Weave - Imagine Nation (Literary Folio) 2020 by The Central Echo

"Destiny itself is like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakable tender hand, placed beside another thread and held and carried by a hundred others." -Rainier Maria Rilke

IMAGINE

NATION 2020

IMAGINE

NATION 2020

IMAGINE

NATION vol. 111 n0. 2

IMAGINE NATION is the official Literary Folio of the Central Echo. Works that appear in this book may contain themes and topics some may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised. All rights reserved. Copyright reverts to the respective authors, photographers, and artists whose works appear in this issue. No portion of this book may be reproduced without consent from The Central Echo. Cover by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Layout by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente and Kathleen Frugalidad

after all, life is a loom

viii

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

prologue

the sun 1

A Wind of Tradition Christine Joelle Diaz

Hawla Mayflor Fernandez

Ang Manghahabi Vince Ervin Palcullo

Evangeline Gad Castro

The Design Mary Angeline Gallos

Hoping Coleen Casanova

let me Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Handog Karren Jay Asgar

Hanggang Kailan Pa? Ryan Dave Poral

the wheel of fortune 15

Patawad

Angel Rose Espana

Mapanlinlang na Sining

Awitin mo, Felipe

Who was I before I lost my name?

The Thief and the Seamstress

Cera Angely Ricardo

Alester John Gallarda

Clarence Cordero

Kalanie Saldajeno

Downpour

Yusimay Hablado

Would you?

Kathleen Frugalidad

27 31

Mermaid

Kalanie Saldajeno

Disappointments Coleen Casanova

The Songs of Common Men Luke Isaiah Ismael

Last Day at Work

11,034 meters

Kalanie Saldajeno

Jana Larsen

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Illustration by Feldianne Aragon

the lovers

the star

Woven Affliction

Mermaid's Cry

39 41

Pagdaop

Daryl Lutero

These are the Hands of Fate Hinabing Bituin

Dance of a Dandelion

Last Day on 1945

The Most Beautiful Way to Die

Cera Angely Rizardo

Yusimay Hablado

Kathleen Frugalidad

54 55 56

Pauline Jane Diaz

String of Hope

Rachel Beatizula

Gentle Armor

Vince Ervin Palcullo

Loose Fibers

Gaye Chyri Gadacho

escape

Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Sirang Karayom Angel Rose Espana

Higit Pa

Karren Jay Asgar

xii

Angelica Teodisio

Jerelyn Faith Salibio

Yusimay Hablado

Disconnected Strings

Zharina Marie Stephanie Lugo

Knitted Bodies Kathleen Frugalidad

A Sad Twist Of Fate Coleen Casanova

stranger in red

Danica Mae Hablado

Intertwined

Karren Jay Asgar

A Linking of Fingers Danica Mae Hablado

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

the moon 69 71 72 74 76 77 78

Weaver of Destiny Clarence Cordero

Attempt

Rovic Sipacio

Baliskad

Nico Greg Guitano

Infiltration

Rachel Beatizula

The Master Weaver Cera Angely Rizardo

Moirai's Thread Yusimay Hablado

Existence

Heloise Krystene Sindol

81 85 86 87 90 92 93 99

114

Tenebris' Death Wish

Zharina Marie Stephanie Lugo

autumn left

Prince Ric Emanuel Paciente

brink

Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Seeking Nightmares

Zharina MArie Stephanie Lugo

The Lie Spinner's Tale

Kalanie Saldajeno

Solitude

Zharina Marie Stephanie Lugo

Cat Valley

Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Traditional Textiles of the Philippines epilogue

xiii

prologue There's a tiny spot in our home where a four-decade-old rocking chair is positioned. It was my lola's favorite spot. A long time has passed since she went home for good, but her old fringed plaid blanket that has the word paraiso embroidered on it still sits on the chair as if she would still come to sit there. I sat on it, swaying back and forth, and recalled the things lola told me about her life at their farm. She helped her father with the rice fields and with plucking feathers off the chickens for her mother's tinola. She weaved tales out of the threads of memories she had when she was little. On the side table is a tin can. Inside are probably ghosts of the cookies it once contained, and lola's threads and needles of different sizes that are stuck in a tomato-shaped cushion. And oh, her notebook. She wrote many things there: lyrics to church hymns, the sizes of people’s busts, and even a list of pautangs she never had the chance to collect. But she also wrote about her childhood and teenage life, when she first made a skirt out of her mother's worn-out clothes, her first knit, which she gave to her then boyfriend's mother to "leave a mark," as she put it, and stories about her unfamiliar past with mythology and other stuff she bragged about seeing before computers were a thing. She also knitted poems and prose and a compilation of the things she adored: stories of hardships and triumphs, love and friendship, and even the history of the place she grew up in. She always loved to tell these stories that tied loomed who she was and to tell everybody to learn from them. As she wrote, Days may be as close together as percale—the threads are tightly intertwined, and you can't get past it. Strifes may be as harsh as wool. You make an attempt to liberate yourself but are left scarred in the process. Most days, your fibers are plucked and woven. Rolled up, spun, and dried. You might think you’ve had enough. Even so, you're resilient in the face of adversity. The fabric of your being is silk; you are expensive and well-made. And so, may the stories inked on these papers loom in the hearts of whoever opens their pages.

KATHLEEN FRUGALIDAD

xiv

Illustration by Gabrielle Moscoso

pride and agony, in sorrow and misery

the sun in bliss and in light, truth in fire

A Wind of Tradition Like a thief in the night that disturbs my deep sleep, Modernization is slowly eradicating the things that make the Filipinos unique. Like a wave of the havoc that turns my dreams into nightmares, We're slowly turning our back on our cultural heritage, and we're not even aware. Reviving traditional arts and crafts like Philippine weaving It is like a mistful dew of morn that defines a fresh beginning! Colorful indigenous fabric and threads that show so much creativity, Paired with our contemporary styles, ideas, and artistry.

All these ravishing patterns handmade by our very own Filipino weavers, Gives me unspeakable splendor that paints a rainbow in my vast gloomy heavens. Just like the harmonious music played by the fairies in daffodils, Festive displays of indigenous tapestry, beads, and even grass are now seen in modern styles and designs! Combining tradition and modernity through the art of indigenous weaving, Brings ethnic colors and patterns into the spotlight and obviates Filipino heritage from fading. Incorporating traditional Filipino weaves with our modern-day clothing, Is an act of honor and respect to our tradition that we are showing.

CHRISTINE JOELLE DIAZ

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Illustration by Joshua Paredes

Hawla MAYFLOR FERNANDEZ

She appeared like the sun. Incomparable in beauty, her fair skin shone like silken stars, her ebony-black hair parted in loose waves that revealed a stoic face behind the ethereal persona. The figure was dressed in red. The collar, cuffs, and hem of her clothing were richly embroidered by deft fingers. Delicate pieces of thread adorned her bosom, creating mandalas of flowers stitched with care and intricacy. Symmetrical shapes of exquisite thread can be seen in her blouse's sleeves, while geometric patterns lined the structure of her skirt. A crown of coins was secured on her forehead; the same coins hung from her neck and wrists, the clinking sounds echoing faintly with each delicate movement. And a black veil, made with transparent material, shielded her face away from further scrutiny. With slow, measured steps, she began to walk to the center of the room. Her dainty feet produced a slight creak, and her hands clasped a light scarf that swayed slightly with each step. A crowd, young and old, sat mesmerized by her quiet grace. Her long arms were elegantly raised, and an image of a bird soaring freely appeared in her mind. Rosa sighed wistfully and began to dance. _____ A hut stood isolated from the others. Within the wooden framework, there lived a princess, or, as the locals would say, a Binukot. No ordinary man has been permitted to look at the chosen ones, let alone touch them, for death awaits those who cross such boundaries. Frail creatures, secluded, veiled, and hidden from the outside world. They lived under the roofs of their quaint kingdoms. They were taught to weave and flourish amongst their traditions of dance, oral lore, and the passing of their epics, and were subdued to raise their value to possible suitors. The elders spoke of their significance, the path they must take to conserve their culture and carry on their traditions from one generation to another. They were royalty, almost second to the divine saints. Despite such reverence, the spoken tales of love, of longing, and the adventure they impart only serves to remind them of the truth, the reality of their situation— for they may never walk with their own two feet to discover it for themselves. Sunlight pierced through the windows, casting shadows on the trees; the sound of twittering birds coalesced with the dreamy sweep of the wind. The wind brought a gentle breeze that began to rock the hanging cot in which Rosa lay. The little rays of sunshine left kisses of warmth on her cheek, and she began to shift, her feet dangling from the cot, her eyes starting to flutter open. It was a peaceful morning. Rosa tried to stand, her unused feet beginning to wobble with the effort, and she peeked through the gaps in the bamboo windows. Outside, the clash of nature and man brought a cacophony of noises that made her grin with excitement. She always wanted to leave the four walls of her room. The same bare walls get a sense of unease. She felt trapped. Her eyes caught a flutter of movement outside the window. A pair of birds perched atop a low branch. A series of chirps erupted from their little beaks. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine herself out there. Enjoying the soft breeze, dancing freely, hair unbound, and hands are lifting. Then, there came a rustling from the outside, the birds began to flap their wings, and thus, began their journey into the vast, blue sky. Leaving in their wake, Rosa, who's stuck behind the confines of her hut. Envious. Frustrated with reality, she's been dealt with. Unable to pursue simple fancies like running

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Photo by Christine Joelle Diaz

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

barefoot outside, interacting with people her age, or even knowing the world beyond the scope of their rural group. A bitter smile crossed her face. Her plight was unfortunate; her situation was almost reminiscent of those birds, but unlike those free spirits, she was trapped. Caged. Hidden away to become a vessel for tradition, of their waning culture, of people stuck in the ideals of the past. The door to her room opened. Her mother emerged, feeling giddy, a smile plastered on her face. "It is time, Rosa." It felt like she was being doused in cold water. A heavy feeling began to settle within her, and she collapsed, her feet giving way. Her mother ignored her. Apids (or female servants) entered her small room; seeing her in a state of undress, they began to help her. She wasn't paying attention. She remembered the birds, how freely they soar in the sky, how far they can reach the heavens. In that moment of desperation, she wanted to disappear, to fly away. Far from this suffocating reality, far from the mandate of her family, far from this fate of hers, far away. _______ She ran. Rosa ran away. Her unsteady feet are taking her everywhere but home. The steady wind pushing away her raven hair from her face dried tears; it was cropped short, strands all over the place. She didn't care. Bringing the blade against her long, ebony hair was a decision she didn't regret at all. The heavy feeling is gone, the restraints are beginning to loosen. She stopped. It was night. Bruises of purple and blue marked the sky, dense clouds forming, and the moon hiding behind the mists. Tall trees surrounded her. No one can find her here now. Not her mother, not the man who's ten years her senior, no stuffy servants crowding her, and most significantly, no room to hold her back. No cage to shackle her. Tears began to well in her eyes. She laughed, hands upright, mimicking the same dance she did earlier, hands outstretched, a swift and free bird she was. Feet are trampling against the leaves and dirt, the feeling foreign to her and yet comforting. Fate led her down this path. Alone in the woods. She felt a pull toward her surroundings. Amidst the looming trees, the gentle whispers of the wind, the birds, and every creature alike, she belonged. And somehow, she felt that she was part of these woodlands. To nature. The elders believed that spirits live within these sentient guardians. Are they here to guide her or warn her? Value of Tradition or Self-expression? Education or marriage? For now, she enjoys her freedom. Whatever tomorrow may bring, she will accept fully— everything has a purpose. In the end, it's up to her on which path she'd choose. There are two paths before her. Will she follow the voice of nature back home or, like an uncaged bird, soar to new possibilities?

Ang Manghahabi Sa mundo na tila lahat ay paligsahan, Ang halaga’t kagandahan ay dinidikta ng iilan, Nabubuyo ang karamihan na pilit iayon ang likha at tapestriya Sa kung ano ang kasalukuyang tanggap na pilit idinidikta. Ngunit, bawat nilalang ay may sariling disenyo, Bawat isa ay may inaangking anyo. Gawa na ba ang buong habi, o gugupitin pa upang umayon? Isang simpleng tanong na may napakalaking hamon. Sinasambit ng iilan na ang sinulid ng tadhana’y nakabuhol na, Ngunit totoo din naman na ikaw ang mananahi ng sarili mong tela. Hindi importante kung nakabuhol na o tatahiin pa, Mas makahulugan ang paghahabi’t pipiliing hibla. Ito ang patunay na hindi ka lang basta humihinga, Ikaw ay namumuhay, masaya't may halaga. Walang makapagdidikta sa kung anong gagamitin mong hibla, Dahil ikaw ang mananahi, wala ng iba.

VINCE ERVIN PALCULLO

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Illustration by Sam Oliver Nacion

Evangeline Evangeline, It means good news It is like the sun, an endless radiate of energy It is the memory of my mother, Who grounded me to light up When she taught me that my light would not last a lifetime My name is Evangeline, It means there is a time for everything.

GAD CASTRO

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

The Design Before the dawn of space and time, the brilliant Weaver planned a design. Breathed upon it, to give life a birth, crafted the majestic heaven and Earth. Unbleached gauze of benevolent skies, cosmic patterns and silver dyes, In the blue of the waters and the green of trees, from His fingers, He made a breathtaking tapestry. Woven together with absolute precision, eternal love, no division, embodies us. Like colorful threads, tied together by our history. "As it was, in the beginning, is now and shall ever be."

MARY ANGELINE GALLOS

Hoping It is a belief which brought others relief. A pair decided by fate, even if it comes late. This red string of fate, on our finger, if it connects to our match. This pinky that links us two, the little finger we hold onto. It is not as if we depend on it, but hope we find our other half. To be a perfect match is only a wish we all have.

COLEEN CASANOVA

let me there's this feeling

fellow affection quite unexplainable a purple lit sky a subtle time alone of thoughts and memories that seems not owned a glitch link the other end unknown the longing to die alone amidst a sea of grass or tulips, and lavenders slowly drifting into peace let me let me PRINCE RIC EMMANUEL PACIENTE

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Handog Kanyang tiniis ang malubhang sakit dahil ang tanging hangad ay mailuwal ka sa mundo at malaman ang lahat na mga kasagutan.

Ang sinulid at karayom ay nagsilbing lunas sa sugat na iyong binaon pero lahat ay napilitan ng tuwa’t galak noong mga luha sa mata ay unti-unting pumatak.

KARREN JAY ASGAR

Hangang kailan pa? Nakita kita na puno ng kasiyahan, Sa iyong mukha, ako'y nagandahan. Ang gandang tignan, ang gandang titigan. Hindi ko alam kung paano ka lalapitan. Ang iyong mga ngiti ay nakabibighani, Ang iyong mga mata, bituin sa langit, kumikinang kahit ang layo mo sa akin. Sana naman ako ay iyong mapansin. Naiinis sa aking sarili, dahil hindi ko alam kung paano ihahabi aking nararamdaman sa iyo, binibini.

Nakakalungkot, maraming pagkakataon ang sinayang Hindi man lang masabi ang nararamdaman. Nakakapagod, Nakakapagod nang maging ganito, isang duwag, takot na masaktan, hindi naman sinubukan. Hangang Saan? Hangang Kailan? Hangang kailan nalang kita titigan?

RYAN DAVE PORAL

gone in misdirection, drowned in misfortune

the wheel of fortune rolling fates, cycles of life

Patawad ANGEL ROSE LEPAÑA

Patawad. Kung lagi’t lagi’y kulang ang binibigay ko sa iyo. Alam kong buo ang hinahanap mo ngunit gumagawa pa rin ako palagi ng paraan upang may matira pa rin sa akin. Pasensya na sapagkat gusto ko lamang magkaroon pa ng parte para sa akin. Nais ko namang bigyan ka ng buo, sa totoo lang. Gusto kong mapasaya kita sa tuwing hinahandugan kita ng aking bayad sa lahat-lahat ng ginagawa’t ibinigay mo sa akin. Ngayong araw, nasaksihan ko na naman ang galing mo sa paghahabi. Kahit anong uri ng materyal ay nagagamit mo at nagiging produktong may kalidad. Kahit anong pagmamadali, kayang kaya mong gawin ng mabuti’t matulin. Lahat nalang nagagawan mo ng paraan. Sana malaman mong hanga talaga ako sa iyo. Labis kitang pinasasalamatan sa paggawa ng mga tela sa damit ko. Ang halaga nito ay walang katumbas—mahal. Ang mahal naman. Kung hindi mo ako bibigyan ng tawad, pwede pautang muna?

