Blood - Imagine Nation (Literary Folio) 2015

ImagIne

natIon 2015

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i llustrati o n t a ke n fr om G r u n d r is s z u m s t u d iu m d e r G e bu r t s h Ăź l f e , 1 8 5 8 -1 9 2 5 . c o u r tesy o f cod ex9 9 .com

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Prologue

Poetry 4 5

ayes ha euni c e Garc i a

Waterfall of Blood Jez iel V arGas

The Suicide Poem V ic al i zo n m o rena

Sweet Revenge 6

a nGel i k a rey

To C. Quill John D a V i D m aza

But Bounded Wonder 7 8 9 10

irish P ao l i ne Juri nari o

The Dirge of Ghost V ic a l i zo n m o rena

Vampires Will Never Hurt You an Ge l i k a rey

Vampire Rose char l es arthel rey

More Than Worthy of Every Thanks

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micaela G arcia

Pagbato

P earl lorraine cor D ero

Panibugho 12 14 16 17 18

P aul mack ey marfil

My Dahlia is Red P atricia labramonte

Mommy

aimee taGaro

Battlefield V ic aliz on morena

Pawns of Vanity Go VinD a D asi wisnews k i e

Nexus of Bitterness and Love yosef

AIB-AIW pt.2 19 20

iv

hewhowrote

Kafkaesque unique canonicato

Vessel

i llustrati o n s by a ri a kh a e l e n b a q u i n q u i to

21 22 23 25 26

s a Jonia

Crimson Ink a nG elik a rey

Sunlight

a nG elik a rey

Moonbeam a nG el Grace alinD ay

The Angel’s Song cyril k eth P atriarca

Tibay ng Tulay J is elle yanson

Pighati ng Ligaya 27 28 29 31

blesseD bea P lon D aya

Untouched

Vince erV in P alcullo

Blood=Pain

lynV ee marie JuntarcieG o

Blurry Pacts De athseek er

Tears s Ja

They Consume You

Essays 35 37 40

ferD inanD b añez, Jr.

Talking to a Dead Soldier P atrici a l ab ram o nte

She

John D aV iD m aza

What is Our Treasure

v

Short Stories 45 48 50 53 59 62 64 69 72 75

ir is h P aoline Jurinario

Black and Brown Tatters ch a r l es arthel rey

Kortyon

om e Gs G ryeane solis

Kalapating Mababa ang Lipad Vince erV in P alcullo

The Secret of the Blood Rose Je zie l VarG as

Escape

a nGe lik a rey

The Butcher ch a r l yn mateo

Kulay Dugong Grado la za rus

Apparitions ble s seD bea P lon Daya

Bloodlines

Pa u l mack ey marfil

All is Black, All is White

78 81 82

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Twitterati ay 20 1 5 - 2 0 1 6

Editorial Board Epilogue

illustr ati o n c o urte sy o f b e ndi t a e n tro p i a . tu m b l r. c o m

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Photo by rhick lars Vladimer albay

Prologue Close your lips. Trap your words.

Then kiss. Let them come out slowly, one by one. Write a verse on her neck, on her back, on her thighs, on her chest. Let the words run like razor blades across her skin, swiftly and smoothly. It’s kind of sad, and it’s kind of painful, but you have to admit that the blades of melancholy are razor sharp.

Now, feel the sound of her moans softly caressing every single molecule in the air.

Let her scream, let her beg for your mercy. It’s disturbing, yes, but you know what you’re doing, and you’re aware that there is pleasure in seeking pain, and pain in seeking pleasure.

Slowly, you try to unbutton her shirt. She said no, but you try to convince her that what you’re doing is art.

And then, she submits.

Cautiously, you peel off her skin. The foul, metallic stench of blood begins to permeate through the air, and this was your heroin. You lay down the pieces of skin on a table, and you rinse off the remaining stains of blood. How fragile, you thought, are the things lurking beneath the epidermis. But the most fragile of all? The soul, for that, too, can bleed.

Her flesh would then be the cover. Her skin, the pages where you wrote your poetry.

You bind them together with her veins, with her arteries, with her hair, and with her tongue (for added strength and durability; we all know how powerful the tongue is).

What you have now is a living, breathing manuscript. May those who open its pages feel the throbbing of metaphors, the dancing of verses, and the collision of the surreal and unreal. And as their eyes pirouette through the number of poems, essays, and short stories, may they bleed with the authors who have bled through dimensions of thoughts.

The first few pages have already been opened. A few ounces of blood have already been drawn. Do you wish to continue? Of course, we all do.

Good luck.

P aul mac k ey m arf i l

ImagIne natIon

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illustration by uniq ue ca no nica to

Poetry

Waterfall of Blood

ayesha eunice Garcia

You clenched my wrist while feeling the blood thrusting against it and you smiled when you heard it pulsed your name.

I would be willing to give you everything, even every ounce of my blood, and so when you asked me to do blood compact with you, I didn’t hesitate; I wanted us to be connected and for our love to bind forever.

You wanted my blood mixed with alcohol so I’d let you and you swigged it, but I wanted yours to be pure when you handed me the glass, I reached for it but you’d let go and it spilled and stained my dress.

You didn’t bother to offer me again but you asked for mine some more; I’d let you drag the knife on my wrist and my arm became a waterfall of blood, you drank it down until there’s nothing left in me.

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ImagIne natIon

illustration by unique canonicato

Sweet Revenge

Vic alizon morena

There it rests before my eyes.

The blood which drips Has stopped and gone dry.

Trophy for vengeance, sweet.

Lying here, staring at you, I wonder How beautiful you are, Even with just a mere head.

You are a dream, an elusive one.

The Suicide Poem J eziel V arGas

The first slash was painful Like when you left us for another For a five year old, it was truly awful The second slash was bigger Like the hateful names they called me The pain, the anger I let it all simmer The third, a little closer to the pulse Red liquid seeping out of my skin My reality, I found out was nothing but false By the fourth I was already numb I already wrote a suicide note So with my death they won’t act dumb This is taking too long, one final slash Right at the neck, a bloody necklace Before my eyes a life of misery flashed

You were a tough head, I say.

Could not sever it in ease.

But dear, a heart that longs for revenge Will virtue in all odds.

You should have been wise, And played the right game.

Was it about the car dear?

If then, I shall burn it along.

A fairytale could have been made, Written by our hands.

But that was not how you want it, So you earned an ending, just not happy.

I kept the knife, though, It will be used later.

Now, I will have more of this bottle, To avoid too much pain.

My hands are running red now, I feel weak and my vision is blurry.

Think I’d done it too deep, Deeper than it should be.

Now, cheers dear, for sweet revenge!

The axe from there looks perfect.

One last kiss, Before my brains splatter here.

ImagIne natIon

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But Bounded Wonder John DaVi D maza

To C. Quill anGelika rey

Emphasis, on you, Carmine Quill; Costly ink of liquid rubies Yet, the Parchment, has its own fill – You, Quill, none received of guineas.

But why does the Parchment still burn?

Liquid rubies are not enough?

And oh, Carmine! You do not churn; Owned plume to tip: diamond-tough.

From the first breath To the final hopes Runs in me But bounded wonder So dear upon us bestowed Treasure not mined Love, oh love imparted Loved become Yet a depiction of fault and error - but should it be?

Runs in me Force of such power To existence be brought: A warrior Of valor, clothed in glorious armor: A being of rock and flame Never a puppet, nor a slave But a guard of the Queen Runs in me Bounty wondrously sealed In a handcraft of the King Coveted by hate, Evil is of great thirst The measure of presence Runs in me Marvelous, So precious a favor Gold, silver Runs in me But bounded wonder.

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ImagIne natIon

The Dirge of Ghost

irish Paoline Jurinario

The renowned beast of the North Crimson-beaded eyes glistening Behind the shadows Glowering at the moon Its fur as white as dove feathers Fangs as fierce as a feral lion Sniffing, growling, searching For its master by the name of Snow In the pit of the darkest chasm, it rose Walked the Caste Black a thousand times Waited in the giant gates a million hours And there in the middle of a snow field

illustration by michael angelo Fandagani

Laid its master, cold and dying Blood covered the Snow Dyeing it with crimson dew Treachery fueled with rage Ignited the angry flames For the cowards who refused to claim the blame Are his sworn brothers by an oath The betrayers of his trust And the men who buried a dagger In his steadfast heart The beast howled deafeningly The dirge of Ghost

ImagIne natIon

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Vampires Will Never Hurt You Vic alizon morena

I smell your blood.

Fragrant as it can ever be.

Crimson than anything, Precious than diamonds.

Like flowers in the wild, It blooms.

Spreading aroma in the air.

Oh! I hunger more.

I can, too, smell your fear.

Mixed within your blood.

A turbulence within in you.

A distress in the soul.

Along with curiosity, Your blood flows queerly.

Your heart beats rapidly.

Calm, fear not.

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ImagIne natIon

I dreamed of you for long.

My insatiable hunger, Will now be fed, By you.

Welcome my fangs As they tear through you. sucking your blood.

Your fear, your innocence.

And as I take your life, You may scream, and moan.

Beg and cry.

And as my canines dig deeper, You quench my thirst.

Nourishing my famished soul.

And as I finish remember, Vampires will never hurt you again.

illustration by michael angelo Fandagani

Vampire Rose anGelika rey

Drinking our entire molten burgundy; From the inside: veins of puce Claiming it of your history – In bamboo waters, letting it diffuse.

Oh, Vampire Rose! The garden’s all wide, Yet not as vast as your pride Little pebbles, you want to take; From a poor daffodil whom you want to forsake.

Beautiful and wise, yet cold as ice; The Vampire Rose mocks my leaves.

Thorny tongue – an obvious device – I know what is inside your bushy sleeves.

Oh, Vampire Rose! Who watered when you were ill?

When you were weak and pale, ‘twas that daffodil!

Speak of own honor, our ignorance, what are you?

A glorious hypocrite, turning yellow to blue.

Your petals are now bright, bright cerise; But remember, Peony did not admire your greatness Alas! You are becoming a fruit – the apple of Eris; But Orchid simply gazes at you in His pond of endless.

Oh, Vampire Rose! My respect be with you, but; That is a daffodil’s stem you would like to cut.

A blatant, agonizing, yet humble flower, If alone – powerless – still do not cower.

ImagIne natIon

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More Than Worthy of Every Thanks charles arthel rey

I give You thanks, my God For You are worth praising For You are generous and loving For You are listening to our whining.

I still remember, O Lord How lost I was.

Before I found You, A purpose I never had.

I give You thanks, my God For everyday blessings For creating the curve of my smile My heart, in mirth, sings.

How blessed I am, O Lord To be loved by You. How important am I to You That You came down and died for me?

I give You thanks, my God For the plans You have for me.

For Your love abounds And never leaves.

My life before I met You, O Lord Was full of mess and hate.

But now that I found You, I know I will never be the same again.

I give You thanks, my God For comforting me every time I’m down.

I know I don’t deserve You But You chose to Love me so.

Even after I found You, Lord There were times that I stumble down, But who am I that instead of getting angry, You chose to love me more.

