Hangtod Folio Volume 1 (2018)

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VOLUME 1, NUMBER 1

Editor-in-Chief

Kristoff Peralta Associate Editors

Maluz Nakai Jessamyn Adigue Copyeditors

Sievney Quidet Nette Marquito Editorial Assistant

Renee Dublin Creative Director

Samantha Almaden Art Curator

Dolph Verallo Circulation Manager

Dianna Manguling Digital Marketing and Publicity

Aly Evangelista Editorial Adviser

Adonis Enricuso Printed by

DMC Busa Printers The Hangtod Literary and Creative Folio is published in cooperation with the School of Arts and Sciences, the Department of Communication, Linguistics, and Literature, and the Societatis Lingua Artes of the University of San Carlos, Nasipit, Talamban, Cebu City. Copyright Š 2018. Book and Cover Design by Kristoff Peralta.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without the written approval of the copyright owners. For submission information or other inquiries, send an email to editorial.hangtod@gmail.com.

Contents Introduction XI ESSAYS

Keith Abellanosa

Dab Hand 1

Richelle Alalim

Missing Old Jeepney Rides

7

I Love Them (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)

42

I Do Not Want To Be Like Her 89

The Agency of the Letter in the Manners of the Deviant 52

Dear Mr. Might Have Been 58

Ushabelle Bongo

Kargador 22 Melanie Cuenco Jeong Hyean

Michael Mahinay

Dianna Manguling

Aubrey Gail Mariano

If I Were a Whale

Merah Wif

84

Forgive Me, Diary 70 Love and What Comes Next 77

POETRY

Jessamyn Adigue

Hearth 82

Veronica berdin

Masterpiece 93

Hazel Ann Cesa

Raging Waters 5

Jude Escasio

Sandy Thoughts 12

Sievney Quidet

Descendants 37 Diclofenac 39

Dolph Verallo

Cavas Terrae 14

NOVEL EXTRACT

Kristoff Peralta

The Heyday of Rage 63

SHORT STORIES

Renee Dublin

The Sound of Ripe Mangoes 95

Nicole Nuñez

Most Feared 17

BALAK

Samantha Almaden

Tuara 47 Hapit 48 Kinatibuk-ang Kalipay Sulod sa Napulo Kasegundo 49

SUGILANON

Maluz Nakai

Japayuki 27

PHOTOS BY

Donna Medallea Maluz Nakai Kristoff Peralta Mary Robin Quinain Dolph Verallo Notes on Contributors 111 Bidlisiw Writers Workshop 115

Introduction

Introduction

hang•tod /haŋtʊd/

1: until (conj.)

2: infinity (noun) The newborn infant starts to stir; it squirms as it catches a sight of light with its brand new eyes. It kicks its legs and arms, unsettled at the strange new world before itself. It wails; it does not want the world. It wants to turn back. To return to the comfort and peaceful silence of the darkness of the womb: undisturbed, unchanged, uncompromised.

Like a newborn, I am not prepared for the world. I am not prepared for the daunting task at hand. Heading the editorial team is difficult enough, but the task of writing the introduction for the first volume of HANGTOD is more difficult than I expected it to be. Like a newborn, I wish I could return to the womb where the world cannot see me, where no other world but mine exists. But someone has to do it. Someone needs to. As I write this introduction, I am confronted with questions after questions on what to write, for the right words to pour out to those who expect it of me. “What is HANGTOD?”, “Why HANGTOD?” Then I remember: DESIRE. It is at the moment of our birth that desire asserts itself. It starts small; we are unconscious of it at first. Yet while we are insensate to it, our displacement from the womb has produced in us the desire to return. But as soon as we become in contact with the world—stimulated by a mysterious familiarity—the more we want to remain. The more we want to remain, the more we discover the pleasures of desire. The more we discover, the more we want to appease our desire. The more we want to appease it, the more it regenerates in an endless circle of wants and needs. An infinite stream of desires.

The denial of desire would be the denial of life. Desire is inherent in us. It is the premise of all life, the whole reason for our xi

existence. It was desire that conceived us, that bestowed us our name. It was desire that built societies, and then led civilizations to their extinctions. It was desire that held us in oneness, and divided us into factions. It was desire that turned us into narcissistic beasts, and denied us of ourselves.

It was desire that confined us to this world, and has driven us to this point of no return.

HANGTOD came to existence as a mimesis of all of our desires.

Every piece, every part, every word in this collection carries in it the secret languages of desire. With familiar and diverse themes of identity and culture, love and loss, pain and pleasure, a collection that spans five years1, HANGTOD is our attempt to delineate and explore the most cherished and dreaded complexities of our desires. In a world where ideals and labels have been tattooed on our skins and carved in our bones, the collected works in this folio are testaments to the creation and dissolution of each writer.

Their mature awareness and discernment of the liminal force that is desire demands that their stories be heard.

But HANGTOD is without a sole intent.

HANGTOD is born out of the desire to address—and mourn— the death of literature in a university that undervalues the humanities, where the liberal mind is constantly undermined and challenged, endangered of being forgotten. Our identity has always been questioned, and we have always been conditioned to remain silent. But we respond. We conjure up words, colors, and images. We have our voices but our responses are inaudible to them—or so they tell us.

As the minority that we are, we will continue the laborious pursuit to be seen and heard. We will continue to cause disturbance. We will continue to mark out our existence, because our existence matters.

Like how the cover embodies HANGTOD, we will not stop until such a time that we would no longer have to voice out our concerns and be afraid of the turbulent future that is ahead of us.

But that does not mean we will stop creating. We will not stop 1

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2013-2018, from fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry classes of DCLL

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giving birth to our desires. For this is what we are, and that which made us who we are. No matter if we remain unseen, or unheard.

This is what you hold now in your hands: the tangible product of our desires. We cannot be certain of our future, but we are patient. We have chosen to traverse this path that few have chosen to remain, and we are those few. Thus, it is essential to send my utmost compliments to my editorial team, to the contributors, and to Mr. Adonis Enricuso, who have endured throughout this endeavor, and who have paved the road for the next generation.

All of these for the love of arts and literature.

Individually, we are writers, readers, and artists. Collectively, we are HANGTOD. Let this folio be the beginning of everything.

Ang sinugdanan, kahumanan, ug kahangturan.

Kristoff Peralta

March 2018

Introduction

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The Works

Multicolored Dream, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Keith Abellanosa

Fellow for Creative Nonfiction, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Dab Hand Essay

The proverbial sky was luminously flushed, half-baked from the scorching noon sun, about to concede to the night’s mystique. Below it is a god’s intricate diorama. A multifaceted showcase of the city’s staggering economic growth and stability to which it prides itself from. Hundreds of concrete four-walled buildings, sky-high, under or post-construction, privatized landmass acquisition and reclamation, a stretch of cemented roads that zigzag like ventricular copula—all birthed in the red earths of the motherland. Not to mention drivers and their fancy and impressive automobiles in full display that flood the highways day in and day out, oblivious as to whether their engines, marked by branded European labels, rigged emission tests. These heterogeneous batches of multicolored two-four wheelers cram along the narrow avenue, where everywhere you look you see either a convenience store or another mediocre Korean café. But within the jumble of consumer ads and businesses is an old shanty bounded by musky mahoganies and gemelinas, foliage that festooned the ramparts, and a lady so detached from the system, her mystery is bequeathed to the night.

Her quaint abode was turned into a local bar, at times, a place to hang out with friends, and other times, a place to escape, a place of solitude. The walls were murals, spray-painted alluding to Rastafarian and underground street-art, psychedelic upon first impression, however, never political. The ceiling was cobwebbed, intentional or not, it did contribute to the general aesthetic and ambience of the place. The music was an entity of its own, an amalgamation of tunes that range from folk rock, and OPM, to reggae, and bossa nova. I had set up a rushed meeting with this lady to talk about her writings for my research, all of which I know are so embroiled in her passion, that decades passed have 1

not extinguished her flame. Noticeable creaks were heard as she descended from the stairs, step by step, with her tiny dog wrapped around her arms. She paused for a cold second or two, looked out, and spotted me and my dire and desperate scholastic venture. And for a brief moment, our gazes locked tightly together. Her dark brown eyes calculating, and like a wolf, defensive and territorial.

She was the first to cut off our mutual stare, and then continued her flight down the stairs. With just a quick glance, and no words uttered, she, and her dramatic entrance, was able to intimidate the entirety of my being like no other person in recent memory.

Upon meeting, outside, I introduced myself with the usual formulaic formalities, and I remember being so jittery I had a thousand thoughts encircling my mind. What if I run out of words? What if I offend her? What if I know too little about her works? These questions sprung out after the other out of nowhere to which I have no answers to satisfy my nerves. She was at her mid to late 50’s, and wore an eccentric but comfortable black dress, with tousles that dangle below her knees. She was adorned with laces of course stones in both her neck and wrists; like charms that fuel her air of mystery. But arguably, her best fashion accessory was her temperament. She was nonchalant, and obviously unflustered by my presence. Her ears were on me, but her eyes were fixated towards her pup, petting the poor thing with her veiny hands tenderly. She smelled of strong liniment and patchouli oil, and her wavy hair was a stream, black as the shadow of my doubt. “Nice meeting you,” she said in her hoarse and husky voice that would equal that of the late Lauren Bacall’s.

She handed her dog over to someone, and guided me to the porch to where we would converse.

The very first thing that she did once we sat down was roll up these brown and parched tobacco leaves, and light the roll to her mouth. My senses immediately turned stuffy when the smoke headed towards my direction. I breathed through my mouth, wondering if she purposely did that to daunt me. But all was well once we got down to business. I came to the place thinking that it will just be a regular interview, but I had no idea that it was going 2

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to be the most challenging so far. I usually started with logical and primed questions relating to her body of work—her prolific writings, for which she would accordingly answer verbatim. The thing is, she would give ground to this penetrating silence every time she is done speaking. This anal technique of hers reversed our power-play of the interviewer-interviewee, and bred a whole new set of conundrums that tested my competency. The silence that she prearranged was for me to either input my own impression and idea of her topic, or proceed to the next question, and with that it felt like she was the one deliberating, judging my every move. And it felt like walking on a tight rope as I tried to dissect every element of her responses in fear of this silence that I may never break because I was inept in contributing to the discourse. It was my quid pro quo-Hannibal Lecter-Clarice Starling moment. I, being the latter, for I needed something from her and she wanted something from me in return.

Throughout the course of the tense interview, we somehow managed to arrive at discussing her love of fine arts. She was a painter and a sculptor herself, and was very enthusiastic when I finally got to ask her questions regarding the two. I was even utterly surprised when she invited me upstairs to her studio, a tiny solitary confinement, where she can be at her most creative, and do her magic through canvass, paint, and clay. Inside houses more than a dozen paintings of similar themes—womanhood; displayed, stashed, and piled in every corner of the room. Her nude portraits of women and their asymmetrical bodies speak so much of her standpoint—that echoed through her writing and film work. One painting saw Eve and her encounter with the serpent, and another one a representation of the Filipina woman.

There is this fluidity to her work that cannot be taught, and unfair if compared. And every time she talks about them she lights up, like a kid in a show-and-tell. And for the first time ever since our encounter, my voice was not needed. My input was put at the background. And I stayed repressed, as she herself brought down the barricades that made it so hard for me to reach her.

Keith Abellanosa

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Curves, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Hazel Ann Cesa

Fellow for Poetry, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Raging Waters Poem

A stream once ran through us and we bathed in naked togetherness until the river banks broadened, the water deepened, the mud thickened and we were separated— on opposite sides of a newborn enraged river.

Still, I would have thrown myself into the water were it not that I knew your feet were planted and I refused to drown alone.

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Apathy, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Richelle Alalim

Missing Old Jeepney Rides Essay

Two or three years ago, I thought my journey to school from our home in Pasil was just like everyone’s journey to their own schools or offices, to the malls or everywhere else. I thought so because just like everyone else, I had to ride a jeepney and had to race with other passengers towards the vehicle, had to prepare my coins the day before (because “Sinsilyo lang sa umaga”), and had to skip my breakfast sometimes or else I wouldn’t get to my destination on time. I had my own biyahe playlist in case I get stuck in traffic, and most importantly of all, I also had to secure myself from bag snatchers or even perverts. It was all normal to me: get up in the morning and do most of the things that probably other students would do.

I only stayed in our home in Pasil three months prior to the end of the school year. To be honest, the ride from Pasil to Talamban was definitely sapping my energy, taking its toll on my health because I got sick all the time. I was happy to make the decision to just stay in a dormitory this school year. I’ve been in four dormitories for my whole college life, and I’ve moved to and fro from our Pasil home to our Guadalupe home to a dormitory. I was the kind of person who got easily bored with my surroundings, and I kept asking my parents if I could stay in a specific place instead.

They got tired of it, so they told me not to even mention where I was currently residing or where my next move would be.

Now that I’m back in school, I decided to finally settle in my current dormitory, a dormitory named after a very high mountain called Mt. Moriah, because our building was also high. In just a few days of living in it, already it felt like home to me, or maybe that’s what I chose to think.

At lunch, my friends and I started talking about jeepney rides and eventually talked about our own jeepney stories. It was hard 7

for me to stay in topic since the last time I had a jeepney ride was more than a year ago. I felt weird and frustrated because I hated the topic they were talking about, but a part of me wanted to speak up, too.

I realized that I miss my jeepney rides from home to school and back again. I miss the traffic, because that was when I could think deeply about the slow-moving economic growth and development of the country. That was also the only time I could really listen to songs, to the lyrics that were melodies added to the beat of traffic boredom. I also miss how I sat beside strangers every day, being able to look into their eyes and see how tired they were, or how happy they were, or how they were full of anxiety because they were going to be late to their jobs. I miss how I would study people just by looking at their bags or the expressions they had. I miss how I got pissed when someone would step onto my shoes, and how I would slowly realize that most of the people in that jeepney would feel the same way, too.

I miss the buildings in the route I took. I loved seeing how tall and big the buildings are, how they’re mostly empty, and how different they are to the nipa houses in the streets of unfortunate families which are so small that the people living there have to decide who gets to sleep in their only bed on some nights.

I miss the people I meet on the streets every day. I miss the vendors who had to shout what they were trying to sell until our ears would hurt. I miss the people in uniforms: from the sales ladies to the security guards to teachers to students. I miss how every time I would see them, I’d keep thinking about what kind of personalities they have at home and how different it is from who they are while I’m watching them. I miss the street children and beggars, not because they constantly annoyed me, but because in some way I could help them through the one peso I gave them. I miss the good jeepney drivers who don’t yell at me or even some times ask endlessly who hadn’t paid yet. “Kinsay wala pa naka plete? Palihug lang ko ha.”

I also miss how I would fall asleep in the jeepney and think that I was being kidnapped when I woke up, only to realize that I 8

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already arrived in my destination or at other times, went past it. I miss how jeepney rides gave me a headache because of the noise, the smelly people, the different places I saw.

I’ve spent so much time riding a jeepney from my home to school and vice versa that even the bad things about it makes me miss it even more. Or was it just the experiences that I miss? Or the everyday ride and the tiresome feeling? Or maybe I just miss it because I haven’t ridden a jeepney for a long time, and that it’s making me emotional just by reminiscing about it.

Or maybe I’m just stuck. Stuck for so many months in my dormitory, sometimes feeling a bit lonely. Maybe a part of me wanted to get out again. I do, but it’s a different kind of going out. I think I miss the kind of going out I did before, how I went out in the streets freely with friends or with a person I felt secure with, how it was so different back then. Sometimes I associate it with the last months I spent here in the city before I stayed home in the province for a year. I miss my rebellious self. I miss how I used to be “young, wild and free” as they like to call it. I miss my friends.