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Mapanlinlang na Sining Perpektong tingnan nang iyong sinimulan, Ang administrasyong inakalang kalugmukan ay matatahan, Sabi nila, isang obra maestra ang magiging resulta, Ngunit sa proseso ng paglikha’y balde- baldeng dugo pala ang dadanak Isa ka talagang mahusay na manghahabi, Pinagsalit-salit mo ang paayon na mga pangako at pahalang na sabi- sabi, Ipinakita mong hawak mo ang magkabilang dulo ng sinulid, Sa likod pala’y nakakubli ang putol na daan patungo sa matuwid. Inilatag mo sa harap ng karamihan, Ang magarbong produkto na ni walang bahid ng karumihan, Puno ng masisilaw at makukulay na mga disenyo, Naakit nga ako, ngunit bakit nang sinubukan kong hawakan ay biglang naging abo? Hindi habang buhay matatago mo ang mga butas, Matatagpian mo pa sa ngayon ngunit may pangil ang batas. Sabihin mo mang may hawak kang malakas na kapangyarihan, Pero alalahanin mo rin, hindi lang ikaw ang marunong manghabi dito sa bayan. CERA ANGELY RIZARDO

Photo by Gazelle Faith Boko

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Awitin mo, Felipe I Magtanim ay di biro, sa putik kapit-tuko di makaupo, di na makatayo. II Braso ko’y namamanhid Mata ko’y nangangalap ng liwanag sa lilim ng sakahan sa pagkababad sa dugo. III Kay pagkasawing-palad ang mayaman sa hirap Ang bisig kung iunat sa hangin nalalaglag. IV Sa umagang pagkagising lahat ay pag-iisipan Kung saan may patanim na palay at hindi katawan. V Halina, halina, mga kaliyag. tayo’y magsipag unat-unat. mag-aalab ang ningas para sa lupang bukas.

ALESTER JOHN GALLARDA

Base Sa Orihinal Na Kantang Magtanim Ay Di Biro ni Felipe De Leon

Who was before I lost my name? CLARENCE CORDERO

Name: Unknown Age: 18 years old, turning 19 in a few months. ********** He was nothing but a well oiled fighting machine. A soldier. A killer. An assassin. An infiltrator. A master of disguise. He can be everything and then nothing—the shining star of a famous gala and then the darkness, blending in the night. Orders are everything. There's no guidebook for his actions, always playing with his best cards. He can play dirty like the Joker, act regal like the King, strike viciously like the Queen, and blow everything up like the picture-perfect Ace weapon. A full house of everything the underworld needs. Yes, not human...but a weapon. There's also no other priority in his sight, only the mission his employers had given him and had garnered his services. To finish the job with 100% perfection is his goal. No mistakes could happen. No mishaps should occur. Every map is checked, and each escape route is planned for every possible end. Even if the mission's succession means acquiring a new injury, he's okay with it as long as the payment suffices his demands. He's also very patient. Able to sit still for hours on end like a plastic mannequin. Able to organize in the middle of a crossfire to line a perfect shot. Able to stay calm and alert even when he's dying from the blood loss. He cannot heal himself entirely, the lingering yellow flames leaving silvery lines of scars, for his flames had not been tuned to heal himself nor others but to destroy and burn his foes. Thus, his body became a canvas of every war trophy. Bruises, slashes, gashes, bites, scrapes, incisions, bullet marks, heat seared skin, and even jagged lines from shrapnels from the shell of a bomb. All of it was displayed in full glory. Never hiding his form. Never afraid of the scrutiny of the others. His growing fame may only be the lick of their salt, and he's prouder of it every day. Yet despite all the demand for his loyalty in one central underground family, he never stayed. He could never stay. Never get too close. Never get too attached. It's a risk he will never willingly take. "Sometimes, to protect someone, you have to force yourself to stay away," a voice cracked somewhere in his hazy memory. Someone he probably knows a long time ago but got lost in the passage of time. Only remembered when needed, which is rare at most.

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

W H O

W A S

B E F O R E

L O S T

M Y

N A M E ?

It's weird...different...to lose something you've been able to recall before. After collapsing in his last escape, doctors who found him said he's suffering from a sort of memory loss. Selective amnesia, was it? He can't remember. They then tried asking his name, but he merely gave them a confused look. Why would they ask that? None of his clients had asked him. His caretakers never gave him one either. Should he just...name himself? It felt wrong, though. He always let others name him for the sake of fun and...curiosity perhaps. Like what would they call him? Another title? Another alias? "I...don't know," he confessed. Really weird. He shouldn't lie. He didn't know why but he didn't want to lie about that. Nobody asked him before, and those who knew about his true identity were rotting in their graves or had been rendered to ashes, all done by himself. Thus, with no one to remind him, he forgot about it. It isn't necessary, after all. It's just one of the things he willingly gave up to enter his world of blood and death. And as much as a killer, he had grown to be; he stays true to his word. In the end, they decided to name him as John Doe, a name for an unidentified man, a fitting yet one that is also mostly reserved for the dead in a forensic lab. Of course, they didn't call him that upfront but merely addressed him as "Sir" or "Mr.Black" because of his onyx eyes, a clear sign of respect and confidentiality to the patient. He mainly heard the ruse from one of the friendlier nursing staff after asking about it, telling him that it was supposedly done to make fun of him since it somehow plays as a double joke to them. John Doe, a name for the dead given to a living person without any trace of being alive. As he'd said, it's very fitting for someone like him. No known identity. No close family to contact. Not even much of a discernable feature other than the curly sideburns and his seemingly bottomless eyes. Tanned skin, sharp nose, onyx eyes, somewhat spiky black hair, an average height since he hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, and a normally lithe build which is clearly built for speed. Other than that, it's just...plain normal, a face you'd immediately lose in a crowd if you don't pay attention. He merely smiled at the description, feeling proud of himself. Of course, he'd look 'normal' to them right now. They're supposed to see him that way. His charisma isn't made for this type of mission, and so he lets them think about what they want. This is merely another part of his practice for future espionage or infiltration missions. The next day after they've confirmed his surprising full health – his flames finally did its job and also became that one thing that gained the attention of the doctors who planned on making a research paper focused on him – John Doe disappeared carrying his medical reports in a white folder and a destroyed computer mainframe of the hospital. His escapade was no fancy move. Merely sneaking in the staff room and opening one locker to masquerade as an on duty nurse, hacking into their computer, and finishing the job by accessing the specialized computer virus he had asked and customized for situations like this.

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Getting all those out of his way, he knocked someone out, got their uniform, then slipped away by walking out of their front door. Easy as pie. "No reco...s sh..uld s..y. Unr...vant inf..rm...n sho... be wip..d ...t," the buzzing voice had turned to static in his ears, though it seemed to be a sort of order, one he had followed since the start in his career, never really bothered to listen to over and over again. Glancing at the thin stack of what should be his written medical chart, he paused and contemplated on burning it or reading what they've put down as observation. He did the latter and was greeted by an almost space on his personal history as a patient. He smiled at the clean view. Named as John Doe. Gender is male. The blood type is +AB. Birth Date unknown. Age unknown. Mother unknown. Father unknown. Contact number unknown. Address unknown. Weight was only approximated. Same with his height. They can't just do something to him while he's asleep, after all. He can somehow see their frustrations in dealing with that. The rest of the pile centered on his complications like having a rare case of having his heart on the wrong side of his chest called 'Dextrocardia situs inversus', meaning his heart is on the right side of his chest rather than on the left chest. He pursed his lips in dismay. While it's good to have a name on his heart location, finally, he already knew his condition. It isn't exciting knowing that. Though talk about the irony of being called 'The Devil' by some of his clients. His heart is indeed in the wrong place, yet entirely fitting for a criminal. The remaining files were indeed not interesting enough, and he called it quits. Raising the tip of his finger as if forming a gun, he set fire to the paper and watched the wind blow away the burning paper. "Chaos," he said as he grinned, white teeth gleaming dangerously to those who knew how strong someone could bite without stopping their strength. A satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as the ashes danced in the wind. It's just another day where everyone forgets him, only remembering the mysterious John Doe but not giving enough attention to it. It's a hospital. People always go in and out of there. One less person without anything to back them up nor to act as a reference would be a cold case in the court. He knew so, for he had once sent a client who's not willing to pay him to the jury with all his crimes aired to the nation. He can remember that the guy was some low-rank government official who only got connections because of drug trafficking. Maybe even some export-import to add on. Of course, he had already collected his delayed payment before selling the guy out. It's no good doing business if you don't collect your pay. Humming a nameless tune, the man who would introduce himself to society with his titles, though would be more known and feared as 'The Number One Hitman,' a well-deserved title, of course, walked away from the pile of ashes that were not swept away by the wind. Leaving nothing but the remnants of burnt paper. A name reserved for the dead.

Illustration by Gad Castro

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

The Thief and the Seamstress Once there was a thief who boasted that he could get anything he wants "The sun, the moon, the stars, one day will be mine," he would flaunt The people never believed him thinking he was delusional. Only a madman would go against all things natural He stole the sun and the moon with a flick of a finger Acquiring the stars was a bit trickier One by one, he shot the stars until their light would die Their essence bled and spread all over the sky True to his nature, the thief kept slivers of the sun, moon and stars. This angered the goddess, and she plunged the world into darkness The thief, taken aback, returned all of her children to appease her wrath Yet the goddess stayed infuriated; no one could put up with the aftermath The thief searched far and wide for ways to calm the goddess' anger His journey brought him to a seamstress residing in a strange manor The thief told the seamstress of his current dilemma She felt pity and promised to help the strange fella The seamstress immediately went to craft three dresses: one woven with the laughter of the sun another embroidered with the tears of the moon and lastly, one painted with the blood of the stars The dresses were so beautiful they blinded the mortal eye They were so dazzling the goddess cannot deny She forgave the thief and returned light to the world, but only for half the day For the fragments, the thief had given to make the dresses meant day could never be whole again.

KALANIE SALDAJENO

Photo by Clarisse Pabelane

I M A G I N E

N A T I O N

Downpour the sound of the rain on cold, lonely nights the subtle tap on the windowsill washing away the silent cries ah, the wind that whispers calming the raging hearts the darkness that embraces these pierced and sewn up parts

that endless dribble of the storm's gloomy trail hush the mind, oh, so feeble! from its tempest and hail storms break, the weary and worn but it takes the brave to unravel, mending what is torn YUSIMAY HABLADO

Would you? If you could see my thoughts, you'd see our faces, plumped beneath the limelight skies in a meadow of lilac - our favorite smell. If you could hear my thoughts, you'd listen to our voices, cries of laughter as we close our eyes, trying, splinting our hands above our stomach If you could smell my thoughts, you'd smell the morning breeze breathe in, as we clamber, sweats perspire

If you could touch my thoughts, you'd feel our skin as I try to lather soap bubbles in your hands, popped or blown away If you could taste my thoughts, you'd taste cherries, as you try to knot, enticing, alluring your lips closer to mine If you could, If we could, Would you? KATHLEEN FRUGALIDAD

Mermaid KALANIE SALDAJENO

"I wasn't drowning; I just had to sink for a while, hoping the water would wash away the traces you left." She had the coldest pair of eyes framed by thick, voluminous lashes, her skin was unblemished, and her nose was delicate and thin, she had strange ears for they were a bit pointy, and her hair was a mess but still managed to look beautiful. My life changed ever since I found that naked girl—that day, I found a mermaid. At least that's what she calls herself; she insisted that she was a mermaid. No matter how you look at her, she's a normal girl, but… "You look different from what I imagined a mermaid would look like," I told her blankly, thinking that all of this is just a joke. "That's an image from a story," she told me with equal blankness. I sighed, deciding to go along with her prank, "We're out in public, so if you don't mind, let's go to my place," I said, offering her my jacket. It was expensive, but the girl was naked, so I don't really have a choice. I took her to my house, and she was all over the place; she's like a fish out of water—literally. She was touching every single thing that catches her eyes, though she mainly took a liking to my aquarium filled with tropical fish. "Do you live in a spacious house by yourself?" she asked, her eyes not leaving the aquarium. "Yes, that's right," I answered back, weary of the half-naked stranger prancing around my house. "But if this is the only fish of its kind, it must be lonely." Her eyes still not leaving the aquarium. I then realized that she wasn't talking about me; she spoke of the largest fish I kept in one of my aquariums. I didn't know what came into me, but I ended up taking care of the strange girl. I didn't know anything about her, but I'll find out her background not before long. I noticed a few weird things while living with this girl, like how she drinks saltwater and takes cold baths. Whenever I leave her alone, she secretly eats fish out of the aquarium. If this goes on, I will be left with an empty tank. One day I decided to take her out for a stroll, "It must be boring staying inside the house every day. Do you have somewhere you want to go?" I asked. "I want to go to the sea!" she said, flashing me a toothy grin.

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That was the first time I saw her smile, but I have to deny her what she wants, "That's a no, I can't swim, and there are plenty of other places." I eventually took her to the local aquarium. "What tasty looking fish. Do they raise them for eating?" Curiosity laced her voice. I was stunned by her strange question, "No, the fish are for looking at." "So, they will stay in this small place forever trapped?" An unfamiliar emotion glazed her pretty features. Was it pity? Hate? Sadness? I can't tell. We ended up going to the beach. The sky was painted in a myriad of colors; the sun was saying its final goodbyes for the day. The tranquility and the overall atmosphere gave me the courage to ask her something that bothered me for a while. "Have you been eating my tropical fish?" I was expecting some sort of reaction from her, but surprisingly she remained unperturbed. "You found out," she answered indifferently. That hit the mark, and suddenly I was pissed. "Just how far do I have to go along with this farce of yours? It's just cruel. Who are you?" "I am a mermaid, just like I said before. I always am, I always will be. Are you familiar with the story of the little mermaid? She fell in love and became human. I'm like her. I became human to meet you". Those were the last words I heard from her when she suddenly plunged into the sea. I followed her, forgetting that I cannot swim. I can feel the air slowly leaving my lungs and my vision getting blurry. Will this be my end? Before blacking out, I saw the strange girl. Her cold eyes were piercing right through my soul; her long black hair was floating in the water, giving her some sort of halo effect. If I were to die, I'd die happy; I was able to see such a beautiful sight before moving on to the afterlife. Maybe she's not a mermaid; maybe she was the angel of death. The Little Mermaid's story was not a happy one in the first place. She turned into sea foam and disappeared, just like how the strange girl vanished without a trace. When I woke up, I was in my room, and the strange girl was nowhere in sight. I'm accustomed to losing things, but this was too sudden. My aquarium was empty; she ate all the tropical fish in the end. I eventually returned to my past routine. I was lying on my bed when I heard the doorbell. To my surprise it was the strange girl, gone was the unruly curly hair instead, an elegant bun was placed atop her head, she usually goes barefoot, but this time she was wearing red pumps, of all the clothes she would be wearing I never imagined her to wear a suit and her cold eyes were covered in thick-rimmed glasses. I almost couldn't recognize her; she's like a whole new person. "It's you?!. You.. who exactly are you?" I stuttered. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm a mermaid. There's something I must show you, come with me." Coldness still in her voice. Once again, I found myself back at sea, the last place I saw this so-called mermaid. Suddenly, I heard a splashing sound. I cannot believe my eyes when I turned around, there were creatures all sharing the strange girls' features of cold stares and curly hair, but instead of feet, they have tails.