I give You thanks, my God For the hope that You have given me.

You have affirmed that I do not belong here, But in your side in heaven.

I do not know what I did, O Lord To deserve all this Love.

The love of a Saviour, A King and a Father.

I give You thanks, My God. That not Even this poem Can completely express, How grateful I am That I have been found by You. Glory, glory, glory to You my Father in Heaven.

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ImagIne natIon

PagbatĂ´ micaela Garcia

Damo na sang gin-agyan Apang ang kabuhi gapadayon Damo guid sang pagtilaw Ang pagbato amo’ng kinahanglan.

Ginhawa nga ginhatag Oo, ginasukot na guid subong Ginhawa sang kabuhi Kinahanglan na pagakuhaon.

Paano na ang tanan, Kung ikaw lang nga nabilin ang madula Paano na lang kami Nga imo ginbilinan sang paghigugma Sa dugo nagalatay Ang ginabatyag nagapanghalit Sa dugo nga galatay Ginapagbatu-an mo ang sakit Amo guid ni ang tanan Sa kabuhi kilanlan may pagbaton Siya guid lang ang kabalo Kung san-o guid matapos ang pag-bato

Panibugho

Pearl lorraine corDero

Musmos pa lamang ay iginapos Inalipin at inalipusta Ng mga kamay na mapanghusga Mga taong inaapi ang maralita Dumadaloy dugo ng kalayaang kapos, Tinig ng pilit namamaos, Adhikaing nagsusumiklab at naghihikahos, Uhaw na uhaw sa hangaring makaraos.

Mumunting kamay na nag pupumiglas na kumawala, Hangaring makalyo sa anino ng pagiging isang dukha Bugso ng damdaming may nag aalab na adhika, Lapot ng dugo para sa inaasam na paglaya.

Masakit nga mapait Ini ang reyalidad sang kadam-an Pagpabakod kag salig, Sa pag-bato, wala sang kaperdihan.

ImagIne natIon

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My Dahlia is Red Paul marfil

I once had a dream Though I’m not even sure if it’s a dream I was in this forest, see It was cold, damp, and foggy With me was my Dahlia, dressed in white My oh-so-pretty Dahlia She was just standing right there Far from me, and we both couldn’t move As if time had died for the both of us And she was shaking her head Uncontrollably, violently, shaking her head I knew she was crying Wait, was she crying?

Or was she just bleeding through her eyes?

I don’t know, but there was blood all over her Then, right in front of us was a wolf Black fur, eyes drenched in vermillion It—or he?—was staring at me, growling And then, it—or he?—began to grin

I looked the wolf in the eyes They were fiery, like windows to hell And the wolf kept on grinning, Its sharp teeth like demonic horns I don’t know, but it seemed like The wolf was there physically in front of me But its soul—or his?—was trying to rape my Dahlia To strip her of her innocence Not to mention her clothes I could hear her moaning What? Was she enjoying the indignity?

She opened her mouth, closed her eyes As the wolf devoured her, slowly, then— I don’t want to talk about what happened next But of course, dreams are severed by waking up And I did wake up, to the smell of decaying flesh, With dried-up blood painted all over my skin I turned around, and there she was My Dahlia, cold and lifeless Like her heart

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ImagIne natIon

illustr ation by allen grace tabi

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Mommy

Patricia labramonte

Mommy can’t you see, all the whipping and entreaty?

You’d just candidly stare with that face of disdain.

It trickles down and I screech to the highest, No restrain, no wish, not even the slightest.

I scram all around, barefooted and cold, With a dress of ruby that turned to umber.

I saw a shaggy man and he teasingly say, “Come here, pretty child. Let’s go inside and play.”

I ran to you, Mommy, and held your hand.

But you said, “Oh sweetie, please let go.”

Then you dazedly guided me to the door, And from there I knew what I was used for.

The blanket was white, just like my unclad skin.

You made me wait here, Mommy, so I will.

I heard a cavernous voice outside my room, “Goodness! The little girl is fairly a bloom!”

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illustration by aria khaelen baquinquito

The shaggy man went inside and gave me a chilling glare.

Mommy, where are you? I’m scared!

He held the key but kept the door slightly open, And I saw you Mommy, just standing there…frozen.

Rainbows. Diamond castles. Snowfields on winter.

He tied me down, “That’s a good girl.” Mommy, he’s El Diablo.

Summer daffodils. Fairytales. Vanilla and chocolate.

I whimpered. “Little girl, don’t make things so intricate.”

The sheet was clattered and full of spotted cherries, I feel dirty.

I glanced at the shaggy man and he was grimly pleased.

I yelled and scampered towards you, Mommy.

But you callously shove me, all stinky and clammy.

I hid beneath your skirt yet you scooted me away, “So innocent and sweet, I’ll double it next time.”

You horridly smirked and sketchily laid out your palm, Then the shaggy man gave you yellows and blues without a qualm.

It was seeping. It was seeping, Mommy, but you just sat there, Cradling the bundle like you used to cradle me.

Mommy, I saw you watch. And you just bluntly smiled.

Mommy, why? Oh, your own child.

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Battlefield aimee taG aro

They writhe and grieve, anguish seen in their eyes Look around, and all you’ll see are fallen soldiers who didn’t know how and why they Kill people, just so the country would look up to them.

Strangle them to death, so they would see you as their hero Comrades suffer and you see them stumble to their eternal sleep Offer him a prayer, when there is time, and quickly leave Guns and sticks don’t wait to strike when they’re pointed at you Abandon your friend, there’s a family waiting for you to feed.

They cry and cry until tears fall no more.

The body goes strong as the heart becomes numb.

Save yourself - time has never been this important Lift yourself up and say that’s what they wanted me to become A person of battles.

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ImagIne natIon

Pawns of Vanity Vic alizon morena

Vanity, everything is vanity.

Millions of lives have been lost, Plenty were taken, but most were offered.

By warriors equipped with guns and bombs As they fight for their faith.

Faith embedded by blood, Of those who worship the moon God, and liars that kneels to a stone.

Who creates those gestures and rituals, before murdering themselves.

This meaningless conflict of beliefs, Which create wars among races, turmoil amongst lands.

Death to every damn soul.

Bloodshed for their Gods.

Killing husbands, brothers and sons, leaving wives, sisters and mothers.

Pawns of the holy war, Where the victor is the righteous, And the other is the cult.

Destruction and death, blood rage for faith, death for a God. Vanity, everything is vanity.

illust ration by michael angelo Fandagani

ImagIne natIon

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Nexus of Bitterness and Love

GoVinDa D asi wisnewskie

It chinked, you broke Nuked pieces, tears downfall Wound’s unhealed, nightmares at eve A whole emptied, it was a snare.

Fixation is deadly, the still is moved And again, throe and dolor is anew You gagged, the mechanics flew Always, isolation is your hue.

You bleat, your issues undone And for safety’s sake, you kept down Scared to once again fly, Inside cupid’s border by the sky.

History was it, that you gladly sung The melodies you hum, Your centerpiece and its drums, Together, your rhythm was one.

It was said, a heart you gave, In a cup, all of you was laid, You’re a stalwart, obliged Your bonded-one, a rouge.

Blood are ties, red is love As it spilled, it was a bane Blood is now pain, yowl in the dark Red is now poison, it weakens the blind.

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ImagIne natIon

AIB-AIW yosef

All is black, all is white Never a tint or hue in sight I wish I may, I wish I might Have you color me tonight All is black, all is white Can’t you see I’m not all right?

Sun is up, but it’s still night Please, don’t blow my candlelight All is black, all is white Love was wrong, hate was right Hearts so strong, yet so finite They beat to whet our appetite All is black, all is white All that is violent can be bright Like this poem you made me write It’ll watch you as you sleep tonight

Kafkaesque hewhowrote

I hate my dreams . . .

I once dreamt of rain Rain that fell, but didn’t touch my shoulders And it rained during night time Night time that shone Darker than dark And in that dream I was waving And each time I waved They knew it was me who’s waving But they never waved back Never And the moon, and the stars They hung like pupils in the sky And I watched them As they watched me But never did I laugh When they laughed at me And I was fearful Because I hid in the shadows Of closed eyelids Until slowly, my eyes began to part Only to realize that in waking up The darkness was still there . . . and I hate that even more

ImagIne natIon

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Vessel

unique canonicato

Pour it, pour it all All of it within me I can hold it for so long A bank of blood, yes Let it flow, your liquid secrets Through my innocence A vessel that is what I am That is what I wish not to be But it is why you need me Acceptance, I give you Cruel judgment, I receive Oh, how unfair could it be?

Do mind that a human am I still To where a limit exists Do not incapacitate me “Friend” or so you were called How real really are you?

Why drag me down with you?

“Trust Me”, you say Well—why should I? You’re inhuman after all

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ImagIne natIon

Crimson Ink saJonia

She was twelve when she first slit her skin, Freeing the poison boiling in her vein.

The silver metal - now splotched with red She was pleased for the numbness had faded; So she continued to cut until her senses were back.

Her arm now’s a waterfall of blood, But she didn’t care; in fact, she was pleased For the voices in her had ceased.

She was eighteen and her arm now: a canvas of parallels; In the blazing heat of summer, she wore long-sleeved flannels.

She wrote with blades what pencils couldn’t express; She painted with silver that marked a red mess.

Once she let her mom read her works, Dead words written down in crimson ink Maybe a part of her wanted to be saved, But her mom tossed it aside and gave her an annoyed wave.

On her palm rested a cold metal; She dragged it across her wrist deeper And this time, a painting of a red ocean was made Floating in the waves, her limp body had faded.

illustration by allen grace tabi

ImagIne natIon

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Sunlight anGelika rey

I had put on the gears, blind sunlight; Strapped and secured ‘round my body tight My soul shatters; in heaven I’ll dine, And exist longer than years of nine.

I equipped it right here, blind sunlight; Explosive debris were on its flight, It was akin to a nova’s blaze, But they’re now covered in fiery haze.

Nothing more, nothing less – blind sunlight – Clouds wept for them – and me – day and night.

My ghost heard screens talk of my “warped joy,” While a few had said, “What a poor boy!”

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ImagIne natIon

illustrations by unique canonicato

Moonbeam anGelika rey

When the moonbeam struck blood in my eye, I saw them suffer, oh my! Oh my!

With the darkened sky, I hide, I hide Beneath the long grass, I cried, I cried So, the moonbeam struck blood in my eye; Again; remembered it that’s why; I’m blaming myself I did nothing, And survived by observing, watching; When the moonbeam struck blood in my eye; The fog devours the air, by and by I can’t see through, yet I breathe deeply; Not again; remembered it quickly So, the moonbeam struck blood in my eye; Finally, ‘twas replaced in the sky; By the sun, so brightly! So brightly!

And lunar dusts, disappeared slowly When the moonbeam struck blood in my eye, Not afraid anymore – not afraid to die; For I’ll be with souls, the tormented; The ones I saw when the blood flooded

ImagIne natIon

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illustration by michael angelo F andagani

The

Angel’s Song anG el Grace alinD ay

Beneath the depths of the insanity that’s drowning me And the fangs of the monster that dwells in my rage I begged at the heavens to grant my soul safety Release my youth from such tormenting cage.

