember this visit in Samar, she said that she had but a faint memory. She could remember herself as a young girl with Lola Mila and Lolo Rudy (my grandfather) visiting a place with water everywhere. Apart from it, everything else was blurry, she said. It must be, given that it happened decades ago. Oftentimes, I catch Lola Mila telling stories about her experiences in Manila and Laguna with her eyes fixated elsewhere. It is as if the stories are being told not really for us to hear but for her to remember— and to keep remembering. Other times it also feels like she tells her stories out loud to her distant relatives, wishing the wind will take her stories across islands and whisper them back to those she really wishes to listen: her family back in Samar. ***

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

My mother told me how Lola Mila had a drinking problem when she was younger. After working in the mountain, Nanay said that they would often find Lola Mila drunk from taking in more lambanog than she could handle. They would know it at once for her voice could be heard from afar as she screamed and cursed in the air. Neighbors would keep themselves away as far as possible from Lola Mila as she walked outside, waving a bolo in her hand. “Nakakahiya talaga,” Nanay said, “Dalaga ako noon tapos si Inay (Lola Mila) e laging ganun.” Mother recounted how she would often hide behind a tree, nevermind all the mosquitoes biting her, just as long as she could be far away from home. She would only come back when the cursing stopped because it would only mean that Lola Mila had already fallen asleep. “Hindi ko rin alam,” Nanay answered when I asked her why Lola Mila had to drink a lot back then. There must be a reason for her drinking, I argued. But she said she never really knew. Up to this point, there are things about her even Nanay could not understand. “Basta, para s’yang laging galit noon,” she said. *** A few months ago, my mother asked me to paint Lola Mila. “Remembrance natin,” she said. Nanay explained to me how much it would mean to her if I made a relic to remember grandmother by, especially in the future.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Almost every night for a month, I stared at Lola Mila’s face on the screen of my laptop. The lines I saw and the colors I needed, I tried to recreate on a fifteen-by-twentyinch canvas. During those nights, the more time I spent looking at her face, the more I became aware of its every detail. I realized how most of her features, especially her eyes, reflected on my mother; how the dimples on her cheeks are as prominent as mine; or how the shape of our faces, without a doubt, are taken out of the same mold. All the while, the memories I have of her and the stories my family shared about her kept on playing in my head. What was it like to go through what she had gone through? To be in strange place to work for strange people using a strange language. To be far away from people I cared for most. To wonder for my return. Will I drink it all up just to drown the frustration for not being understood and not being able to express myself? Will I be angry all the time? And for how long? Though the sight of Lola Mila was a constant of my every morning, growing up, I felt like I saw her the clearest during those few nights. *** Like our Baybayin, the wrinkles all over Lola Mila’s face are marks of her age and life. Running from her nose, down to the sides of her mouth are two think arches, curving whenever she smiles at fond memories of distant relatives never to be seen again. Longer lines on her forehead are fading horizons, ebbing away with the tide of time. And most interesting of all are the short and subtle scribble-like lines on the corners of her eyes, branching out like

patterns on butterfly wings, curving and swirling and dancing with the rhythm of timeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;beckoning to be decoded, asking to be read. Each line is a character that has stood the test of time, accruing to tales of hybrids of dialects she fashioned her tongue into, of birthdays celebrated despite of not really knowing, and of people she grew up with

but to grow old without. We may not be able to completely decipher the language of her face, but we will always care to tryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; until the hand of time decides to mark us, too; until we have our own stories to be read, like hers, written in beautiful baybayin.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Lights Karen Cristhel Dupale

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Ang Lasang Patis Danilo “DJ” Ellamil Jr.