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illustration by Bejay Songcog

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"Is that all? I have gone along with your petty game of charade. You think that I will be moved if you hired a bunch of actresses and got them to jump into the sea? Your efforts are quite pitiful," I said to her. She sighed and pulled something out of her breast pocket—it was a knife. The knife was small, but the way it glimmered against the light indicates how sharp it is. It may be able to kill me if it hit the right spot. She twirled the knife around her fingers, looked up to me with tears threatening to fall from her cold eyes, and said, "If that's the case, should I play out the end of the story? Kill you and become a mermaid again? Turn into foam and disappear?" I closed my eyes and awaited the pain, but instead, I heard a splash. Turning into foam and disappearing? How idiotic, she's going to leave me again, and I will not let that happen. In no time, I found myself jumping into the water despite not knowing how to swim, desperately looking for her. I can feel myself sinking, and with my last breath, I found myself saying, "This isn't how the little mermaid ends, they are supposed to fall in love…they lived . . . happily . . . ever . . . after . . . "Suddenly I was completely submerged in water, I don't know if she heard me, but I hoped she did. I was about to close my eyes when I was suddenly pulled to the surface. "Together?" she asked with her usual cold voice, which was strangely comforting. I mustered a smile while tasting the salt on my lips and gasping for air. It wasn't the most "regal" sight. I looked at her incredulously and noticed that she, too, has a tail. I found myself asking once more, "What are you?" This time she smiled—the same toothy grin that I rarely see and answered, "I told you before, I am a mermaid." The Little Mermaid may have ended in a tragedy, but this story is different. The mermaid revealed her true identity right from the beginning; the time they spent together was enough for them to fall deeply in love. As of now, I am living with a mermaid. Her care and feeding are simple: give her raw fish to eat and saltwater to drink. Her intelligence is high, and she is a gentle and compassionate creature. There is only one thing that bothers me, though—she doesn't fit in the bathtub.

Disappointments Hoppity-bippity-bop The bunny has the clock, Watching the world with mock; Hippity-boppity-boop Time is in a loop, The bunny let out a scoff; When things feel like they changed, Here, things become estranged. The bunny now bit back a laugh.

COLEEN CASANOVA

The Songs of The Common Men O you who bloomed throughout the seasons, Who conjures hope in winter's treason; The water to the tiller's drylands, You are the song of the common man. One breath and the pasture sways in green, One truth and the leaves become yellow, Yet you take flight in the dawning gleam, And breathe anew in boundless mellow. You are in the rain that cascades earth, And the voice that brings us back to dirt; You fly along with eternity's girth, Whose death's eternal— and so is rebirth.

LUKE ISAIAH ISMAEL

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Illustration by Gad Castro

Last Day at Work KALANIE SALDAJENO

HELP WANTED, PART TIME/FULLTIME "Lost something?" A female voice said, waking up from my trance. I turned around and saw a beautiful woman with waist-length black hair. She had a sculpted figure, which was twine-thin. Her waist was tapered, and she had a pale complexion. A pair of arched eyebrows looked down on sweeping eyelashes emphasized her kind brown eyes. Her delicate ears framed a dainty nose. She looked younger than me, but a voice at the back of my head seems to say that she was much older than she looks, and yet there was something warm about her presence. I found myself saying, "I lost a handkerchief." "Ah," the woman replied. She was in the process of moving a flower pot containing the largest sunflowers I have ever seen, the plant itself towered over my five-foot frame, and the flowers were bigger than my head. She invited me inside the shop; the inside was cluttered but still managed to look warm and homey, with its wooden floors and certain sweet smell in the air. She told me to sit on one of the couches and went behind the counter. The shop was filled with different things from ordinary things such as jewelry, ornaments up to the strangest things a bottle filled with an unfamiliar substance that sparkle and twinkle like the night sky, a mask decorated with a wide variety of feathers that would surely make the adarna bird jealous, a necklace that has a pair of iridescent wings as a pendant and many more. "Is this what you're looking for?" In her hand was my handkerchief that I lost a couple of days ago. "Yes," I responded with astonishment lacing my voice. "How did it get here?" "Lost things arrive here to be found," she said. "Oh, do I have to pay for this?" She laughed gracefully and said, "No, I only sell unclaimed items." I looked at the shelves. "That's a lot of unclaimed items." The beautiful woman looked wistful. "Humans are fickle creatures; they lose things every day. Most just give up looking and forget." "Humans," that's what she said, not "we" or "us" what a weird thing to say. I was curious about the shop and the sudden sadness that seemed to envelop its keeper's voice, but I was pressed for time and had to say goodbye. "Thank you so much for your help Miss….," I say gratefully, assuming that was her name.

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Once again, she laughed and replied, "My name is Dian. Call me that way." The next day, I visited, staying for at least an hour having tea and eating her delicious pastries. I don't usually drink tea because of its grassy aftertaste, but Dian's tea was tinted pink and had a flowery hint to it. She said that the tea was made from boiling Sampaguita, roses, and gumamela, a recipe she inherited from her mom. This shop is strange; objects appear in the storeroom and remain there until claimed. If the items remained unclaimed for 30 days, they would be transferred to the shop to be appraised or be sold. The shop contains a myriad of things. Furniture, clocks, hats, and headdresses from various eras, curtains and clothes and various purses, cameras, typewriters, assorted shoes, chests of jewelry, and books. She said that only a few "humans" with the "sight" could find her shop, and when they do, they

usually look for items that they can use for décor. They pay her with human currency, and that's what she uses to pay the humans who pawn their objects. On the other hand, her "non-human" clientele usually end up bartering each other's items. They have no interest in human objects or money, and humans typically refuse to pay the price in exchange for magical items. A few visits later, I found myself working for Dian as a part-timer adding it to my boring routine. I didn't really need the job, but working for Dian was a pleasure. The shop didn't need a helper, clients didn't come in hordes but I think that what Dian needs is the company. She was always alone with only her romance pocketbooks—she needed a companion. Dian always opened the shop late because that's when clients usually came in. There was still the usual pawnshop business of this-rings-for-cash, but I have also seen a fair share of interesting trades. A gymnast is trading a week's worth of laughter for the quick healing of a broken bone; a merman is exchanging his scales for a potion that will permanently turn him into a human; a fairy trading pixie Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

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dust for a bottle of glamour that will conceal her wings so that she can continue being an actress. Although rare, humans also come in for magical trades. A blind little girl once traded her singing voice for sight (Dian stored her voice in a bottle and put it on the topmost shelf ). Dian saw me eyeing the bottle and jokingly said she would give the bottle in exchange for my face. I panicked a little, and Dian to burst into laughter. For some strange reason, Dian took a liking to my face. One night, a drunk woman came in and brought a bottle of storm clouds. She said that she was a writer who needed the rain to bring out her creative juices. "What did she pay for that?" I asked once the woman had left. "That's just a week's supply of storm clouds," Dian said, "so I only asked for seven months of her life. I'm going to use that for my sunflowers. That way, they wouldn't wilt for a long time— isn't that fantastic? The sunflower was from my beloved brother Apolaki." I nodded my head, unsure of what to say. I hope the lady was able to make a good book. One afternoon when I went to the shop to start work, I noticed a gold envelope with intricate floral patterns at the pawn shop's doorstep. I grabbed the letter and gave it to Dian, who was sitting behind the counter. Upon seeing the letter's contents, a sad look appeared on her pretty face. "Dian, what's wrong?" I asked her worriedly. As if on cue, she burst into tears. I was so worried that I didn't even get to ask why her tears turned into pearls. I reached out to her and rubbed circles on her back, hoping that some way it would bring her comfort. "They're going to close the shop. Maria Makiling won't let me keep it. She owns the land around here." I found myself unable to say anything. Dian refused to open up a shop that day; instead, she tried to cheer herself up by talking to me and listening to music on her phonograph. I was about to leave when Dian tapped my shoulder; she had a flowerpot with a sunflower on hand; she even tied a red ribbon around it. "It's a gift. I hope you take care of it. The flower will live a long life because of my special fertilizer," she said with a smile. I smiled back and said thank you to her, and made my way to my bicycle parked across the street. I was in the middle of the road when I stopped walking; something made me stop and looked back at the shop. I want to memorize every detail about it, the dainty lettering on the sign, the antique-looking lamp post beside it, the strange but whimsical architecture of the shop, and finally the glass windows illuminated by the yellow light. I spotted Dian behind the window, and she was looking smiling. She waved her elegant hands at me and mouthed, "It's past your curfew." grinning afterward. I stared at her once more in hopes of memorizing her features. Tears started falling to my cheeks. For some strange reason, I know that today was my last day at work.

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11,034 meters JANA ASHLEY LARSEN

As the dawn kisses the surface of the water softly, he leaves her chained to the bottom of the sea, with her wrists burning from the shackle's metal grip. Her eyes glue to his back like the rocks pressed to her feet. He shadows the rare specks of light that float into her cold and dark prison—and so slowly, he rises. The light returns as he swims away, but her sights remain the same. It is dark. It is lonely. It is silent. So she parts her lips and spins the tale of a bright-eyed little girl from a faraway land who picks up corals on a calm shore. Sometimes she forgets she cannot leave. Her dreams fill with hazy images of a clear sky. The leaves of palm trees sway in a slow dance with the breeze. There are bits of broken seashells, nipping into her skin— and no. They do not hurt. She is used to the pinches of shattered fragments on the sand. She can take three more steps, sand sinking between her toes before she wakes up to the ocean's cold abyss. He is not here; she presumes. He is never here while the sun is up. So she laughs. She laughs and laughs until her lungs crumple up like paper, and then she crafts another godforsaken cloth until her hands ache. Her arms try to extend to a land far beyond here, but it is a land her fingertips cannot reach. Instead, she spins the water surrounding her, weaving her sorrow into the cold, murky waters. One day, she realizes she is tired of the cerulean above her. The caramel sand across from her small bungalow sickens her—it mocks her. It whispers to her: you are trapped. Are you not exhausted from running on this beach of yours, picking up corals and seashells and broken glass? So when she sees him treading through the waves on the shore, she screams: yes. Take me away from this place. I know all too well. The first few days are lovely. His palace of pearls sparkles brighter than any star in the cosmos. Gold and silver line the walls of every room—and every jewel one could think of lays inside the cabinet of her bedroom. Maids dressed in white wait at her side, her commands ready to be fulfilled. He gives her a loom, with threads made of silver and gold. Are you happy? He asks. I am, she whispers. I am. Cerulean and navy. They swirl her gaze, dipping her irises into paint cans of blue, blue, blue. The coral-covered floors. The star-speckled ceiling. Her soft pillow covers. Her long, bejeweled dress. Nothing is not blue. And little by little, the murmurs of the water sink into her ears. It hisses out questions, and she tries to shake them out of her system: out of her thoughts, out of her room. But they keep crawling back, their claws tearing into the threads of her heart.

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This is for your good, he tells her. This is to keep you safe. Tears of frustration brim on her eyelids as she pulls on the chains wrapped around her wrists. They burn like magma against her skin. The walls that surround her are dreary and ice cold. There are no lustrous stones or sparkling dresses here. There is nothing but darkness. So she begins to hum a melody, her voice resonating throughout the walls of her prison, hoping her song and the clicks of her loom could drown out the ghosts who whisper empty promises in her ears. Why do you stay here? He asks. Because this is my home, she answers. This is my warmth—the sun, the sand… the sky. Are you not tired of walking along this beach? He points to the blue that kisses the shore. Do you not want a new adventure? A place that can fulfill your deepest desires? Her hair flutters with the breeze as she shakes her head. I love it here. That is what everyone says, my dear. When she attempts another escape, she is too slow and too weak. Her bones crackle and ache at every step she takes. Blood seeps through the cuts on her feet, painting gloomy roses on the bedrock's dark staircase. Her breath escapes her through rickety gasps. It turns to nightfall, and she is nowhere near the exit. He catches her getaway as he returns, his eyes dull with disappointment. He gives her no leniency. The chains that wrap around her wrists and ankles are sculpted from the searing heat of the earth's core. She screams and screams, and screams until her voice becomes ash. Her loom and her fabrics lay somewhere else, broken and untouchable. A torrent of hazy dreams cannot wash away the truth of her choice on that afternoon she weaved with her hands of talc and sand. She lies at the bottom of the earth, the weight of it all on her soft shoulders. The whispers of demise that flutter in her ears are inked and smudged on her soul, their words as myriad as the 11,034-meter distance of her beloved dreams. Are you not tired of running on this beach of yours, picking up corals and seashells and broken glass? This time, she does not weave.

faithless child, burning out

the star dreams of solitude, arising, connected

Pagdaop Idilat mo iyong mga mata mapang-asam kong sakopin; Kung saan nakalimbag ang mga guhit, Hampas at himas, siya'y salarin, Nakahimlay, dugtong-dugtong na tahakin. Sinanay sa init at lagkit ng magkadampi, Nakapulupot animo'y supot na di mapigti; Magkayayap dilang pusod ng bunga't sanhi, Pagkat pintig ng pulso'y iyong ka-ari. Isang araw dagundong ng sigwa'y umahon, Nilipon, nilamon pagkakataon ng kahapon; Mapa'y nakabuka, tila'y naupos na ang direksyon; Nang digmaan sa lungkot at pagkabagot naging hamon. Kailan kaya aalpas sa gapos ng pandemya? Nagpupumiglas sa tahanang rehas na; Pagkat nakagisnan ay ipinagbabawal pa; Minamadali na mahabi ang mga araw na wala ka, Nang pagdaop ng hamog sa mga tigang na mapa'y dumampi na. Sana'y mga mapa'y lumaya't muling mapagtagpo, Nang sabay nating mabagtas ang ating mga pangako. At muling maihabi init ng huling pagsamo Pangako, titibayan ng mga daliri ko ang pagyakap sa mga kamay mo.

DARYL LUTERO

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illustration by Gad Castro

Illustration by John Pel Banares

These Are the Hands of Fate Oh, how fascinating it is. Exposing the art and life of the weave. Weavers around the world that is. Their life through the weave of the weave. It is truly fascinating. Their intricate focus in interlacing, strong yet delicate hands work. How their designs are beyond any historian book. A weaver's hands are like the hands of fate, controlling the threads of "life", oh, how immaculate. Life of old, life of youth. The life of the woven cloth. Culturally mystical, they are. Time, art, and hard work are on par. A weaver is a shining and calming star. ANGELIKA TEODISIO

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Hinabing Bituin CERA ANGELY RIZARDO

Prenteng nakapwesto ang buwan sa kalangitan ngunit hindi binabalot ng liwanag nito ang kapaligiran sapagkat niyayakap ng makakapal na ulap ang kabuuan ng himpapawid. Sa kabilang banda ay wala ring pagbabadya ng ulan. Tahimik ang paligid maliban sa mga kuliglig at mahinang musika na nagmumula sa isang tindahan sa hindi kalayuan. Hindi alintana ang dilim kay Lia na mag-isang nakaupo sa kinakalawang na mahabang upuan sa parke. Nakatulala lang sa hangin ang dalaga. Hindi malaman kung sadyang malalim ang iniisip niya o tinatanaw ang nagsasayawang ilaw mula sa mga gusali na nasasalamin sa tubig ng lawa na siyang pumapamagitan sa masiglang kabisera at kinaroroonan niya. Mapapansin sa kanyang tabi ang kuwadradong bagay na nasasabugan ng iba’t- ibang mga kulay na kung tititigan mo nang mabuti ay isang larawan. Kusa naman niyang niyakap ang sarili sa biglang pagdaan ng malamig na simoy ng hangin. Walang ano- ano’y bigla siyang napahagulgol dahil sa isipa’y sa wakas, nakalaya na siya. --“Dapat ikaw pa rin ang mangunguna sa buong klase mo," matigas na bilin ng ina habang nilalagay ang patong- patong na mga libro sa kanyang harapan. Pinagmasdan niya ang ina. Mahigpit ang kalamnan ng mukha nito na para bang malimit lang ngumiti. Sa unang kita mo sa ginang ay masasabing strikta ito ngunit hindi rin maitatanggi na maganda ang tindig at sopistikada. Talagang matagumpay sa buhay ang ina lalo na sa larangan ng negosyo nitong mga hinabing produkto na siya mismo ang nagdidisenyo. Natatandaan niya pa noong sampung- taong gulang siya; hanganghanga siya sa ina nang may inuwi itong isang nakakamanghang bag. Maganda ang kombinasyon ng kulay nito at kahit walang gaanong dekorasyon ay nakaaakit pa rin sa paningin. “Ito ang isa sa mga pinakamagandang ginawa ko”. Maalala pa niyang puno ng saya ang tinig na ina, tanda kung gaano niya kamahal ang ginagawa. “Pero ikaw at ang Kuya mo ang titingkayad sa lahat ng mga obra ko. Kayo ang pinakadakila sa lahat.” Sa kabilang banda, ito ang linyang hinding- hindi niya makakalimutan. Nabago ang paningin niya sa pagkukumparang ito. Ganoon ba talaga? Isang produkto lang nga ba ang mga anak para sa kanilang magulang, kung saan ay ipinagkakandalakan sila sa mundo na parang sa isang kompetisyon ng mga pinakamagaling na manghahabi na supling? Hindi niya maintindihan. “Siya nga pala, naasikaso ko na ang dokumento mo para sa kolehiyo. Ilang taon pa bago maging doktor ka kaya pag- igihan mo ang pagaaral ” pahayag na naman ng ina. Nagulat ang dalaga at hindi agad nakagsagot. Labag man sa kalooban ay marahan na lamang siyang tumango. Mukhang mananatili na lamang sa kanyang panaginip ang pagmamahal niya sa sining at literatura sa kadahilanang hindi niya maaayawan ang batas ng ina. Para bang tuluyang kinuha ang kanyang boses at naging sunudsunuran na lamang sa plawtang tinutugtog nito. Parang kinulong siya sa isang bote at itinapon sa dagat kung saan siya nanatiling nakalutang at naghihintay na matagpuan. Ilang beses niya ring sinubukang makawala ngunit nagpaghihinaan siya ng loob sa tuwing maririnig na hindi sapat ang kaalaman niya para mabuhay sa mundo. Mula noon, natuto na lamang siyang paniwalaan ang sasabihin ng iba lalo na ang opinyon ng ina. Natuto siyang isiksik ang sarili sa mundong ginawa ng iba. Simula nang nabuhay siya, pakiramdam niya’y hindi niya naging pagmamay- ari ang sarili.