I miss the person I always hung out with.

I’m always missing the things that are no longer there, yet it’s true we only miss the things that we can’t have anymore. I’m always missing the things that are only a part of my memory and are no longer a part of my future. I realized that things change, and we do not know what to miss next, how to feel in the next second or the next day. The only thing that does not change are the many changes in the journey of life every day.

Our journey to home, our journey to school, our journey to love and even our journey to heartbreak change us. My heartbreak did.

I was sad. I prefer staying in my dormitory. I prefer eating alone. I prefer being lonely. And that is exactly the most important reason why I miss things. One thing happened and changed my life, and later on, I also started to change.

I realized the wrong was in me. I knocked myself out over one thing that tried to change me, and it did. Nothing is wrong with feeling sad and alone, to be “off ” for a while, but I let it control me.

I let it stay in me for so long that I forgot who I was. I’ve forgotten Richelle Alalim

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that I was alive and I am still lucky to be here. Maybe this is what is wrong with people who miss things. The reason why they miss things is because they do not allow themselves to experience the things they used to before.

But not me. I am sad. I am alone. I am not the same person I was before. But I will not let that stop me from doing the things that I used to do and the things that make me happy. It will change a part of me, and maybe I will miss my very sad self, but now I understand that to miss is a vital part of this life. I’d like to have that jeepney ride again and look forward to more things that will change me, and that too I will have to miss.

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Reverse, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Jude Escasio

Sandy Thoughts Poem

I’m standing, waiting All of a sudden Everything stops Or so it seems I’m still there, Standing, waiting With my head In my shoulders hanging empty There as if on cue My thoughts start cascading Like an hourglass Being flipped upside-down.

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Lost Self, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Dolph verallo

Fellow for Poetry, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Cavas Terrae Poem

You are made of nothing But dirt and mud Brown and lumpy Nothing more, nothing less So you pray hard for change Wishing to be something different Months of waiting And you taste no hope Until someone took you away Places you on a revolving pedestal Molds you, presses you, paints you You took on a new form You look in the mirror And you wonder A clay pot you have become Shiny, beautiful and loved by many You marvel at your new body You now reside in an art museum Every minute, someone pauses And looks at your beautiful form You are really proud of yourself But you soon miss the earth You miss the rain, the sunlight The wind brushing over you Soon, you begin to notice As time took a toll on you 14

Some parts of your body start to crack Your colors fading Complexion growing duller day by day You eventually get replaced By a much younger and vibrant pot People are tired of looking at you Once a thousand would come Now becomes only ten people Or none at all They try covering the cracks Gives you a new coat of paint Tries making you shine again But the scars won’t go away People now would just pass by Others would glance but not look You look in the mirror again You wonder You are a clay pot Once shiny, beautiful and loved by many But inside, You are just a hollow shell Now you wish, That time would revert its hands Turn you back to being Made of nothing but dirt and mud Brown and lumpy Nothing more, nothing less.

Dolph Verallo

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Malevolent, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Nicole Nuñez

Most Feared Short Story

There was once a colorful snake that lived in the jungle, along with many wild and gentle animals. Most of these animals would avoid encounters with him because of his deadly venom. The snake didn’t like any of that solitude, so he approached the other creatures himself. However, as expected, the animals would run away from him. As the sun and moon passed, the poor creature learned to deal with and accept the cruelties of the world. After facing those dull days and cold nights alone, he allowed bitterness to enter and fill the void within him. The changes brought along by time weren’t entirely internal. As he traveled through the vast areas of the jungle, the harsh conditions of these places made his vibrant colors gradually fade into ebony.

It was twilight when the lonesome snake heard the constant breaking of the branches and the quick stomps on the ground.

If it wasn’t for his curiosity, he wouldn’t have bothered to trace where these noises came from. With all the leaves and branches that came his way, a deer finally came into sight. Seeing the deer struggling to free his antlers from the branches was an unpleasant sight for him because it somehow reminded him of someone he used to know. Not wanting to remember the past, he began to leave the area but a loud growl stopped him from his tracks. He turned to where the horrifying sound came from and, there, he saw a huge bear standing on its hind legs. The biggest animal in the scene bared its teeth and made its way to the creature whose head was stuck in the branches. Getting sick of witnessing another sight of helplessness, he lunged in front of the bear and spat out his venom. The victim growled in utter agony until no sound was left to be heard from it.

The apparent savior turned towards the deer and hissed in disgust. “Such a weak creature you are! If I was in your place, I 17

could’ve easily broken free from this puny wood.” In an instant, he slithered around the branches and tightened his wrap until they snapped. Having freed the deer, he didn’t expect any word of thanks and anticipated what the deer would do next. As expected, it ran away as fast as it could. After killing a huge predator and saving another animal on his own, he became delighted by the very possibility that he can be quite capable of doing anything he wishes.

As soon as the sun and moon passed, the snake sought after accomplishments through adventures. He greatly believed that if he can do something that the others can’t, then surely he is capable of doing those that they can do. “If I were to be alone, I might as well be everything!” he declared.

So he raced with the fishes from one side of the river to the far opposite, swung from one tree to another like the monkeys, hanged himself up to the tallest branch and slept upside down like the bats, imitated the swans as he crossed the lake. Although he didn’t appear as majestic as these birds and instead looked like a baby Loch Ness Monster emerging from the water. These were some of the quests of the silly snake. Though comic his adventures may seem, he would surely be remembered. However, he was not contented and decided to seek further recognitions and praises. The others began to avoid not because of what he was but because of what he had become.

Seeking for further adventures, the hissing creature wandered around the fields. A few winds later, he noticed a couple of peculiar animals. What was unusual with these creatures was that they were moving around casually on their hind legs as if they were born to use only two out of all fours. He moved closer and noticed them carrying long, curved metal sticks. Perceiving it to be a worthwhile challenge, he prepared to lunge forward and take down these creatures. With all the pasturage that came his way, another animal came into sight and momentarily stopped him from his plans.

“Foolish creature! You don’t know what you’re attempting to deal with.” A golden-furred animal spoke in a deep and captivat18

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ing low voice. Despite the animal’s unruly, bushy mane, he was the most intimidating animal that the ebony snake ever met.

The snake didn’t want the other to impose dominance over him so he raised his body over to cover the height gap between the two of them, and hissed. “Silence! He who never lets fear in will never fall victim to it.”

“This isn’t a matter of fear and bravery. If you don’t want to experience pain then you better be aware of your limitations.”

“Oh, but pain is an old friend of mine,” the snake said as he recalled how he desired the company of others. “I honestly can’t bring myself to understand you. I sense in you a mighty predator yet your words and actions tell me otherwise. Don’t tell me that you cower in the presence of stronger animals?”

The lion let out a low growl in response. “I am merely trying to save your life. Those creatures are not like us. They possess sticks that can take the life out of anything with a single blow.”

“But that’s what makes it all-the-more exciting! If you could overpower the stronger ones, then your existence will surely be instilled in the minds of many others. Imagine all the respect and praises you can get from it,” In an instant, the snake’s smile stretched to both corners of his face. “Oh my, I just thought of something wonderful! Let’s try to see who’s the mightiest among us here—in the name of honor, I challenge you.” Ignoring the lion’s confused reaction, the snake continued. “Whoever dispatches those creatures, wins. They may kill another by a single attempt, but they can’t do it if you’re fast enough. So, what do you say?”

The lion thought the snake was mad but accepted the challenge anyway. After all, his reputation was at great risk. Not so long after, the snake lunged in front of the humans and raised his body upwards before letting out a loud hiss. The apparently stronger beings jumped in surprise.

Then there was a loud blast.

Before the cold-blooded animal could let them have a taste of his infamous venom, he was on the ground, splattered into pieces, his blood and guts all over the place. Horrified by what he had seen, the lion swiftly jumped out of his hiding place and let out a Nicole Nuñez

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roar like that of the sound of thunder. The humans forced their feet to move quick and rushed out of the scene.

“It was indeed a stupid and foolish thing to do,” the lion said as he stood there, looking at the snake’s remains in despair.

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Silent Noise, Digital Photography by Kristoff Peralta

Ushabelle Bongo

Kargador Essay

I don’t know his name. But I know he has been at the trade long before the old Mandaue Public Market had burned down.

Rumor has it that the mayor at the time had his goons discreetly spill gas on the sewers that ran across the market earlier that night. They were allegedly planning to get rid of the market, and sell the lot to the Gaisanos. It is said in whispers that the mayor was going to get a big under-the-table share of the money. Rumor or not, the market erupted in flames later that night. It was an inferno at the heart of Mandaue. No one died, no one had dared to go back to save their wares when the greedy fire started. The flames devoured almost every property, profit, and asset of everyone whose livelihood depended on the trade the market provided.

The thing that supported their families was now in rubble and soot under their feet.

The only property that survived were the karitons. The kargadors had been able to wheel out their wooden carts out as they escaped from the inferno. Every kargador for his own kariton, and like their karitons the kargadors were a resilient bunch-survivors.

There is this old man, who looked to me to be as ancient as the burnt walls of the old market, littered with black splotches and crevices that ran deep and seemingly forever. The wrinkles under his eyes and beside his mouth and his mildly shrunken cheeks that suggest old age, yet he still carries his patrons’ bought bundles with vigor.

His name I can no longer remember. What I remember though was that he always had a starched white shirt on. And it’s always tucked inside his pants and held in tight by a black faux-leather belt. Moreover, his hair is always skillfully gelled in place. Beads of sweat bejewel his temples and splashes of mud stain the skin around his ankles. Given that, no other kargadors have ever looked 22

as neat and as sharp as he does.

Every day he donned a similar white shirt, only with a different print for a different day. The prints were always logos or advertisements. This day it would be an advertisement for a store, the next it would be a logo of a company, and the day after that it would be an advertisement for a product. He got these shirts for free. They are the pinaskohan he had all too often received from the vendors and delivery trucks at the public market. I know that for a fact because our bakery has given him one or two of the shirts he sometimes had on. But that was before the market supervisor had the kargadors in uniform shirts. The shirt had “Cargo Facilitator” printed across the back.

If he was just wearing his regular white shirt and not wheeling around his trusty creaky wooden cart all day, one could almost be forgiven for mistaking him as a canteen owner buying supplies for his kiosk at a MEPZ factory. But one does not simply separate the kargador from his kariton. The kariton to them is what the shell is to the snail. It was basically their home. They sleep on it, wake up on it, sit and relax on it, eat on it, even make love on it, and even some of their wives give birth on it. But most importantly, they make their living with it. All day they would transport their patrons’ sacks, boxes, and plastic bags full of shopped supplies, to wherever the patrons would request. I left the bananas and fish at Cecilia’s. Go fetch them. Here’s 20 pesos. Don’t forget to pass by the egg stands and ask for my tray of eggs ha.

Usually, they wheel their karitons near so they only have to carry the parcels in a short distance. Sometimes though, when it’s too crowded because of the barrage of customers and the arrival of delivery vans, they would have to park their carts farther off and have to carry the packages on their shoulders a long way. For an old man, he had a remarkable stamina for that daily grind.

I had seen him make his living with his kariton since I was a child playing and helping around in our bakeshop in the old market, to the time we had moved to a new designated marketplace nearer to the oil-spoilt Mandaue coastline, until the time we moved out of that market again because it had almost been topUshabelle Bongo

23

pled over by the earthquake. I had never given him much thought though, aside from the occasional glances and remarks of how neat he always was despite his line of work, I really didn’t care then.

That was until I saw him again. It was Christmas last year, when I caught a glimpse of an old and frail looking man led around by a little girl. It was him. I was surprised. My memory of him had been that of a neat robust, though aged, man. Now his skin hang from his bones like empty sacks and a white layer of film shrouds his eyes.

The little girl made for our store. His left hand held on to the girl’s shoulder while the right clutched an improvised cane. Papa who had also known the kargador since he was a boy, hailed him. I was told to get a jar of our home-made peanut butter and a plastic bag. I handed these to papa who placed two sliced breads into the bag with the peanut butter.

“Pinaskuhan for you and your lolo, inday o,” Papa said.

“Merry Christmas,” I added wistfully.

A pensive mood washed over me as I followed the lolo and the apo with my eyes, going from store to store hoping to receive a few sympathy and snippets of blessings. I wondered where his son or daughter might be, why he’s left with his little granddaughter, why he’s wandering around with her that day asking for alms.

I think of my own grandfather. Tatay is somewhere in the market now, walking with his merchandise, hawking and selling.

On Christmas, he always comes with us to sell bingala-sparklers and pop-pop at the market. Tatay didn’t need to do that, he wasn’t supporting anyone anymore. He just does it because, he’s just lived that way since forever. If the old kargador hadn’t lost his sight, perhaps like tatay he too would still be wheeling around his trusty creaky kariton. Even though tatay is still sturdy as the deep-rooted acacias that still stand along the road to Carcar, we have no illusions that he will stay that way forever. Like the old kargador, tatay too will soon fade, no matter how hard I try not to think of it. The only difference is tatay has us looking after him, reminding him to take his medicines, keeping him company and 24

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helping him when he was admitted to the hospital, taking him to live with us so we take care of him as he recovers from the mild stroke, feeding him when he couldn’t move his arm, and he will have us still to wheel him around in his chair when old age takes its toll on him even more.

The old kargador however, only had a little girl begging for alms for the both of them.

Ushabelle Bongo

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Circe by the Sea, Digital Photography by Mary Robin Quinain

Maluz Nakai

Fellow for Poetry, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Japayuki Sugilanon

Kada uli ni Diana matag Pasko hatagan gyod mi ato niya og usa ka karton nga seafood cup ramen. Kada kita nako niya, magsul-ob gyod na siya sa iyang gold nga kwintas nga nay letrang D nga magbitay diha sa iyang dughan. Kahinumdom pa ko nga iya kong gipasuway og sul-ob ato iyang kwintas pero mas bagay gyod siguro to sa iyang panit nga puti nga murag wa nainitan og lima ka tuig kompara sa akong panit nga murag mao-mao nag kolor sa panit sa kahoy sa mangga.

Nadunggan nako akong mama usa ka higayong miduaw si Diana sa amo, “Day, kon mapul-an naka ana imong bag, ari na ilabay nako ha.”

Way tubag. Mipahiyom lang siya. Ug pagdayon niyang lakaw, nagtutok akong mama sa iyang ariyus nga mosidlak kon maigo sa silaw sa adlaw.

“Ma, palitan nya tika atong pareha kang Diana nga bag nga naay mga letra-letra nga L og V og katong ariyus nga naa duha ka C.” “Sige day ha. Kung madato naka.”

“Hilig gyod kaayo na silag mga letra, Ma? Mao gyod siguro nay uso didto sa Japan no?”

Usahay kung magtan-aw ko sa ilang balay, maghuna-huna ko unsa kahay pamati makapuyo og balay nga semento ug makatulog sa kaugalingon nimo nga kwarto. Dili pareha sa amo kaniadto nga maghuot pa mi sa sala, mag-latag og banig taga gabii unya hipuson napod inig ka buntag. Pero labaw sa tanan, nasuya ko sa iyang anak nga nakaeskwela sa usa ka pribado nga skwelahan. Gusto nakong matagamtaman ang kinabuhi makasul-ob og uniform ug sinaw nga sapatos. Gusto pod ko maka istorya og mga lalaki nga humot pa og air preshner sa ilang awto. Kanang dili pareha sa 27

among mga klasmeyt nga inig abot sa eskwelahan basa na kaayo ang mga buhok sa singot, kayamokat lang ang mga dagway, bahong pobre.