Hunyo 14, 2003 Para kay Lando, Kumusta? Siguro hindi mo na ako natatandaan. Ilang taon na rin kasi ang lumipas––10 years? 15? Ang totoo nga niyan, hindi ko alam kung bakit ako sumulat sa ‘yo. Mayroon ding parte sa akin na kinalimutan ka na, kagaya ng paglimot ng panahon sa mga alaala. Sabi mo nga no’n, parang hunyango ang panahon. Alam mo, ilang gabi ko ring pinagisipan kung ano ang ibig mong sabihin. Hindi ko kasi alam kung ano ang hunyango. Masyado ka naman kasing malalim magsalita. Palibhasa, anak ka ng Filipino teacher. Kumusta na nga pala si Ginang? Galit pa rin ba siya sa akin kasi nabasag ko ‘yong paborito niyang vase? Pero bago pa tuluyang lumihis sa kung saan ang liham na ‘to, gusto kong sabihin sa ‘yo ang dahilan kung bakit ako sumulat. Gusto kong malaman mo na mali ka sa pagsasabing lasang patis ang ari ng babae. Siguro nagtataka ka kung ano’ng sinasabi ko. Heto, ipapaalala ko sa ‘yo: nakipag-sex ka kay Sister Marie no’ng Grade 6 tayo. Pare, 12 years old ka no’n. Siya naman ay 35. Ngayon ko lang napagtanto kung gaano ka kababoy. Kung hindi lang kita kaibigan, ituturing kita na parte ng nakakatawa at nakakadiri kong alaala na dapat nang kalimutan. Pero bespren kita. Ikaw ang unang kumausap sa akin no’ng bagong lipat kami sa Makiling. Hanggang dito na lang muna. Hihintayin ko ang reply mo. Miss na kita. Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Mayo 15, 1988 Dear diary, Piyesta ngayon dito sa Makiling. Naghanda si Mama kahit alam niyang wala naman kaming magiging bisita. Hindi niya kaya naisip na wala na kami sa dati naming bahay sa Taguig? Wala na â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;yong mga kapitbahay namin na malapit sa kaniya at bisita namin tuwing mayroong handaan (kahit may handa rin naman sa bahay nila). Alam mo, diary, sana hindi na lang namatay si Papa para hindi na namin kailangang lumipat ng bahay. Wala akong kakilala rito. Gusto ko nang makita â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;yong mga kaibigan ko. Love, Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Hulyo 2, 2003 Para kay Lando, Pare, bakit hindi ka nag-reply sa letter ko? Natanggap mo ba? Kilala mo pa ba ako? Buhay ka pa ba? Sana tama ‘yong address na pinagpapadalhan ko. May nakapagsabi kasi sa akin kung saan ka nakatira ngayon. Si Mica. Natatandaan mo pa ba siya? Siya ‘yong crush mo noon. ‘Di ba, nagdala ka ng condom no’n? Sabi mo, gagamitin mo kay Mica. Pero ang problema, hindi mo alam kung paano ‘yon gagamitin. Pero, syet, plot twist, hindi mo kay Mica nagamit ‘yong condom. Tandang-tanda ko pa ang sinabi mo no’n: “Mga p’re, nakipag-sex ako kay Sister Marie.” Tapos, ipinakita mo sa amin ‘yong isang plastic na may laman na condom. Kadiri! Sige na. Papasok pa ako sa trabaho. Hanggang dito na lang muna. Paalam. Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Mayo 26, 1988 Dear diary, Ang saya ko! Kanina, habang naglalakad ako, nilapitan ako ng isang lalaki na kasingedad ko rin. Lando ang pangalan niya. Nalaman ko na parehas kami ng paaralan. Sana magkaklase kami. Mukha naman kasi siyang mabait. Isinama niya ako sa Ilog Laurel. Sabi niya, mayroon daw nagsasabi na ro’n naliligo si Maria Makiling. Diwata raw ‘yon. Hindi ako naniniwala sa ganoon. Pero, hindi ko sinabi sa kaniya kasi baka magalit siya sa akin. Mukha pa naman kasing paniwalang-paniwala siya sa kuwento. Mayroon akong sikretong sasabihin sa ‘yo. Kanina rin, sa Ilog Laurel, dali-dali akong hinila ni Lando ro’n sa mga talahib. ‘Wag daw akong maingay. Tapos, mayroong isang babae na bigla na lang lumusong sa ilog. Hubo’t hubad! Kitang-kita ko ‘yong mukha ni Lando. Ang laki ng ngiti. Pero mayroong kakaiba sa ngiti niya. Mayroon yatang halong libog. Naku, sana hindi mabasa ni Mama ‘to. Hindi niya alam na alam ko na ang salitang “libog”. Narinig ko lang naman kasi ‘yon kay Albert noong Grade 5 kami. Ang sexy raw kasi ni Ma’am Llames. Nalilibugan daw siya. Kung nalilibugan