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Illustration by Joshua Paredes

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Paulit- ulit na naging takbo ng buhay ni Lia ang pagpasok sa eskwela at pagurin ang sarili sa pagaaral upang hindi madismaya ang mga tao sa paligid niya. Uuwi at makinig sa mahabang paalala ng ina kung ano ang dapat niyang gawin at kung ano dapat ang kalalabasan niya. Para bang hinabi na nang mabuti ang serye ng kanyang buhay. Iyon nga lang ay hindi siya ang may hawak ng sinulid, hindi siya ang mismong naglalala nito. Sa likod ng puso’t isipan niya ay nabubuhay ang pag- asa na balang araw ay magtatagpuan niya ang gunting na puputol sa maling simula na ito. Alas sais na ng gabi nang makauwi si Lia. Sa trangkahan pa lamang siya ng kanilang bahay nang mapabalikwas siya sa gulat nang makarinig ng pagbasag na nagmumula sa loob ng bahay. Sinundan ito ng nakakabinging sigaw ng ina. Maingat naman siyang pumasok at sumilip sa nakaawang na pinto. Kaharap ng ina ang nakakatandang kapatid na base na mukhang galit din. “Pinag-aral kita at planado na ang kinabukasan mo. Tapos ito ang isusukli mong bata ka?,” galit na sigaw ng ina habang hinihilot ang sentido. “Kahit sa ngayon lang Mama, sana hayaan mo naman akong gawin kung ano talaga ang gusto ko”, puno ng hinanakit na tugon ng binata. “Dapat kang magpasalamat dahil tinahi ko na lahat para sa inyo. Magiging abogado ka, tapos ang usapan” matigas na katwiran ng ina. Napahalimos ang kapatid sa pagkabigong iparating sa ina ang kagustuhan. Napaatras naman siya nang maramdamang parang sasabog ang dibdib dahil sa mga napagtanto niya nang marinig ang sagutan. Dali- dali syang lumabas at lakad- takbo ang ginawa palayo sa kanilang tahanan. Napamahalaan niyang makarating sa parke ng kanilang lugar kahit nanghihina ang kanyang mga tuhod. Sari- sari ang pumapasok sa kanyang isipan na para bang tinutusok ang mga natutulog na panaghoy upang magising at maging malaya. “Ayoko na,” hagulgol ni Lia. Sinubukan niyang tumingala sa kagustuhang itigil ang batis ng kanyang pagluha. Doon, nasaksihan niya ang paglitaw ng mga bituin na tumitingkad sa gitna ng dilim. Ilang taon na nang tumigil siyang tingalain ang mga tala at itinuon ang pansin sa hinabing bituin na nakalatag sa harapan niya. Hindi na niya mawari kung ano ang totoong pangarap para sa kanya at matagal na siyang nasasabik sa sariling ningning na nilamon ng dilim. Napagtanto niyang maging isa man siyang ganap ng obra ng ina ay hindi pa rin maiitago ang proseso na sa tingin niya ang pinakamahalaga, na puno ng poot at kalungkutan. Sa pagtingala niya sa mga bituin ay naging determinado siyang kumawala sa mahigpit na pagkahabi ng mga paayon at pahalang na mga utos na sumasakal sa kanya. Napagtanto niyang siya mismo ang dapat humawak ng sinulid at maging gabay na lamang ang ina o kung sino pa man. Dali- dali siyang umuwi. Pagdating ni Lia, nadatnan niya ang ina na pabalik- balik na naglalakad. Nang mapansin siya nito, dali- dali itong sinunggaban ang kanang braso ng dalaga. “Saan ka nanggaling?” Galit na tanong ng ina. Sunod- sunod ang pagtulo ng mga luha ni Lia. Kahit humihikbi ay pinilit niyang magsalita. “Ma, patawad.” Taos-pusong pahayag ni Lia na naghatid naman ng pagtataka sa kanyang ina. “Hindi ko na gustong maging pangarap ang mga pangarap mo”. --Kasama nating maghabi ng ating buhay at mga pangarap ang ating mga magulang ngunit minsan ay ipinapaubaya na lamang sa kanila ang magiging takbo ng buong proseso dahil nakakalimutan natin ang sariling kakayahan at nagpapalamon sa mapaghusgang lipunan. Katulad ni Lia, sana ay hindi pa huli para sa iyo para mapagtanto na ikaw mismo ang hinabing sasakal sa sarili mo o ang gunting na puputol sa kung ano sa tingin mo’y tumatali sa pagkatao mo.

The Dance of a Dandelion Sweet dandelion Breathed by wishes and laughter Dies, to live again

words and illustration by Yusimay Hablado

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Last day on 1945 KATHLEEN FRUGALIDAD It's 6 pm on July 5, 1945. The kissing rosy sunsets and the sweet fumes of the eastern breeze have just begun to fade from the reflection in her window. Honking horns indicate the quiet hours. A town once packed with busy people is now filled with gunshots and a barking language that few of them can understand. She's been here for almost four months now. She already memorized every inch of this tiny room in a big cabin. A prisoner, she hopes to be free. She silently loosens her tied-up wrist. She would get barred if they knew she was capable of doing it. But, instead, they thought of her and everyone else imprisoned as no-brainers, just people who add up to having a strong workforce. Slaves. An older man, the former dweller of the same room she is in right now, succumbed to death in that same square. But, unfortunately, she never had the chance to read any of the older man's books as she was always tired of working. She would only slum on her tiny bed after a day of finding gold, pretending to find one in her case. Trying every ounce of luck, she finds clues as she navigates her living space. She skimmed through some books, hoping to find something. Just one thing. A spark of hope, maybe? As she ran her fingers through the chipped-off books' spines, she came across one oddly familiar bookmark: a string. As she pulls the book out of the shelf, its string lengthens, extending into a hole beyond the wall. She pulls it out. It glides smoothly, and not a single sweat has come out of her skin. It did not stop. She kept pulling. Harder. Faster. She discovers a dent in the wall and puts her head against it. A sound wallowing in echo. Ecstatically, she tried to rip open the thin wallpaper with her fingernails. She had pretty much grown them during the time she was locked up there. There was a small door behind the bookshelves. The thrill inside her burst up. It was a feeling of impending freedom. She breathed in as she took a step. Sweats begin to peep out of her body, contemplating why she is even out at this wee hour. Inside is another door with a crooked knob and a chamber as dark as charcoal. Dusty. Mites. Dust bunnies. She felt numb. Is she afraid? She had not been afraid in a long time. Taking the risk, she puts one foot forward and drags the other. She kept on walking, wondering why she had forgotten to bring with her a lamp. Clumsy. She went from tiptoes to brisk walking. She is as resilient as her mother. As if she knows what lies ahead of her, how far is the end of the tunnel? Why would someone build a three-way tunnel under this silver-plated cabin? She asked herself as she

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tried to figure out what decision she should make next. There are three doors in front of her; one is locked; the center had holes in them, but she can't be sure what's inside, as it is also pitch-black; and the last one had a square of torched wood that was no bigger than her palm. It had a peephole in the middle of it. Afraid that she might get caught, she hurriedly went back to the wall, trying to brush off the idea of freedom. Is she ever going to be free again? She asked herself as she sealed off the door behind the bookshelf. Quiet as a mouse, she kept her way inside the cabin safely. But why is a tunnel secured under there? Did they not know about this? These questions will linger in her mind longer than the math formulas she had to memorize. She began to tighten her cuff and put it back in the right place—her wrists. These people have been here for about three years now. It's scary how stories of torture and maltreatment are beginning to feel normal. She couldn't even remember what life was like up there. How is her mother? Did her father come back? He told her he would. Before the invasion, thousands of Japanese fifth columns came to the Philippines as "traders" or even street sweepers. But when war broke out, they immediately wore their military uniforms, much to the Filipino people's great surprise. It was like the Trojan War. It only took about 23 minutes. Thousands of people were killed, tortured, and imprisoned, while others simply vanished and have never been found. Every day, the sights and sounds, the terrors and triumphs, all begin to sing the same tune. She was wondering when the last day of this madness would happen. They were living their best life, building a new shop and trying on their new uniform when the attacks happened. Then, in a blink, everything fell apart for her. Her father was sent to the war base, and the only thing he left with her was a few of his words. "Dina, you define your future. It will always lie in how long the string will thrive until it breaks," he said one day when they were out fishing. As she continued to try and think about her past, she laid down on a makeshift bed—piles of old carton boxes, covered with old rags stitched poorly together. She hated it here. She hated how badly she was being treated. She hated this sorry excuse for a bed. Hard. Cold. Painful. From a single drop of tear to a cascading waterfall, she catches her breath in between sobs. She doesn't know what to do... torn between an escape without any assurance and just keeping on surviving. A voice lingers as if to comfort her, and surprisingly, it did. She carefully wiped away the tears, took a deep breath, and looked through the bookshelves, where her freedom, or so she thought, awaited her. Her father's words echoed in her mind repeatedly, "Wait for me," and so she did. She waited for a sign, and there it was: a white feather dangling in the wind. It passed through the walls of her little square window. "That’s it," she said as she got up and went underground again. After returning to the tunnel five more times in the dark, she uncovered a slew of new information. She managed to find the key to the first door buried inside the book where the string came from. The floor was wet and sticky, and it was too dark to see what substance her feet were drenched in. She later found out that it was something black and flammable after she tried to spit a droplet on the floor and threw a burning match stick into it. It made a little fire that stayed for about two minutes. The second door that had holes in it had skulls inside, most of them painted red. Some were blue, and others were different

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Illustration by Kathleen Frugalidad

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colors of the rainbow. She picked one to make herself a weapon out of it. Human bones are strong and can be easily shaped into knives and arrows. She feels confident in her ability to free herself using the means at her disposal. She was enthralled. She had a great sense of optimism developing inside her. She envisioned her options. She had the idea of utilizing the material in door one to start the whole structure on fire. That would alarm the guards, and it would give her time to flee without them noticing. She also estimated that her hand-made weapon could slash 10 guards at the very least. Yet, she anticipated that it would be a lengthy war to achieve freedom; however, she believed it would be well worth it. She was happy. This was her opportunity to reunite with her family. She longed for her mother's home-cooked meals, her father's corny jokes, and her sister's laughter. In her mind's eye, she was back in their little hut. She made a commitment to herself that she would be at the forefront of providing the greatest service when they reopened their store. They made money by selling produce grown in their own backyard, and it was a great way for the family to spend time together. She snapped out of her imagination, and she was back again in the dark and musty tunnel. Although her explorations of the underground taught her many things, one door remained still in the dark, waiting for her to open it. The third door is the one with a square of torched wood laminated on it. She moved into the bookshelf and through the tunnel after all the lights went off at 6 pm. When she peered through the hole, she saw a familiar figure standing in front of her. She is well aware of who this man is. His body, the way he stood, the way his nose perked up over his lips, and his long eyelashes all stood out. It had to be his father. She quickly threw all of her might and pushed the door open. For a split second, she didn't realize the noise she was making; all she could think about was the warm hug she craved from her father. Finally, the door collapsed to the ground, its wooden panels splitting into three pieces. She thrust her arms out in front of her, clenching her teeth in an effort to keep herself from sobbing. It's been four months since her father enlisted in the military and left for war. It has also been the same period since she was imprisoned and placed in jail to wither. She was only protecting her mother and sister from the strange hand of a man who attempted to mistreat them. After that, she never had any contact with them. It was a long time before they were able to see each other again, and her mind was racing with all the things she wanted to ask her father. She hugged him tightly, and she felt a tinge of warmth and tenderness on her skin, a feeling she'd been searching for a long time. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she closed her eyes and lived the moment. She suddenly felt pain in her right arm and on her forehead. Something cold ran across her head and into her cheeks. She is crying, but tears don't come with a musty taste; they should be salty. She looked at her arm, and she realized she was actually clutching herself, and her long nails cut through her skin from the pressure. Her head was also bleeding. She banged her head so hard against the door that she did not even notice. She scoured the room for him, but he wasn't there anymore, nor had he ever been. She pushed every wall of the empty room, trying to find any soft spot her father could have passed through. But, it was all rock solid. She went out of the third room and opened the second door. All the skulls were still there, but they were now painted black and white. They were crumbling, and so was her handmade weapon. She fell to the ground on her knees. The substance in the first door felt and smelled like water. Only water, not flammable, not black.

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All the hope she had was lost. She bent her knees toward her body and hugged herself in. She felt as if the world was against her. No fire to burn, no weapon to fight. She looked at her hands and saw blood running through them. Finally mustering the courage to accept her reality, she stood up. She wiped off the tears and the blood on her cheeks and dusted off her clothes. She began to move her feet, wiggly walking away from the room where she thought she had found the only hope she ever believed in. Still trembling and with heavy breaths, she then tried to make herself calm. She said, "At least I tried," as she formed a shaky smile. She let out a deep sigh as she entered another room, but this time, it was all too familiar for her. She didn't know what time it was, just that it was cold and dark, with only a glimmer of a small fraction of the moon's light that managed to enter her window. Silence. There was not a sound that she could hear except her own fast and loud heartbeat, echoing inside her, and that only she could understand why it wanted to stay. She's been here for almost four months now and has already memorized every inch of this tiny room in this big cabin. A prisoner, she hoped to be free, well, before that. She cozied herself up on the makeshift bed she had. She had no more energy left, nor any reason to plan an escape. "Maybe they were right," she thought, as she gently closed her eyes, preparing to doze off. Maybe I am a no-brainer, so naive to think that there's still hope when there shouldn't be anything to believe in. As long as I'm stuck here, I'm just another person who's a part of a "strong workforce"—a slave." She was too weak to stand or do anything. It has been hours since it happened. Blood was still spurting through her head. If only her mother was there, she would know what to do. She wrote her father a letter, but she knows he will never have the chance to read it. She kept herself frozen for a moment when soldiers of a familiar color suddenly picked her up and untied her already loose wrist. "Wake up, the Philippines has been completely liberated." Right then, she put a smile on her bleeding face because she knew it was their last day on the island, and so was hers.