Magpadayon pa unta kog istorya bahin ani among Japayuki nga silingan apan mao ra man gyod na akong nahibaw-an bahin kaniya busa ipasa nalang nako ang papel sa pagka-narrator sa akong Tiya nga sama niya Japayuki pod.

Delilah Sa katong elementarya pa mi, kon di ko lutoan og baon sa akong mama, tungaan dayon ko anang Diana sa iyang sud-an ug kan-on.

Kon makulatahan ko sa akong papa nga gadako lang ang tiyan og pirmaninting nanimahong bino, adto ra pod ko pahigdaon sa iyang mama sa ila. Paghuman namo og high school, nang-apply mi og agency para mag-dancer sa Japan apan siya ra ang nadawat namong duha. “Kwaon lang tika day og makatigom-tigom nako.�

Wala mapakyas si Diana sa iyang saad nako. Gitabangan ko niya makakuha og tourist visa aron makalarga pod ko sa Japan pareha niya. Kauban akong ig-agaw nga si Janice ug among usa ka klasmeyt nga si Cherry, dungan ming nanglupad padulong sa among gipang-ambisyon nga kapalaran.

Una nakong tungtong sa Japan, lami pa kayo akong paminaw.

Sosyal pa kaayo akong pamati kay nakasakay na gyod intawon kog tren. Pagnaog namo sa tren, giatangan mi sa iyang bana nga nindot kaayo og sakyanan. Ambot unsa to nga sakyanan basta kay pagsakay nako, mura kog naa sulod sa eroplano. Nindot pa kaayo ang mga ang dalan, luag, way abog, way basura, way manglilimos. Nakatulog ko kadiyot sa katulin sa among dagan og akong namathan ang nagwisik-wisik nga ulan agi sa among ligid dinha sa basa nga dalan. Gawas sa among sakyanan nga nag inusara sa dalan, wala koy laing makit-an kon dili ang mga kahoy nga nagkiay-kiay sa kakusog sa hangin.

Hastang pagkamingawa. Mingaw pa sa among barangay kung 28

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naay pista sa pikas barrio.

Nagngi-ob akong pamati. Sama ka nga ngi-ob sa mga panganod sa langit.

“Dili gyod ko magsilbi aning lugara day,” hunghong ko ni Janice.

Duha ka buwan ra unta ko manrabaho didto sa omise ni Diana apan nadala ko sa sturya niya nga pwede ra ko mopadayon og trabaho bisag wala koy bala.

Tambag pa niya nako samtang gahulat mi og mga customer, “Ako pa nimo, dili nalang una ka muuli sa ato. Pwede raman ka mopadayon og trabaho diri bisan wala kay bala basta maningkamot lang gyod ka nga makakita kag hapon nga pakaslan.”

“Dili ba delikado mga bilog diri, day?”

“Ay daaah! Mapriso gyod ka og madakpan pero ang importante diri kay dili ka mangita og bikil kay kasagaran madakpan mga kapwa Pinay ra pod ang nagsumbong.”

“Naa kay mga kaila nga nadakpan?”

“O u!. Naay daghan. Kabantay ka atong mamaligya og sud-an diri?”

“Si Alice?”

“O. Sus ang kapuyo ato nakakita man og away. Gi-sumbong dayon silang duha. Dakpan pagkasunod semana. Mao na ikaw, ayaw pag gara-gara kung wala kay bala.”

“Mopauli nalang siguro ko sa ato uy. Masuyaan palang ta diri.

Maoy gidangat.”

“Ay sus. Dali ra kaayo ka makakita og mabana diri. Bata pa kaayo ka. Presko pa. Makabana man gani nang kwarenta na, ikaw pa kaha nga wa pa kay traynta.”

Gibisita iyahang omise og mga pulis usa ka gabii ug gipangitaan tanang trabahante og visa. Maayo lang gani kay wala koy duty atong gabhiona kay gipabantay pod ko sa karaoke pub sa iyang tiya. Matod pa ni Janice ug ni Cherry, pwerti nilang kuyawa kay nagtuo silang madakpan na sila. Maayo gani kay kalma ra ilang mga pulis nga nangayo og alien card ug walay pulis nga nilipot sa luyo mao nang nakagawas pa intawn sila gamit ang pultahan sa kusina. Sukad ato naningkamot kog pangita og Hapon nga pwede Maluz Nakai

29

nako mahimong papa. Napugos intawn kog kat-on og Hinapon kay dili gyod ko makabana kung mag sige lang kog nihongo wakarannai.

Dantan og pipila ka buwan nga tinatago-tago sa mga pulis, naa na gyod intawoy nagka-interes sa akong dagway. Maayo pod ning Japan kay bahalag mura na nig naagian og pila ka pison ang akong ilong, naa ra diay gihapoy mopunit. Dili siya pareha kakwartahan sa bana ni Diana. Matod pa niya, dili siya makapatukod nako og pub pareha sa bana ni Diana pero sigurado siyang makapatukod siya og palasyo sa akong dughan og iya kong silbihan sulod niining palasyo.

Komeyante pod ning Hapona da. Makahinumdom lang tang Noy Canor nga mangulitawo nako murag naay ikapaka-on. May nalang ni kay makaka-on man tag lami bahalag di kwartahan.

Drayber ra siya sa bus. Dili gwapo. Opaw na. Pero dili ko maka-reklamo kay kugihan motrabaho ug labaw sa tanan dili na intawn ko mag sigeg hupohupo kung manglaag mi. Makalaag nako nga di ko mag sige og paglingi kung naa bay mga pulis. Tungod nagkabala naman ko, nitrabaho ko sa usa ka factory sa buntag samtang nagtrabaho gihapon sa pub ni Diana matag gabii aron naa koy extra para palit pud sa akong mga luho. Ako ra tanan nakong sweldo mao nang nakatigom pod kog ubay-ubay kay akong bana ra may mobayad sa among balay, tubig, kuryente.

Nakapalit na intawon ko og pareha kang Diana nga Louis Vuitton nga bag. Nakapangalahas na pod kog gold bahala na’g wa’y angay sa akong panit.

Nakapalit na pod ko og yuta sa among probinsya nga akong gipa hinay-hinayan og tukod og balay nga semento. Lipay intawn kaayo akong inahan kay dili na sila maghu-ot sa among kahoy nga balay uban iyang mga anak ug apo.

Usa ka gabii samtang nag-makeup ko sa CR sa omise, gitawag ko ni Diana kay naa daw siyay istorya nako nga importante.

“Unsa man day?”

“Kuan ba, naa unta koy dako nga pabor pangayuon nimo.”

Apan naputol kini among istorya kay naay nangabot nga mga customer.

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“Irasshaimase!” gisugat niya og dakong katawa ang lima ka hapon nga nangabot.

“Unya nalang day kay nangabot na atong mga pasyente. Pagdali diha kay maabot ra ba to imong krung-krung nga tomer.”

“Giatay oy. Sweldo man diay ron. Magdagsa napod ning mga kwanggol.”

Tungod sa kadaghan sa customer atong gabhiona, ubay-ubay pud among nainom. Pwerti nang sabaa ni Diana sa pikas lamesa.

Gisige na niya og balikas ang iyang tomer nga hubog na pod.

“Nandayo! Konoyaro!” singgit ni Diana samtang gabarag-barag na.

“Hoy Janice! Ngano mo diha?”

“Nireklamo ang hapon kay kulang daw ilang sukli. Gitikasan daw sila sa ilang bill.”

Ako nalang ang miduol sa hapon aron dili na modako ang gubot. Gitaplan nalang nako ang ilang gi ingon nga kulang sa ilang sukli.

Padayon nga nagyaw-yaw si Diana samtang ga-concert sa toilet bowl. “Atay mga Hapona. Mga walay kwarta ikabayad.”

“Imo man pod tong gibalikas. Regular tomer baya to. Di na to mamalik. Sayang.”

“Ay sooows! Naa pay dag . . . han diha oy. Hoy De-Delilah, naa kay 25 ka lapad diha?”

“Ha? Ngano man?”

“Kulang akong . . . pangsweldo . . . sa mga babaye.”

“Napildi na pud ka sa pachinko?”

“Kadaghan ba nimog pangutana! Pahulma nalang gud ko!”

“Ah. Ikaw pay manghulam, ikaw pay masuko.”

“Ki . . . nahanglan paka pahinumdoman kinsay . . . nagtabang nimo tibuok nimo kinabuhi?”

“O lagi, lagi. Ikaw. Ayaw pag sigeg hinubog diha ug pasabta ko nganong 25 gyod ka lapad imong kinahanglan.”

“Ay basta. Unya nata maghusay. Sige na. Bayran ra lagi tika sa katapusan inig sweldo ni tanda.”

“Mao na! Resulta nan ang imong sigeg pachinko!”

“Ayaw na sigeg yawyaw diha . . . kay bisan unsaon nako og pasMaluz Nakai

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abot nimo . . . di gyod ka makasabot.”

“Di gyod ko makasabot unsay makuha nimo anang sugal uy.

Mayra bag kwartahan ka nga hasta imong bana imo nang giilad.”

Migakos gyod siya kanako og mihangyo nga pahulmon og ingon ato nga kantidad. Gipahulam nako siya atong gabhiona apan sa sunod nga buwan, miusab na pud. Bayran ko niya pero igo ra ko patilawon sa akong kwarta unya hulmon napud. Nahibaw-an nalang nako usa ka adlaw nga iya nang giprenda ang iyang mga alahas. Murag ang iya nalang kwintas nga naay letrang D ang nahibilin. Ultimo mga brando nga bag naprenda na.

Matod pa sa among kusinera, “Si Diana ba, usa naman lang gyod tawon na ka Biton iyang gibalik-balik uy nga sauna lain-lain man gyod to nga Biton iyang puli-pulihan. Unya usahay day magmantenir nalang na siya og MK.” Didto mi nakabantay nga murag naglisod na gyod ang among omise. Nangandam nalang mi nga manirado na gyod mi kay ultimo pag sweldo sa mga trabahante di niya mahimo.

“Day, Layla, unsaon naman lang ni namo kon manirado ning atong omise?”

“Mao lagi. Sige lang Che kay ako ra nya tong storyaan si Diana. Mapangitaan ra lagi ni og paagi.”

“Ahak baya ani uy,” sabat pa ni Janice.

“Imo pa lang tong giminyo si Kawamura-san, hayahay na unta ka ron.”

Sunod nakong sulod sa omise nahibulong nalang ko nga wala na si Janice ug si Cherry. Imposible kaayo nga wala pa sila kay usa ka oras ug tunga nako na late unya ako pa ang naka time-in gawas sa among kusinera.

“Giatay. Absent raba si Mika ug Yumi. Ay kog ingna ako ra usa diri ron. Te, asa diay si Janice ug si Cherry?” pangutana ko sa among kusinera.

“Hala! Wala diay ka kabalita day? Nadakpan man daw sila gabii.”

“Ha? Asa? Gi-unsa?!”

“Wala diay sila nanawag nimo?”

“Wala gyod.”

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“Nanawag man daw sila ni Diana pero wa man mitubag. Nagtuo ko nga ikaw ang gitawagan pagkahuman.”

Wala ko kasabot sa akong gibati. Nanghuyang ang akong mga batiis. Gikumot sa bugnaw nga hangin akong mga kamot ug nangurog ang akong mga tudlo samtang nagdayal sa telepono ni Diana. Wala may lain nakahibalo nga walay mga bala si Janice ug si Cherry. Wala na gyod koy lain pasanginlan. Di nako malikayan nga maghuna-huna kung iya bang gituyo aron wala nay hasol kung manirado ang omise. Di pod nako matangtang sa akong hunahuna kung pila kaha ka lapad ang nadawat sa animal sa pagsumbong. Ug kinsa pa kaha ang uban nga naamong sa iyang pagkadesperada.

Alas diyes na apan wala gyod naabot si Diana. Wa man pud hinuon ko nagdahom nga maabot siya kay kahibalo gyod to siya nga sad-an siya. Apan sayop ko. Naabot gyod ang kagwang. Wala ko kahibaw kung nagpabaga nalang siya og nawong o wala na siya sa saktong pangutok.

“Ohayo.” Mura rag way nahitabo nga nisulod si Diana.

“Hoy! Wan-a gyod kay lain mahunahunaan nga paagi Diana?

Ikaw ray ga-unay sa atong mga silingan! Wa ka maghuna-huna naa toy gipakaon nga mga pamilya sa ato boanga ka!”

“Naa pud koy gipakaon nga pamilya sa ato.”

“Ikaw gyod diay?! Sa tinuod lang naghandom pa ko nga moingon ka nga dili ikaw pistiha ka. Naghandom ko nga si Mika o si Yumi ang nagsumbong.” Gilabnot nako iyang kamot. “Kung wa pako nakabana og Hapon, apil sad unta ko og kadakpan inataya ka!

Wa kay kwenta nga amiga animala ka!”

Mipaduol iyang baba sa akong dunggan og kalma nga ni ingon, “Ayaw kog ingna nga wala koy kwenta Delilah kay tibuok nako kinabuhi wala koy gibuhat kon di ang motabang og mga tao. Usa naka ato. Tawga kog inatay, pisti, animal pero ayaw kog ingna nga wa koy kwenta.”

Mipaingon ko sa purtahan pero una ko migawas, ako siyang nasukmatan. “Nagkabati na gyod imong batasan sukad naabot ka diri. Nakalimot ka nga pila ray panginahanglan sa ato? Kaigo ra man gani na sa tibuok barangay ang akong usa kasweldohan Maluz Nakai

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sa factory. Ang imo lang gyod nang garbo nga kinahanglan de sakyanan imong anak, kinahanglan gold gyod imong mga alahas ug Biton imong mga bag.”

“Di ko ipangandoy nga mahitabo nimo ang nahitabo nako day.

Pero kon maabot man gani ang panahon nga kinahanglan nimo iprenda imong mga alahas ug mga brando nga bag, kan-on rana nimo tanan nimong gipang-ingon.”

“I-prenda nalang nako tanan akong alahas og bag dili lang akong kalag.”

Sukad ato, wala nako nakakita ug nakaistorya ni Diana. Mao nato ang katapusan sa among pila ka tuig nga panag-amigahay.

Pag-uli nako sunod Pasko, gipangita nako siya kon nauli ba pod siya. Matod pa sa akong pagumangkon wala siya nakabalita nga naa si Diana.

“Pag graduation sa iyang anak, Tiya, naa to siya diri. Wala gani ko nahibaw nga nauli diay siya kay wala man mi kadawat og cup ramen kay kada uli ato niya manghatag baya gyod to.”

“Mao ba day? Kumusta man iyang pag ari?”

“Mao ra gud gihapon. Gold gihapon ang kwintas, kato gihapon iyang brown nga bag.” Dala hikap sa akong bag, miingon siya, “Kanang pareha ani sa imo Tiya ba.”

“Wala diay siya mibisita diri day?”

“Wala Tiya. Kadiyot ra man daw to siya. Igo ra gyod siya mipaso sa graduation sa iyang anak. Nindota ninyo Tiya noh? Sayunsayunon ra ang plete sa eroplano.”

“Dili gyod nindot day.”

“Pero hayahay na kaayo mo og kinabuhi didto Tiya uy. Sauna maghu-ot pa gud intawon ta didto sa sala sa kahoy nga balay ni lola unya maglatag og banig sa sala. Karon, dako-dako na atong balay, semento na. Gold napod imong mga alahas. De letra napud imong mga bag. Pareha na gyod kaayo mo ni Ate Diana. Maayo unta maka-abroad pod ko puhon aron mapareha ko ninyo.”