nga si Lando, ako naman, gulat na gulat. Iyon kaya si Maria Makiling? Totoo nga kayang may diwata? Pero sabi ni Lando, si Mica raw iyon. ‘Yong crush niya. Ang daming nangyari ngayong araw. Pero ang mahalaga, mayroon na akong kaibigan. Love, Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Agosto 18, 2003 Para kay Lando, Pangatlong sulat ko na ‘to, p’re. Wala ka pa ring reply. Baka nga hindi mo talaga nababasa ‘yong mga ipinadala ko. Huling sulat ko na ito. Wala pa rin akong asawa ngayon. Hindi pa rin ako nakatitikim ng babae. Mayroon kasi akong hinihintay. Ang drama ko, ‘di ba? Iibahin ko na nga ang usapan. Kagaya no’ng sinabi ko sa una kong liham, hindi lasang patis ang ari ng mga babae. Siguro, itatanong mo kung paano ko nalaman na hindi nga lasang patis kung hindi pa ako nakatitikim. Ang sagot, mayroon kasi akong nabasa na ang lasa raw ng ari ng babae ay nakadepende sa personalidad nila. ‘Yong kay Mica? Baka lasang cotton candy. Iyong nabibili natin sa labas ng school kay Ka Mando. Naiinis ka pa nga kasi kulay pink. Pambakla, sabi mo. Pero lagi ka pa rin namang bumibili. ‘Yong kay Sister Marie, sa tingin ko, lasang sinigang. O kalamansi. Para kasing ang asim ng pagkatao niya. Kung mapapansin mo, ang lungkot ng mga mata niya sa tuwing nagtuturo siya sa atin. Isang beses nga, habang kinakanta natin ‘yong “Ang mga Ibon na Lumilipad”, bigla na lang siyang umiyak kahit masaya ‘yong kanta. Ako lang yata ang nagtaka no’ng sandaling ‘yon. Hanggang dito na lang, pare. Umaasa pa rin ako sa reply mo. Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Agosto 2, 1988 Dear diary, Nabinyagan na si Lando. Hindi ‘yong kagaya ng pagbuhos ng agua bendita sa ulo ng sanggol na Kristiyano. Hindi pari ang nagbinyag kay Lando ngayon kung hindi madre. Si Sister Marie. Pagkatapos ng klase namin sa kaniya sa Religion. Sa CR ng faculty room. Habang nakasabit ang rosary sa baywang. Habang hinahilinghing ang pangalang Hesus. Sabi ni Lando, masarap daw ‘yong sex. Pero, hindi si Sister Marie mismo. Lasang patis daw kasi. Kaya ang payo niya sa amin: “Huwag kayong kakain ng ari ng babae”. Hindi na pumasok si Sister Marie kinabukasan. Iba na ang madre. Kulubot na ang balat. Mataray. Niloko ko pa nga si Lando na mayroon na naman siyang bagong bibiktimahin. Pero hindi siya tumawa. Walang emosyon ang mukha niya no’ng tumingin siya sa akin. Pagkatapos, bigla siyang nag-sign of the cross. Hindi na rin nagpakita si Lando noong mga sumunod na araw. Sabi no’ng adviser namin, lumipat na raw sila ng tirahan. Dali-dali akong pumunta sa bahay nila pagkagaling ko sa paaralan. Wala na ngang tao. Biglang mayroong kumurot sa puso ko. Parang mayroong malaking parte na nawala. Sana totoo nga ‘yong sinabi ni Lando na sa paglipas ng panahon, mawawala rin ang sakit. Dahil ang panahon, parang hunyango. Sumasabay ito sa takbo ng buhay ng bawat isang nilalang. At doon kasama ang paglimot sa alaala. Kung talagang gugustuhing kalimutan. Kung gusto talagang paghilumin ang sugat. Love, Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Agosto 29, 1988 Dear diary, Nagulat kaming lahat sa balita. Patay na raw si Sister Marie. Natagpuan na lumulutang ang bangkay niya sa Ilog Laurel. Ilang araw na raw ‘tong nawawala, sabi no’ng pari sa simbahan namin. Dali-dali akong pumunta sa ilog. Walang naliligong Maria Makiling o hubad na si Mica. Pulis ang mga naroon, kasama ang mga taong nakikitsismis. Nagulat ako nang naka-apak ako ng rosaryo. Katulad ng ibinibigay sa amin ni Sister Marie na ginagamit namin tuwing nagdarasal. Pinulot ko ‘yong rosaryo. Nakita ko ‘yong isang bilog na mayroong markang itim na pentel pen. Isa lang naman ang kilala kong mayroong ganoong palatandaan. Si Lando. Kaagad kong inilagay sa bulsa ko ‘yong rosaryo at nagtatakbo na ako pauwi ng bahay. Hindi ko alam kung ano ang kahulugan no’n. Sa ngayon, magtitiwala na lang ako sa hunyango ng panahon. Makalilimutan ko rin ang lahat ng ito. Love, Janus