The Most Beautiful Way to Die The sun bid me a farewell, and the moon became a a paramour of earth I entered my own made oblivion under the spell of the ineffable night sky Under the satellite's borrowed light, I think of the verse In the silence of the night, I will weave my life. I slowly opened the box of words which will be my thread It caressed my fingers like a lover's sugar-coated lies Though sometimes it pierced me with its needle, and I bled But isn't it embracing pain the reason why I write? So I continue to weave my thread with utmost passion Interlacing the weft of emotions like a perfect melody With my thread of words shining under the full moon I am halfway through the cloth that will blanket my heart that weeps. For this act, no matter how hard, is my only form of salvation My threads are my only antidote though they always pierce The weft interlaced my soul with undefined fulfilling emotions And weaving poetry is the conspiracy of my greatest fears. And after hours of weaving my words while weeping for another a version of my reverie I looked at the cloth that my heart has woven under the beauty of the night sky A smile escaped my lips while looking at my beautiful tapestry That night, I think again of writing as the most beautiful way to die.

PAULINE JANE DIAZ

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String of Hope You walked out of this room slowly, thinking what to do? Being in the air, living in the shadows of your pain But why are you still connected with them? Why are you keeping those thin strings of hope? Patches of regrets you have inside, Making your soul crawls back to the end. I need to cut those off; you need to let go I need to say Keep on losing those thin string of hope.

RACHEL BEATIZULA

illustration by Yusimay Hablado

Gentle Armor You are a spider, innocent, and a blank slate. As nature's mystery works, you instinctively create. From the thread of your emotions, experiences, and all, A woven wonder: a life, a home, and an armor. Every fiber of you is a part of a tapestry, That you are persistently weaving unconsciously. Each experience is a warp; each emotion is a weft, Sometimes you need to be pierced to avoid being cleft. In a world where chaos is a natural force, We always see order and patterns in a clump of knotted fibers. Just like the process of weaving, we're patiently and orderly knitting, For life's the process, and living is experiencing.

Your feelings are valid; they're your precious threads, Strengthened by your character, colored by your choices. Let those be the woven blankets that will make you warm, In a world of chaos and order, safety, and harm.

VINCE ERVIN PALCULLO

illustration by Bejay Songcog

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Loose Fibers Ripped are the garments at the seams Cuts that formed quite a bloodstream From the stranger's voice, how peculiar Blade hurts most when it's familiar Fibers are set to start and warp But life's a weft, my dreams to thwart Crisscrossed fabrics in every direction I'm left with none but sheer frustration Of all the things I am bound to miss The most are my grandmother's kiss In multicolored dye, I found the loom This faith pulled me away from certain doom Time, my friend, you aided me Slowly this thread I picked up from misery For hours I sat and thought and wove It's done; I'm in no more need to probe Now I stepped back, reviewed the tapestry Look at these patterns, oh such artistry! Life and fibers in imperfect harmony But wait and see, you are where you're supposed to be

GAYE CHYRI GADACHO

escape there has been a breach two souls in a getaway fire chases their trails going on with no direction heavily, the air went hovering feet lost their will one without the other causes trembling quaking, shivering this is no novel lane bargaining with the devil no light at the end of this tunnel no trampoline waiting for the fall unfortunate but written

words and illustration by PRINCE RIC EMMANUEL PACIENTE

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Sirang Karayom Balita ko, Ang dati’y isang napakagandang damit, Magiging basahan na lang Ang noo’y pinaghirapang makuha, Hinanap sa kahit saang lupalop, At pinag-ingatang gawin ang mga hibla, Nilalagay na lang kahit saan Ang minsa’y naging akin, Ngunit napunta pa sa iba, Ang akala ko’y husto at akma, May gusto pa palang bagayan

Nang masilayan kitang muli Ika’y sira’t napinsala na Punit-punit at gutay-gutay Ninais kong ayusin ka Kukumpunihin kita sana Pero sino ako, Para tahiin, pagtagpi-tagpiin ayusin ka Kung ako mismo, Winasak mo na

ANGEL ROSE LEPAÑA

Higit Pa Palagi mong tatandaan Na walang sapat na dahilan Para ikaw ay hubaran. Hindi kailanman nasusukat sa kinis ng katawan, Hindi rin sa paraan ng pagkilos At wala rin sa pinagtagpi mong pananamit. Wala silang karapatan na ika’y tanggalan ng saplot, Ang iyong puso’t katawan ang bumubuo Sa pagkatao mo.

Hindi ka kanino man pagmamay-ari Na kung saan ika’y gagamitin Ikaw ay tao, labis pa sa kanilang iniisip. Wala silang dahilan para ika’y pagsamantalahan. Sapagkat ikaw ay higit pa sa’yong kasarian At mga dikta sa iyo ng lipunan. KARREN JAY ASGAR

photo by Sophia Marie Sudaria

broken hearts, broken bonds

the lovers hand in hand, 'til death, 'til the edge

Woven Affliction Her warm numb fingers are dancing along with the sharp rhythm Resonating sounds as she distinctly mastered the old pattern In every swift move, slits and blood occurs without a warning Got no time to complain; she must be done until the morning Upon her hands entwine both tapestries and her poor child's life In the realm of truth, she's hoping her honest work would suffice Yet the treacherous strings of fate are so cruel to be true Wails are a lullaby of her newborn son waiting for food And so she weaves

JERELYN FAITH SALIBIO

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my mind is tangled in the sea of thoughts waves of doubt crashing fears like thunder rumbling but, oh! young sailor you braved the storm you against the wind, lost as the chaos unfold

how I prayed for the stars to take you far from this sea for the moon to guide, keep you from misery yet you forced your way, brought me to this treacherous bay you saved me from drowning but, say why am I barely breathing?

Mermaid's cry YUSIMAY HABLADO

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

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Disconnected Strings I've been waiting for you under this ancient tree, Trying to get a grasp of these golden threads that led me back to you. Through different lifetimes we drifted apart, As you fade away like smoke, leaving me half alive We tied ourselves on these invisible strings, With you uttering these words for hundred times "I'll see you again," your voice lingered on my thoughts. I kept on threading through infinite lifetimes, Trying to keep our promises and saving you from the pangs of chaos as a mere stranger. Death never came for me, and it seems to enjoy watching me drenched in pain on finding you beneath those tangled life strings. We would always see each other under the ancient tree, As our souls would remind us of our memories. Yet, this time your face was painted with confusion, pointing a gun on my face. Her tears were cascading with her life strings oddly glowing strange colors. And before I lost my consciousness, her words crackled like fire humming: "Do I know you?"

ZHARINA MARIE STEPHANIE LUGO

Illustration by Yusimay Hablado

Knitted Bodies KATHLEEN FRUGALIDAD

A smile on her left cheek marked her as she walked toward her husband, who was sitting on the couch watching the news. She popped a handful of corn chips in her mouth and sat beside him. She started another knitting project, a little blanket with a pink and blue striped pattern this time. He did not say anything to her as he looked serious. "Anything on your mind, babe?" she asked. He placed his hands on his forehead, leaning his elbow on the arm of the couch. "Another murder has happened." "What? Again?" She straightened her body and legs and repositioned herself facing the television. Flashing on the screen are news reports about the latest murder case. "Yeah, it took place here in our neighborhood, " he replied, with a worried look on his face. "That was the seventh, huh? Same pattern, they say." "All hearts out? That's alarming," she said. She took a big gulp of his now cold coffee. "Yes, no stolen things, just hearts out," he replied, munching on some corn chips. He then took his coffee from her and got up, going to the kitchen to refill his mug. He sat back on the couch, blowing on his piping hot coffee and letting his wife take the first sip. She

Illustration by Kathleen Frugalidad

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raised two thumbs up; the right had a band aid on it. "How is your cut looking?" He grabbed her right hand and kissed the injured part. "It's getting better," she smiled with excitement. He held her hands for a moment and snapped his back when a follow-up report on the murder case flashed. The murdered body, the reporter said, was just like the other six, who turned 18 the day before each killing. All of them had black long hair, and were last seen "Hmm. You know what's crazier is that they had the luxury of time and patience to put the parts together," she uttered as he thought of someone he knew, a dear friend, who was also a victim whose chest was sewn together after the heart was collected. "True, it wasn't even worth the pain. A cut from a scalpel is much worse than a paper cut, " she replied, scrunching her face, and rubbing her He turned the television off. "Babe, that was your idea. We were only asked for six hearts, not lifeless bodies to take care of," he rolled his eyes and looked back at her. He smirked at her, and she smiled and raised her left brow. "Well, too bad, you married a knitter. We couldn't leave them open like that, you know. Besides, I was getting good at it, so we went to do it again," she gasped, and the both of them then laughed their lungs out. "Anything for a baby, I guess." They hugged and giggled excitedly.

A Sad Twist of Fate Here we are, in rain Hand-in-hand, tight grasp could maim; I don't know what led us here, Clued us in with ground so slithery. Not too high, not too low, looking down; Too dark to see, we both frown. Grip is loosening, no one was listening. A call for help, a cry for hope. Then hands went numb, and oh so suddenly, Fingers went separately. A yell as they fall, eyes closed in resignation; Only to thump below, a laugh sounding over the bellows. The fall was short, no life was lost. A sad twist of fate? No, just a fantasy of a daydreamer. COLEEN CASANOVA

stranger in red tell me the tale of the stranger in red the one who brings the laces and the threads tell me the story of how he has weaved a thousand stories for us to believe tell me again of how he has smiled while narrating the history of our customs revived now I tell you the secret of this stranger in scarlet he's in you and me, concealed in the goodhearted

DANICA MAE HABLADO

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Intertwined Before, I had no name, Then, you came and defined me. For those times I can't go out, It is your imagination that spreads out. Before, I had no form and style, You came to shape my existence. You keep on sailing merrily together with the clouds That inhibits all your despair and doubts. Before, I had no texture, Until you chose to stay and entwined the parts of me that can be broken easily

KARREN JAY ASGAR

A Linking of Fingers Hands touched, three times; as if asking to intertwine Did I see you falter? Yet our hands fit each other, as if by design Fourth time, a nudge; is this to entice? Or merely an invitation, a reminder for what happens tonight

DANICA MAE HABLADO

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

Illustration by Kathleen Frugalidad

unveiling cloaks, clairvoyance

the moon bathed in uncertainties, everything is not as it seems

Blessed is he who was graced by heavens; To the child who bears a warming presence. May he fare well with braveness to the heart; As fate had spun his tales from the start. Young child of hate and love the same; How I wish to take the weight on your frame. The burden and fates of men on your feet; Their darkness and light, a song to your beat. Child whose name was left to the winds; Whose soul would be haunted by ghosts and the fiends?

Weaver of Destiny

I pity how you shall even grow and be bred. For you are the spawn of the living and dead. Dreams and wonders that stir in your head. The wisp of flames of love you are fed, It burned and warmed, yet starving you more. A poison of pity you'll bury to your core. Oh, child of time and timeless the same.

Illustration by Renato Paolo Torres

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How long had it been for your flames to grow tame? The life you just gave that slipped from your hands. The death of the ones who once lived in your lands. The murmurs, the tears, the aches in your heart. Wishes of death that delusions a warp. Reality you hated as a slap to your face. The trickling of time was never yours to race. Broken, beaten, bleeding yet still. Breathing and living and fighting with will. Vengeance so fiery that burned through your veins. Tears of apologies as you pull back your reins. Pity, a pity, a child of so much sadness. Your tears were the blood of your little madness. Duty, that duty, which made you lose all. The pain of watching your loved ones in their fall. How hated and loathed must I seem to you, As I spin the tales of millions, you slew. I cried and shouted for this bloodshed to stop. Yet these fingers are cursed to weave more till I drop. Yet here I am, still who weaves down your treads. Building your garb with trickles of red. And while some may be patterned with silver and golds. My child, they are doomed with lives so dark and untold. Watching your falls, and your breaks, and your turns. Hearing your laughter, your tears, and your scorns. Losing your own fate in their seas of despair, Oh, child I'm so sorry, a mere prayer I can share. For blessed are you who was graced by the sky, No matter how torn and tattered, with wishes to die. Seeing your burdens I wish for your peace, And shall pray for the next champion to fill in your piece.

CLARENCE CORDERO

Attempt Every moment is the fiber, the thread of an evolving story. It may intertwine and anchor, It can loosen and be weak. A wide-eyed kid made a canvas with a group composed of him. His ears bled in piercing silence. At night, he dreamt of sunbeam. His presence followed the motion of the thread as it gets braided. At times well and it goes on, sometimes he was only disturbed.

The room was dead empty, where his mind threaded the stories. For him, it is filled, loud, and eerie, with sounds of his threads in agony. He dived his brushes into colors of warmth and tranquility, laid them unto the canvas; his piece that he found flimsy.

When a light wave of air blew, it strummed the abandoned strings. He stirred all the colors into one, hummed a D minor broken hymn. The flickering sunbeam dimmed, he laid his brush unto the pallet. His painting wept with him. And into nothing, they all faded. What if that kid had the strong fiber to thread an evolving story? And it intertwined and anchor instead of loosening and be weakly? JOHN ROVIC SIPACIO

Illustration by Yusimay Hablado

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Baliskad NICO GREG GAITANO

Gagaragitnit ang katre ko nga human sa kawayan sang ginhaplak ko ang akon mabug-at nga likod sa hiligdaan. Nakahanda na tani ang akon panumduman magsulod sa kalibutan sang mga damgo apang daw matabog man ang akon espirito sang may ara ako nabatian nga ga hagikgik halin sa pader. Gin tung-tong ko ang akon mga tiil sa salog, gin suksok ang akon tsinelas kag nag nag gwa sa akon kwarto samtang ang akon mga mata indi pa syado maka muklat. Gin sundan ko ang mga “Ahahaha!”, “Ahihihihi!” kag mga “Ahuhuhuhu!” pakadto sa pihak nga kwarto. Ginbuksan ko ang pwertahan, ginwahig ang kurtina nga gatabon kag nakita ko ang isa ka lalake nga gakurinot ang panit nga gapangarumbot samtang may plaslayt sa iya tuo nga kamot. Nabatian niya ang pagkaluskos sang akon gasangyod nga mga tikang, nag tulok siya sa kung diin ako ga tindog kag nag siling, “Day? Nakibot ka? Palapit di bala may ipakita ako sa imo.” Ga tuon ang iya suga sa idalom sang iya madamol nga habol, kag wala ang tigulang untat sang pag harukhok. Wala ko gin sapak ang iya pag-imbita, nagbalik ako sa akon gina tulugan kag gin panumdom ang rason sang iya kalipay sa pag tan-aw sa idalom sang iya habol. Wala ko nanutaran ang pag piyong sang akon mga mata kag aga na sa akon pag muklat. Gin balikan ko ang kwarto sang akon Lolo, hamu-ok siya nga gapahuway kag kasami niya mag igham sang iya tutunlan kada pila ka huragok. Gin angkon ko ang opurtunidad samtang wala pa siya sang animo, gin pudyot ko ang punta sang iya habol gamit sang duwa ko ka tudlo kag sang akon ini gin hakwat sa makadali, gulpi nag siga ang mata sang tigulang. “Gaano ka di?! Palayo! Palayo! Napiyongan na ko! Budlayan naman ko ni liwat mag tulog!” Katingil sang iya tingog kung na-irita. “DAY! Kung gakatulog bala ang Lolo mo, pabay-i!” singgit sang akon Iloy halin sa kusina. “Kwaa di siya gani, Rosita! Kung wala ko siya gin saway, nakuha niya na tani ang akon nga habol!” sabat sang akon Lolo. “Day, bugtaw ka naman gali tani diri ka nag diretso sakon kay maluto ta sang pamahaw.” Pa-atras ako nga nag lakat pagwa sa sira kay daw indi makakas ang akon panulok sa habol sang akon Lolo. Gin tahi ini kano sang amon Lola sa iya bag-o siya nag una taliwan pero nga-a biskan espesyal ang akon Lolo sa iya, gin bilinan niya ini sang isa ka trapo? Ang disenyo sang ini nga madamol nga tela daw puro lang mga hilo nga gin pang burambod, may gamay nga puti, itom, pula kag may mga kurit sang yilo kag berde. Biskan ano mo ka dugay himutaran ang habol ni Lolo, indi mo mabal an kung ano ang iya buot silingon. Dasig lang nga nag labay ang mga inoras, kag nagbalik nanaman ang kadulom. Gin plastar ko ang akon ulunan, gin humlad ang akon nga habol kag gin buksan ang akon bintana agod ang kabugnaw sang hangin makasulod. Sang mga tungang gab-i may ara ko nabatian nga salakyan nga nag pundo sa tubangan sang amon balay, kadungan sang pag abri sang pwertahan namon sa sala ang pag lagatik sang stretcher sa kada salapay ini sa mga aparador kag pader. Wala na ko nag muklat sang akon mata kag wala na ko nagbangon tungod nagbalik man ang kalinong pagkatapos sang pila ka minuto.