I bowed at the feet of my bellowing enemy His wrath has savaged my present and my past My arms are exhausted, my feet quivers in agony Free my body, tonight I will breathe my last.

Like a one-man army, I kissed the darkness I faced my beast, my withered arms curved for embrace “I am afraid of you no longer,” in his ears I hissed.

“Now, you will burn in my Master’s heavenly gaze.”

ImagIne natIon

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Tibay ng Tulay

cyril keth P atriarca

Labi ay may ngiti, mata’y may kislap Puso nitong paslit ay puno ng galak Masayang naglalaro’t walang pangamba Sa gilid ng kalsada, s’ya lang mag-isa Kanyang ama’t ina ay palaging wala Subsub sa trabaho’t paghanap ng pera Kanilang anak ay s’yang napabayaan Na naiiwan sa gilid ng lansangan Dapit-hapon at paligid ay kalmado Batang paslit, nakahandusay sa kanto Wala ng dugo, gawa ng sindikato Mga dugong ihahalo sa semento

Pighati ng Ligaya Jiselle yanson

“Isang gabi ng tuwa’t saya Isang gabing pawang nasa langit na Isang gabing walang pag-aalala Isang gabing dusa pala ang dala.”

Dalawang pulang guhit Tanaw sa aking pagpihit Mundo’y biglang gumuho Pag-asa wari’y naglaho.

Punong puno ang puso’t isipan Hapdi’t kirot, walang mapagsidlan Lahat ay gulong-gulo Di alam kung saan tutungo.

Manggagamot, albularyo Pinasok iba’t ibang kalbaryo Ipinilit magwaksi at magtago Kamatayan, aking nakatagpo.

Isang buhay man ang nabawas Hindi pa rin ako nakakatakas Patuloy na bumabagabag Lalong nadarama ang nagawang paglabag Sa aking pagmulat, Tanaw pa rin ang matinding sugat Sugat na kailanma’y di hihilom Dala-dala hanggang sa araw ng paghuhukom.

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ImagIne natIon

Untouched blesseD bea PlonDaya

An aisle waiting to be walked upon A pew waiting to be kneeled on A march waiting to be played A blessing waiting to be received A vow waiting to be sworn A bouquet waiting to be thrown A cake waiting to be sliced A dance waiting to be performed A toast waiting to be made A gift waiting to be opened A house waiting to be unlocked A night waiting to be shared For a lie that can’t be recovered For a choice that can’t be redeemed For a wound that can’t be reopened For a love that can’t be returned For a secret that can’t be released For a story that can’t be retold If only she was not forced If only she fought back If only she defended herself If only she waited for his return If only she didn’t take the fall If only she wasn’t driven to the edge Then a stunning gown would not be torn Then a genuine promise would not be broken Then a hoping heart would not be crushed Then an unborn child would not be lost Then a perfect family would not be shattered Then a bright future would not be gone

ImagIne natIon

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Blood = Pain Vince erV in Palcullo

There will be blood each time you say hurtful words, That cuts deep and make people think thoughts of worse.

Thoughts that are more deadly than a super caliber gun, For a gun offers you choices, to be bad or be better, But it’s the thought that pulls the lethal trigger.

There will be blood each time you give false hope, To someone who’s trying so hard to be good enough for you.

Only to be replaced by someone better and new.

There will be blood each time you break someone’s heart into pieces, Giving you love may hurt them in the process.

Selfishness, it may be called, And in the end you will make them blue and cold.

There will be blood in general, each time you act before you think, So control yourself and take a breath so deep, For you to avoid spilling more blood again.

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ImagIne natIon

Blurry Pacts lynV ee marie JuntarcieGo

Sandugo, a blood pact to avoid wars at hand, Our ancestor’s bequest, oath for finding the elusive peace But look at our nation now and see where we stand, Must we relive this old ritual for wars to finally cease?

Gunshots fired, here and there, pooling blood of crimson red, I pray.

For somebody’s sorrow made me weep, a river of woe, I cannot keep.

And though I know none of the Forty-four who were led astray, Their despair still I share, for their death was truly tragic, noble and deep.

With dropping eyes I plead to God that they may rest in peaceful fate.

For life has withered, strife has risen, a pitiful end indeed!

And selfish desires had cursed this world, a never ending cycle of hate.

The kind of hate that makes pacts blurry because of treachery and deceit.

illustration by unique canonicato

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illustration by jether dane gaudalupe

Tears

Deathseeker

Memories can be suppressed Thoughts can be controlled Emotions can be concealed But tears, they always come out when they want to.

They Consume You sJa

Sometimes, memories take on a life of their own.

They eat a little piece of you inside, then they grow to consume you whole.

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Photo by je drick leighn oir so li nap

Essays

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illustration by unique canonicato

Talking to a Dead Soldier ferDinanD bañez, J r.

When a television superstar gets into trouble, when for instance he loses his mind and cluelessly wanders around an airport, or when he gets disgraced by the spread of a video scandal, every ordinary Filipino goes crazy over the news. But when a soldier dies in a war, when his family loses that opportunity of seeing him ever again, most of those ordinary Filipino people would think that “it’s all part of his job.”

Out of millions, only a handful of Filipinos would take the road leading to the blooded arena of militancy. Thus, it is a clear-cut matter that they are among the bravest who would take the risks and leave their ordinary and free lives to tackle a more deadly path of guns and killings. In a series of fateful events, I found myself lucky for being able to talk to one of these brave men— a strange and somewhat odd soldier.. He looks so lifeless, drenched in blood, with gunshots in his chest, in his head, and in many other parts of his body. I feel sad looking at him, for he undoubtedly suffered so much in fighting for what he believes.

“I chose this path for you, for your brothers and sisters, for your parents, and for everyone else I don’t even know or doesn’t even know me,” the odd soldier said. They fight for the all Filipinos, not thinking if those strangers would even thank them for putting themselves in the line of fire with the

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enemies of the state. These soldiers are heroes of the oppressed, warriors of the weak, and defenders of the frightened. With these tasks, they don’t choose who to save, who to fight for, and who to defend. They just do so – for everyone.

“When we’re at war, when bullets start flying around us and when gunshots start filling our ears, we are all afraid. But the thought of fighting for all of you, is our source of strength,” he continued. Death itself is their greatest assurance, whereas miracle of success is as uncertain as a foggy dream. They may be labelled as brave men, but the feeling of being near to death is like jumping off a dark and gloomy cliff, for it always sends impulses of fear that none could control.

“We have seen beyond borders and we have images clearer than any picture. The reason why we’re here is because of what we saw that this country gravely needs,” he added. I once wondered why people would choose such a dark road of safeguarding their future. Why not become a businessman, a doctor, or a lawyer and be rich and have a decent family?

Why give your family the feeling of permanent fear? But as for this odd soldier, he said that he saw clearer than anybody else has ever had. He witnessed worse than every other Filipino had. And also, he wanted change more than anybody ever desired.

“For you my child, I have died. My only wish is that you wouldn’t put my death to waste,” he concluded. They traded their lives for something that wouldn’t benefit them, but for us to be better. They fought for the country, and this country’s got to show something that their lives were worth it all. This, I think is the main challenge. Otherwise, even the dead would feel disappointed of this generation for not taking the best out of what they died for.

This odd soldier then started blurring to a point that he no longer became visible. There’s a sudden pain though in my chest, since there’s one thing I failed to do – I failed to say my thanks for his blood that cultivated the freedom and the chance to live of everyone in these days and the days to come.

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She Patricia labramonte

You know what’s more distasteful than choking, a hang nail or an eyelash stuck inside your eye? Well, it’s that eccentric thought of slicing your cadaver piece by piece, shredding its blemished flesh and re-arranging your limbs the way you want it to be. And no, it isn’t psychotic or maniacal, precisely it’s a subliminal verse hidden within you. If you’d pensively fancy it, when was the last time you ever felt pleased with that being standing right in front of the mirror? Eventually, it may give you shivers, but dear, it’s a taunting manifestation and that illusion is giving you a grimace.

Those sticky mascara, unsharpened eyeliners, cracked blush and soiled cherry lipsticks never bothered her, but instead, she kept on contouring her face like it’s a devastating canvas that needs to be burnt. And how about that spaghetti dress she bought last week? She kept on repeating and repeating, “Beauty is pain. Beauty is pain. Beauty is pain.” So she squeezed inside the miniature dress and couldn’t breathe. She sighed and gave an aching grin. A black smear fell from her eye; she sternly looked at the mirror and paused for a moment. Her thighs touched, her shoulders were round, her stomach was a layer of ignominy, her head was in a ghastly shape and her face was a feast of irreverence. She hastily looked away and out of the dressing room. She was in a different skin. She was deformed.

Or so she thought.

They say Aphrodite is the epitome of loveliness. So what if you aren’t a mere caricature close to her? What if unwittingly, you consider yourself inclined in the lineage of Hephaestus? And you’re just there keeping on injecting yourself with crooked liquids of splendor and slashing your veins into thin strips of dodgy acceptance. You know that they’ll give you dour eyes anyway, wrinkled nose and tattered mouths, so why my dear, are you stripping and sewing contrasting innards into your torso?

She danced around the room with her stilettos on and bit by bit tear-

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i llus tr at ion cou rte s y of die go c aden a on bē hance

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ing off the dress. She laughed. It was wicked. It was hysterical. Pills were on the floor, blue, yellow and green. Untouched chips, soda bottles, a gallon of ice cream and a chocolate cake were on the kitchen table. She stopped and confusingly stared at them. Her hair was sultry, her arms were battered and she kept on biting her lips. Blotch. Blotch. And like a wild boar lost in the murky forest, she rushed towards the feast and savored the succulent taste of cheated bliss.

Hack. Hack. She was gawking at her reflection. Prick. Prick. The stains were evident, from rusto wine. It was an implausible pond of scarlet. She kept on chanting, “Beauty is pain.” There was one drop. “Beauty is pain.” Then two drops. “Beauty is pain.” She created her own vermilion of pseudonym. There was a butcher knife on her hand. She started from her thighs. Next to her hips, it must be a crescent moon and deeper, she thought; Then to her stomach, her shoulders, her neck and cheeks. Yes, deeper. She giggled. It was her unsettling way to proclaim that she hasn’t surrendered yet. Rose petals were everywhere, gooey rose petals, sappy and rippling. She walked around the bathroom floor, one hand on her new statuesque waist while forcing a fierce look on her Barbie-dolled leather face. The formaldehyde was palpable, with flashing lights and a channel surrounded by beefcakes. Then she gave her crowning wave and one last glance at the mirror, “I’m finally beautiful.” And in that sublime moment, she carefully laid down on her bed of macabre roses.