Dali-dali kong mibarog og misulod sa akong kwarto. Nag atubang ko sa samin og tagsa-tagsa nakong gihubo ang akong mga alahas samtang gatutok sa akong panagway. Akong gisusi og ganahan pa ba ko magtan-aw sa akong kaugalingon kung wala 34

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nako giadornohan og gold.

Duolon pa kaha ko sa mga tao kung wala nay gasidlak nga mga bato sa akong mga tudlo, sa akong mga dunggan ug sa akong dughan? Dili na siguro.

Hinay-hinay kong gisul-ob og balik ang akong mga inampingan nga bulawan aron mopasidlak balik sa lagumon kong mga panit.

Maluz Nakai

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Tangency Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Sievney Quidet

Fellow for Poetry, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Descendant Poem

It was the stern posture of my father, my father’s father, and I. Like the crops, I am sown and nurtured for their rest.

I never knew life as I do now, of water and the earth as brown as my eyes and skin: I look like them, like a duplication from their lores—from the ground I came from, on this ground I grew, and as harvest comes I rise with them.

It was the breathy snores of my mother, my mother’s mother, and I. Like crickets I was lulled and silenced to my rest: a large heavy sigh, dreamless and quick like a blink—as fast as I fall down I get up, bruises and strains knowing no relent they burn like the fire she lights for our meals that never had what we planted, never knowing what they were, or how they felt on our tongues.

It was in the carefree giggles of my brother, my brother’s brother, and I. Loud like roosters; proud of their hard-earned rest; freedom at hand and large strides against the weight of the water, forgetting for a moment of their fates—of bent backs like the buffaloes over the growing grain. A grumble of wonder spoken aloud: the reason why they must harvest when they’re as tiny as their leaves.

Sievney Quidet

37

It was in the carefree giggles of my brother, my brother’s brother, and I. When it rings into silence so loud and shot falling to deaf ears, muffled gasps of a fear heard of but never thought possible, not in a fantasy of being invincible gods and creatures of nature, as Amihan and Habagat who could never be found even after we said we relent because they’re too good at tagu-taguan.

It was the breathy snores of my mother, my mother’s mother, and I. Replaced with the noise of loneliness, I cannot cry, I cannot sleep when my eyes fall shut and I see what I should have felt instead—the water not a shimmering crystal but a viscous red, spread through the untainted and seep into their soil to grow into grains of memory—a new life over the death of the gentle and loved like the new makahiya: makamatay. Bisaya. Adjective. Lethal, deadly.

It was in the stern posture of my father, my father’s father, and I. I remain here, in the rain and heat, and as the water flows and the sun rises and the leaves unfurl I rise again through pain and dread as he no longer can. And I grow like the green to reach the blue, rooted to the brown and white in his name so when you eat this harvest, you eat his sweat. You eat his breath. You eat his blood.

You eat his death.

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Diclofenac Poem

how many sticks do you get through in a day? even when i tell you not to, and you owe the landlord when you threw a chair out the window when i told you off. light another stick, set my hair on fire. this house is choking me, and it’s not just the black air. the heat, has it gotten to you yet? have you realized it’s summer, and the heater is off, but it’s hotter in here than you remember. another petulant cry from your darkening mouth, let me kiss you— your skin cracks red like how your bones are supposed to in the early morning when i am supposed to be gentle, to ease the hurt with these knuckles. do you have a type? men who are diseases with their touch—the searing pain of their hands on your skin, leaving stinging bruises. or is it the sight of them? blinding and just there, unavoidable even if you shut it out: your own eyes, your windows, your curtains, your doors and its gaps. hearing me knock with promises that i would never hurt you Sievney Quidet

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again; give forgiveness when asked, fear forgotten and damage unrecalled your cowardice hidden behind the eyelids you peel open to the bright light you let me in, wake up to the reality of the spots dancing on your skin, colourful scars in red, blue, green and purple their disco lights. i touch you again, softly. listen to me on your body, weeping, begging, pleading. apply cold compress to burned and swollen areas. betadine to the open cuts, water for your throat and diclofenac in twos—cold cream on your skin and an orange salt pill in your mouth as i say, “do not, ever again.�

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Surreal, Digital Photography by Samantha Almaden

Melanie Cuenco

I Love Them (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah) Essay

Ringo was the funny one with the nose, whom everyone took for granted. George was shy and soft-spoken but had a presence. Paul was the debonair, charming, and everyone’s favorite. John was the misunderstood, witty, the smart one, and my personal favorite.

Individually, they were all talented. But together, they were extraordinary. I am talking, of course, about The Beatles.

Growing up, no other musical act stole my heart quite like they did. The Fab Four were truly a spectacle in my young eyes.

The Beatles first came into my life when I was a 10-year-old in fifth grade. Before that, I would listen exclusively to those Disney Channel stars-turned-singers, or whichever artist was deemed ‘worthy’ by my peers. But one day, while I was riding the family car, a song played. My ears picked up a haunting melody. The song’s lyrics were simple, but in its simplicity, I felt a rush of emotions: sadness, yearning, but mostly—awe. I knew then that my life was irrevocably changed. Imagine dipping your feet in a cool, clear lake and after you plunged down to its depths, you resurfaced and found yourself revived, rejuvenated. That was exactly how I felt when I heard Yesterday for the first time. It tugged at my heartstrings, and it ignited a flame that could not be put out.

I gradually stopped becoming influenced by what was ‘now’, and instead followed my own path for the first time in my life.

It was only a matter of time till I wanted—no, needed—to listen to all their songs and to know everything about them, which was exactly what I did. I would persuade my parents to play Beatles CDs in the car over and over again, so that I could memorize as much of the lyrics as possible. I watched movies, documentaries, and old clips of them so much that I was starting to get used to seeing things in black and white. I would read interviews, devour books, and scourge the Internet for more trivia, stopping 42

only when my eyes got sore. I knew their wives’ names, their kids’ names, how both John and Paul lost their mothers at a young age, how Ringo spent most of his childhood in and out of hospitals, how George fought to have more than his two songs per album, and more. For me, finding new things about them was like how kids felt when they opened presents during Christmas morning.

Like any tween obsessed with a boy band, I was so enthralled with the four of them. I loved the way their hair flopped around and how dapper they looked in their matching suits during their early years. I loved their iconic Sgt. Pepper outfits that reflected their music in that period: vibrant, colorful, and whimsical. I loved the way their voices blended perfectly together (those melodies, my goodness!). I loved how much their music and lyrics progressed in such a short span of time. Their versatility and ability to create such lyrical masterpieces were some of my favorite things about them. I adored all of their voices: John’s—sharp and nasally, Paul’s—sweet and melodic, George’s—accent-laden, and Ringo’s—deep and somewhat limited, yet lovable.

I do believe that I was one of their early fans in a past life. You know what I mean: those fans who, at the mere sight of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, would scream hysterically and faint even before they’d start playing a song. But I was also like those fans who felt like their world was ending when they broke up, those fans who felt incomplete after John Lennon and George Harrison’s deaths, and those fans who are thankful everyday that Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are still around. As you can see, I continued to experience Beatlemania decades after the British Invasion, way before my time. But I could not care less. They somehow wrapped an invisible string around my heart- binding me to them for eternity.

Liking the Beatles so much was not the main reason why I did not fit in during my years in grade school and high school, but it may have been a contributing factor. Teachers would look at me oddly, surprised that a band that broke up way before I was born was my favorite. While some schoolmates found it perfectly acceptable to listen to them, most found me odd for it.

Melanie Cuenco

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“Melanie, you like the Beatles? Aren’t they for old people?”

“Aren’t they all dead?”

Others never even heard of them. Because I did not listen to much music from this century, I was labeled unusual. As a result, I had few friends not only due to my crippling shyness but also because of my inability to relate to people my age. They were like the ebb and flow of the tides—constantly changing, jumping at every opportunity to replace the old with the new. I was someone living in a past that did not belong to me, with a different mindset from the rest.

You would think that I abandoned my deep love for the Beatles in order to be accepted, but I did not. Though I would be lying if I did not mention that the thought had constantly crossed my mind back then. There was a period in high school when I did listen to other music and started liking other bands eventually. But I found myself missing John, Paul, George, and Ringo after a while. Their music was just like a favorite book—tattered and dusty, forgotten and left in a shelf, but when read again, impossible to put down. It was familiar but unfailing in its effectiveness. I always found myself listening to them again because I felt at home with them. The familiarity of their songs brought me comfort and security. They were there for me when others were not. Songs like Nowhere Man and Fool On The Hill will always hold a special place in my heart.

So here I am, no longer 10 years old. I am 20 now: older, wiser, and bitter. I know more about life and about the Beatles than I did back then. Some things about them I would rather forget, but they are what I find necessary to know. I know now that the Beatles were not perfect—that all four of them were actually quite flawed and did some pretty unspeakable things. I see now that like us, the Beatles were just fellow humans trying to make sense of the world, and that has actually made them more relatable. I actually see them now with clear eyes than with the rose-colored spectacles I used to see them in. I see them and I respect themnot for being global superstars, but for being a group of regular guys whose hard work and ambition took them to places once thought impossible.

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I don’t think I will ever stop being a fan. I’ve invested far too much time and effort to stop. After all, I have been listening to them for half my life. The Beatles’ songs are the soundtrack of my life. Their music will always bring me back to nostalgic, less complicated times: to a time when I was a young 10-year-old with no care in the world, to a time of innocence and self-discovery, to a time long forgotten. In their music, I can look back on my memories—the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am looking forward to the future, knowing that I will be making even more memories with them. The Beatles and I are forever.

Melanie Cuenco

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Memories, Digital Photography by Donna Medalla

Samantha Almaden

Fellow for Fiction, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

Tuara Balak

Gahandum ka sa Nasaag na bituon Nilupad na bulak Nahanaw na balangaw Gahuwat ka sa Pagsaka ug kanaog sa nagsubong adlaw Sa mala-umon na buwan Gahuna-huna ka sa Pagbayle sa mga kahoy Sonata sa mga langgam Pagtaghoy sa hangin Mga butang na wala diri karon.

Gibuhi sa handurawan Sa nasaag na Hinyap Ug kung ugaling dili na ni Nimo magukod, ayaw kalimti na Katong imong gipangita kay Diara.

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Hapit Balak

Piso Gamay ang bili Apan kung ihatag Mo kini Suklian ka Ug tutok Ug katawa Ug gitik Kalit na pagpukaw Sa kalag mong lutaw Sanglit Wala ni nimo nabantayan Kay nagdali kang milakaw Samtang ang piso Mitaging-ting Mipaka Sa latang taya.

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Hangtod

Kinatibuk-ang Kalipay Sud sa Napulo Kasegundo

Balak

Paspas siyang milakaw Nag-inusara Sa kawanangang Napuno sa mga Sakyanan, Tiil, Na gipangapoy ug gukod sa Oras: Usa Paglingi Duha Paghimamat Tulo Pahiyum Upat Pagbawos Lima Pagsinati Unom Gitik sa kalag Pito Pitik sa dughan Walo Nahanaw na panagway Siyam Mita-up na pagbati Ug sa ika-napulong segundo Iya kining gibalik-balikan Gibalik-balikan Gibalik-balikan Samantha Almaden

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Gibalik-balikan Gibalik-balikan Gibalik-balikan Gibalik-balikan Hangtod karun.

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Poseidon, Digital Photography by Samantha Almaden

Michael Mahinay

Fellow for Fiction, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

The Agency of the Letter in the Manners of the Deviant

Essay

After some reflection, I realized that perhaps ambiversion is the most realistic of human personalities. I say perhaps so as to not risk backlash from those with the proper background on this discipline.

Allow me to elaborate. Every person experiences certain moments, if not days, wherein they do not feel like talking to others, and others normally withdrawn from society—which clique I belong to—sometimes find themselves in enthralling conversation with a select few others that they normally would not find themselves in the company of. In summary, we are all incapable of completely detaching ourselves from relationship, from connecting with entities outside of our own imagination.

But I digress from the matter at hand. What I hope to impart are not the tenets of the ambivert or the lack of knowledge thereof, but rather the maxims of writing, more specifically, an adequate—not to mention amorphous and certainly ambiguous— instruction on how to create a tale of fairies and fantasies.

What most people fail to tell others about the writing craft is that it, like the universe, is constituted of fundamentals, or elements, as is better stated in the contest of this discourse. Outside of these basic precepts, any literature, be it the honeyed verse of a poem, or the compelling paragraphs of a novel, is destined to unravel in ignominy.

In stark contrast, if handled appropriately, the elements converge to engender a most appealing and tasteful piece that sings to the senses—the gateways to the psyche—an aria that evokes the scenic, psychedelic horizons of the serene waterfront, the 52

peaceful mountain, and the tranquil glade, each impressing onto the judgment a striking pulchritude rarely resisted and compels the sinews to conduct the sight to lands of kaleidoscopic aesthetics beyond visual reason. The jasmine petals of the sampaguita bloom become ivory sheets in the summer heat, the bark of the narra assumes an impregnable texture akin to a marble without polish, and the betel nut becomes an egg with a yolk most foul to the teeth. And viscera from such sublime currents has neither measure for its intricacy nor justification for its beauty.

To condense, it is the grandeur of setting—mysterious yet lucid, concealed yet blatant, most concrete in the surreal portraits of realities distorted by dreamlike concepts, oftean to the vulgar extent projected in the paintings by the acclaimed Salvador Dali (though it must be considered that the art discussed is a manifestation of the unconscious). A wonder of the ideas of location and space is that it possesses an essential splendor, and this includes even the atrocities of landfills and marine debris. It is a nauseating revelation, but I have come to terms with it, because not every fantasy transpires in utopian realms.

It is pitiful that I am not always received warmly for my autodidactic, unconventional endeavors. Met with plain confusion or calescent hostility, I leave frustrated and opposed, wrestling with the urge to lambaste them as best as my lungs could muster.

Another liberty of writing is that the beings—be they human or not—carry an anomalous, if not peculiar, configuration of aspects that ascribe to them the gift of individuality—they bear names and with that the responsibility to fulfill those names. Take the case of Gloriana the Faerie Queen for instance, a comely apparition presented (or rather represented) by the knights sworn under her ensign, or Maria Makiling a fairy bound by faith to a mountain whose pristine slopes flow with bounty from the veins in her breast.

For myself, my people, notwithstanding race, ethnicity, or species, are close to me by dint of some prominent eccentricity, perhaps not as lofty as my own, but sufficiently overt so as to define them significantly as I have been labeled, though a point of Michael Mahinay

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contrast between them and I: the milieus where they were conceived were more sympathetic of their differences; they were not deemed deviants for the worse, but instead ascended to a celestial rung of renown. An aristocrat who wanders away from wealth to master the blade; an artisan who treads imitation in search of his patent; a monk who meditates in total seclusion, patient and waiting; a glutton whose strength and appetite borders on obscene; a child who aspires to unite warriors ostracized by their own power and skills under his cause, each of these souls share an intimate rapport with me on account of a sliver of my own multifaceted identity I endowed onto their characters, ensconced into the core of their dispositional complexions like a seed that is to branch out into a myriad of memories and incidents that shall continuously shape them throughout the canons of their existences.

And how does it do so? Why with trial and tribulation.

Predicament is the mother of harmony. How so? Well, if one dwells on the formula, one may perceive a balancing act between deeds of good and exploits of evil; they are never too distant from each other, for how else could a reader tell each apart? Opposition delineates sides that mirror the human nature of segregation; that inclination to class and categorize, often to ill—and astonishingly violent—effects.