B A L I S K A D

Sunod nga adlaw, nakita ko ang akon iloy sa kusina nga gina pahidan ang iya gaparamula nga mata samtang gapang kihad sang mga sibuyas. Gin paypay niya ako para mag palapit, kag gin hakos niya ako sang tudo-tudo. Daw may gin hutik siya sa akon dalunggan samtang gaungol sa iya pag ginhawa. Nakakawala ako sa iya pag gapos, ga binalansuli ang akon mga paa samtang pakadto sa gina higdaan sang akon Lolo. Wala na didto ang tigulang apang ang damol niya nga habol nagpabilin kag gasangyod sa salog. Gin kuha ko ang daw trapo nga gina tabon niya sa iya lawas, kag sa akon pag paspas sang ining yab-ukon nga tela, nagsungaw ang isa ka baho nga gin simpon nga ihi kag sinuka. Gin dala ko ang habol sa bumba kag gin huluman ini sa labador nga gin simpunan ko sang habon nga labada. Nag kuha ako sang isa ka lata kag gin himo nga pulungkuan, gabika-ka ako samtang gina bras ang mga mantsa sa habol ni Lolo. Sang akon na ini pagahalayon, may ara ako nanutaran. Isa ka hardin nga madamo sang prutas, may babaye kag lalake diri kag isa ka man-og, may dako nga barko nga galutaw sa tunga lawod samtang gabagyo, may ara pagid ako nakita nga mag-asawa nga tigulang nga ga kapyot sang isa ka lapsag, may buranguson nga lalake nga gakapyot duwa ka bato kag diri nakasulat pulo ka kasuguan. May mga hari, mga pari kag mga gyera. May mga dagat nga nag tunga, may gakalayo nga tanom pero wala gakasunog, may mga pagpangilat kag mga anghel. Pero sa tunga-tunga sini tana may ara sang isa ka dugu-an nga lalake nga naka bitay sa mga kahoy nga korte krus. May mga bulag nga nakakita, mga pi-ang nga nakalakat, mga aro-on nga nag alalayo, ang mga patay nabuhi liwat kag may ara pagid ko nakita isa ka lulubngan nga wala unod. May mga mensahero nga nag kadto sa lain-lain nga parte sang kalibutan nga gasige kalipay biskan gina hingabot sila sang ila mga kaaway. May nakita ako nga mga tawo nga ginahaboy sa isa ka madalom nga buho nga kung diin may gadaba-daba nga kalayo nga wala gaka upos. Kag may ara man ako nakita nga lugar nga bulawan ang salog, krystal ang tubi kag puno ang mga pader sang mga diamante, sa pinaka ibabaw sini may Hari nga gapungko sa gabana-ag nga trono. Ang tanan nga tawo ga dayaw sa Hari kag gina tawag Siya nga Karnero sang Diyos. Nadula ang pwersa sa akon mga tuhod, ang akon hitsura ara na sa lutakan, gatulo akon mga luha samtang kusog-kusog ang akon paghalak-hak. “Baliskad! Hahahaha. Tingala man ko indi ko maintindihan kay ang pag tan aw ko gali suli! Hahahahahaha!”

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Infiltration Defenseless and open. Breezy and Free. An atmosphere so perfect, An enemy you can't see. Peripherally creeping, Undisguised but staining. Corrupted the host, Hacked into the code.

Stealthier than spies, Aggressive than agents. Caused by lethal espionage, A breach in the system. Uncontrollable havoc now reigns, Internally and unto each vein. Liberty once free, now deprived. If only a mask covered a smile. RACHEL BEATIZULA Illustration by Bejay Songcog

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The Master Weaver For me, you wreathed the stars into a constellation, Neglecting my plea, thinking it's the wisest decision, You designed every piece you thought I wanted, The truth was it left me daunted. You interlaced the weft of my path, With the dreams you made on my behalf, Intertwined with the warp, I lost my mind, Bounded at the end, but why was I left behind? I tried holding to cross my threads, Hoping to discern something that isn't dead, But you said, "Stop, you know nothing, my child." And from that day on, I forgot what I truly desired. Grasping the thread of my purpose was all I yearned for, With you by my side, guiding me to reach more. What happened was you became the master weaver, Selfishly knitting your child's being that was once a believer.

CERA ANGELY RIZARDO Illustration by Seth Thornton

Moirai's threads I believe we are bound by this thread of life Invisible unseen like daydreams in that summer night Fragile yet holds the strength of promises and vows Spun by fate it may tangle or ravel but never will be Severed

YUSIMAY HABLADO

Illustration by Gabrielle Moscoso

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zygomatic bones

Existence HELOISE KRYSTENE SINDOL

I am a skeleton in my closet. When I come out, will you accept me? NO. There are many questions kept hidden in my head that are still unanswered. Could it be yes? Uhmmm, maybe? Most of the time, I think it is a no. A slapping, NO! For countless years, I've hidden in this dark and messy closet. There are many pieces of cloth, long and thick threads in different colors, two needles pierced in a pincushion, and even buttons, gemstones, and beads. To tell you honestly, there are times when I sew, I get pricked on my phalanges because the only light source I have is from these tiny holes. And that's how a lot of needles got broken. One needle pricked my scaphoid bone once. I don't know how I sew up there. I was able to sew hats to cover my skull and long-sleeve shirts that hide the skeletal system of my body and a skirt that is two times longer than my femur. I tried getting those for me to be able to get out confidently. However, I realized that my facial bones are still too evident. They all might get scared of me. Worse, get confused about my existence. I was also able to create a massive blanket because there are nights that my bones get numb from the cold breeze blowing through the small opening of the closet's door. Aha! That's it! Why don't I sew a tight and thick covering for my body? What do they call them? Oh, skin. What color is it? Do they have green skin? I've seen it from the one who walked past by my closet and seemed to vomit. I have no idea why that creature did that. Probably, it spotted me. But I've also seen red from that fleshy guy who violently kicked my closet. It was that time that I banged my skull for no reason - and I still have no clear idea why I did that. Wait, there was also blue! I saw it from that little creature who magically had waters flowing in her eyes. I remembered it clearly as it was the moment when my favorite button fell from my metacarpals and rolled over outside. Although, just yesterday, there's this blinding yellow light that shined through the holes of my closet the moment I finished working on the gloves for my phalanges. When I looked outside, it was the skin color of a guy whose zygomatic bone was lifted high. Oops, I didn't mean to

Illustrations by Nachiii, Holly Young, and lichtopdezaak

E X I S T E N C E

rhyme that! What should I choose then? There are just many colors to pick from what I have seen. However, I am not sure what would best fit me. Should I go with orange? Purple? White? Black? Brown? What if I'll combine them all? I guess it would be worthwhile. It would make me feel worthy and memorable. So now I'm organizing the materials I will use. While I am sewing, I guess I can share with you some facts about me. I seldom do this unless to avoid boredom. Do not worry because this won't take long as I am already used to doing this. Besides sewing, I am deeply into the arts, specifically in singing, dancing, and creative writing. Ohh, mind you, I have already done my left leg skin with this mix of brown and green fabrics. I told you I am fast. Going back, where did I stop? Ahh, yes, my passions. Currently, I am hooked with this song I heard once. The lyrics are composed of "I don't know," "I see," "secret," "pretend," and "reflection." Those were the only words I was able to grasp. Although I can hum it distinctly, you surely cannot know it by just the "Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm," right? It is such a great song that captured my whole skeletal system. Ohh! I think I indulge too much in talking that I have realized that I am half-finished. My hands are a combination of orange, blue, and yellow, added with a hint of black. My body is in red with a touch of some gold and white. For my skull, I will do a purple and gray. I can already feel the warmth and acceptance in just a few more sewing and embellishments for my facial features. And into the hoop and loop, tie, and cut. Alas! I made my masterpiece! The wait is over, people. I am a skeleton in the closet. Now that I am opening these doors, will you accept me? In a blink of an eye, the doors were open wide. Covered in thick, colorful, and self-made skin, she stepped out. "Who are you?" it was a resounding question that welcomed her. “Why are you all... skeletons?”

pal

metacar

femur

ges

phalan

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Illustration by Gad Castro

Tenebris' Death Wish ZHARINA MARIE STEPHANIE LUGO

"Is your mother even aware of what you do for a living?" Tenebris yelled as she disabled her enemy, cutting into the expensive tent containing children kidnapped from the village. "Better not tell her, my friend," I replied and tried to listen to the opposing force chasing us in our whole desert journey. While I prepared to fire four arrows all at once, I knew the clanging sounds of armor and heaving horses were coming from the west side of the place. Arrows sliced into thin air, seeking its target under the heat of the sun. Shrieking voices drenched in pain echoed amid the desert, and I could hear the voices of children cheering alongside with Tenebris. "Okay. I just need to remind you we are not heroes but assassins, Ravi. We should do this quickly. Help me untie the hostages." In every step that we took, the sand felt like fire beneath my feet. I love to be barefoot wherever I go, and the pangs of pain seem to be simply an old friend visiting between these toes and nails that I own. The camels silently followed my direction, pulling the gray wagon with ease. "Are they alright back there?" I asked even though I could hear them snoring inside into slumber after eating all of the food that we stole from the smugglers. These children had been missing after the Rebel Blade thieves robbed their homes and kidnapped them. They were about to be sold to the neighboring continent, and thinking about it made me mad. Yet something disturbs me too much. After defeating the thieves earlier was a great victory, but the negative energy was still glowing in my mind as if it was always following us along the way. Embracing the gust of the wind brushing on my face, I knew that the golden border was a few feet away from us. The fainting sounds of voices rang, with foreign accents responding to the soldiers. "Tenebris, wake up the children. Let them wear the silver robes from the metal chest." I ran behind the caravan, and she tossed the thobe. I inspected the cloth and realized it was made of silk and gold strings. "Where are they even planning to sell these expensive robes?" I folded the sleeves and worn my mask. Upon falling in line, I tried to slither into the conversations ahead of me to memorize the energies nearby. "What is your name and motive upon crossing the border?" The female soldier's low voice

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connected to my head, letting me hear the response of her interviewee. "I came here to deliver goods for the market." The response sounded the brittle voice of an older man as if it was keeping something else behind its wagon. He handed the guard a bar of gold and dragged his vehicle to the border. Feelings surged into my bones, and my hair began to slither on my neck. " Not now. There are too many people here. And I found out most of them are thieves and smugglers." I whispered beneath the fox mask, securing my hair from falling off. "But someone inside that wagon is in danger." A cold voice hummed. As soon as we could cross the border, I left the wagon near a gigantic Cinder tree to do what I think was right. Darkness was always my friend, and now glowing lights were everywhere, leading me into the unknown voice. "Somebody, please help me." The voice grew louder inside my thoughts, and the light hummed when I touched the side of the wagon. The light was overwhelming, and all I could hear was a loud heartbeat. A calloused hand landed on my shoulder, noticing his presence was filled with negativity. "Hello, child. The nice mask you got there." The stranger whispered like a predator watching me closely. I dusted off his grip and continued to climb to his wagon while dragging my hands into the wooden boxes. "What do you think are you doing, kid? I think you're on the wrong wagon?" I stopped touching the surface when I found the crater glowing brightly beneath my palms. "This one is not yours." I directed my face towards the stranger. I felt darkness and excitement surging in his veins. He started to attack with a dagger and managed to grab my left hand. "Mind your own business. Unless you want me to turn you into a carcass as well?" His hissed and snatched the mask I wore. He was in disbelief upon looking into my eyes. "Oh, so your blind?" That was the time when I had to respond in a spell. "Ut mors tua, et anima mea erit." Anger gnawed, and my hair began to slither violently like serpents. It strangled the opponent and threw him outside the wagon. He as able mutter gibberish words on the ground, but the venom from my locks had already seeped into his skin. I punched the glowing crater and saw a boy who was about my age gazing towards me. His face was filled with filth, and a trail of dried blood was above his left eyebrow. He was feeble and weak, and without hesitation, I carried him towards our wagon until the spell wore off. "Can you trust her?" He spoke in an innocent tone. I was about to respond, but my vision began to fade while my locks turned lifeless again. With energy disappearing in every move that I took, I failed to puzzle the message he was trying to convey. "Stop creating a scene. It's not easy crafting a mirage around you with all the people around us." Tenebris slipped into my mind. I knew saving them was against the Phantom principle, but his energy was overwhelming my thoughts. He was a stranger, but I couldn't help saving his soul. Handing him over to Tenebris was uneasy when he began to repeat the question in my head as soon as I fainted into the ground. I woke up in a strange place, honeyed with energies of peace and silence. Emotions of people glowed soft and steady like strings swimming in the darkness of my vision. I knew Tenebris had dropped the children safely in the city, and we were already in the room of the oracle that I wish to seek. "You travelled this far to get rid of it. But why?" The oracle's voice was always soothing as if it was entering my thoughts in a dream. I failed to respond and listened to my breathing. The question continued to dart back and forth, freezing my mind with answers. Assassinating royalties, stealing treasures from travelers, and reading forbidden scrolls of magic did satisfy my ego for

T E N E B R I S '

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years while I enjoyed watching my fox mask painted on posters all over the cities. Innocent children wanted to be like the Phantom Huntress, whose face was never revealed, and only the locks of her lethal hair could wipe out an army in a blink. I was an instrument of death and vengeance without my mother's knowledge, but doing good things reminded me of her voice. Her kindness and words made me go against the Phantom principles, and now the Phantom Huntress' dream was to shed light and hope. "For me to grant your wish to regain your sight, you must be willing to sacrifice your greatest power." The oracle's reminder danced in my skull. "The oracle is a liar! Don't listen to her!" "She wanted to get rid our you." Hissing voices surged in the air while I continued chopping my hair. I was hungry to see life permanently, and giving up my past was part of the plan. Starting a new life as an ordinary villager with my mother would be a wish granted full of hope and happiness. Upon peeling my eyes into reality, curtains and walls of gold and silver surrounded the room. People wearing robes with hues of the ocean towered in front of me. The floor was filled with shredded locks of my hair, yet it was drenched with colors of rage, sadness, and fear. Slowly turning my gaze towards the stranger in the corner of the room, the reflection of light on the dagger took my attention. Pointing the weapon below the woman's face, the stranger's face was conveying an unmistakable warning. "Well done, Phantom Huntress. I never thought deceiving you was easy. Your friend was my greatest advantage that kept you in a cursed mirage for years." The oracle was securing the dagger with her old arms shaking hysterically. "I don't understand. Who do you mean, friend?" I stared at the hostage, with her eyes tired and powerless. Yet her heartbeat shared a familiar melody with mine, and I saw her glowing like sunshine, just like my mother's soul. With the last drop of energy escaping from my limbs, I flailed towards the direction of the oracle. I held my grip on their robes and landed on their feet to prevent her attack. Pain and agony conquered my body while a group of strangers pulled me away from my mother. Confusion stirred my vision upon witnessing Tenebris emerging from the door. She stood motionless beside the oracle, wearing darkness and chaos in her obsidian eyes. Her presence was not here to save us from danger, but instead, she peeled a smile and uttered something worse. She was a mirage that lured me into despair, pretending to be real and sincere until the end. "Ravi, you poor thing. How stupid were you to trust your life to an illusionist like me? But since you could now see the wonders of this world, how about watching your mother perish?" "I'll be glad watching you perish instead, Tenebris." Like a monster waking up from slumber, my hair grew violently radiating hues of bloodshed and rage. My vision began to darken once more, and the souls of my locks were rejoicing upon taking down the traitor.