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

The Horse Man Lea Andrea Marcaida

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Into the Abyss Katrina Cristel Pineda

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Loom of life John Michael Saavedra

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Kapitan Blendor Tito Tonio

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Bakunawa Megel Joshua Ramiterre

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Untitled Kelvin Gamboa

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Ang gabi at naging gabi: ang tanong: kaninong katawan ang nanatiling bahagya at nagpagamit, pag-abuso sa muang na alaalang o kay sakim, Hindi akin; hindi magiging akin, hindi naging akin ang kanyang puri bagkus sinakatawan nang sobra ang gilas sa paggapos, kundiman Nilinaw ng sarili ang nangyari't isinatotoo ang bawat akusa; nilabag ang pantaong sugat at dangal, ipinalangin ang kapayapaan Engkwentro sa di talamak na balita kanino sila, tayo maniniwala, Nakilala sila sa gabi: sa bubong: may ungol sa bawat pagtapak, padyak sa mga kaluluwang kumakawala, Inaanyayahan ka nila sa lungga, makipaglaro at hindi makawala Hindi sila mga batang bubulong; walang laban at biglaang susunod, hindi pagpigil sa pusok ng halina Nabighani ka sa kung anong mayro'n; ang mga kuwentong pinagkatandaan Huwag makipag-usap kani-kanino, sambit sa sariling walang kalaro't hulog ng utak o kay inosenteng pananaw, At hinukay ang sariling libingan gamit ang laruan na pala, tumulong sila D'yan tayo maglalaro at magtatago ng ebidensya sa 'yong pagkatao; walang nakaalam, kung saan-saan hinanap Humagilap ng tulong makawala sa malalim na hukay ngunit may harang, pumipigil sa kanya magsalita Gabi 'yon ng mahimbing na panaginip, ang kanyang iginuguhit na katawan sa balat ay ang engkantong kalaro ang umaakyat gabi-gabi, pagpasok sa kuwartong ilaw na patay-sindi Sinisi sa astral na gumagala ang bagsik ng kanyang pighati, sigaw ng katarungan sa pagbabagong ganap; na habambuhay iindahin, pagsapi. Hindi siya nakilala, nakitang muli.

Diwata Joan Dale Flores

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

Pula ang tunay na kulay ng lupa John Michael Saavedra

dahil sa halip na tubig ay dugo ang idinilig dugong tumilabsik noong mga bala sa laman ay humalik noong gatilyo’y kinalabit ng nagbibihis bituing nakikinabang na di man lang yumuyuko sa harapan ng kalupaan na di man lang napuputikan ang talampakan napakapait na ang aani’y s’yang ‘di nagtanim na kung kaninong dugo ang idilinig kanyang sikmura’y nanginginig