Oh well, drama is drama, regardless of the degree of repulsiveness. And anyways, no Joker, no Batman; no wicked stepmother, no Cinderella; no sin, no God. Is it tragic? Abhorrent? Blasphemous?

That is up to your decision entirely. Not everyone underwent the same labyrinth of disparaging hardships that I had to endure like a hail of rocks, emerging from the other side practically a stone myself, embracing (or perhaps proclaiming) my status as persona non grata. Hell, I even celebrate it, ranting about the strangest coalitions such as the Romanticist Teletubbies or dinosaurs able to vanquish demons. My sole regret was not accepting the prisms of my divergent temperament earlier, although I did trip aplenty trying to adjust to the regulations of peer pressure, so I might have overstepped its bounds for some prolonged duration.

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It is a comfort knowing that in fantasy, conflict is no more dangerous than a plastic toy leopard (unless swallowed), as the genre must always involve the consensus of some unattainable principle, because the strife that occurs in such a backdrop is always amplified (with sword and sorcery) in order to emphasize the narrative’s rosters of heroes and villains—two clashing forces that germinated from parallel beliefs that each party’s respective doctrines of the lawful and criminal are the ideal to a prosperous future.

Poetry requires a central metaphor, whereas fiction bids a theme— the core of any story, not descried altogether in a single congregation, but deciphered in a dispersed, variegated array of avatars that embody a particular feature of it.

Characters are not just people, they are also manifestations of thoughts and viewpoints. Some do not encourage teenage sex; others mark it as a rite of passage into adulthood. For some, brawn trumps brains, whilst for others the opposite philosophy applies. In one context, the theme may be a dictionary of personal attitudes. Returning to my example on characterization, an outcast may connote the rejection of royalty, the self-inflicted privation of privilege, hermitage from tradition, indolence from praxis, et cetera.

And now I must reiterate my stance on the business of conflict. Staking barriers may open venues for denigration, but they also promise opportunities for the creative soul. Disparity breeds dissension, I must repeat, as well as distinction. How confusing and dull would any tale be if it merely follows a linear sequence of brawls and skirmishes simply because each protagonist was of equal bellicosity? Just as we are constantly reminded to respect foreign colors and flavors, we must be mindful of the verity that a hero or villain is better admired or abominated in the radiance of his or her uniqueness. The challenge here is how to competently arrange the knots and twists to produce the desired (Or would predestined be a more suitable adjective?) result.

Take it from someone who has decently immersed themselves Michael Mahinay

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in the passions of writing. At times it is tedious, on occasion it can be hollow, but the rewards achieved at the end of this maze are of a tier of satisfaction appreciated by a select few. Just remember: Don’t resort to substandard performance; be selfish, and be proud, because the path changes, and I am not you, nor can I dictate the composure of you.

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Handurawan, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Dianna Manguling

Dear Mr. Might Have Been Essay

Dear Mr. Might Have Been, I was peacefully sitting at the far end of the cafeteria when you strolled by. You noticed me and called out using the name our English professor dubbed me with.

“Ms. Dubai!” You said with a grin. “Why are you being a loner?”

I smiled back. “Oh, hello,” I said.

Saying nothing more, I began picking on my salad. You passed right by, bought something and, passing by my table, you beckoned saying, “Come on, so you won’t be alone.”

It was a half-hearted offer but a nice gesture nonetheless, so I bit back my annoyance and told you I was alright where I was.

You left me quite confused, you did. I don’t quite understand you.

You see, I usually get people—how their minds work, their character, and sometimes how they would most likely react to certain things. But you, you’re different; different enough to rouse my curiosity, to be very honest.

So let me summarize what information I’ve gleaned about you from the things you mentioned in our class: you are a runway model, as our professor loves to reiterate; you’re a Psychology student; you used to be in the seminary; your mother scolds you every hour of every day, as you yourself said, although I’m pretty sure that bit was grossly exaggerated. I’ve had my own observations apart from those, though. You’re one of those rowdy kinds of students and it’s difficult to ignore you. I’ve listened to how you reason out and answer questions, also your behavior towards other people.

I have no judgments, only observations and a whole lot of questions. You project a carefree demeanor. You walk as though 58

you own the place, but you also show compassion. You are confident, that much I am sure of, but you talk like you don’t know what you want to do with your life. Do you not? Why did you get out of the seminary? I remember you saying in class once that you’re just in uni for the sake of it and to appease your mom. Is that true? Why? How come?

I have loads of questions, do I not? I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m curious. I don’t think I’ll ever get answers, though. I’ve known people like you; interesting but temporary. That is by no fault of yours. My curiosity is fickle and my attention span too short for my own good. So I resigned myself to write this letter, quite sure you will never get to read it, and remain quiet. All the while I will be hoping that you figure yourself out one day and that I’d be there to see it.

I miss you more than I care to admit.

You know, things could’ve been great. We could’ve went on that date that had to be postponed for weeks, because you were busy traipsing around the island, going to China, and doing business-y stuff, while I’m drowning in university work. We would have had fun drinking milk tea–no, actually I hate milk tea, so you would have been a gentleman and opted for fro-yo instead–and talked for hours. We would have just sat there, comfortable with the silence, the stress draining away from our minds and limbs because we’re together. We would have had a blast.

You would have told me about the new company you’re setting up, and I would’ve been a bit bored but willing to listen nonetheless. I would’ve admired your drive to start early and become independent. You would have told me about that pub you and your friends set up, just for kicks, and I would have told you how much my friends liked going there. And I would have told you about university, and how it is slowly killing me, but that I love it more because of that.

We could have gone on road trips; we could’ve gone hiking; we could’ve spent an entire day on a carnival or arcade to simply be the kids we’ll never truly outgrow. We could have laughed at how silly K-Pop sounds, swapped books to read, and watched bad movDianna Manguling

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ies just for the thrill of it. We could’ve made a bucket list together, ticking off one item at a time and having the time of our lives.

I could’ve taken care of you on sick days, telling you off for not taking proper care of yourself, and you could’ve thrown my sermon right back at me because I sleep late and skip meals. You would have insisted on bringing me food when I’m too lazy to get some for myself, or force-fed me when I’m being a brat.

You would’ve scolded me for procrastinating, because you’re a workaholic and could not rest while something is undone. We could’ve done our work together, you on your proposals and papers, me on my never-ending stream of to-dos. We wouldn’t have minded the all-nighters; they would’ve been fun.

I would’ve introduced you to my parents proudly, because I suspected you wouldn’t have withered even when my Dad berated you—he most definitely would have, by the way. He would have eventually accepted your existence and slowly talked to you with a voice several octaves lower than he used the first time. My Mom would have liked you, I’m sure of it. You would have met and liked my brother, the two of you competing in video games and basketball. You would’ve been invited to dinners, and family celebrations, maybe even summers at home in Dubai.

You would’ve introduced me to your parents. Your mom would have insisted on teaching me how to cook, inviting me to your place on weekends and making dinners for the family. Your sister and I could’ve shared our interests in music, or we could’ve squealed about our celebrity crushes and teased you. You would’ve been jealous of those celebrities, and I would’ve kissed you on the nose and told you you’re perfect. And you would’ve smiled that shy smile I love so much, and I would’ve joked that I take it back.

I could’ve been yours. You could’ve been mine. We might have been. But that’s all it’s ever going to be, and I’m pretty sure I like it that way.

You were there when no one else was. You were my sanity on the days when madness almost had its grimy fingers around me.

You made me happy.

I loved you. I did, but not in the way you wanted. I knew how 60

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you felt, and knew also that I could not at the time reciprocate it.

I needed you, but I couldn’t stand myself if I had used you then. You were too important for me to destroy.

So I left.

I left and you were hurt. You were hurt, and you were in pain, but you weren’t broken. I had left just in time.

I was right.

Now, many months later, I bumped into you. We talked again, still like the way we used to. Comfortable. Familiar. Honest. It was like there never could be any ill will between us. All was forgiven.

All was forgotten. Everything was right in the world. Maybe time really is the strongest magic.

I am happy you are whole.

You are my friend, my brother. You understand me in ways no one else could. You are gentle, and sensitive, and way too good for me.

I read once that grief is not something that goes away when morning comes. Neither does longing. Like love, it will keep growing as time passes. But unlike love, it carves and does not fill.

I still need you, yet still not in the way you’d want me to. Perhaps never in the way you want me to.

Sincerely, Miss Never Gonna Happen

Dianna Manguling

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Icarus’s Dream, Digital Photography by Donna Medalla

Kristoff Peralta

Fellow for Fiction, Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

The Heyday of Rage Novel Extract

For the first time in a summer afternoon, it began to rain. The heat that brooded over the city fleeted into the cold air like a phantom. The black skies danced to the beat of thunder and lightning.

The masses weren’t at all concerned of the war dance above as themselves braced from the cloudburst, and took cover under the trees or under the nearest eaves and shades. A sea of colored umbrellas blanketed the once barren streets. Others donned coats or makeshift covers. The roads shimmered and fumed as the last hint of the summer heat evanesced. Cars honked at each other as the traffic paced like a snail. It was a theatrical scene minus the actors, faux wardrobe, and faux mises en scène.

From above the faux theater, behind the windows of a house, Church didn’t bother to watch the whole scene unfold. He busied himself with a book (A Separate Peace by John Knowles) while he listened to a music on his old iPod (Sufjan Stevens). But what seized him from his leisure and made him stood from his couch, was the sound of sirens. He was never fond of such hoo-has but the sound of sirens screams trouble for him. He was cautious as he moved towards the window of his room. From his view, he saw ambulances and firetrucks; rain-soaked sentinels barricaded the area from curious onlookers, and maneuvered the cars into other routes. Then he saw what the commotion was about. All the colors from his face were gone, and the hair in his neck and arms stood at end when he saw the charred remains of an edifice he was familiar with. He clenched his fist at the burnt books that strewed the remains of his favorite bookstore. He was flooded with memories of his childhood, the smell of old books, the feel of paper to his skin. He stumbled back from the window and hit a coffee table 63

that almost fell had he not clutched it. But the demitasse that was half-filled with tea was now lying broken on the floor. All the tea soaked the mat under his feet. He had no time to clean the mess.

He undid his robe, and dressed on an old coat. He snatched the book and the iPod from the couch, and hid the book inside the unused empty tank of the toilet bowl while he hid the iPod inside a cereal box in the kitchen cabinet. If the Curia had him under surveillance, he had to be careful. No one must find out about his hidden cache of contraband books, music, and art, or else.

He found his umbrella but he set it back to its place when he remembered: tucked on one of his notebooks, hidden inside a floor board under his bed, there was a small note with a name, an address and a contact number written on it. He extracted the small note from the notebook and mulled over its content. He paced around his room, unsure of his next move. He looked at the burnt bookstore before his windows.

He made his decision and out the door he went.

As he descended the stairs, an old, robust woman came towards him and he knew what she wanted.

“Come back next week, Mrs. Yu,” he called. “I don’t have cash with me right now.”

“You can’t ditch me this time! You need to settle the dues or else—” He was out of the main door before Mrs. Yu could finish her rant about rents.

The cold didn’t bother him as he drove off in his old handdown jeep. His mind was filled with bewilderment that he hadn’t noticed that he had left his umbrella in the apartment. It took him half an hour to reach his destination due to the traffic. So he left his jeep somewhere remote but close, and decided to walk with blithe chafe of the rain. He walked a few meters more before he reached an abandoned lane, and from there, he approached a back door where on the front it said, E X I T. He surveilled the area.

Sentinels could be around and he couldn’t risk to be deemed suspicious. Twice he knocked on the door and an old, stalwart man was there in an instant.

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“Uncle Marius,” said Church in acknowledgment, his face all wet and tense from the cold rain, driblets of rainwater trickled from his hair down.

His uncle wrapped Church in an embrace, and led them in.

Inside, Church took out his rain-drenched coat and slung it on a rack, and was led to the front room. He took a long sweeping look of the tavern.

Uncle Marius called it the Moor. He had tended it ever since he was a teen until after the Curia took mandate, and dedicated himself to the cause of which his wife and son felt indifferent towards, and abandoned him. The Moor had been now known as a safe house for the members of the resistance. It used to be a favorite rendezvous of artists. Artists all over would frequent it because of its undeniable piquance and aesthetic value. But now, chairs and tables concealed under dust-covered white cloths cluttered most of the room. Some were stacked on each other. Some were overturned. Lit and unlit custom-made lights fashioned into various shapes of different colors hung from the ceiling. There was an unused old shelf in one wall. Church took a special notice of the graffiti and artworks that filled the walls of the tavern, nostalgia hitting him in all his senses. It was the first time he looked at it closely, because every time he comes here, he tried to avoid the walls. The tavern walls reminded him of the same walls of his old room at the house where he spent the last months of his childhood years. Before his mother died, she hand-painted the walls of his room as a present for him.

“Your mother did a great job on the walls, didn’t she?” said Uncle Marius, referring to the graffiti on the tavern walls.

Church remained silent, his eyes fixed on the walls. He felt a warm touch at his shoulder.

“I know you miss her,” said Uncle Marius. “I miss her too.”

Outside, the thunder carried on with its war dance. The rain went on with its torrid assault of the earth.

Church shuddered himself from the memories of his mother. He faced his uncle and with earnest conviction he said, “We’ll need to call arms.”

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Uncle Marius seemed affected with his proposition. “You know we can’t do that. You know what I stand for.”

Uncle Marius led them to the back of the saloon, and revealed a door on the wall to a hidden bottom stairs. It creaked under their weight as they wound down its dark path. Their only source of illumination was from Uncle Marius’s hand-held flashlight.

There was another door, and it opened to a large, well-lighted room. Church at once was assaulted by an old, familiar smell.

The walls of the room were lined with columns after columns of bookshelves, all filled with banned and undocumented books blacklisted by the Curia. On one wall, below a walled bookshelf was a television set. All eyes in the room where upon it. News about the latest fire could be heard from the screen. At the center were seats. Seated on the couch were two men, Devon and Boris. A fourteen-year-old boy who went by the name Beck was seated on the other side of the couch, reading a book. Seated on the armchair and drinking her tea was Miriam, a woman in her mid-twenties. Church beamed at her but she dismissed him with a scowl. Devon and Boris noticed it and both chuckled. A young girl emerged from somewhere between the shelves. He could tell that she was of Beck’s age. Church noticed at once the books on her arms.

“Flaubert, Nabokov, and du Maurier. Bold choices for a kid like you,” commented Church.

He waited for an answer, or at least a reaction from her, but she remained stoic, so he faced his uncle and asked, “Who’s this girl?”

“She fled from her father when he burned all her books,” answered Miriam. “And she isn’t a this. Her name’s Louise. ” “Isn’t it unsafe for her to be here?” asked Church. “I mean, how she’d found us?”

“Don’t be afraid, Church.” Another voice answered from the ensemble. It sounded condescending, at least for Church. The voice was from Beck, who was too absorbed with a book to look at him. Church couldn’t arrive to an answer on what made Beck hated him so much. “She’s a fleer now. Besides, her mother wouldn’t want her back. It is I who found her and led her here. She’s a far 66

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better reader than—” Church retorted with a chafe. “I didn’t ask you, book licker!”

Beck closed the book with a loud thud, and was about to come back with a remark when Uncle Marius cut him off.

“Let’s all settle down,” ordered Uncle Marius, turning off the television. “There’s a more crucial matter we need to discuss.”