--Who was that lass? Was she a basket case? Was she one of those melodramatic fools? Was she tragically a nimrod? Oh, maybe she was just baldly distressed. But dear, you forgot, she was simply a goose egg. She was the archetype of nullity. You may be in awe and oddly ask, why? Because she didn’t know better, she was wretchedly thirsty to fit in a puzzle wherein she wasn’t even a puzzle piece. She wanted to be a chrysanthemum when she was actually a wild flower. She wanted to be silence when she was actually sullen music. She was poles apart but she was peculiarly conspicuous. Yet, she didn’t know that. Then again, the decorous abstraction of society got her right into the throat; it defiled and ravaged her. Glumly, in the end, that’s when she unconsciously consigned to oblivion.

And at dusk, the uncertainty still remains, sinking and chewing our thoughts. Are you the kind that tediously pokes its eyes out in the mirror? Or you’re slyly an imitation of a blossoming canker? Oh dear, always dwell upon the person you’d irrevocably seek you’d be till the time that hell freezes over.

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What is Our Treasure?

John david maza

What is our treasure?

Oaks, whales, lilies, cows, eagles, worms, humans, grasshoppers, lobsters, and dodo birds; the Earth is a sphere abundant in life. It is where a vast array of creatures would interact with each other in order for them to survive and live in the duration appropriated for them to exist. Life is what gives the planet its state of being alive. Therefore, “Life is the most precious of all.� Or is it?

How precious is life? If we have it, does it make us valuable ourselves?

Is it the only thing important? What gives us our preciousness?

How does the birth of ants matter less than the birth of tigers? How does the germination of seeds much less regarded than the growth of your pet cat? How is the destruction of corals unalike the killing of dogs during the Yulin Festival? Where does pesticide differ from atomic bombs? Why isn’t illegal logging equally defined with guillotine? If life is possessed by every single living thing, then all should be viewed with equal value. But what is the reason behind these realities? Why are living things treated unevenly?

What is the distinguishing factor that makes other living things more important? Is it the size, the structure, the origin, the color, the content? What is it?

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Hemoglobin. Red blood. It is a substance possessed by a section of organisms that distinguishes them from other creatures. Even though many living creatures have blood, still, we humans are treated most highly. We have a higher intelligence capacity compared to other living things and are the ones that decide which of which is important, thus, treat ourselves the most.

Blood, as we have decided, is a portrayal of pain, chaos, suicide, death; everything that involves the possibility of losing one’s life. It is because the lives we are enjoying now are a result of the sacrifice of blood itself. Wars for freedom, rebellion for injustice, killing of the innocent masses; a symbol of the bravery, courage. These extreme behaviors of humans result to loss of life.

Death. It is what we deserve to pay for the sins we have committed.

Sin separates man from the Almighty. But because of a Sacrifice, we have this free gift: Salvation. For around 2000 years ago, Christ Jesus emptied himself by being born in the likeness of men and with righteousness shed His precious blood on the cross to redeem us. It his by His blood that broke the barrier of sin between God and men. A sacrifice like this strongly shows that what gives life, what preserves life, what saves life, is treasure.

What gives you life?

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illustration by micha el a ngelo Fa nda gan i

Short Stories

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illustration by allen grace tabi

Black and Brown Tatters irish Paoline Jurinario

As the muddy clouds washed everything in grey and cold raindrops from the pale heaven started to pour, a mere eight-year old girl with pink freckles on both cheeks and curly flaxen hair ran swiftly in a small alleyway.

Her fast-paced footsteps echoed in the dusty cobblestones waking up the sleeping felines near the garbage dump. “Quick! Catch the little thief!” cried the bearded man as he clutched the metal helmet in his head.

“She’s getting away, the fast rogue!” yelled the other, the fattest one with curly hair and a long scar in his left eyebrow, his sword swinging beside his hip.

“Catch the girl!” said another, the owner of the bread store, as he ran in front and the other four followed behind him. “I won’t let you get away this time!”

Unfortunately, the girl was too fast for the five huge men. Before they can even get a hold of her, she entered into a small gap between two tall buildings where her scraggy body fits perfectly like the gap was made es-

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pecially for her, and made a run towards the other side leaving the five men cussing and grumbling under their breaths. She turned her back from them concluding that her escape was successful. And she tightly held her prize in her skinny little arms while dashing away from the corrupt kingdom. When she was about to turn a corner towards her old home, she instantly saw a person sitting on top of a hill. An unshaven and enigmatic man clad in dirty tatters of black and brown. “You’re here again?” asked the girl. The man’s distinct azure eyes met hers. “You’ve been here for a week. Where’s your home?”

The man chuckled and answered after a pause. “It’s a long way from here, little girl.”

She carefully looked at him and as she realized that he’s in the same situation as her—poor, dirty, and ragged— and she asked the most difficult question running through her young mind. “Are you hungry?” He looked at her for a while and nodded hesitantly. The girl gazed at the piece of bread in her hands and the apple in the pocket of her clothes. “Here,” she handed him the fruit.

The man looked at her with pure astonishment. “Why, thank you.”

“Why are you here, by the way?” she asked as she sat beside him.

“Observing the kingdom,” he answered and the girl got confused but decided not to ask why. “Why aren’t you eating your bread?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, this is not mine,” she murmured, not minding her own growling stomach, “it’s for my little brother. Mum’s sick so I have to feed him.

We’re paying inconsiderably high taxes so we don’t have enough money. And I recently found out that each of our valuable coins go to the tax collectors’ pouches. Oh, those corrupt scumbags. Now we have nothing so I steal food.

This kingdom is hopeless. Even our crown prince is missing, he’s nowhere to be found. Some say he’s probably dead.”

The man kept quiet as he brushed his own beard. “But aren’t you hungry as well?” he asked, finally.

“I am. But he hasn’t eaten anything since last night.”

“And where’s your father?”

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“Gone. He was a soldier,” she said, sighing. “Well then, Mister, I need to go home now.”

The next day, the girl’s mother asked her to pay their taxes. And like any other time, her money’s not enough to cover the payment. “But this is all we have!” she argued. “I told you, just go away if you can’t pay,” the taxcollector said. “But—“She stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and instantly recognized her friend from the hill, the man in black and brown tatters.

“Stay away from here, you filthy little peasant!” roared the tax-collector to her friend as he looked at the dirty man with repugnance. But her blue-eyed friend exchanged looks with her then smiled at the tax collector—probably the sweetest smile she had ever seen—on the contrary of his cold and fearless eyes gazing at the old man that made the latter flinched.

“Would this be enough?” her friend said and handed three golden coins to the tax-collector. “Surely, this is enough, right?” he asked sternly and the taxcollector, still shocked by the fact that a scruffy and dirty man has gold coins with him, nodded absent-mindedly.

“You… how—“the confused girl uttered. Then the man took off the cloth covering his head and half of his face, the rags hanging in his shoulder, and there in front of the crowd, the crown prince—a member of the royal family, the only heir of the kingdom, and the direct bloodline of the king— stood with dignity in the middle of his people while they stared at him with bewilderment upon his extreme transformation.

“Seize the man,” the prince said to the appalled soldiers behind him and pointed at the tax-collector. “I’m done with my investigation. Tell my father I’ll be home tonight,” he said to one of the vassals nearby. He then tapped the girl’s head who was still shocked by the sudden turn of events as she looked at him with her mouth wide open. “I’m not dead,” he whispered while ruffling her hair, “I’m just observing my people from town to town, uncovering secrets hidden from our knowledge and learning how those corrupt scums treated my future people. I want this kingdom to prosper and to do it, it will have to start with its people,” he smiled at her. “By the way, that apple was delicious. Oh, before I forgot,” he scooped her up, carried her and started walking while she sobbed in his shoulders, “shall we go and see your mother? I know a very good doctor who can help her.”

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Kortyon

charles arthel rey

Napatingin ang lahat matapos basagin ang nakakabinging katahimikan ng mga nagmamadaling nars at doktor. Sila’y nagmamadaling itinutulak ang puting kama kung saan nakahimlay ang babaeng halos kulay bughaw na ang balat. Kasunod nila ay ang isa pang babaeng napapaiyak sa kaba. Sumisigaw siya sa takot at nalalapit na kawalan. “‘Day, indi anay ‘day. Indi pa subong, ang mga kabataan mo di, kinanglan ka pa nila,” wika ng sumusunod na babae sabay hagulgul sa takot.

Ipinasok ang babaeng nakahimlay sa Emergency Room ng ospital. Walang katiyakan ang mga susunod na pangyayari. Iisa ang tiyak, kailangang iligtas ang buhay niya.

Dali-daling hinila ng nars ang mga kagamitan upang mabigyan ng paunang lunas ang pasyente. Ginagawa ang lahat ng paraan, sinunggab ang lahat ng pinag-aralan, sa pag-asang maililigtas ang babae sa kandungan ng kamatayan”.

Ngayon, naririnig ang tunog na hinahatid ng bawat segundong lumilipas lamang, na tila ba lumilipad nang mabagal. Ang mga metal na gamit ay tulad ng mga kampanilya na tumutugtog ng mabilis ngunit malungkot at nakatatakot na harmonya.

Sa bawat minutong lumilipas nang mabilis, dahan-dahan namang nawawala ang pag-asa na mabubuhay pa ang pasyente.

Inilagay na ang respirator sa bibig ng pasyente at sinubukang padaluyin ang hangin sa kanyang katawan. Habang may dalawang nars na nagsi-CPR upang kumabog pa ang puso at dumaloy pa ang dugo.

Ilang minuto pa’y lumapit nang dahan-dahan ang doktor sa asawa ng

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pasyente at sa babaeng humagulgol kanina.

Ang mga sumunod na segundo’y binalot ng katahimikan. Naka- bibinging katahimikan. Iniiwasan ng taengang marinig ang balitang hatid ng doktor, dahil sa takot sa sakit ng pagkawala. Tila natameme rin ang puso na kahit ang tunog ng kanyang pintig ay nanahimik na rin. Nakatutulig. Nakatatakot. Tanging ang tunog ng respirator at ang kanlansing ng mga metal ang maririnig.

Ilang segundo pa ang lumipas, muling bumalik ang kabog ng puso at ito’y nangyayari ng mabilisan. Mabilis na kabog ng puso.

Kumuha ang doktor ng isang pirasong papel. Pumirma ang asawa ng pasyente at humagulgol ng malakas. Iyong bang hagulgol ng nawalan.

Ayan na, ititigil na ang pagsubok na iligtas ang babae. Huminahon na ang mahinang tunog ng respirator at ang kabog ng kaba’y napalitan ng sakit ng pagkawala. At bago maputol ang kanyang hininga, napatigil ang lahat at nanalangin ng kaligtasan ng kanyang kaluluwa.

Walang kamalay-malay na pumasok ang dalawang anak ng pasyente sa emergency room. Sinalubong sila ng yakap ng kanilang ama. Ang pagtahan ay muling naging iyak. Nakita nila ang inang nakahiga sa malinis na kortyon ng ospital. Malamig at wala nang buhay.

Ang babaeng dati-rati ay nagpapatahan sa kanyang mga anak kapag sila’y umiiyak ay ngayon ang sanhi ng hibik ng mga ito.