Swerte John Michael Saavedra

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

c o n t r i b u t o r s AMANTE, KEVIN Nonfiction: Baybayin All Over Her Face Kevin A. Amante is a graduate of Bachelor of Secondary Education (BSED) major in English at the Laguna State Polytechnic University-San Pablo City Campus (LSPUSPCC). During his college years, he served as the editor-in-chief of the Technology Advocate, the official school paper of the university. He is currently taking up Masters of Arts in Communication Arts (MACA) at the University of the Philippines Los BaĂąos. Most of his daily self-absorbed ruminations are posted on Facebook, while others are on his blog at tremokevin.wordpress.com. BARCITA, KARREN Visual Arts: Imagined Realities Karren Barcita currently works as a Gallery Assistant at ArtInformal. She indulges in the surreal and sensual visions - mostly through collage work and photography. CAPULONG, CZARINA Visual Arts: Ishmael Czarina Bunda Capulong is mainly a painter & traditional artist. Her style varies from Art Nouveau to Pop Art-esque. However she has dabbled in Baybayin calligraphy, vectors & poetry. Inspired by spoken word pieces, she usually reflects on her emotions during her creative process, being with her boyfriend & family dynamics. Born & bred in Manila, Philippines, she currently resides in Tondo with her family. DISPO, LEIGH Poetry: My Mother Was a Storyteller Leigh Dispo is 19 and lives in the Philippines. Currently an Economics freshman student at University of Santo Tomas, she has always been curious at how the world works. She also paints (faces) and takes photos. You can find more of her work on Tinyletter and Instagram: http://tinyletter.com/verbosecity and @leighdispo.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

DUPALE, KAREN CRISTHEL Photography: Lights Karen Cristhel Dupale is an alumna of the University of the Philippines Baguio with a degree in BA Language and Literature. Currently, she works at Newton Study Center as an English reviewer and tutor. She also serves as a contributor in The Brown Orient Literary Journal and The Tiger Moth Review. A literary nomad, she enjoys reading works by Lualhati Bautista, Ricky Lee and Arlene J. Chai. As a wanderer, she fancies travailing the mountains of Cordillera. You can check some of her journeys on Instagram @kerndups. ELLAMIL, DANILO “DJ” JR Fiction: Ang Lasang Patis, Sa Gitna nang manga Cuentong Bayan at Casaysayan Si Danilo ‘DJ’ Ellamil Jr., 18, ay isinilang at nagkaisip sa Mabitac, Laguna. Kasalukuyan siyang nasa unang taon ng kursong AB Filipinolohiya sa Politeknikong Unibersidad ng Pilipinas. Siya ay naging fellow ng ikatlong Campus Tagaan, ikatlong Amelia Lapeña Bonifacio Writers Workshop (ALBWW), at ikaanim na Cordillera Creative Writing Workshop. Grade 3 siya nang naging mahilig sa pagbabasá. Sa panahon ding iyon niya naisulat ang kaniyang pinakaunang kuwento. Simula no’n, hindi na siya tumigil sa paglikha ng mga katha, bumuo at wasakin ang iba’t ibang mundo, at mangarap na makaimpluwensiya sa pamamagitan ng mga salita. FERNANDEZ, GERALDINE Poetry: War Journal: Broken Arrow Geraldine Fernandez (Dray) is a graduate of Bachelor in Secondary Education Major in English, and now a starving law student and mental health advocate from the Philippines. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Isacoustic*, Anti-Heroin Chic, Eunoia Review, Punch Drunk Press, Rigorous, Selah Magazine, Chicago Memoryhouse Magazine, among other journals and won in the October 2018 competition hosted by Poetry Pulse. She posts daily creative practice and mental health issues at https://instagram.com/gdraylovesgritty. FLORES, JOAN DALE Visual Arts: Diwata She is Joan Dale Flores, an RPM by profession and an artist at heart. She took BS Psychology during her undergrad and she’s eyeing to go to art school soon. For her current submission, she worked on a Kapampangan myth and history. She combined the two categories to create two drawings. Follow her on Instagram: @waddlebrush_