All faces turned to severe seriousness. Church, Louise, and Uncle Marius all sat on the free armchairs. “What shall we do?” asked Boris.

“Our comrades have informed us of the same situation in other cities,” said Uncle Marius. “After the museums, they are targeting libraries and bookstores.”

“Thus, we need to act, now!” said Devon. “We can’t allow them to rid the world of arts because of their wretched excuse to conserve moral values!”

“He’s right!” seconded Boris. “Fuck moral values! Fuck them all!”

“We all need to calm down,” said Uncle Marius. “We need to think about our next move.”

Over the discussion, Church was silent. He mulled over the events of the afternoon. The crescents that loomed beneath his eyes were growing darker and darker. His furor had swollen like a lump in his stomach.

“I am with Devon,” declared Church. “I can’t sit here and calm down.”

“Wait. But how?” asked Miriam. “We’re outnumbered, and we’re not soldiers.” “‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light,’” quoted Church.

“We’re not soldiers but I will not let the future suffer and die.

We’ll need to call arms.”

“No,” said Uncle Marius. “Listen to me, Church. We’re artists.

Probably the last ones. We’re our own soldiers now but we do not resort to bloodshed. Our shared love for the arts has led us to each other. We need to remind others of this love. Let them remember.

But we will not use arms. We will show them the power of the arts through our works. We’ll show them our act of rage through Kristoff Peralta

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our stories. That’s our weapon. That is how we would do it. ” There was silence as Uncle Marius’s heartfelt words struck them. But Church was unconvinced.

“Are you listening to yourself ?” said Church. “We have been writing and creating, still, they won’t listen! We have tried but no one would dare to care. This is our life! Your life! The only life we know! I am tired of them taking away everything from us!”

“We can’t resort to violence,” cried out Uncle Marius. “You know that!”

“I have contacted the arms dealer while on the way here,” announced Church, his face sunken. “And we can’t back down now.

The heyday of rage is upon them.”

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Anatomy of Melancholy, Digital Photography by Mary Robin Quinain

Merah Wif

Forgive Me, Diary Essay

I’m sorry, dear diary, for what I must write here are the things that bother me. I’m afraid you are the only one I could tell my secrets to. Also, I like you to know that I’m always sad these days.

I feel unmotivated and restless all the time. That is why I thought about writing to you. You must expect that most of the things I will write here are sad, frustrating, and odd. So I’m sorry, dearest diary. I have friends who will listen, sure, but I’m too scared to be judged or misunderstood. I’m too scared about everything in my life.

I envy other people sometimes. Some of them turn to their God, bend their knees and ask for His help. They somehow manage to feel better afterwards. Some turn to drugs and alcohol and become dependent to these substances. Before they know it, they become addicts, slaves to the feeling of temporary numbness.

Others turn to nature because it calms the mind. Still others read books, travel, take photos, go skateboarding, make art, meditate and all that other stuff. Each person has their own way of escaping ‘reality’. I tried every single one of them, dear diary, but my inner battle did not stop.

I I was always called stubborn when I was a child. When I was in high-school, I was called stubborn again by the principal. She was a nun. What she said was for me a valid and fair judgment. I have sinned because a nun called me stubborn. I needed to change who I was—or that’s what I thought.

Every morning, we were asked to say four to five different 70

prayers depending on what day it was. At first it was cool that I was able to memorize over ten prayers and show it off to my lola and my religious relatives. Other than stubborn, though, this time I was named the smart grandchild. I did good in school and graduated with honors. I was proud. But after quite some time, I wasn’t proud anymore. I was disappointed in myself. I started to develop different views and beliefs, I didn’t know how and why. Maybe it was the books I read, or the TV shows I watched. I was confused about everything I know and everything I believed in. Was I just a cow, thrown into a herd where I was asked to conform, and moo when other cows mooed? I learned this cow thing from a book I read, so maybe it was the books that got me thinking, then.

Anyway, I moved away from home, dear diary. I went to the city, where “opportunities are waiting”—my neighbor’s principle in life. Why did you ever think that, my dear neighbor?

II In this world full of mystery—can you believe that 86% of sea creatures are still unknown—who wouldn’t be curious? I remember my first year in the city. I was a different person then. I wore clothes that you can only wear in the city, clothes that would get you called “arte” or “sosyal” in the province—once again our neighbor’s favorite words when she’s outside watching passers-by.

I was eager to start a new lifestyle and earn from my passion: singing and writing. I was convinced that I can achieve everything I want and it will be easy. I was living the teenage dream: singing in cafes, going to art galleries, watching cool bands, smoking weed and drinking with friends. I was ecstatic for a while, but like all good things, the feeling came to an end.

It is so easy to say, “Do whatever makes you happy,” but what if my parents aren’t happy with what makes me happy? What if the things that make me happy will make me poor and uneducated? Those things are deemed bad in this society, right? Most people who do not follow the rules are neglected and ousted in Merah Wif

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our society, right? Societal norms and people’s expectations made me do things I didn’t want to, because I was too afraid to be the captain of my own ship. My parents didn’t understand the way I lived my life. What is wrong and what is right, dear diary? It was frustrating because I was a disappointment to them, but at the same time, I liked who I was. I tried so hard to do the things they expected me to do, to impress them and get a validation for my existence. I’m sorry, dear diary, but I was once again sad and lost. Why do we really need to know who we are and what we’re here for? I flunked the exam called life. I flunked hard, dear diary.

I didn’t become the singer I always dreamt to be, and I certainly didn’t become Virginia Woolf. My neighbor was wrong. There are no opportunities here in the city.

III I felt like a failure. Life is hard, my dear diary. That’s why humans make all kinds of stuff that ease the pain, like writing to a diary or create art. One of my favorite quotes is, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life,” by Oscar Wilde. It amazes me how some works of art still remain a mystery to this world and some even give us a glimpse of the future. Like this latest obsession I had with Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam painting, I learned how the arrangement of God and the angels are forming the shape of a brain. It blew my mind. Why did he think that? Is Michelangelo telling us a secret about the universe? My point, dear diary, is that art saved me from the great storm happening inside of me. It didn’t stop the strong waves and the harsh winds, but it kept me from drowning.

While I was lost and floating away from the world to find myself, I realized that instead of wallowing in sadness, I should take small steps towards what I truly want. I could still do what I love even when I enroll for college, I thought. I read books, I draw, I still sing in cafes sometimes, and I started to write my own poems and collaborate with my artist friends. I feel alright sometimes, 72

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but I was depressed for a long time and didn’t feel like going outside and hang out with people. But I enjoyed every visit to art galleries when my friends have art shows, I enjoyed watching my boyfriend paint, I enjoyed listening to new music, I loved my time alone just writing anything I could think of, and I loved listening to the calm sea during sunset. Art was not an escape anymore, I made it my reality.

IV Being imprisoned by our own minds is very dangerous and it could get very lonely. You see, dear diary, I’m always thinking about something. I could be writing now, but my mind is wandering somewhere else. That’s just how it is with me. Most of the time, my mind is full of anxieties and fears. Sometimes it’s full of new ideas and words, words, words. There’s too much noise inside my head. It’s often clouded by these noises and whispers and I can’t think straight. When this happens, I go trekking or swimming to calm my thoughts. I love the mountains and the sea.

When I sit in silence near the ocean, I feel calm and safe.

When did it get so crowded inside my head? Maybe this is the sad part about knowing too much, dear diary. You can’t stop thinking about many things, like what you can do to save the world from war and stupidity. Is ignorance really bliss, dear diary? I want liberation from my own thoughts.

V I’ve always been so afraid of being alone. I thought it was boring and lonely. Right now, I dread socializing. I think a person can be really lonely in a sea of people and feel really happy in the company of his own self. I still enjoy socializing sometimes, but I prefer a small group of friends talking about interesting things, not people. Solitude can be dangerous, dear diary. You can get lost Merah Wif

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with your own thoughts or you can master how to handle them.

You will experience both, actually. It is only in my solitude that I get liberated from my own thoughts. I mean, liberated from the limits of my thoughts. When I’m alone, I could think about all the deepest, darkest secrets I have. It allows me to know myself more. I think being aware of who you are and what you want is a step towards loving oneself. How can you love someone you don’t know, right?

VI I’m insecure, dear diary. It’s hard to admit, but this can be our secret. It’s like a hideous beast hiding behind me, together with my other issues. Sometimes, it visits me and then it goes away. My friend said it’s normal because I’m a girl. So women are commonly insecure? I remember obsessing over some girl’s Instagram account and torturing myself by thinking how I can’t be as pretty and talented as her. It was depressing, dear diary.

Self-love. It’s not taught in schools. They don’t even want you to show your true self. They want you to reach for the stars, dream big, but they mold you into something that fits their standard. I think society and culture trap us into thinking that there is a box you must keep yourself in. My friend can’t have blue hair because it’s not allowed;my gay friend can’t wear a blouse because it’s not right; and I’m not allowed to wear my favorite tattered jeans because it doesn’t look “smart”. I’m sorry, dear diary, I love learning new things in school, but some rules are ridiculous. Some of these rules are the reason why students neglect their mental health. I feel sorry for those people who feel bad about their sexuality and their choice of clothes because most of the people conform to the “norm,” and we hate ourselves for being different. I think this world needs a spiritual revolution, and it should start by knowing our true selves.

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VII I’m sorry for this weird title, dear diary. I named this entry Transit Period because the astrologer I e-mailed last week replied to me and he said that this month is my transit period. I don’t know what it means, but I feel in my bones that it is happening. I’m very bored with my routine, dear diary. Is this the life I want to live? I’ve been in college for 5 years and I’m not really doing great in school. I drag myself to school everyday. I want to live in an island and not worry about money. I want a simple life, free from anxiety and pressure. This month, these “wants” became too strong to be ignored. Maybe it is my transit period, after all.

When I think about the word ‘passing’, I think of death. It also means the start of something new, but before that, it is the death of something, like how moving to another place means the end of some relationships but also a start of new ones. People are afraid to die because it is uncertain what’s on the other side. We are always afraid of the things that we do not know.

How does one take another path and not be afraid of what’s going to happen next? How do you have courage and take the road less traveled, dear diary? I am unhappy and I still feel empty sometimes. I have nothing else to say, except I am unhappy and I am still lost.

You see, dear diary, I didn’t find the secret to a happy life because I’m starting to think that there is no secret, there is only Life. I decided that I will find bits of heaven on earth by living for the little things that give me pure bliss— like the beautiful sunset and sunrise, the sea and the mountains, kisses on my forehead, a smile from a stranger and the appreciation from the people I love.

I’m not really sure if this void will be filled someday. All I know is that I’m not alone and I have nature. I’m sorry, dear diary, I may have to end this here. Always know that when I’m not writing to you, I am participating in life. I used to hate life, but I love it now, dear diary. I live and the world’s multiplicity does not bother me anymore. I am allowing myself to be inconsistent and unbound by conventions. Let me thank you by giving you this excerpt from Merah Wif

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my poem; Although she seldom sees the light, Smells the fresh air, And feels the sun’s warmth, There are times when she could.

And she loved it every time.

She believed that the things That are temporary Are the most beautiful.

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Merah Wif

Love and What Comes Next Essay

Love. Everyone tries so hard to explain it, to give its exact definition. I can go on and write beautiful words about it. However, I am not that kind of writer. I don’t always have the right words to say. But I still do it, and I still keep writing. Though I don’t stop to sense every detail just so I can put it on paper, I write because I love it. Love. Every day is a chance to give it, to feel it. I guess love keeps you going.

I wish I could write an essay about the most talked “feeling” in the world. But I’m not all sunny and gay—I’m anxious and pessimistic. Every time I think about love, I think of betrayal, hate and indifference; we are taught to believe that the world is harsh and cruel.

For most of us though, we found out that love can be the light at the end of the tunnel. It is the part in movies where the scene starts panning out in slow motion, butterflies (or fireflies) flying around, the sun (or the moon) shining brightly, with the background music making it more “romantic”. It’s the cliché moments that most of us fantasize, those lines that made Nicholas Sparks and John Green famous.

However, real life does not have that. Real life does not have butterflies flying around, nor does it have a beautiful music on the background.

I remember how I gushed about these novels when I was younger. And when I was older, I remember how I hated them for hiding the ugly truth. It is not their fault, really. I guess it is just that when we get older, we become a walking caricature of anxieties and fears. Maybe, these authors just know how to deal with it and make it aesthetically pleasing.

When I was a little girl, I expected that the world would be all 77

nice and easy. Didn’t we all? Our home is where we first receive love and acceptance. It is the most beautiful refuge. The strongest storm did not even scare me because I thought I was home.

But I was wrong.

Home became a place of fear and unspoken grudges. It became far from a place of paradise. Often, I would close my eyes and imagine that I was flying away.

It was midnight. I woke up to the harsh sound of videoke and drunk laughter. I could still feel the cold air that brushed over my face that night as I walked out of our room to check what was happening outside. I was not completely awake. All I remember was that I was annoyed by the noise, and for some reason, I wanted to see what was causing it. I peeked through the window, its cold metal frame sending chills down my half-awake body. I saw the empty beer bottles laying on the ground, the table cluttered with chips. At the far end of a wooden bench, I saw a woman wearing a familiar purple blouse. In the arms of a familiar man. I could not really tell who it was. Poor eyesight was the reason, it was all a blur. When I got bored of watching the adults having a good time, I returned to my bed. I went right back to sleep but I could not shake the heavy feeling in my chest.

Morning came and I did my usual routine: went straight to the kitchen, drank milk and turned on the TV. I checked my phone and saw my dad’s post on Facebook. He was in Korea at the time with his buddies. He was all smiles but I could tell from his eyes that he would rather wander around a different country with us.

It was usual for my mom to be awake early. Today, however, she was not. During the commercial break, I went to my mother’s bedroom to check on her. There I saw my mom, sleeping peacefully, her face so pretty even with her mouth slightly open.

In a purple blouse.

My mother, my best friend, in her deep slumber, looking divine in that purple blouse.

I was heartbroken. I did not know how to deal with it, or deal with her. How do we deal with intense feelings other than love?

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it? How do you get it out of your system? I did not know. I still do not know, really. Every day we try to conceal our brokenness. We move on, or at least we try to forget about the things that caused us much pain.

But in my case, I grew up and I moved forward.

This morning, as I sipped my hot coffee, I felt a warm embrace from behind. A familiar, safe feeling came over me. My boyfriend and I turned 9 years today. I suddenly remembered my mom and my dad. It was not easy. It was not that easy to trust a person again, to share your space with someone, to show them your scars without being judged, and to not think about them leaving you one day. I was lucky, I guess. Someone showed an interest in me, with my indecisiveness, trust issues, and shattered self. It was easier to deal with the world’s cruelty with someone by your side, with someone who shares the same views and principles. There are things that I have to figure out by myself, sometimes. But I am glad that I have someone to hold on to when I start to doubt myself.

Now that I am older, I realized that love is love. It is faith, it is loyalty, it is hope and it comes with all the other stuff. And home?

Home is a feeling. Sometimes, it is a person, and sometimes, we have not seen or felt it yet. For a person like me, home is every place I’ve been to. I have been searching for it for a long time and I am just starting to realize that in every place I have traveled to, I left pieces of me there. My heart was broken in one place but it was mended by so many places, by so many people.

Tomorrow, I will go back to my hometown. To a place where I was cradled to sleep during those dark times, to a place where I learned to forgive. I am young and I am still learning to deal with life and its unpredictable nature. All I know is I have a home to go back to, and I have people to love. I strive to be at peace with myself amidst the pain and confusion. I guess our task is not to seek for love, but merely to find the wounds and the barriers that keep us from giving and receiving love.