illustration by Kalanie Saldajeno

autumn left the first snow fell in strings, she held onto barren trees and empty pavements a farewell to fall ticks have passed along with the creaks on the floor and midnights. and stories waters start to freeze as the thoughts go through the door memories became smoke she stares up while the skies are white clutched her cardigan for the warmth, for her soul in her ribs, she could feel in her eyes and her will

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brink is there any way one could see without opening irises keep the desert as dark as the center hole manifests two owls on a tree purity and ebony silks are threaded an entangled mess wails ropes are pulled light air is suctioned sirens are bursting eyes are wide open

words by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente photos by Erika Testigo

Seeking Nightmares ZHARINA MARIE STEPHANIE LUGO

Strips of sunlight began to scatter inside the art room, reminding me to finish the painting before ten o'clock in the morning. Colors of blue, violet, and white-dominated my artwork as it radiated emotions that I own as of the moment. "How much is this one? Five Million shards?" I hummed towards my balcony, making sure Elias was listening to me. "Yes, madam. And the client is very excited to see you too." He answered and carried a tray containing my favorite glass teapot filled with Jasmine tea. "That's nice to hear. Tell the others to prepare my dress." I stood back, monitoring the canvas for flaws. "And your emotions are not in its right place, Elias. You better get some sleep." His emerald eyes glimmered as he nodded and left the room. The birds' chirping created a soothing melody as I passed through the garden hallways made of vines and glass. This was the only path towards my bedroom that lessens my human interaction inside the palace. Without my shades, I'll be seeing through someone's emotions, and I'll hate carrying the burden of not being able to help them. "Good morning, Madam!" Alida bowed and avoided my eye contact. She was one of my favorite servants, busy taking care of my plants in the garden. "Good morning Alida!" With a blink of an eye, glowing threads began to slither away from her head. Colors of yellow and orange lines surrounded her. And all I knew was that she would be jolly and cheerful for the whole day. "You're going to have a nice day today." I smiled and entered my room. "We are fifteen minutes earlier, Madam Aislinn ." Elias checked his watch and opened the umbrella. We strolled outside the Louvre Museum, listening to the soft patterns of water from the fountain. "It's been a while since I got this close to reflective objects," I whispered and gazed upon the glass pyramid. The absence of my reflection was not new to me, but staying here out in public might scare anyone that would notice my peculiarity. Gladly, there were no people today, and the whole museum accepted my request to open it just for us this Tuesday morning. "And he's here." The client finally arrived with a set of guards trailing behind him. His face was full of happiness, waving towards our direction while his Hawaiian-inspired polo shirt and khaki shorts danced with the wind. "Would you prefer to see his soul before talking to him in person?" Elias asked. "It will be fine. I've been negotiating things for a thousand years already." I smiled and waved back. My guards handed the painting to the client while we had a short conversation in my cafe. "Thank you so much for the royal accommodation, Miss Aislinn. It's an honor to purchase the painting and visit you here in Paris." Jacob gave me his calling card. As he was about to ride his car, he waved goodbye and found my eyes behind the shades. "Oh, and one more thing. In case those emotions would turn messy again, you can call me anytime." This time, his thoughts entered my mind as if the voice was naturally

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echoing behind my skull. I stood frozen outside the cafe, watching Jacob leave. Fear and anxiety haunted me because no one had ever seen my thread of emotions and talked to me through thoughts. "Are you alright? You seem to appear pale, Madam." Elias assisted me back to the cafe, still wondering about what happened. I took a glimpse of the calling card, and it was a thin infinite mirror with words moving on the piece. "We need your help again." I never told Elias about it, but my silence was haunting inside the car. He was my servant for ten years and a half, and I knew every slight change in my mood would be evident to him. He never spoke any word, but he waved to me through the side mirror with his unique ability to see me in mirrors. The next day, I was ready to tell him everything about the telepathic connection that I experienced with the odd client. While waiting on the gazebo located in the garden's eye, I made sure the banquet was all set. Yellow balloons and the bouquet of sunflowers were perfectly arranged on the gigantic vases. I wanted everything to be special on Elias' birthday. Happiness and excitement grew inside my lungs, breathing in the feelings that I had for him. My heart hummed that this would be the right moment for us. An hour passed, but Elias was still not here. With fear juggling in my gut, I removed my shades to see the glowing threads of people. Even though I was far from the palace, our garden still gave me the perfect view of the structure. Brilliant strings darted back and forth, gliding on the skies and trees. For a thousand years, I learned these things are emotions owned by every individual, finding a sense of connection towards another dimension. The ability to see them is a gift and somehow a curse. I began running when I saw a cluster of strings fading away from the palace. All these years, I knew how those threads looked like. Silvery blue and white, like the first time we both watched the snowfall in Japan. It was silvery gold, like my first encounter with my ability to see connections during the war that led me to him. After all the lifetimes I leaped to find him, Elias drifted into an eternal slumber and was not able to get back in time to our reality. ---A month already passed, so I gathered my strength to visit Elias' new home near the gazebo. His remains were beneath this sea of sunflowers, with his glass epitaph glimmering with the sunlight. "I knew someone should be responsible for this." I cursed below my breath, pulling out the mirror calling card from Jacob a month ago. Words surfaced from the corners of the card, delivering another mysterious message. "We knew who did it." Walking through the dark corridors never scared me anymore, but thinking about who possibly did it to Elias sent chills to my skull. Cobwebs dangling on the high ceiling distracted me as I halted in front of the golden door. "No. I was sure that I got rid of all of them a long time ago." My hands trembled

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upon opening the room, sweat racing down my brows. The room was only containing a glass coffin, and it seemed to drain my soul. Upon lying down the cold casket, fainting lights began to illuminate all over my body as it invited me into the world of dreams. There I stood on the face of darkness, watching the glowing threads humming from all directions— Voices of people dreaming filled the silence, souls darting back and forth. Jacob appeared beside me, handing over a sword I used to combat nightmares of those tangled up with Ephialtes' claws. We were only allowed to break strings that are glowing white and blue throughout the years to indicate that someone has been saved from the night terrors. Yet Ephialtes owned jaws and warriors that could incinerate all the strings of a person, causing death in the physical world. Elias glided near me with a fainting light of green, reaching for my hand with a smile. Pain radiated from my chest while I dragged the sword to chase him. Colors smeared all over the place, transforming into the hallways of the palace. His soul led me to the library, where we always spent our time scanning books and sketches. Across the room, blankets of fog covered the shelves, revealing a silhouette of a lady with broken threads shrieking from its head. The figure kept on hissing, claws anchoring the shattered tiles beneath its feet. My sword hummed once more, giving me a hint of the presence of danger. The monster gracefully turned its head towards my direction, draining the soul from the dead body. Her angelic face was too familiar but motionless, with eyes hungry for the sword. The monster's voice electrified my thoughts, whispering gibberish words of "Hello….madam." Her soul was gone, and so she searches for one to make her human again. I braced myself, preparing for a fight against one of my strongest servants. With its strings glowing silver, it launched forward, flailing itself madly. I lifted the sword, aiming for its head infiltrated with nightmares. "It was you, Alida." I hissed.

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

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The Lie Spinner's Tale KALANIE SALDAJENO

Once upon a time, a village where monotony runs deep but tales of adventure and chivalry are the currency. A wall of thorns surrounds the kingdom, and only the bravest of warriors are allowed to venture outside to chase their adventures. For centuries, the village people have been blessed by the ability to create the most beautiful tapestries. They would entwine different colored threads, and the result is always spectacular—lifelike, to be exact. As long as they have witnessed it, they can indeed replicate anything into their tapestries. Since only a small population of the citizens are allowed to go outside the walls, most of their tapestries are of ordinary sceneries. No matter how skilled the craftsmanship, if the subject is ordinary, no one will bat an eye. This is why a tapestry created by a warrior is highly coveted. The tapestries that they would spin upon arriving from the outside always contained unimaginable wonder. Creatures with iridescent scales shine upon exposure to light singing nymphs bathing in pristine waters, flowers that would gleam like the stars, and wolves with the most luscious fur that seems ready to come out from the fabric at any moment. *** A little girl who lives on the outskirts always dreamed of going outside the wall of thorns. Her tiny hut was the closest house you can find to the only gate, and every day, she would peer out her window observing the warriors as they cross to the other side. She would count them one by one; some would return, some would not—but the possibility of never coming back never stopped the little girl's longing for the outside world. One day, the little girl's curiosity got the best of her. She waited and waited for the next band of warriors to exit the gate. At the very last minute, before the gates wholly closed, she managed to shimmy her tiny little body and break free from the walls that have contained her for so long. She hung her head low, refusing to look up as she tried to calm herself. She could feel her tiny little body shaking at the excitement. What will the outside look like? Will it be as colorful as the tapestries the warriors have created? Will she be able to meet magical creatures that can take inspiration for her art? A million thoughts are running through her head. She took three deep breaths, mustered all the courage she had, and finally looked up. She looked around and could not believe her eyes. The outside world was different from the world she grew up inside the gates. The outside was incredible—revolting. There were no bright colors or magical creatures depicted in the warrior's tapestries, barren land, and total darkness. The little girl felt the blood rush to her head, and she started running. She felt like she made a fool out of herself. She always dreamed of going outside the wall of thorns and making a name for herself. She ever dreamed of the outside world and escaping the suffocating wall of thorns. She finally got want but

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not like this. It was never supposed to end up like this. A few days later, the village was abuzz with the news of a little girl discovered outside the gates. She didn't talk to anyone, and upon opening her mouth, the first thing that she asked for was neither food nor water. Instead, the little girl asked for a loom and multicolored threads and started weaving her tapestry. The villagers are in awe of her work; they started calling her a miracle, for she could craft fine pieces—finer than any warrior could ever craft. The little girl never went out of the thorns wall again, but she continued telling stories of her so called "adventures" from outside. Little did they know every story that would come out of her mouth are nothing but fragments of her imagination. Little did they know the only thing holding the threads of her tapestries are lies and deception. The outside was not a fantasy land that the warriors make them out to be. The outside was a cold and cruel place devoid of any light and happiness. There were no flowers that gleam like the stars, but there was only total darkness. There were no singing nymphs in pristine waters, but only deafening silence. There were no creatures with iridescent scales that shine upon exposure to light. There was not a single creature that could survive in that wretched place. Over time the little girl lost the spark in her eyes. She wanted to confess to everything, but she felt terrible for her people. Her tapestries are continued to be revered by the villagers— she was their miracle. She can't possibly ruin everything for them, right? How could the warrior's stomach this deceit? They continue to make a fool out of every single one of them. Is it good that she knows everything, or is ignorance indeed bliss? The little girl eventually grew up and got old. She continued to live her life but the emptiness she felt continued to claw at her from the inside out. She is nothing but a shell of her old self. She made up so many lies and deceived so many people to the point that she has lost track. How quickly she forgot! The lies she'd spoken had muddled everything. There was dangerous magic in lying. Lie long enough, and who could say what was real? Continue spinning your web of lies, and over time you'll believe it—that's what the little girl did.

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Solitude and then she blossomed between chaos and light, embracing the thoughts roaming inside her head she traveled day and night, through tantrums of harsh weathers and listened to the melody of unheard voices above the seas to find pieces of herself everywhere she goes finally, she painted a smile on her face, upon knowing that all this time loneliness became her greatest companion that led her into the paradise within her soul.

ZHARINA MARIE STEPHANIE LUGO

Illustration by Bejay Songcog

Cat Valley PRINCE RIC EMMANUEL PACIENTE

Tippy toes as she goes down her grandmother's halls. It was dark, but the colors burst. The little girl can't seem to remember how many footsteps of hers have been laid in these marble floors waxed into gleams. For all the times her father tagged her along into this house, numbers aren't coming into her. All she knows were her being friends with all the paintings, antique busts, and statues of both men and beasts – or animals. Cats in particular. She loves going back to this beautiful mansion as much as she loves her grandparents. Even though she just saw her grandpa when she was a toddler. Her grandmother was lovely. A kind soul. A fae. A treasure. She's taking every chance to see her. But she has also been up to something. This visit isn't new to her. These adventures alone in these titanic chambers ain't that fresh to her. She has all her permission granted. And the last thing she worries about aside from not seeing her granny is not able to complete her quests inside every corner of this mansion – just like her previous visit. "Alright," she murmured into a big, red, Russian doll sitting nonchalantly on a drawer. "Where was I?" They stared at each other for a good minute until she smiled in realization. Off to the seventh door, she goes. Pastel hems swaying, small feet skipping, brown locks bouncing, and door keys clanking. Every door she counts and thinks they're all unusually carved. Her eyes sparked upon the sight of her target - a variation of an unusually carved wooden door. She glanced into her keys. Her grandma's maids lent her and looked for that one with the "7" engraved on it, "There you are." She fed her key into the knob, and with her soft hands, she twisted it open. Not knowing the wonders lying inside the labyrinth disguised as a simple room. Fear wasn't in this little girl's veins. Will fuelled with curiosity, heart with wonders; her flames burn wild. She stepped inside like a conqueror, ready to lay her tiny hands-on everything. Magic's everywhere, or so she thinks. Dark and mischievous yet covered in utopian secrecy. Graveyard of forgotten dreams solidified through antiques. Everything looks like they came from someone's dreams. Hers. Gold lionesses, porcelain fairies, ceramic cats, iridescent mirrors, glistening paintings, and sempiternal sprays of roses, violets, and lotuses - an overwhelming sight for a pair of juvenile irises. The quest is slowly fading away from her mental list. This room was a quicksand. These aromas are luring her deep. Golden rays still peek inside, kissing every surface they're directed at. And that just means time is on her hands. It all feels surreal. Her soft skin tracing different textures of beauty before her very own. Her mind was wandering along with her physical body. There's just something leading her into something hitting home. A few steps, two more, and a last one. Before her eyes was a piece of fabric, knitted intricately, framed preciously and hanged with endearment and consciousness. Each thread laced faultlessly, forming into figures and stories. She was astounded. Her grandmother must've made it. There was a valley: flowers, cotton ball clouds, and

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synchronized herons. Sun and moon hand in hand. A snake and a Pegasus. The lionesses she saw. And the fairies? It all seems alive and moving. Most were gigantic cats, and there's a strange man. She feasted on such belle. She had never seen anything like this piece of art. She was thrilled. Exhilarated. And her fingers can't wait to taste the feeling. Slowly. Delicately. -----------Everything went ebony black. Sudden blows of wind came from nowhere. Almost carrying her fragile body, and it seems she can't find something to hold onto. And it stopped. Then the floor disintegrated under her feet' grasp. It became empty—a blank space. Pounds almost tore her chest. There weren't any sunrays, no small glint of light reflecting from anything inside that room, or any sound except for the deafening silence this empty dimension gives off. Is she in outer space? Why isn't she freezing? She must be dead right now. But how? Why is she feeling something blooming? A jolt touched her soles and ran through her veins up to her head. This wasn't what she was anticipating. She tilted her head, and on the corners of her pupil is an unveiling occurrence. A fade-out. It started gradually until the light devoured the night warp like a wildfire. And it was blinding. Even as she covered her eyes with her subtle hands, it was glaring. It set off. Through a peek with her small windows, she lost count of her reality. Why is this feeling so peculiar? She knows she was lying down but not on a hardwood floor. It's soft like her bed. But it wasn't this bright. And definitely does not have a sky blatantly plastered above the ceiling. Wait… She rose, eyes wide open. This isn't her room. Nor the seventh room she went into just a while ago. Where were the walls? The mirrors? The porcelains? The antiques that are almost dulled out by the shadows? The paintings? The knitted fabric hanging on a wall? Wait, THAT fabric! She looked around to find something. This place is insanely vast. And entirely blurred, or is it just her eyes adjusting? Why are mountains shaped like cats… CATS? Everything is green. And cyan. And coral. And yellow and rose-colored… "Vibrant!" That's the word! Where did that come from? "Over here, child!" It was a man. The man on the fabric is wearing a black top with a black fedora. Did she just get sucked inside that hanged blanket? How? Why? "Are you lost?" "I suppose, mister," she replied, administering her familiarization to the man that's talking to her—a strange stranger. But somehow, a fragment of her seems to know him. "You must be Isabella," he bent down. "I've heard so many things about you, brave maiden."