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

GADINGAN, JORD EARVING Poetry: The Four Musicians’ Walk Jessie and James of Team Rocket is Jord’s first exposure to poetry. The team’s mantra has been his life as a community worker: prepare for trouble, protect the world from devastation, and unite the people. If not on a shiny hunt, he writes his whereabouts at komyunidad.wordpress.com. GADO, JIZZELLE Photography: Bantay Jizzelle, commonly known as Diane by most people is currently a senior high school student in University of San Jose - Recoletos. She is also a photojournalist of The Josenian Premier, the official student publication of the university’s senior high school department. Through Jizzelle’s lenses and eye for photography, she believes that the wide range of possibilities in a photo is in the smallest things that people barely look at. Her admiration for art has become a foundation to her works and serves as the fuel to keep her going. GAMBOA, KELVIN Poetry: Untitled Hindi ko pa rin kilala ang sarili ko, pero alam kong iba ako t’wing nakahahawak ako ng panulat. Sa ngayon, wala ka nang dapat pang malaman. GUEVARA, REN Poem: Coming! A Creative Writing major from UP Diliman and member of the #romanceclass, Ren Guevara is a skeptic-by-mind-and-romantic-by-heart, and has published the love story ‘The Umbrella’ in the 12 Months of Romance | 24 Reasons to Love: A Holiday Anthology. She’s more of a fiction writer than a poet, but loves to experiment with writing and different styles. Her favorite hobbies are writing, reading, playing JRPGs and teasing her cat. HORNILLA, CARLO Poetry: Manlalabas Carlo Hornilla hails from Lipa City. He is a fellow at the 1st Cavite Young Writers’ Workshop. His non-fiction articles have been published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Best of Young Blood Books 5 and 6. He also performs as a spoken word artist at gigs and poetry slams.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

LOZADA, PAOLO ROBERTO Photography: Jeepney Paolo Roberto Lozada is a graduate of San Sebastian College - Recoletos de Cavite with the Bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Degree in Electronics and Communications Engineering. He also finished his Master of Engineering Major in Computer Engineering at Cavite State University. To pursue his passion in Photography, He attended workshops in the Federation of Philippine Photographers Foundation and continue to express his art through photograph. See more of his photos on his instagram account @lozada_paolo. MASONGSONG, CHAUNNE-IRA EZZLERAIN Visual Arts: Twin Paradox Chaunne-Ira Ezzlerain D. Masongsong, commonly known as Storm, is a freshman taking up Advertising Management in De La Salle University. During her free time, she sings and posts covers on YouTube as Storm Ezzlerain. She strives to balance her academics, her passion for the arts, and her daughter duties. Mild synesthesia allows her to glimpse into the world through lenses of different colors and patterns. Inspired by emotion and memories, she tells narratives through songs and stories. And whatever happens, she lives by hustling with heart, wit, and hope. MARCAIDA, LEA ANDREA Visual Arts: The Horse Man, Markova Lea Andrea Marcaida is a natural artist. It is a waste not to declare it to everyone. MATURAN, PRINCESS LOVELLA Photography: Para Lagi Kang Ligtas, Ang Itim na Pusa Ella Maturan, known on Instagram as Love, Akâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;i (@alifeinframes), is a 4th year BA Psychology student from UP Diliman. She enjoys music, film photography, and is part of the performing arts group, Kontra-GaPi. She owns a film camera, a Canon FT QL, which she uses to take different photographs around UP Diliman. Her work Para Lagi Kang Ligtas was taken inside the car of her friend while she claims to have no recollection of taking a photo of Ang Itim na Pusa, giving the work a tinge of mystery even for the artist herself. PINEDA, KATRINA CRISTEL Photography: Into the Abyss Katrina Cristel Pineda is a Filipino photographer, currently based in Torquay, United Kingdom. She is into landscape, travel and black and white photography. For her, photography is both a form of art and an escape from the stress of our daily lives. She also believes that everyone can do photography, regardless of equipment or method. Follow her on Instagram: @c_pinedaphotos