I wanted to write an essay about the most talked about feeling in the world, but I have limited vocabulary. Home and love, these Merah Wif

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are beyond the words I know. Life is all about unlimited possibilities. And love? I really believe that it keeps us going, even with life’s tragedies and the world’s cruelty.

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Flammable, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Jessamyn Adigue

Hearth Poem

These little embers of feelings bring warmth to these cold hands and icy heart but I won’t toss in firewood or stoke its kindling.

These young sparks will have to fizzle out lest I burn myself getting too close to a growing fire.

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Obra, Digital Photography by Samantha Almaden

Aubrey Gail Mariano

If I Were a Whale

Essay

Animals below sea level are contiguous to my heart. Maybe because I love the sea more than I love other people. Others have cold feet playing with the sea because they always envisage that something underneath is going to grab them and drag them to the abyss. But to me, the sea is my home. The sea is my assuagement. My place of rest through the good and the bad times. The sea is where I was born. The sea is my jungle gym. The sea is every piece of me. The sea is where I should invariably be.

I want to be a fish even just for a day and stay under the line that separates me from the real world and wander to its parts I have never been and seen before. But that is too impossible because aside from my breathe-hold is only a minute and twenty seconds, that doesn’t make me a whale, still. I cannot handle the pressure underwater. Every time I go beyond ten feet, my eardrums are detonating, equalizing is not enough to go beyond my bounds.

The more I go deeper, the more pressure I feel and I find it a sick in my heart. There are a lot of parts of the ocean that aren’t explored yet because every human has limits in their bodies where it stops them from going beyond or death will welcome them.

Whales on the other hand, can withstand dramatic pressures because their bodies are more flexible and their lungs are made by loose and bendable cartilage which allows the rib cage to collapse for pressures that would easily snap our bones. I envy them and I want to be like them. Aside from that they are just animals, they live in the place I wish to stay on forever. Whales can survive through hunting giant squids at depths of seven thousand feet or more, and most importantly, they can manage pressure I cannot.

Pressure below sea level, pressure above sea level, and pressure by other people are way different things, obviously.

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Hydro-static pressure is for water. Atmospheric pressure is for the earth’s atmosphere. Peer pressure is a direct influence by other people. Hydro-static pressure is exerted by the fluid at equilibrium at a given point within the fluid, due to the force of gravity and increases in proportion to depth measured from the surface because of the increasing weight of fluid exerting downward force from above. Atmospheric pressure is the pressure within the atmosphere of the earth and is closely approximated by hydro-static pressure and the pressure exerted by the weight of the atmosphere. Peer pressure is a social pressure by members of one’s peer group to take a certain action, adopt certain values, or otherwise conform in order to be accepted. Given these, peer pressure is the hardest to dive in, fly off, and overcome.

I remember back when I was in my elementary years, every time the bell rang for dismissal I would always bolt out going home because I would still want to bask under the remaining rays of the sun. I would call my playmates and we would relish in the company of the sun before it sleeps. It went on like that for seven years until my mom and I settled to another city in Mindanao where it was better than during my elementary years. In my new town, Oroquieta City, I learned a lot of things and miss a lot of things. Eleven years in Mindanao is full of amusement and hysteria for me. Mom didn’t care enough about my studies and school because she knew I can make it. I graduated from elementary and high school with flying colors and I’m really grateful for everything, and more than that, beholden. I decided to take up college away from home, away from Mindanao. I came to Cebu to study at my dream school, the University of San Carlos. But never in my mind have I thought that my life would go on this way.

I learned about being insecure in myself for just coming from a not-so well-known place in Mindanao. I always have this fear that I might not be able to graduate because the University is too terrifying for me. But I am here. I have been a consistent dean’s lister since my first year and I have always been an active student leader but I have become more bewildered than ever. There are a lot of things that still puzzle me and I hate to discuss, hear, or Aubrey Gail Mariano

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even think about these things because they make me feel less of a person.

Everyone has something they are really good at and something they are not good at, but do we deserve the credit for things we aren’t good at? I am conscience-stricken. I mentioned about being a consistent dean’s lister. But I am not smart, or am I? I have difficulties in grammar. I am shallow-minded. I am ignorant of a lot of things. Also I am funny. But it depends on how I define being smart and intelligent. The fact that I am in the list reflects the student in me. But the thing is I am not alone. I have classmates and friends who made it in the list too and I don’t want to believe they did. Am I that bad? Why? Because there are people who deserve the credit more than they do, more than I do. But it would be so selfish of me to say that they don’t deserve it—those who made it. However, I do believe that they are there, we are there because we put so much effort in school and took school seriously.

Could there be an “effort lister”? No offense with people who tried so hard in school but still didn’t make it in the list. I am not saying I don’t want the award, I just feel like it brings a lot of misconceptions and it fools other people for labeling a person smart because he/she is in the list.

My Mom did not know about me being consistently one of those people in the list until last summer. And it gives me so much pressure because never in her entire life did she try to tell me to be good in school and be part of something impressive. I am not failing. Yet. But I am afraid to fail. Because if I fail, my Mom—the most important person in my world—fails too. I always tell her that intelligence is never measured by a person’s credentials. That it doesn’t matter how low and high my grades are as long as I am taking school seriously. That things are better when I enjoy it. That I can do more than studying every night. That there are students who are good in school but fail in their relationships with other people because they don’t know how to handle them. That being able to know how to do something is way better than being just knowing that something. That being able to form squares out of the circles is way impressive than making more circles out 86

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of circles. That I am able to handle different kinds of people and keep them. That there is something I am good at and that I can do more than the grades I have that forces to define me as an individual. I always remind my Mom about all of these things every time I have my breakdowns. And she never fails to comfort me, motivate me, and tell me, “Just try, don’t let your efforts be wasted”.

My close friends and families have always been supportive to me. Other friends don’t want to believe I have done these things perhaps because of my personality? I cannot be sure. Others also have always believed that I deserve what I have and that I am more than what I think of myself. I am a graduating student. I am a student leader. I am an adventurer. But beyond that, I am a daughter. My father left us when I was in the third grade because he got so addicted with drugs. A daughter who wants nothing but her mother’s happiness to pay back everything she has done to me through the years. But I am afraid that one day, if people question me about my credentials and my intelligence as a student, I might say, “I have no idea, I just play DOTA, wander, and eat a lot,” and all the disappointments come.

If I were a whale, I wouldn’t be experiencing such pressures. I wouldn’t lock myself up in my room and think about the failures I might make in the process. I wouldn’t sit in my study table for hours and choose the right words to type in order to get wronged and be judged. I wouldn’t have to walk straight. If I were a whale, I could have been just making tiny bubbles out of my mouth. I could have just chase other fishes and enjoy the depths of the sea. I could have just felt the water all over my skin. I could have swam deeper and deeper not minding the pressure the water gives me because I know my capacity, I know myself. If only I were a whale. But am not. I am a human being who has to overcome shortcomings, stress, and pressures because these are mundane to us, and I have to accept that. Still, my love for the sea is incomparable. But more than anything else, everything else, anyone else in this world, I love my Mom.

Aubrey Gail Mariano

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Gaze of the Meek, Digital Photography by Mary Robin Quinain

Jeong Hyean

I Do Not Want To Be Like Her Essay

Sometimes I think I don’t want to be like my mom.

One night, I was working on my homework which was a usual thing for me to do after I got home from school. The atmosphere was heavy with silence. The only things I could hear were the sounds of typing and sighing. I was the only one in the room while my mom and sister were in the main room. No one came in and disturbed me. I didn’t know how many hours I worked.

Suddenly, my mom knocked on the door but I made no response.

She entered the room and asked, “About what time will you be finished?”

My answer was always the same: “I have no idea.” There was a pause for a few seconds. I could feel that she wanted to talk to me, but didn’t want to disturb me at the same time. Of course, I knew what she wanted to talk to me about. But I just focused on what I was doing. After a few minutes, my mom left the room quietly.

Then I stopped working and felt bad for her. There was only one way not to think of what happened: keep working.

“Wake up quickly! It’s time to go to school.” It was my mom.

I slowly opened my heavy eyes, got up, and walked to the bathroom. I turned on the water and waited for it to get hot. While waiting, I looked at myself in the mirror. Look at my dark circles.

Every college girl pays attention to their beauty. Of course, I am also one of the girls who cares about beauty. When the steam filled the bathroom, I entered the shower. This is the only time my mind wanders off from various things: school, family, the future and even the smallest problems. But I couldn’t help to think about what happened last night. While shampooing my hair, I came up with a list of questions to ask my mother: “Mom, why did you come into my room last night?”, “Mom, do you have anything to 89

tell me?”, “Mom, what are you doing now?” In the end, I couldn’t find the right question to ask, even until I put on my school uniform. After preparing for school, I left my room. I could hear my sister laughing while watching TV and the sound of water flowing from the faucet. I stepped down the stairs quietly and saw my sister in a yellow sleeveless dress with a chick print pattern on it.

She was watching her favorite animated television series Pororo in the living room. I put my bag on the sofa and sat. I looked at my mom, who was busy cooking scrambled eggs for breakfast. I could only see her back. The longer I stared, the more I realized she looked smaller than before. How come she looks smaller than me? It was the first time that I noticed her. She was smaller than me. She always looked taller and stronger than me. But as time passed, it changed. I blamed myself for not realizing that she’s getting older. I slowly went near the table where she was setting up breakfast for me.

“What will I have for breakfast?” I asked.

She quickly looked back and asked me when I came down.

“About five minutes ago?” I answered. She started serving food quickly and told me to sit first. I grabbed a chair and pulled it towards the table. After all the food was served, she sat in front of me and watched me eat. I made up my mind to ask her why she came into my room last night.

“Mom, do you have something to tell me?” I asked.

She earnestly asked me if I can go to the nursery with her because of my sister. I got a bit irritated, raised my voice, and said, “You know that I’ve been so busy these days, why don’t you go there by yourself ?” She also raised her voice when she answered back. This started a little disagreement between the two of us. So I stopped eating, left the food, and went out of the house.

When I arrived at school, everything didn’t work out. I kept thinking about what happened at home. I scolded myself. I should’ve never done it. I should’ve put myself into her shoes. It is not easy to adjust living in a foreign country. She is not even good at English. That is why she asks favors from me from time to time since I can speak English. All of a sudden, what she told 90

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me before crossed my mind. She said she was afraid of going out because she barely speaks English. One time, she told me, “You know? Since I came here, I’ve become so insecure and I’ve been feeling lonely.” I felt so sad and sorry for her. I could not listen and focus in my classes. I felt guilty and full of remorse.

After school, I took a taxi to go back home as quickly as I could. When I was in the taxi, I started thinking about how to initiate a heart-to-heart talk with mom. Should I ask her to grab a beer with me? Should I apologize to her? Should I ask her out and have fun? While thinking, I realized that the taxi was already in front of my place, so I had to get off the taxi without coming up with any solution. Until I got the key inside of my bag, I kept thinking about it. Then I decided that I would ask her to grab some beer with me later. I opened the door, but no one was in the living room, only silence and darkness. I turned on the light and went upstairs. I knocked at the door of her room before I went to my room to have a change of clothes. I could hear the door to her room opened. Then I heard a knock on mine. She quietly opened my door and asked what I would like to eat for dinner. She is always the one who tries to talk to me without hesitation even after a fight. I was late again as always.

When dinner was served, I held my sister’s right hand and helped her pad downstairs. She had a big smile on her face when she reached the floor. I smiled back at her. I took her up in my arms, settled her securely on her chair. I took my seat in front of her. Mom came and sat beside my sister and said, “Dig in!” While enjoying the meal, I spoke to mom. She looked at me with curious eyes. I asked her if she wanted to grab some beer with me after dinner. She answered with a smile on her face, “Sure.”

Sometimes I don’t want to be like my mom. She is always considerate for others. She pretends to be strong, spends all the time with the family, and gives everything to us.

Jeong Hyean

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Euphoria, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Veronica Berdin

Masterpiece Poem

Playful streaks of light peeked from the window panes Through the thick navy curtain she knitted for herself She opened her tired puffy eyes from last night And tossed the blanket that grew cold while wrapping her Sitting up, she took notice of everything around the room The broken keys of the piano, the torn pages of her journal And the rotten smell of the broken empty bottles of gin She noticed the colors oozing from the open tubes The lone paintbrush lay there with its hardened bristles Across the room stood a clean white canvas But she saw clearly the impasto beyond her naked eyes Such beauty contained within an empty masterpiece

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Grip, Digital Photography by Dolph Verallo

Renee Dublin

The Sound of Ripe Mangoes Short Story

She was eight when she learned that nothing good ever came out of eavesdropping.

It was summer, and the manor was filled with light as her mama opened the windows wide for the breeze to come in. The mango tree in their front lawn brought in the scent of ripening mangoes—its gnarled branches only slightly bent from the legion of growing fruit. When she looked outside, their green, heart shape would bring her excitement. There were so many of them, and soon they would be ripe for the picking.

The afternoon brought in the sound of birds as they returned to their nests for the evening, and alongside the cacophony of caws from the nesting maya birds, the sound of her mama cooking added a welcome interval to the tranquility of dusk. There, too, was the smell of sizzling garlic and the fresh scent of newly applied floor wax. The feel of the wooden grain of their antique round table—passed down from her mama’s mama—was rough as she incessantly rubbed her palms against it.

“Behave,” her mama said.

“How do you know what I’m doing?” She whined, cupping her face with her hands and petulantly resting her elbows on the table. “You’re not even looking at me!”

“You always get impatient when the food is about to be served,” her mama tutted, back turned. “Behave, little one.”

The front door suddenly swung open, its uncoiled hinges creaking. She whirled around. There was her papa clutching his helmet against him as he walked in with another man. She stilled, carefully turning in her seat and watching the stranger.

“Well! Is this my pag-umangkon?” the man exclaimed.

She ducked her head, guardedly looking at the man behind her lashes. She had never seen him before. He was as thin as a walis 95

tingting and just as brown-skinned. Stood next to her papa, he looked like one of the men who worked their rice fields instead of a relative.

“Hala, mao jud! Do you still remember me? I’m your Uncle Dodong!” the stickman said.

“Oh, Dong!” her mama exlaimed. “It’s been forever! What brings you back?”

“Just passing through,” he said, giving her mama a small smile.

“I’ll be gone again very soon.”

“Off to the mountains again,” her papa grumbled. He set his helmet down on the counter, and pulled out a chair. It screeched against the red floor.

“But look at you!” Uncle Dodong said, turning to look at her.

She shrank back in her seat. “The last time I saw you, you were only this big, and you had no hair on your head! Now your hair is as long as your waist! And so pretty, too! You better watch out, cuz.” He eyed her papa with laughing brown eyes. “Soon you will have suitors knocking on your door, asking to court her!”

She felt something warm in her chest: part shyness, part happiness. She scuffed her toe on the floor and smiled at the man. Her Uncle Dodong was a lot nicer than he looked.

Her mama’s laughter sang in the wake of her uncle’s compliment, “Yes, she is a big girl now! A real lady with her own crushes.

Should I tell your Uncle Dodong about—“ “Enough.”

Her papa’s voice sounded like the crash of her mama’s favorite vase—the one that was passed down from her lola’s mama—that she accidentally bumped into while she was playing in the sala.

A dank air from outside filled the room before her papa turned to her uncle and spoke, “Eat your dinner, and after, you need to leave.”

“Love—“ her mama said, voice taut.