Wala nang magagawa ang mga anak na nawalan ng ina, kundi umiyak at hagkan na lamang ang piraso ng tela na hinihigaan ng kanilang ina.

Tulad ng pagkamartir ni Ninoy, na nagpasiklab ng apoy at tapang sa puso ng bawat Pilipino, ang babae’y nagpasiklab rin ng apoy sa puso ng kanyang mga anak.

Dahan-dahang lumapit ang nakatatandang anak sa malamig na mga labi ng kanyang ina, at hagkan ito. Pumasok sa isipan ng anak ang lahat ng kanyang pagkukulang bilang isang anak. Siya ay hindi galit sa Diyos dahil kinuha Niya ang kanilang ina, kundi sa kanyang sarili, dahil alam niyang hindi siya naging mabuting anak.

Kasabay ng lakas na pinapakawalan ng pulso ng anak, ay ang luhang nagsisisi.

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Kalapating Mababa ang Lipad omeGs G ryeane solis

Kinse-anyos pa lamang ako nang namulat sa kagimbal-gimbal na katotohanan na ang buhay sa mundong ibabaw ay hindi kailanma’y makatarungan. Walang magulang at pagkakakilanlan, ako’y kinupkop ng isang pari at sa kanyang pamamahay ay pinatira. Binihisan at bininyagan ng bagong pangalan, sa kanya ko lubos nakilala ang aking sarili ngunit ang munting kalangitan ko’y biglang naging impyerno sa isang kisapmata.

Malalim na ang gabi nang siya’y nakauwi. Amoy ng alak ang umalingasaw mula sa kanyang katawan nang ako’y pumalapit. ‘Di niya binitawan ang aking palad pagkatapos kong nagmano habang ang kabilang kamay niya ay dumapo sa aking makinis na mukha at leeg. Ibang init ang aking naramdaman sa bawat paghaplos niya na tila ang kanyang mga namumulang mata ay nakadikit sa akin na may masamang balak.

Humigpit ang paghawak niya at sa kanyang silid ako’y dinila at ginawa ang labag sa kanyang itinuturong prinsipyo. Damit ko’y hinubad at ako’y itinapon sa kama na parang basura. Sa aking bawat panglalaban ay hagupit ng kanyang kamao ang sa aki’y sumasalubong. Naramdaman ko ang pagpasok niya sa aking katawan at tila pagpunit na parang papel sa aking

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P h ot o co u r tesy o f r ecinos inr e Volt.tumb lr .com

pagkatao habang nilalasap niya ang bawat pag urong-sulong. Dila’t halik niya ay bumalot sabay ng laway niyang tila asidong tumutunaw sa akin.

Nang siya’y nakuntento na ay pinalisan ako sa kanyang kwarto na tila walang nangyari. Nahirapan ako sa aking paglalakad habang tumutulo ang napakapulang dugo sa aking mga nanginginig na hita at luha ko’y tila tubig sa batis na walang humpay sa pag-agos.

Ang mala-anghel na tupa sa umaga ay banal na aso at santong kabayo tuwing sasapit ang gabi. Parang laruan nya ako kung ituring sa likod ng mga pinto ng aking kulungan. Ito na yata ang kapalit ng kagandahan na biyaya sa aking pagdadalaga. Kung gaano ka puro at puti ang tingin ng iba sa akin ay siya rin ang pagkadumi ng nakikita ko.

Lumipas pa ang mahigit tatlong taon, tatlong buwan at tatlong araw nang ako’y tuluyan na maka-alis sa bahay kulungan ng paring paulitulit na gumahasa sa akin. Palabuy-laboy ulit sa kalye at nagbibilang poste sa dinaraanan hanggang ang aking ganda ay nakahuli na naman ng isang lalaki. Matangkad, maputi at mayaman! Ang tatlong “M” na hinahanap ng bawat dalagita ay nasa kanya. Ako’y inuwi sa kanyang tirahan at ako’y namuhay prinsesa sa magarbong damit at edukasyon sapagkat siya’y isang guro. Ngunit lingid sa kaalaman ko na ibang leksyon ang kanyang nais ituro.

Tulad ng nauna, ang nais niya rin ay kung ano ang aking maiaalay sa kanyang kasiyahan. Naging marahan siya ngunit abusado sa kanyang mga ginagawa. Parehas lang sila na sarap ng aking katawan ang habol at di ko sya maiwan-iwan sapagkat ngayon ko lang natikman ang buhay mayaman.

Nagsama kami, hanggang isang araw ay lumisan siya at iniwan ako sa ere.

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Naghanap ako ng mapapasukan ngunit sino ang tatanggap sa akin na walang pormal na edukasyon at kaalaman, na ang tanging puhunan ay laman lamang. ‘Di nagtagal ay may nadali na naman ang aking kariktan. Ang ganda ko talaga! Ngayo’y isang chinito na negosyante ang aking naging kustomer na nais akong iuwi. Tinanggap ko ang kanyang imbitasyon. Sa kanya ko nalaman ang kahulugan ng salitang “mabangis”. Parang tuta na sunod-sunuran ako sa gusto niya sa aming pagtatalik. Hampas dito, hampas doon. Nasasarapan siya sa pananakit sa akin na tila bawat aray ko ay orkestra sa kanyang tainga. Mga kamay ko’y nakagapos at bibig ko’y nakaselyo tuwing ginagawa niya ang kanyang kahayupan. Mga kagat niya ay tila gawa ng mga pangil ng tigre sa aking balat at gustong-gusto niya na napapaiyak ako sa sakit na dulot ng kanyang masalamuot na pagtagos sa akin. Walang humpay ang kanyang panggagahasa at ang pagkababae ko’y tila pintong nilalabas-pasok. Minsan pa nga ay sinasama pa niya ang kanyang mga kaibigan sa kanyang pag-uwi, at sabay silang naglalaro sa akin.

Lumipas din ang ulan at ako ngayo’y nakatayo sa sariling mga paa.

Minsan nga lang nakatayo sapagkat gumagapang sa hirap ng buhay at dami ng utang. Isipin mo na ang gusto mong isipin. Ginawa ko lang ang kailangan ko upang mabuhay ang aking mga anak. Pero kahit ganoon ay ‘di sila kailanma’y nagyabang na dala nila apelyedo ko. Puro sila reklamo sa kalam ng sikmura nila at walang ginagawa upang punan ito. Magkakapatid ngunit magkaiba lang ang prinsipyo, nagpapatayan agad. Kahit bulsa ko’y ninanakawan para lamang makalamang sa iba sa hatian ng kakaunting mayroon ako.

Sabi nila ako’y magiliw at isang perlas. Dagdag pa nila, ako’y kanilang hinihirang at buhay ay langit sa piling ko. Ako daw ay nagniningning at ‘di kailanma’y didilim. Nakatatawa pa ang pinakamalaking pagsisinungaling nila, na ligaya ang mamatay para sa akin. Sino’ng inuuto nila? Magaling sa mga pangako, kapos naman sa gawa.

Kilala ako sa maraming pangalan ngunit kahit anong tamis ang idagdag nyo, isa na lamang akong kalapating mababa ang lipad. Paumanhin sa pagdadrama. Ganito ako ‘pag kausap ang aking mga anak.

Ang Nagmamahal mong Ina, Pilipinas

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The Secret of the Blood Rose Vince erVin P alcullo

They say it only blooms once a year with only a single flower. Just a single drop of its crimson red extract and a drop of blood of the person to his lips, the blood rose will resolve any problem of an individual he wishes to be answered. **** “COWARD! YOU DISGRACEFUL COWARD!” “YOU’D HURT YOUR SELF JUST TO ESCAPE THE WAR?! COWARD!” Those words infinitely echoed on his mind, constantly reminding him of his fate. Before he closed his eyes, he cannot help but to shed tears on his situation.

illustration by michael angelo Fandagani

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“I wish there is a person that could understand me. I wish I have bravery!”

Anton said to his self, full of regret and self pity.

As the night passed, sleepiness finally kissed him goodnight. **** The morning breeze was damp, and he woke up with dew on his face. Still with heavy head, Anton sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his feet, thinking of nothing.

Every morning, his routine is usual; fix himself, and go to the river to find some fish to satisfy his hunger.

On his way, he unintentionally heard the conversation of two old ladies.

“This season is where the flower blooms, isn’t it Amara?” said the lady with a sack of tomatoes on her feet.

“Yes it is, Iana. Its beauty is charming and I could only wish the very best of luck to those who will seek it,.” said the other lady.

“May its power answer the problems of those who have a heart to find it.”

Anton, of course, had an idea what the two ladies were talking about. The thought rang a bell.

“If I could get the flower, maybe it can give me my bravery,” he said.

After catching a handful of fish from the river, he finally made up his mind to pursue the journey to the dark forest to seek the blood rose. He grabbed his stuff and began his quest. **** The sunlight passed through the gaps of the ceiling of leaves of the trees. The green leaves danced along with the wind while the birds of the wild were chirping as if they were making a chorus. Anton was holding tight to his bag while he walked briskly and alert.

It was almost noon time when Anton finally thought of resting and eating

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something. He grabbed some bread on his bag and made his place under the shade of a tree.

When he finished his meal, he continued his journey. After almost an hour of walking, he heard a familiar sound.

Footsteps. They were close and coming to his direction.

He stayed where he was his to see what or who was responsible for the sound.

A fair maiden came out from the thick bush. Anton knew where the lady was going because the path that he took is the only way that leads to the mystical flower.

The lady’s face was undeniably beautiful. But Anton could see from the maiden’s eyes that she was tired and hungry.

Anton grabbed the last piece of bread left in his bag as if his hands had their own mind.

“Excuse me lady! Wait!” Anton shouted.

The maiden looked back and saw a young man running towards her, raising high a piece of bread.

The lady stopped walking.

“Here, have some food to eat. I know you’re starving.” Because she was hungry, the lady took the bread.

“Thank you.”

“I know where you are heading. I’m Anton,” he said offering his hands.

“I know. It is the only way to the flower. My name is Lou.” the maiden said and took Anton’s hand.

“I can be your company, if that’s all right with you.”

Lou didn’t answer but just smiled for approval.

The two journeyed together. It was almost a day, but Lou has not said a word.

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Finally, Anton made a sound.

“Why do you seek its aid? I mean the rose’s.”

“My husband died because they have forced him to join the war. I want the flower to vanish the sadness and grief I am feeling. What about you?”

“I want bravery. I want the people to understand me. I’ve hurt myself just to escape the war. The war where your husband lost his life.”

There was surprise and pity in Lou’s eyes.

They continued walking.

“You know, Lou; you can count on me as your friend,” Anton said, breaking the silence.

The lady looked at Anton with eyes full of hope and thankfulness, but didn’t say a word.

“I know how hard you’re feeling right now was. And I cannot fathom how lonely it is to lose someone you love. Just remember, if you want shoulder to cry on, I will let you use mine.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you didn’t judge me for what I have done,” Anton replied with a smile.

Anton was surprised that she smiled because he comforted her. He took Lou’s hands.