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

RAMITERRE, MEGEL JOSHUA Visual Arts: Bakunawa Megel Joshua Ramiterre, 20 years old, is from Nueva Ecija. He’s an aspiring artist, poet, writer, and engineer. He is currently on his 5th year studying Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in Central Luzon State University (CLSU), Science City of Muñoz, Philippines. He’s a self-taught artist and is into portraiture, conceptual art, and comic strips. Catch his art on his Instagram account, @_megel. SAAVEDRA, JOAQUIN KYLE Fiction: The Lost Myth of Bai Ani Joaquin Kyle Saavedra is an aspiring author studying HUMSS in iAcademy, after which he is planning to take up Anthropology. He has been writing since he was nine, and he currently publishes two web serial novels on Wordpress, entitled Urban Reverie and What the Fireleaves Danced. He writes and studies mostly fantasy and science fiction and has taken a liking to history. Find him on twitter at @liquorcanini. SAAVEDRA, JOHN MICHAEL Poetry: Pula ang tunay na kulay ng lupa Photography: Swerte, Loom of Life Mike is striving to balance a life in the arts as an artist-entrepreneur, in the corporate world as a leader, and a scholar in the academe. When he isn’t busy studying for his graduate degrees in Philosophy and Environment and Natural Resources Management, he finds joy in photography, mountaineering, and music. Visit mikesaavedra.com and follow @themikesaavedra on IG for more of his content. SALVAÑA, IAN Poetry: The Parable of Tumaliktik Ian Salvaña, 22, is a faculty member of the Sociology Department of Ateneo de Davao University in the Philippines. He has a political science undergraduate degree and is currently doing his graduate coursework for his MA in Development Studies at the same university. He is formerly the associate editor of Atenews and the editor-in-chief of Underground, a multidisciplinary journal of politics. He has received various literary and journalism fellowships from leading Philippine universities and has published works about boyhood and awakening, his native town of Cateel, Davao Oriental, and the Communist revolution in the Philippines in several journals and anthologies. As a peace advocate, he writes about his experiences of violent conflicts in Mindanao.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2

MANONG EMMAN Poetry: Liham para kay Joven Lumaki siya sa lalawigan ng Cavite at nagtapos sa Polyteknikong Unibersidad ng Pilipinas– Sta. Mesa ng batsilyer sa Clinical Psychology noong 2013. Kasalukuyan siyang nag-aaral sa isang seminaryo sa Cubao, Quezon City, habang naglilingkod bilang dalub-isip/tagapayo sa isang Kristiyanong organisasyon sa Antipolo. Higit pa sa hilig ang kanyang paggawa ng kathang Tagalog at nagsasanay ding maging tagapagsalin para sa susunod na salinlahi (salinlahiproject.wordpress.com). Para sa kanya, ang simulain at hantungan ng pagkatha ay ang luwalhatiin ang Dakilang Manlilikha at sa Kanya magalak magpakailanman. (Awit 45:1) Mahilig din siyang gumawa ng mga puns at magpatawa kung sino lang ang mikayang umunawa. TITO TONIO Visual Arts: Kapitan Blendor, Kiss sa Bayad The artist behind the artwork is a passionate young mind who sees the world and his surroundings a little differently than most of his peers. as a person in the creative business, he draws inspiration from the things around him, his childhood memories and overall kakulitan. He has a passion for intelligent and tito-vibes illustrations & art, but works as a full time graphic designer in Manila. TURLA, JA Visual Arts: Moralitree Series 1, 2 & 5 Ja Turla has been taking photographs of trees for almost a decade now. In 2015, she officially called her art Mirrored Trees after she was admitted to a psychiatric ward. She hasn’t stopped developing it since then. Artist’s note: This is her newest series of Mirrored Trees images. She believes all these bodily parts contain her ancestry, her history, her supressed traumas, her imaginations and psychosis, and everything that makes her a mortal. These things are pieces of evidence that she is made up of branches, roots, and leaves that persist to grow and keep her grounded. VALDEZ, JOHANNAN Poetry: We Johannan Valdez is a fiction/non-fiction writer who constantly tries to turn caffeine into words. She attempts to free herself from the confines of reality by reading books written by Haruki Murakami, and by listening to the soft lullabies of jazz music. Johannan spends a lot of time wandering through the streets of her province, carrying a journal and a pen in hand. She’s currently a senior high school, twelfth-grade student at Pangasinan State University--Urdaneta Campus, and was part of her university’s school publication. You can read more of her works in her blog: johannanvaldez.blogspot.com.

ALPAS Volume 2 Issue No. 2