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How did he just know her name? She thought. He just smiled at her stance, and everything became clear before her eyes. "Welcome." They were in a valley. A soft carpet of grasses spread throughout. The herons fly in shapes and patterns—clouds of cotton with hues of yellow gold, lilacs, and flame red. A giant snowy snake sleeping, and a Pegasus extends its wings on a mountaintop on the far right. Once were porcelains now in the flesh are wide-eyed fairies leaving trails of glitter. Golden lionesses are running in packs. On the left were iridescent waters and glowing bunches of flowers in a field. Cats of different sizes looked like they rule this place. This is a dream. "This isn't a dream," the man said. "How is this real?" "You're in a world made with pure love and cherished memories," he took off his fedora, revealing a mullet of golden locks. She can't quite pinpoint the resemblance this man has to a person she might have met. But she knows it's uncanny. "You're growing up so fast and lovely young lady." "How do you know me, mister?" "I know you very well ever since you were born, my dear." She saw him pick a glowing violet and tucked it on her ears. "But… you are just from a world inside this crafted blanket," she said as she saw the sun extend its rays towards the shy moon. "How do you recognize me?" she added.

Illustration by Prince Ric Emmanuel Paciente

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Big eyes from big cats around this cat valley mirror their reflection. The breeze was something she found so soothing and serenading. Everything's at peace. In their very own paces, they make her very comfortable. "You are a special girl with wonders as broad as this valley. Bravery is your nickname. And kindness flows inside those veins as you walk and live," he said to her. "You look so much like your grandmother." "You know her?" "I do." "She knows you?" "She's coming here very soon," he said as he looked up at the sky shifting colors in adagio. She was confused. "But she's with my father right now," she told him. He looked at her endearingly. There was a moment of solitude. An ease. Then he looked up. The sky is entirely purple in contrast to its original azure hue. And it leads to something shining bright on one side. Every creature in that world shifted their gazes and turned it upon on the scene. Something is coming as it seems. "Let's welcome her," the man said cheerily. She tagged along, not knowing anything. But all she knows is that there's a familiar figure coming down—a woman. "My dear Iris," she heard her voice. That voice she's known in forever. "You found it." And then the awaited reveal happened. It was her grandma. Giving her her beloved smile. She's in her dress Iris saw her wear long before she entered that room. But her appearance is slowly changing. "Grizelda," the man in fedora spoke. Is it possible that he could be? "David!" They ran towards each other. And as soon as they're inches away, they caress each other. "My love, it's been a long while," David told her. "I know. I'm here," she replied, caressing his hair. She completely changed into her young self. They broke the hug and looked at Iris' way. They approached her. She was still confused. "How are you here, Grandma? I… I don't understand," she spoke, clueless. "I just went inside a random door in your house's hallway and… and everything happened in a flash… and I just found and touched a framed fabric that looked exactly like this place… and I don't know anymore." Her granny hugged her and told her she's alright. "You entered the world I made for both your grandpa and me, my child," she explained to her. David kneeled his knee and wiped the tears her eyes unconsciously shed out of some feeling she can't explain. Sadness. Longing. She doesn't know. "You… You're my grandfather?" "Yes. Yes. Hush now, little angel. You're alright," he told her. "I think it's time," he added.

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Knowing what he meant, she had a sudden thought. There's something in this place that makes her want to stay. "I wanna stay grandpa. I find it more fascinating here," she unexpectedly pleaded. Her grandparents were just looking at her. Contemplating. But the cats strolling around lined up behind her in a pack and formed a circle. "My beloved grandchild," her grandmother said. "You can't. You need to go back." She held her hand and led her to the cats singing in sync along with the fairies spraying glitter dust on the circle. "Remember us. Remember, you are loved. Valued. And don't let anyone's words define you or your life. You are precious and treasured," she now held both of her hands. "Live." She let go of her, and the circle began to radiate. Brighter. In a yellow gleam. She looked at her grandparents. She saw them smile at her for the last time. And everything was gone. Black. Everything went dark once again. But she knows her eyes are open. She's back but not in that mystical room. She's back but not as the bright child that she was in her fantasies. She feels heavy. She forcibly made her sore, grownup body rise from her bed. Gasping for air. She looked outside, finding a scene of a dull night sky so different from that of her vivid dream. Her heart was pounding so hard. This is her reality—a broken one. She shifted her eyes towards her desk, filled with cigarettes and pills. She shoved them all with rage and regret. She was numbed, but she screamed so hard. She was numbed but… She cried.

fin

Traditional Textiles of the Philippines courtesy of Tatler Philippines

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PINILIAN Community: Ilocano Origin: Ilocos Region

The Ilocano of northwestern Philippines is well-known for their handweaving, a tradition with ancient roots, with the kapas or cotton as the main material. They use the pedal loom, locally called pangablan; employ several weaving techniques; and have numerous designs/patterns. Different weaving techniques include the basic plain weave, the double-toned basket weave or binakul, and the multi-heddle weave (binetwagan or tinumballitan), among others. Among the complicated one is the brocade weave or pinilian, which uses sticks inserted on selected warp threads to create designs that float on the threads. There are two kinds of pinilian: scattered and continuous supplemementary weft techniques. The weavers of Pinili, Ilocos Norte, are said to be adept in the simultaneous warp and weft-float type of pinilian called the impalagto, a technique unique in the town.

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PIS SYABIT WEAVE Community: Tausug Origin: Sulu Archipelago

The Tausug women are experts in tapestry weaving and embroidery, while men do the large hanings in appliqué. They specialise in the production of pis syabit (head scarf ) and kambot/kandit. The pis syabit is traditionally worn by men and warriors. A most complicated design technique, the pis syabit tapestry weaving of Tausug has no preset pattern sticks or pre-designed warp yarns into which the weaver inserts the desert yarn. The weaver has to clearly imagine the pattern in her mind as she inserts one coloured weft yarn one at a time to fill up the space in the warp, in a sequence her mind only knows. The weaver creates a perfectly symmetrical composition of squares and Xs with hooks, and in seven to eight colours.

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SAPUTANGAN TAPESTRY WEAVE Community: Yakan Origin: Basilan

Known for being highly-skilled, with impressive weaving repertoires, Yakan weavers produce textile with five different kinds of weaving, often differentiated by technique, pattern, and function. The bunga-sama is a supplementary weft weave, made by using pattern sticks or heddles in the loom to produce the pattern. The colourful striped siniluan is characterised by warp-floating pattern. Saputangan is a square cloth best known for its intricate and rich design, involving optical illusion to create depth in the patterns. The inalaman is made using an elaborate supplementary-weft technique, and often used for women’s wraparound skirt. The pinantupan, which is also used for the wraparound skirt, utilises simple weft pattern arranged in the bands. The saputangan is an example of a tapestry weave, considered the oldest and most traditional technique in producing ornamented woven textiles, aside from the plain weave technique wherein stripes and plaids are formed. The saputangan is worn by Yakan women in different ways depending on the occasion such as elen-elen (for everyday wear), hap tabuan (for going to market) and ginuna sipagkawin (worn like a veil when attending a wedding).

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T’NALAK Community: T boli Origin: South Cotabato

The traditional textile woven by the Tboli women, t’nalak represents birth, life, union in marriage and death, and shows the uniqueness and identity of the indigenous group. It is often utilised as blankets and clothing, and used in royal wedding ceremonies on rare occasions. The Tboli weavers are often called “dream weavers” but this applies only to a few dedicated weavers. It is believed that the designs and patterns are bestowed on them by Fu Dalu, the spirit of abaca, through their dreams. The tedious creation of the t’nalak starts with extracting the abaca fibers, which are them combed to remove the sap. They are connected from end to end, and knotted and prepared for design prior to resist-dyeing, known as the ikat method. A t’nalak traditionally has three colours: black, red, and white. The fibers are then woven using the backstrap loom. The textile is then washed in the river, beaten with a wooden stick to flatten the knots, and burnishing the surface with a cowrie shell. The late Lang Dulay was widely regarded as one of the best weavers and was bestowed the Gawad sa Manlilikha ng Bayan in 1998. Pictured here is one of her creations.

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KALINGA TEXTILES Community: Kalinga Origin: Province of Kalinga

The Kalinga textiles exhibit motifs executed as though they are embedded in the geometry of weaving itself. It has a distinct dialogue between red and blue, expressing itself in broad red and blue bands of plain or twill weave, and creating densely-composed groups of tight stripes. The Kalinga weavers, particularly in the upper Kalinga area, put textures on the striped bands using twill-weave technique. Tiny motifs, patterns, and embellishments have characterised Kalinga textile, including miniature lattice, continuous lozenge pattern locally called inata-ata, and pawekan or mother-of-pearl platelets, among others.

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MABAL TABIH Community: Blaan Origin: Sarangani and South Cotabato

Tabih, in Blaan, refers to the native tubular skirt, and also to the textile, while mabal means “woven” or “to weave”. The Blaan weave the tabih using abaca fibers and the back-strap loom. The fibers are dyed using the warp tie-dye resist ikat technique and natural dyes from native plants. Designs usually depict crocodiles and tiny curls. The Blaan are also known to be accomplished embroiderers and the tabih is often meticulously embellished with embroidery. A practice traditionally reserved to women of high status, weaving has a strong spiritual context in Blaan society, believed to be the gift from Furalo, the goddess of weaving. Aside from the tubular skirts, the abaca textile is used for making garment for men, as well as covering for important materials such as knives.

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MËRANAW TEXTILE Community: Mëranaw Origin: Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur

The Mëranaw of Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur know a wide range of weaving techniques including the weft and warp ikat tie-dye resist and continuous and discontinuous supplementary weft design. They are know for the malong, a tubular lower garment. Among its several types, the malong a andon is the most highly valued. This is followed by the malong a landap, which is known for its tapestry bands called langkit, often used to join the broad panels of silk together. Another kind is the malong a bagadat, made from similar wide bands in contrasting colours and separated by narrow bands of warp ikat. Made using a narrow, specialised kind of tapestry loom, langkit, usually comes in two kinds: tabrian or the narrow panel, and lakban or the wider panel. Beautifully designed, the langkit has distinct Maranao okir designs including potiok (bud), dapal or raon (leaf ), pako (fern), pako rabong (growing fern) and katorai (flower). These intricate designs are made using discontinuous weft.

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BONTOC WEAVE Community: Bontoc Origin: Mountain Province

The Bontoc textile revolves around the idea of centeredness, which symbolises permanence, order, and balance, key factors in the life of the Bontoc people. Weavers demonstrate this idea through the direction of their weave, from the edge to the middle, to the symmetry of the cloth construction and the repeated warp-striped design. Bontoc weavers learn the craft through various stages. Young Bontoc girls usually start their training with the simplest part of the cloth, the langkit or edging. Next, they move on to pa-ikid (side panels), learning simple designs such as fatawil (warp-bands) and shukyong (arrows). After mastering this level, they move on to the most challenging part, the sinangad-am design which represents the Sinamaki weaving. Here, they incorporate designs on the bands such as tinagtakho (human figure), minatmata (diamond), and tinitiko (zigzag). The pa-khawa (the center panel) is the next thing they have to master. The center panel features a band in the middle and a kan-ay (supplementary weft) at its end. Because of the complex process of adding the kan-ay, the center panel would be woven last. When all the parts are ready, they would be sewn together in the reverse order of their creation, ending with the langkit.

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DAGMAY

Community: Mandaya Origin: Eastern Mindanao The Mandaya, which can be found in the provinces of Davao Oriental, Davao del Norte, Compostella Valley, Surigao del Sur, and Agusan del Sur, have a strong weaving tradition as seen in their coarsely textured dagmay, handwoven using a special kind of back-strap loom, made from abaca fibers, and following intricate designs revolving around man and nature, specially the crocodile. They use a mud dyeing technique. Used to obtain black, the technique is based on the reaction between the tannins applied on the the yarn before treatment, and the iron found on the mud. The bark of the tree, which contains tanninsm is pounded to a pulp and boiled together with the abaca yarn. The mud is then added to the mixture. The yarn is steeped for one to several hours for the best results. Dagmay designs usually tell the story about the weaver and her community, as well as the spirits that live on Earth. The dagmay is usually used for women’s skirt, but it is also used as blankets or wraps for the dead.

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HABLON

Communities: Kiniray-a and Hiligaynon Origin: Panay Island Hablon is Hiligaynon for “something woven,” from the root word habol, “to weave.” It refers to the hand-woven textiles by Kiniray-a and Hiligaynon weavers. In a Panayanon legend, ten datus from Borneo landed on Panay Island, established settlements and ushered in an era of development. One of the legendary datus was Datu Lubay, who is said to introduce the art of weaving textiles. Weaving using the pedal loom had been common in the provinces of Iloilo and Antique until the arrival of mechanised weaving. Now, there are very few places where traditional weaving is practiced, notable of these are Miag-ao in Iloilo and Bagtasan, Bugasong in Antique. The hablon is usually a plain weave and has plaid and striped designs. It is usually used for the patadyong, the Visayan wraparound skirt, and panuelo.

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to those who fought for us and those who are still fighting, thank you.

Illustration by Sweetzhel Saquibal

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illustration by Gabrielle Moscoso

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epilogue To humans, spiders are nothing more but vulgar creatures that would use their tiny little legs to crawls into nightmares. To humans, spiders are nothing more but vulgar creatures that have the strength to bring down the mightiest of men. Be that as it may, there was once a curious little spider who was enamored with humankind. Every day she would peek out of a tiny crack of the walls of the dilapidated tavern she resides in, just to catch a glimpse of the villagers. Despite her tiny frame, she was always careful. She made sure that she was tucked enough between the darkness but not too much for the dark may obscure her sight. On some days she would be too afraid to step out of her lair but one day, she felt a rush of bravery. Using her skills, she spun a bridge out of her web far enough to connect with the lone branch just outside the tavern. She situated herself on atop of such branches while making sure that a leaf is close by. "You’ll never know when you’ll need a place to hide,” the Little Spider mused. Little Spider looked around with curiosity as humans with their long limbs navigate through the bustling streets. She spots a boy with eyes that shone like tiny gems under the sunlight as he holds hands with his sister. For a split second, Little Spider thought that she made eye contact with the boy with gem-like eyes but she eventually brushed off the thought. Today was the first time the little spider had experienced the everyday life of humankind. She immersed herself among the noises and the sound of shoes clicking against the stone pavements as humans pass by. The bright smile and joyous laughter of the villagers infected everyone around her that even she struggled to hide the twinkle in her eyes. The wind blew, bringing with it the smell of fresh grass and the brief whiff of the fumes of ash from the shops that used coal. It was a beautiful day, a day for everyone to enjoy the warm sunlight as the sound of the gem-eyed boy’s giggles drifted past everyone's ears like the tune of a bell. To humans, spiders are nothing more but vulgar creatures but to the little spider who was drawn to humankind like a moth drawn to a flame, such sentiments fall to deaf ears. For as long as the rush of bravery she lasts, she preoccupied herself with the sound of human voices, clicking shoes, fresh grass, and fumes of ash. For as long as her rush of bravery lasts, the little spider allowed herself to imagine what it feels to be one of them. KALANIE SALDAJENO

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IMAGINE

NATION 2020

imagine nation

vol 110 no 2

Weave - Imagine Nation (Literary Folio) 2020

Articles inside

Cat Valley

Solitude

The Lie Spinner's Tale

Seeking Nightmares

autumn left

brink

Infiltration

The Master Weaver

Tenebris' Death Wish

Existence

Baliskad

Mermaid's Cry

Weaver of Destiny

Attempt

Disconnected Strings

Intertwined

Dreamcatcher

A Sad Twist Of Fate

Woven Affliction

Hinabing Bituin

Sirang Karayom

The Most Beautiful Way to Die

Gentle Armor

escape

String of Hope

Sea

These are the hands of fate

11,034 meters

Last Day at Work

Disappointments

Pagdaop

Downpour

The Thief and the Seamstress

Mermaid

Who was I before I lost my name?

Hawla

Ang Manghahabi

Handog

Patawad

Hoping

A Wind of Tradition

The Design

Mapanlinlang na Sining