“Come on, we’re almost there and it’s starting to go dark. We must find it as soon as possible.”

The maiden let Anton drag him. They started to run and for the first time since the loss of her husband, through the tightness of the hold of Anton’s hands, Lou felt comforted, loved and safe. **** It was almost twilight when they finally arrived at the place they were seeking. There, in the middle of the forest floor surrounded by tall trees, was a plant with only a single bud. It has not yet bloomed but in no time, it will

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start to blossom. It sways with the wind and with its leaves covered with dew, it shines with moon light.

Anton and Lou searched for a place to wait for the bud to bloom and they found themselves under the tree near the blood rose. Lou found some rocks and Anton looked for some fire wood. Soon, they were sitting, their face and body lit and warmed by the light from the bonfire.

Lou took out some water from her bag and Anton found some edible fruits.

They ate in silence.

“You’re brave, Anton.”

“Pardon me?”

“You’re brave. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your actions.”

“How can you say that? I hurt myself just to escape that war. That’s a coward action.”

Looking in his eyes, Lou said, “You travelled alone to seek the flower. You knew where the flower is but you have no idea what will happen to you along the way. That is bravery.”

Anton didn’t say anything.

“Everybody has the right to be afraid, and no one wants to die because of the selfish reasons of war. Everyone has his own war, and you must choose the war you are ready to fight and die for. I understand that that war is not yours.

Bravery is not about killing, or winning a useless war. Bravery is facing all the lions of your problems even though you are as gentle as a cat.” Lou added.

She understood me. She saw the braveness in me even I could not see. Anton thought.

From the corner of his eyes, Anton saw that the bud was starting to bloom.

“You must take the flower Lou.” Lou looked puzzled. “Why?” “I have already found what I’ve been looking for. You did not judge me because of what I have done. You understood my situation. And more impor-

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tantly, you have awakened the braveness in me,” Anton said with conviction.

Lou was flabbergasted.

“But you have…”

“You need it more than I do, Lou. I don’t need it anymore. I have found what I was seeking,” Anton interrupted.

Lou came close to the plant. She picked the flower very carefcarefuly and placed it in a clean wide leaf. She squeezed every red petal and got its extract.

She looked for some thorns in the stem of the blood rose and pricked her finger until a drop of blood was sitting on her index finger. She carefully dropped the blood to the extract of the mystical flower and gently drops it to her lips. As soon as the crimson red liquid touched her lips, she could feel all the sadness and grief fade away from her body.

Lou looked at Anton.

“Thank you, Anton. Thank you.” **** The grass was full of dew. The light from the sun shone brightly and illuminated the whole forest. The blood rose has yet to wait another year to bloom.

Anton and Lou travelled home immediately, and they decided to live together.

Lou had no idea that the reason why her sadness departed was because of the unconscious joy she felt with Anton.

They traveled back home not knowing that the “blood rose” is just an ordinary rose which blooms once a year.

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Escape Jeziel V arGas

It’s too dark. I couldn’t see anything besides the menace-looking trees around me. I couldn’t see anything, not even the stars above. All other light was blocked out by the canopy of trees except for a few stray moonbeams peeking through their leaves. With every step I heard the crunch of dried twigs and leaves beneath my feet. I ran even if I didn’t know where I was going. All I knew was that I am trapped here in the middle of the forest which used to be my sanctuary. My safe haven whenever I needed to be alone, whenever I needed time to think. It used to be so peaceful in the daylight with all the woodland critters around me and the song of the nightingales comforting me. At night I danced to the silent tune of the breeze along with the fireflies who cast their ethereal glow on my skin.

But now I run for my dear life. I fight back the tears welling up my eyes since it won’t help me see any better in this pitch black labyrinth I am in. Even if I feel like collapsing any moment now, I don’t intend to stop. Even if my arms and face are now full of scratches from the branches and bushes I pass through, even if I am leaving a trail of blood behind, I keep on going because I know they are after me.

I hear the gurgling waters of the waterfall I used to bathe in on hot summer days. Hope blossoms in my heart. I can make it. A few more hundred meters and I will see a modest cottage where I can find help. I gather up my skirt and run faster than the speed that was even possible. The heel of my shoe breaks, I trip and fall hard face first on the ground. I can hear their voices, they are getting closer. The light from their torches give them away.

“Don’t let her get away!” I hear one of them say.

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60

illustration by aria khaelen baquinquito

I push against the ground and stand back up. I keep going. Finally, there it is, the cottage. “Help! Help! Jasper, open the door!” I call out. I reach the door, I pound and shout some more. I franticly turn the knob; ecstatic to find it unlocked. I hurriedly go inside and lock the door. I grab the nearest chair and furniture I can find and bar the door. My heart is beating wildly against my chest. I try to calm myself down, I am here now, I am safe. I turn to see Jasper standing behind me. I rush to him, “Jasper, there are men out there who are trying to get me! You have to help me!” I practically beg at his feet. Yet there he is, standing in front of me, his face is void of emotion. “Jasper, help me!” I cry. His dark brown eyes are like hollow pits staring straight at me. I back away from him and that is when I feel something wet.

I look at my hands only to find it stained with crimson liquid. The smell of iron fill my nostrils and make me dizzy. I think I am looking at my own blood but when I look at Jasper again, horror creeps up my spine. It is Jasper who is bleeding. He has a bullet hole right where his heart is. Not only that, he has jagged wounds in his arms and neck. I can’t believe what is happening. I shriek in revulsion.

Suddenly the door bursts open. The men looking for me earlier find me now. Strong arms hold me down. I scream at the top of my lungs, but I guess no one hears me. No one hears you when you’re alone in a forest.

They pin me down and the last thing I see is a man wearing white, holding a strange liquid-filled contraption, come closer to me. At the last moment I see him pierce my skin with the needle of that contraption and my scream dies out. My limbs get heavy, my eyelids get droopy, and I think, this may be what it feels like to die.

“I told you to never take off her straitjacket.” The doctor barks at the nurses before him. “What did you give her, doc?” one of them asks. “Just her usual dose of sedative, it’s now traveling along the scarlet liquid through her veins.”

“Poor girl,” one of the nurses says. “Nobody knew what happened to her after they found her in the forest.”

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The Butcher anGelika rey

Alfred was a novice assassin. He was hired by a criminal syndicate just last month. The organization told him that they liked his bravado, his confidence, and his aura of leadership, possibly to lead and train the next generation of assassins. Not to mention, Alfred was popular with the ladies, and he might as well use the skills he learned for seduction purposes.

This was his first mission: to kill an innocent person and make it look like an accident. There will be a secret judge sent by the organization to rate him, and to impress the said evaluator was the main reason why in this cloud-filled and starless night, he stalked fearlessly in a village shrouded by wild and lush vegetation, where houses were usually half a kilometer away from one another. He flitted silently from tree to tree. Now, he had to choose a victim, so he prowled on the ground alongside the sensual breeze and the whispering leaves, which seemed to warn whoever his victim would be, but hid his tracks at the same time.

Alfred passed a nosy brook to the other half of the village. He took a glimpse through dim, candlelit windows and found possible victims – an old man, a lady with a cat, a child asleep on bed, and a family having a late dinner – but none of them roused his interest.

Once more, the rookie assassin decided to jump on trees, hide on their crowns, as he tried to explore the rest of the village. His speed was unwavering. His bloodlust was nearing climax. Alfred sneered. He had found his victim, poor man, but there was nothing to lose sleep about it.

The victim was a man whose silhouette, as seen hazily from the outside, looked as if he was setting his dishes aside. The vague figure produced various sounds from within his cottage that could be best described as the clanking of metal objects such as pots, utensils, and knives.

As the man inside the cottage stopped from making any further noise, the novice assassin made up his mind and began his first mission. He stalked

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closer and closer, enough to reach the window beside the door. The breeze blew again. Slowly he crept towards the target. Almost there, so close yet so far.

The cottage’s door blasted open. Without delay, Alfred unsheathed his sword and quickly faced his supposed victim. He could manage a nonstealthy kill. But, wait – Alfred had paled. His eyes widened as he dropped his sword. Surprise, fear, and panic ran amok in his brain. He dropped a smoke bomb and ran. How could he have chosen the wrong victim? That man…stood in front of his house as if he were Death from the depths of Tartarus. That man…seemed to have sprinkled blood all over himself as he held a bloody lamp and even bloodier knife. That man…smiled eerily at Alfred, as if he was going to add the assassin to the pile of decapitated heads behind him that Alfred could see in the corner of his left eye.

The assassin made it clear to himself not to go back, but felt shame. He was supposed to be the killer, and yet he ran away like a coward. He stopped in the outskirts of the village where there were no houses at all. He realized something. That man might have been the secret judge from the organization. How foolish had he been! A thin tree was his first true victim – as it took all the brunt of Alfred’s anger when he gave it a hard punch and a series of curses.

Back at the cottage, the man still stood in front of the door, mystified.

His name was Ivan, and he wondered: why would an insect-catcher run away like that? Maybe he caught something rare like a golden locust and would not reveal his catch until tomorrow’s Insect-catcher Festival. But why was he in front of his house? Surely, it was not because there were cockroaches. He made sure his house was clean…afterwards.

Ivan put his lamp on the ground and picked up the sword of the ‘insect-catcher.’

“I’ll return it tomorrow at the Festival.” He assumed that the insectcatcher would be there. He wanted to become friends with the insectcatcher. “Now I have to find the last one for my twenty-meat sausage…” Ivan looked back inside his shady, ghastly home and smiled eerily once again – this time, to himself – when his gaze landed upon the pile of heads, quietly screaming in agony.

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Kulay Dugong Grado charlyn mateo

Marahan siyang umupo sa kanyang kama at napabuga ng malakas na hangin bago binuksan ang sulat galing sa Inang niya.

Nanginginig ang mga kamay na pinunit niya ang dulo ng sobre at malakas ang tahip ng dibdib na sinimulang basahin ang nilalaman niyon.

“Nak, sabik na kaming lumuwas diyan para sa araw ng pagtatapos mo.

Nanghiram kami ng tatlong libong piso kay Kapitana para ibili ka ng bagong barong kaya huwag ka nang mag-aalala sa susuotin mo. Sabi pa ng tatang mo ay maglilitson daw kami ng manok at dadalhin diyan. Masyado siyang sabik sa pagtatapos mo. Gab, pinasaya mo ng labis ang Nanang at Tatang dahil nagawa mong tapusin ang kolehiyo kahit na naghihikahos tayo. Siyanga pala, sunduin mo kami sa pantalan sa darating na linggo. Hindi namin kabisado ang pasikot-sikot diyan at baka maligaw pa kami. Huwag mong kalimutan na magpasalamat sa Diyos.

Mahal ka namin.- Inang at Tatang.”

Biglang lumabo ang paningin niya sa nabasa. Hindi niya namalayan na ang mga luhang kanina’y nag-aamba pa lang ay tuluyan nang dumaloy sa kanyang pisngi. May kung anong kirot siyang nadama sa dibdib. Bawat titik ay parang matulis na bagay na tumutusok sa kanyang buong sistema. Pakiwari niya ay isa siyang sundalong nasa gitna ng labanan na biglang naubusan ng bala. Hindi niya alam ang dapat gawin.

“Inang… Tatang…” sambit niya sa pagitan ng paghikbi. “Patawad…”

Inilapag niya ang sulat galing sa magulang at kinuha ang isa pang sulat galing sa Dekano nila. Sinasabi roon na bagsak siya sa isang asignatura. Kulay

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pulang titik F ang grado niya dahil sa proyektong hindi niya nagawang ipasa.

Kursong Inhinyero ang kinukuha niya at isang globo na proyekto sa asignaturang History ang hindi niya nagawang ipasa dahil sa medyo may kamahalan. Ayaw niyang humingi ng dagdag na pera sa mga magulang dahil alam niyang hirap na hirap na ang mga itong kumayod makapag-aral lang siya.

Sinubukan niyang maki-usap sa kanyang guro pero mukhang malabo nang pagbigyan nito ang hihilingin niya dahil sa alam niyang ayaw nito sa kanya.

Isa siya sa mga lider ng mga estudyanteng oposisyon. Nakikipag-debate at nagra-rally sa labas ng Administration Building para sa kapakanan ng mga estudyanteng mahirap katulad niya samantalang ito ay Presidente ng Kapisanan ng mga Guro sa unibersidad na pinapasukan niya.

Minsan, naisip niyang tumigil na dahil halos lahat ng guro ay mainit ang mga mata sa kanya. Palagi silang nagbibigay ng pagsusulit sa tuwing wala siya at naroon sa harap ng eskwelahan sumisigaw ng “Mababang Matrikula para sa mga Estudyanteng Dukha!” Sa tuwing susubukan niyang kumuha ng espesyal na pagsusulit ay triple ang hirap ng mga tanong na ibibigay ng mga ito sa kanya pero sa awa ng Diyos ay halos lahat ng mga katanungan ay nasagot niya ng tama.

“Bago kayo pumasok sa paaralang ito ay dapat alam niyo na ang mga patakaran. Ang paaralang ito ay hindi ipinatayo para sa kawang-gawa at sa mga kabataang maralita. Ang mga tulad mo ang siyang dahilan kung bakit natututong lumabag ang ibang mga estudyante sa palatuntunan ng paaralan.

Kayo ay masamang ehemplo na dapat ituwid ang mga baluktot na paniniwala.” Naalala pa niyang sabi nito matapos niyang dumating nang huli sa klase.

“May mga patakaran ang paaralan na hindi pabor sa mga katulad naming mahirap kaya dapat naming ipaglaban at isigaw para mabigyan ng karampatang aksyon, Sir Doctorem.” Biglang nagtagis ang bagang nito na para bang pinipigilan ang sarili na ilabas lahat ng pagka-disgusto tungo sa sinabi niya.

“Sinisira niyo ang pangalan at imahe ng paaralan!” Biglang tumaas ang tono nito.

“Ipinaglalaban lang namin ang aming karapatan, Sir.” “Hindi niyo alam ang inyong ginagawa at kung saan kayo dadalhin ng

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paniniwalang iyan ay pagsisihan niyo sa bandang huli.”

Ang mga salitang iyon ang paulit-ulit na naririnig niya mula nang malaman niyang bagsak siya sa asignatura nito. Dapat ba siyang magsisi?

Dapat ba na hindi na lang siya sumali sa mga aktibistang estudyante?

Muli siyang napatingin sa sulat at sa kulay dugong letrang F. Ilang sandali niya iyong pinasadahan ng tingin bago nilukomos at itinapon sa basurahan.

Hindi niya aakalain na ang isang titik na iyon ang magiging dahilan kung bakit maaaring hindi siya makakapagtapos ngayong taon.

Ipinilig niya ang ulo. Tinungo niya ang lumang mesa na ginawa pa mismo ng kanyang Tatang. May dapat pa siyang tapusin.

Kinuha niya ang kanyang lapis at nagsimulang gumuhit. Isang pahalang na linya mula sa itaas. Sunod naman ay ang apat na maliliit na tunod na nakaturo sa apat na direksyon. Napatingin siya sa kanyang orasan. Ala-una na ng umaga pero hindi pa rin siya tapos. Marami pang kulang. Kailangan niyang bilisan. Tagatak na ang pawis at halos hindi na niya maimulat ng maayos ang mga nanlalalim na mata dahil sa antok pero kailangan niyang tapusin iyon.

Mataas na ang sikat ng araw nang matapos siya. Nanlalatang napahiga siya sa kama. Pakiramdam niya ay biglang nawalan ng lakas ang bawat daliri sa kanyang mga kamay. Nakaramdam siya ng pamamanhid ng batok. Para na siyang hinihila ng kanyang tulugan dahil sa sobrang antok pero agad niyang pinigilan ang sarili. Dali-dali siyang pumasok sa banyo at naghilamos. Ibinalot niya sa plastik ang pinaghirapan niyang pag-asa. Hindi na siya nag-abalang magbihis pa ng bagong damit. Nagmamadali siya lumabas ng kwarto.

“Gab, ang aga mo yata? Gusto mong mag kape?” Inabutan niya ang may-ari ng bahay na inuupahan niya na abala sa pagwawalis ng bakuran.

“Salamat na lang po Aling Melda pero kailangan kong makapunta ng paaralan ng maaga.” Nagpaalam siya rito bago tumakbo papuntang sakayan ng jeep.

Halos gusto na niyang hilingin sa drayber na bilisan nito ang pagpapatakbo sa jeep. Gusto niyang mauna bago ang taong iyon. Hinigpitan niya ang paghawak sa bagay na iyon. Ito ang kanyang huling baraha kaya dapat niyang ingatan.

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Ilang minuto pa at narating na rin niya sa wakas ang unibersidad.

Malalaki ang hakbang na tinungo niya ang opisina ng Arts and Sciences.

Habol niya ang hininga nang makarating sa harap ng opisina ng taong sadya niya.

“Sarado pa,” sambit niya sa isip nang mabasa ang karatulang nagsasabing sarado pa. Nagpasiya siyang sumalampak sa harap ng pinto. Noon lang niya mas lalong naramdaman ang pagod. Humilig siya sa pader at ipinikit ang mga mata.

Ito ang huling araw para sa kanya. Huling pagkakataon. Huling pagasa.

“Maaari ko bang malaman kung bakit nakasalampak ka sa harap ng opisina ko?” bigla siyang naalimpungatan nang may nagsalita sa kanyang harapan. “Balak mo bang magsagawa ng rally?”

Agad siyang tumayo at dinampot ang dala. “Good morning, Sir,” bati niya rito.

Napatingin ito sa hawak niyang plastik. “Ano iyan? Mga gagamitin mo sa isasagawa mong rally ngayong araw dahil binigyan kita ng bagsak na grado?”

Umiling siya. “Hindi po, Sir.” Inilabas niya ang iginuhit na mapa sa plastik at iniabot dito.

Hindi nito kinuha. “Ano iyan?” Tanong nito.

“Kinabukasan ko po, Sir.” Tinapunan siya nito ng nagtatanong na tingin bago alanganing kinuha ang nasa kamay niya. Nakita niyang biglang nanlaki ang mga mata nito nang makita kung ano iyon.

“Alam kong huli na pero susubukan ko pa rin, Sir. Hindi ko inaasahan na mahirap pa lang gumuhit ng isang buong mapa ng daigdig na kompleto lahat ng detalye. Hindi ko kaya ang globo dahil mas maraming materyales na kakailanganin kaya mapa na lang.”

Hindi ito nakapagsalita. Nakatitig lang ito sa mapang ipinasa niya.

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Maya-maya pa ay bigla itong humalakhak nang malakas. Kunot ang noong napatingin siya rito. Bigla siyang kinabahan lalo na nang ibinalik nito sa kanya ang mapa.

“Sir…” Pakiwari niya ay may kung anong nakabara sa lalamunan niya.

“Kunin mo. Hindi ko kailangan ang mapang iyan.”

Biglang nalaglag ang kanyang balikat sa sinabi nito. Napayuko siya.

Ikinuyom niya ang dalawang kamao. Wala na. Huli na ang lahat.

Naramdaman niyang kinuha nito ang kamay niya at inilagay ang mapa. “Hindi ko kailangan ang mapang iyan dahil wala akong karapatan.

Hindi iyan isang proyekto kundi isang obra.” Bigla siyang napatingin sa kanyang guro. Nagulat siya nang makitang nakangiti ito habang nakatingin sa kanya. “Ang isang obra ay walang kapantay na grado, Gab Mateo. Inaamin kong ayaw ko sa mga estudyanteng katulad mo pero isa akong guro na gustong makita ang kanyang estudyante na maabot ang kanilang pangarap.

Sinusubukan lang kita kung hanggang saan ang kaya mong gawin at nakita ko iyon ngayon.” May kinuha ito sa bag at iniabot sa kanya ang isang nakatuping papel.

“Sir?” “Ikaw na ang magbigay kay Mr. Robite. Sabihin mong iyan ang gusto kong ibigay sa kanya ngayong araw. Dumating ka man ngayon o hindi, iyan na ang magiging grado mo.”

Tiningnan niya ang nakasulat sa papel.

Gab Mateo - 1.0 Pasado.

“S-Salamat, Sir.” Tinapik nito ang balikat niya. “Ako ang dapat na magpasalamat. Salamat sa realisasyon na hindi lahat ng desisyon namin ay tama. Huwag kang mag-alala. Pinag-usapan na namin ang mga dapat baguhin sa sistema ng paaralan.”

Sumilay ang ngiti sa kanyang labi. Hindi ang kulay dugong grado ang hahadlang sa pag-abot niya sa kanyang pangarap. Nakangiting siyang tumalikod at ikinuyom ang kamao sa ere bilang pagpapasalamat.

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Apparitions lazarus

black saturday

“Today the Lord sleeps,” my grandmother scolded me, gripped my wrist firmly, forbidding me to run around the church’s courtyard. Every year, the same words, on Black Saturday, always how the Lord is “sleeping”… grandmother never really had the heart to say “dead”.

Mourners have gathered in the church today, and my grandmother and I kneel amongst them, lola murmuring to her tattered prayer booklet, turning a page every minute or two. I’ve always observed how grandmother clutches her rosary too tightly when she prays, the beads imprinting red circles on her palm and fingers, almost as if the little pain she endures will make sure her God hears her.

Often, while preparing for church, arranging the booklets in her purse and counting the coins she’ll be using to buy candles, lola would tell me how her mother taught her how to pray at the age of five. “Put your hands together, like small gentle dove wings,” she’d recall, her calloused fingers meeting in front of her chest. “The Lord listens to all of his children,” continued grandmother, “Even to bastard sons like you.”

As the hollow song of bells starts to fleet through the church, the faithful one by one stand from their pews and leave, Grandmother and I among them. We bow our heads and make our way home. Tomorrow is Easter she says, the Lord shall wake again.

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good Friday

Grandmother lit a candle outside our house, as we waited for the procession to pass. Earlier today, lola had asked me to clean her altar, with her plaster saints and niños, and crying Virgin Marys. I’ve always felt unease towards my grandmother’s many figurines, how their empty eyes follow me from across the room. Never once blinking, just staring, seeing right through me. I remember how grandmother once made me kneel in front of her altar for an hour, as punishment for playing outside without her permission. The whole time, my heart pounded with fear, my knees throbbing, burning. Lola’s idols looked down at me with scorn, “That’s what you get for being your father’s anak sa labas.” For a second I thought I heard their laughter, mocking me. I wanted to hurl them all to the floor.

Still, as the memory came over me, I kept myself calm, wiping away the dust, and the reddened stains from each statue, then returning them all to their proper places, making sure the display looked the way it always has.

A chorus of Ave Marias and other hymns were sung by the people in the procession. They follow carriages decorated with flowers, some carrying life-sized images of marble Christs and wooden crosses, some of Saints. San Pedro with his rooster and set of keys. Pieta showing Mary at the foot of the cross, the dead Christ in her arms. Santa Veronica and her handkerchief smeared with blood.

“Your mother bled to death giving birth to you,” grandmother would repeatedly stress, implying “Why is my daughter dead and this bastard alive?”

She says my father never came back for me because he already had a family of his own. He didn’t care about me, she says. Each day, grandmother never tired of reminding me how I’ve been a burden to her since I was born. Quite a few times she’d jump at any minute opportunity to hit me and hurt me.

At the end of the procession were the men with roots and leaves as crowns, flogging themselves. Gashes spreading around their backs like red rivers.

maundy thursday

Grandmother hit me again today. It was one of those moments when all the anger she keeps just below the surface, overflows and bursts, all her

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frustration and rage focused on me. “I should have let you die!” lola yelled at me, “You killed my daughter, you little ****! Even your demon of a father didn’t want you!” I’ve gotten used to it, really, my grandmother blaming me for my mother’s death, being told I’m no one’s child, that I would have been left for dead without her.

It’s strange how sometimes your emotions just seep out of you on their own, how the grudges you keep long hidden just gradually start to fill you to your brim. Before you realize it, they have consumed you, and have slowly leaked out from your pores, one drop at a time, until they all just come rushing out like a flood. I’m no different from lola, and she from me, both our actions are driven by the same kind of anger, the kind that just swells in your stomach, getting larger and larger the longer you keep it in.

Grandmother scrambled to her altar immediately after I hit her back, quickly grabbing her rosary and starting to pray to her God. I hit her again and she fell to the floor, whimpering yet still clutching on to her rosary. I kicked her in the stomach.

I heard her cry and breathe heavily in between the words she said to her God, and her screams for help. I’ve always thought her God listened more faithfully to those in need, to those in pain. I was wrong.

All her statues of virgins and saints just looked down at grandmother, as I beat her, not one providing a miracle that could save her life. Her blood had scattered red stains around the altar. Smears mingled with the rosy tinges of her battered limbs, her rosary beads leaving round marks on her palms.

Lola’s grip had finally loosened.

I left for church alone today, Maundy Thursday. Grandmother wasn’t really feeling well, I presumed; face down on the floor, a pool of blood gathering around her head.

“Grandmother is sleeping,” I tell myself, not having the heart to say “dead”.

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Bloodlines blesseD bea Plon Daya

Boom! A shot. A shot that echoed throughout the manor. A shot I heard as he jumped to cover me. I let out a scream. As I watched his body go slack on my shoulders, Victoria, my sister-in-law, arrived in her scanty nightdress. Her face contorted in horror and she fell to her knees. I hurriedly knelt down and laid his head on my lap and all I could see were his thoughtful grey eyes. Through them, I felt so much grief and guilt for deciding to run away and realizing too late that though our love may not be the right kind or a fast-becoming epic love story, but rather it was a survivor, no matter the losing cards that life has dealt us.

“I may be heading straight to the pit of hell for all the wrongs I have done, but at least, I had a short glimpse of heaven when I was with you. Even loving you was even deemed a curse by our fates but then I now know it was the one thing I did right.” Then Richard’s eyes glassed over.

But I was barely listening for I was fully consumed with so much vengeance and rage. I closed my husband’s eyes and kissed his forehead. I stared at the merciless murderer that stole my entire future. Lance was smirking but quickly turned still when I aimed Richard’s pistol to his heart.

“You did not only kill my friend, my husband, and the father of my unborn child but you also killed our brother.” We both winced on the last word. My eyes couldn’t hold back the stream of tears, my hands were shaking badly but through the years, I had already perfected my aim and there was nothing he could do to stop me from pulling trigger. After the second gunfire that pierced that hollow night, pin drop silence enveloped the place.

The calm before the storm.

I couldn’t tell how much time has passed and I didn’t care. People flooded into the hallway, orders were given to the guards and maids, questions were asked and speculations were whispered as I slowly succumbed to the darkness.

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**** I was surrounded by black figures shaking my hands, rubbing my back and offering words of comfort. I couldn’t fathom all this unreasonable crying and mourning. Gradually, all these shadows drifted apart as I walked toward a coffin with a framed picture of my Richard.

I was suddenly anxious with what I just saw until my cousin Sophia took my black laced hand, then I realized that I was wearing black too just like everyone else. She closed her eyes and looked up to the clear sky as if asking for a miracle and murmured slowly, “We all knew too late; but do not fret, he is at peace now.”

“Of course, he is at peace now. It’s not his usual waking time yet and you also know that if he is up this early then we should all prepare for a very stressful day.” I chastised her loudly. The guests gave me scathing looks as if I said something that could wake up the dead.

“No! Mia, listen to me and stop pretending. Richard is dead. Lance shot him… and you shot Lance and…” Sophia wasn’t able to finish whatever she was about to say for she started sobbing hysterically at the middle of the aisle. Good for her, I thought especially with all the nonsense she’s blubbering about. I started to make my way out of the cathedral.

“Where are you heading? It would be disgraceful if you just left at this time!” Victoria grabbed my arm to stop me.

I looked at her sternly, “Disgraceful? I need to check if Richard would like to have breakfast in the garden. It’s such a lovely sunny day to be put to a waste.” I pushed her aside and hurried off.

I did not know how long it took them to find me. But they did eventually. They found me at the fountain with a wine of glass at hand. I turned my back at them as I saw Victoria walking towards me.

Her footsteps halted as she heard me speaking, “I do not know what everyone is busily teeming about. But I needed a little peace, so I came here with you.” I then raised my wine glass to toast to the empty space beside me.

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illustration by allen grace tabi

All is Black, All is White Paul macke y marfil

Yosef was a colorless, young boy.

He lived in a world where everyone was literally in color. Some people, for example, were blue all over, including their skin and the clothes they wear. Others, red. Another group, green. No, it wasn’t an abnormality.

In their world, it was the usual thing, and Yosef was an outcast. Unlike the rest of the world, he didn’t have any color. He was different, in a very awful way. While everyone basked in the light of different hues, Yosef endured a life that was all black and white. It was horrible for Yosef to go outside. At most times, he gets teased by his neighbours for having no color. People at school would ridicule him for being different. Every opportunity for him to come out was laden with pessimism and fear. And the thought that no one will accept him would sporadically pound on his chest like a metaphysical sledgehammer.

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No one knows exactly why Yosef was born without a color. His siblings—namely: Vermillion, Crimson, and Scarlet—were all born with a color related to red. He had a red father, and an orange mother. And the rest of the world? They were all in color, except for him.

Yosef once had a girlfriend. Her name was Lady Melancholy. She was purplish, with a little bit of pink. She stayed with him for more than two years, and she became Yosef’s only hope in battling the pangs of being colorless in a world that was supposed to be filled with a myriad of colors. But everything eventually went down. Lady Melancholy left him without a word.

And no, he didn’t have any idea on why she suddenly left him. Maybe because she realized that she needed someone with a color, someone who has a brighter hue. And that depressed Yosef even more. To forget her? It would be like tearing an ocean into pieces.

Yosef was a smart boy. He was at the top of his class. He could write, he could paint; he was amazing. But the only thing separating him from his dreams was the fact that he was unlike everybody else. No one liked his works. No one appreciated his deeds. His thoughts could fill an ocean, yes.

But then again, he was just a puddle.

Yosef was a great poet. He found solace in the beauty of words. At most times, he would try to warp his reality with poetry. While the rest of the world was too busy with what was mainstream, Yosef drowned himself with literature. It was his form of escape. But still, his demons were too powerful. The thought of being unwanted was still playing with his mind. Most nights, he would lie on his bed with paralyzing thoughts. He would pray, ask, beg for himself to be set free from the chains of depression, but it was all futile. He envied Prometheus. He envied Sisyphus. He envied Judas. For Yosef, his punishment was harsher Yosef was all alone. He left his family, dropped out of school, and abandoned his dreams. The world was too colourful for him. If only he could change himself, be like everybody else.

One night, he had a small wound. It was the first time Yosef had ever encountered such a thing. While staring at this wound, Yosef noticed some-

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thing oozing out of the small opening in his skin. It was blood, and it was red. For the first time ever, Yosef saw colour on his body.

And then he had an idea.

Somewhere, maybe in the depths of the night, Yosef took out a knife and, slowly by slowly, wounded himself. He made cuts in his arms, legs, chest, face, perhaps everywhere in his body. He let the blood come out, and he spread it all over his body.

Yosef was now covered in blood. He was no longer the colorless Yosef that everybody knew and hated. He was now like them. He was red. He walked the streets, showed off his new look, and smiled whenever somebody would stare at him.

Yosef felt weak. His body became stiff, and he fell to the ground. He knew he was dying, but at least, even for just a small amount of time, he became one of them. For the first time ever since, Yosef felt happy. He was at peace. Finally, he was no longer colorless.

Yosef died on a cold pavement. Nobody came to rescue him. Nobody really cared.

“We all bleed for our little fantasies,” one passerby said.

“And sometimes, we bleed too much,” said another.

As the night faded into a darker kind of dark, Mogwai’s Take Me Somewhere Nice began to play on the radio.

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ce Editorial Board ay 2015- 2016 paul mackey marFil eDitor-in-chief micaela allen garcia associate eDitor charles arthel rey manaGinG eDitor ViVienne songcayawon news eDitor Ferdinand baĂąez, jr. jeziel Vargas feature eDitors bryan Fran angelika rey literary eDitors jiselle yanson filiPino/sPorts eDitor onesiForo berina, jr. pearl lorraine cordero Vic alizon morena blessed bea plondaya staff writers irish paoline jurinario cartoonist israh marie dayalo jedrick leighnoir solinap PhotoJournalists michael angelo Fandagani jether dane guadalupe web aDministrators aria khaelen baquinquito allen grace tabi DiGital artists unique canonicato john daVid maza layout artists ron adrian dionaldo esther rose romarate rea angelica Villeza aDVisers

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EP IL OGUE

“Wounds may eventually fade into scars.

And scars, they tell us what we’ve been through, what we’ve become, and