“I said enough. Stop. It’s bad enough that she was born a girl, now you degrade her with talks of nonsense,” her papa stood from his seat and lumbered towards the sala. His chair left skid marks on the red floor.

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There was silence for a moment that seemed to stretch for infinity, before she felt herself cry, helpless to stop the tears from escaping. She clutched the sides of her chair, sure that the force of her grip would leave marks of her fingernails against the ancient wooden grain.

With a harsh, economic whip, her mama threw the labakara from her shoulder on the dining table and went after her papa.

Minutes passed, stretching painfully like an overused Chinese garter, before her parents’ loud, arguing voices drifted from the open archway.

“HE IS USELESS, AND SHE WILL STAY WEAK IF YOU KEEP CODDLING HER!” “SHE’S YOUR CHILD! YOUR CHILD!” “DAMN YOU, RENATA! DAMN YOU!” “Cover your ears,” said Uncle Dodong. His voice was an island of calm in the turbulent sea around her. She clung to it: the sound of his scraggly baritone, scratchy and low and quiet, vainly trying to stop her tears. When she dared look at him, his lined, kind face was eerily blank. “But if you want to grow stronger, keep them open, and listen.”

A chill ran up her spine as she tried to understand him. His cold eyes looked strange on his previously warm expression.

“Listen to the sound of hatred and keep it in your heart. Foster it. Cultivate it.” Then he took a seat at the table and laced his weathered hands together. “So that one day, you might become strong.”

With her hands glued to the sides of the chair, she had no choice but to listen as her papa hurled insults at her, and she did as her uncle instructed. She listened to the sound of hatred and kept the strain within her. This would be the only song she would listened to, the only song she would hear, for the years to come.

That night, after a tasteless dinner with a mute uncle, her papa’s voice played inside her head like a broken record while she lay on her bed, staring at her ceiling, trying to muffle the sobs that no one was listening to. Hours passed in this manner, and soon light broke through the horizon.

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Dawn brought with it the sound of thousands of chirping maya birds as the sky became lighter and lighter. In the stillness of the early morning, the disruptive creaking of their heavy front door snapped her out of her staring contest with her light fixtures. Creeping to her window, she spied her uncle and her papa facing each other. She felt a pang in her heart at the sight of her papa’s sleepless eyes. It seemed that he and her mama had argued well into the night, this time behind their closed doors. He did not get any sleep, too.

“Well, this is goodbye.” Her uncle’s voice carried into her open window in the quiet of the morning.

Her papa took a while to reply to her uncle’s farewell. When he did, his voice was rough and grating. “Back to the boondocks again, crawling in your little mud tunnels. I don’t know why you bother.”

Uncle Dodong laughed, light-hearted despite the harsh criticism. “Don’t count us out yet. My Comrades are passionate, and our numbers are growing. A revolution may happen very soon indeed.”

Her papa scoffed.

“You know, your little girl . . . . You shouldn’t have—“ said her uncle tentatively.

“Leave it, Virgilio,” snapped her papa.

“You have no love lost for her, cuz. Your own daughter. For Karl Marx’s sake, why?”

She held her breath—she dared not breathe. Frozen by her window, hidden behind her gauzy curtains, she listened to the reason why her papa hated her. It was a question she had asked all her life. Maybe now she would know.

“She . . . she is not mine.”

“What? Renata would dare—?”

“She would. She did, God damn her.”

“Why don’t you just leave her, then?”

“You know I can’t. The hacienda— all her family’s lands.

They’re in her name. If I leave, I get nothing.”

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away as they walked toward the gate. When they passed under the giant mango tree (planted by her mama’s mama’s mama — her great-grandmother), she looked up and saw a single yellow mango that stood out among the sea of green.

The mangoes were turning sweet. Soon they would be ripe for the picking. For some reason, though, this did not excite her as much as it used to. Only a few hours ago she would have marveled at it and imagined the taste of its ripe fruit on her tongue. She wondered why as she watched her father close the gate, her uncle now long gone.

When June rolled around, and classes resumed, she turned to her third grade teacher and asked, “What does it mean when lands are in someone’s name?” Her teacher told her that it meant that the lands belonged to that person. She quickly left before her teacher could ask her for the reason of her question. It was the first and last conversation she had with her teacher, and she would not speak for the rest of the school year. Her classmates grew used to her antics. She had always been a taciturn child, despite being the richest little girl in the class, despite her mama apparently owning more than half the land in their town. She was quiet, well-behaved, and she liked fading into the background. It was a useful skill to have especially back at the manor where breaking the silence during dinnertime had become sacrilegious.

The years passed this way: in stretched silence. It was a silence like the frayed garters in her home clothes. The ones she refuses to dispose of. Brittle, worn, and like the too-taught strings in a tightly tuned guitar: painful and unyielding. As the silence stretched, so did she. She turned ten, then eleven, twelve, thirteen—her body lengthening as she entered puberty, her legs and arms growing awkward in their thin, gangly, pubescent shape.

Before she knew it, she was sixteen and had just graduated high school. When she came home from the tedious ceremony, their front lawn was decked with plastic chairs and tables, all covered in starch white mantles; the chairs decoratively tied with celebratory red ribbons, like belts around their stiff backs; and Renee Dublin

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the tables covered in equally white, lacy doilies. There was a prodigious helping of food set under the mango tree, which was in the cusp of harvest. Its ripe fruits were covered in grey newspapers, and she spared a brief thought to wonder why they did not harvest them before this surprise party. She spied a gloriously shiny red lechon placed proudly in the center of the spread (with a bright red apple in its mouth) that looked like it was internally bemoaning her fate. There was food enough for a hundred people—her mother had gone all out.

“There’s my little one! My little trophy!” crooned her mother as she spied her loitering near the gate, staring at the farcical display of food and party banners with trepidation. “Congratulations, langga!”

She forced a smile. So this was why her mother left early from the ceremony and insisted that she stay and “say goodbye to your friends!”

“Really, mama,” she said, her voice quiet. “You did not have to do all this.”

“Nonsense! It’s not everyday my only daughter graduates from high school! And valedictorian, at that!” Her mother gave her a bright smile and kissed her gently on her forehead. “I’m proud of you, little one.”

Her mother’s voice had always been melodious, and her penchant for crooning at her, talking to her as if she were fifteen years younger, had never really waned. Despite herself, she cracked a smile and felt soft music blossom in her heart. Her mother loved her. It would have to be enough.

“I invited a lot of people. The whole barangay is coming! Some of your papa’s friends will be here as well.” Her mama’s tone flatlining when she mentioned her father. “Your Uncle Dodong is also coming. I hope you remember him? You met him once, years ago. He’s visiting again after all these years.”

“What?” she asked weakly. “Who?” “Oh, you know,” her mother said, waving her hand as if to bat away a fly. “Your Uncle Dodong? Your papa’s cousin?”

It was not that she didn’t remember her uncle, it was that she 100

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never actually forgot about him. She remembered his voice (soft and low) as he told her to listen and grow strong from hatred.

His face was now a blur in her memory, but his voice, his words, remained branded into her soul.

She nodded stiffly and begged off to change out of her toga.

With one last hug and kiss, her mother let her go. She watched as she bustled off, back to the kitchen for some last-minute preparations, unhindered by her large frame. Her mother had disappeared back into the manor before she made her way to her room, entering from the side door. This way she was certain she would never accidentally bump into her father. Her footsteps were noiseless save for the sibilant sound of her socks sliding against the wooden stairs. When she reached her room she stood next to her window, staring through her gauzy curtains, watching her father’s men set up the party below.

She had grown taller, and the manor was older, but her great-grandmother’s mango tree remained the same. And she recalled another time, years ago: the sound of a thousand birds as light split the sky open, her father’s harsh, grumbling voice, and the sound of her uncle’s low baritone. The mangoes had been ripening, then. Now they were wrapped in grey newspapers and were ripe for the picking. They would have to harvest them soon.

When she finally roused herself from her thoughts, night had fallen and the cacophony of voices drifting to her window from the milling people in her lawn propelled her to action. She removed her toga, donned a dress appropriate for the occasion, and left her darkened room. Practiced now in moving silently throughout the manor, her sandaled feet barely made a sound as she descended the stairs, which was how she was able to hear the conversation that drifted up from the sala.

“Governor Zamora!” greeted her father, talking to someone below. She stilled. Throughout the years she had learned to become an expert at avoiding her father. Sometimes not running into him for weeks at a time in their own home. She would hide. She would take detours. She would duck behind alcoves or enter the comfort room. All in an effort to avoid him. Their manor was certainly Renee Dublin

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large enough for her to be able to play these real-life hide-andseek games. Only in this game, she was the only player and her father never looked for her. Still she hoped he’d never find her, anyway.

“Rogelio,” another voice replied. “Congratulations on your daughter’s graduation. Your wife told me she was valedictorian?

Impressive.”

“Ah, yes,” her father replied tersely. “Quite. It is an honor to have you attend this gathering my wife set up for her little princess.”

“It is I who is honored. It is I . . .” the voice trailed off as someone sat in the leather sofa. Another weight followed the first. The two men had sat down. Discretely, she also sat, steeling herself for another waiting game in the shadows.

“You have become very prosperous, Rogelio. Very prosperous indeed. Your fields are abundant, your storehouses are full, you have a beautiful wife and a daughter who is just as brilliant as she is beautiful,” said the governor. He had a deep, resonating voice— the kind that was prone to laugh loudly, like that of Santa Claus.

He spoke slowly, eloquently, convincingly. It was the kind of voice that belonged to a person of great charisma, able to charm a crowd with ear-tickling speeches. A politician’s voice.

“Ah . . . . Thank you, Governor. God has been kind to us,” her father said tonelessly.

“But you know how life can be so unpredictable at times,” the governor continued, as if he had never been interrupted. “Today you may be prosperous, but tomorrow is uncertain. You will never know when you might just lose it all.”

There was silence between the men.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” her father asked. There was a hint of caution in his voice now, of fear.

“You know what has happened, Rogelio,” the governor nonchalantly stated. “The president has declared Martial Law.” “Yes.” “Intelligence has come in, and he wants to borrow some of your land to set up a military base. It has been strongly suspected 102

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for some time now that those NPA communist bastards may have their own stronghold somewhere in the mountains around this area. The president sent me to ask for this boon from you, knowing that we are friends.”

“I am the wrong person to ask. My wife—” “How long will you remain a slave for her, Rogelio?”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying.” The governor’s voice was turning harsh, his tone scathing. “You took her last name, you manage her fields, you even stay silent about your bastard daughter—” “What do you want me to do, huh? Even if you say all these things, there is nothing I can do! How can I leave her? Divorce is illegal! And she is protected—” The governor laughed. “All I’m saying is that the Carlotto clan has always had a history of diabetes and heart attack. It runs in the family. Your wife looks a bit heavy. Obese, is she? She is still very beautiful, of course, but you have to admit that she has let herself go over the years!” The governor laughed again. It was not a sound she considered pleasant.

“I don’t—What are you—” “And there’s a lot of food for tonight, isn’t there? Why, it’s a feast fit for a king! We never know. Perhaps your wife will overeat and suffer a . . . ahem . . . health problem while she sleeps.”

The swiveling of the door broke the conversation between the men. Footsteps shuffled into the sala from the dining room. A voice cut through the stretched silence, at once familiar and foreign, “Rogelio? Rogelio, cousin! It has been too long, you old bastard! Come, come! Your wife is looking for you and your daughter.

Everyone is gathered outside already, waiting to eat.”

“Vi-Virgilio,” her father stuttered. “You’re here. What are you doing here?”

“Your wife invited me, of course! And who is this?” Her Uncle Dodong sounded light-hearted as he addressed the governor.

“This is Governor Zamora, Virgilio,” her father said.

“Ah,” uttered her uncle.

“I never knew you had a cousin, Rogelio!” said the governor, Renee Dublin

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laughing jovially, seemingly delighted by the new acquaintance.

“He rarely visits,” said her father tersely.

“Does he, now?” Governor Zamora mused.

“We should eat,” said her father, “My wife is looking for me.”

The men continued to exchange pleasantries as they left the sala, leaving silence in their wake, enough of it for her to drown in. In her place at the top of the stairs, hidden in the shadows, she made an effort to soften her breathing. Her heart was pounding.

For a long time it was all she could hear—the sound of her heart banging against her chest.

She was only able to move when she heard one of the maids calling for her, yelling at the top of her lungs that the party was about to start.

“It will not do!” said the maid, complaining to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “The belle of the ball, missing from her own party!

Susmaryosep!”

The rest of the evening was a blur of fake smiles and empty cordialities. She demurred when she ought at the compliments to her intelligence (“Valedictorian! Such a bright girl!”), and blushed as she ought at the remarks on her beauty (“You look just like your mother when she was younger, such a beautiful girl!”).

All of it was white noise like the static on the radio after midnight. She would always forget to turn it off, because the sound had become one with her wall, as part of her surroundings as her dresser or her desk lamp. She remembered nothing of it, afterwards, as she lay in her bed staring at her white ceiling. She spared a brief glance at her radio, barely noticing the static, her father’s and the governor’s conversation going round and round in her head. In the crush of people that attended the party, she was spared the company of the men who spoke in the sala. During the feast, she avoided her father and stayed away from his table, and consequently was spared the company of her uncle (who was sat next to him) and the governor (who was seated in the same table), but their conversation was never far from her mind.

She did not fully understand what they were talking about.

Maybe the governor was hoping her mother die of a heart attack 104

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so that her father would inherit the lands? But that did not make any sense, because she knew that her mama had written her down as the next inheritor. Being only married into the family, her father would only get the lands if both she and her mama died suddenly, without having named any other heirs . . .

The sound of her mama and her father’s bedroom door pulled her out of her thoughts. Her father’s heavy, lumbering footsteps interrupted the quiet. His footsteps travelled slowly down the stairs and then, silence. Several moments later, another set of footsteps ran up the stairs. The rapid thump-thump-thump against the wooden floors broke the tranquility of the night. She sat up in her bed, startled, wondering what all the ruckus was about.

The blood-curling scream that followed pierced her and struck fear into her heart. It sounded like needles in her brain, and she burst out her room to run to the source.

“Ate! Ate, please, open your eyes!” It was the maid, hunched over her mama’s body, sobbing hysterically. Her mama was lying still on the bed, eyes closed, and her chubby fingers laced on top of her stomach. She looked like she was sleeping. But her chest was still.

“What is going on here?” Her uncle barged into the room and found the maid wailing over her mama’s sleeping form. He was wearing his sleeping clothes. He must have heard the scream from the guest room and rushed over.

“Renata?” he asked in disbelief.

Throughout the ruckus her mama lay still.

“WHAT HAPPENED HERE?” yelled Uncle Dodong, whirling on the maid.

“Si Ate,” she said in the middle of her hysterical sobs. “S-She . . . I was getting water in the kitchen, and Sir Rogelio was there just staring at nothing. He told me Madam wasn’t breathing.”

The world seemed to drown in silence as she focused on her mama. It could not be true. She walked over and lay her hand on her shoulder, her cheek. She had a terrible expression on her face.

Her mama was frowning. Her mouth was open in a scream that would stretch forever in silence.

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“He has killed her,” she said softly.

She did not know how long she stood there, just staring at her mama, caressing her cheek, combing her thick hair. All she knew was that it was long enough for her mama’s body to lose its warmth, for rough hands to try and drag her away, for the paramedics to come take her mama from her, for the sun to set, for the evening sky to darken. It was funny how the world continued to turn even when she felt for sure that it had ended—the sun still set and rose like clockwork—and all through this, she could hear nothing.

There was no sound now but the song her uncle had taught her, years ago in their kitchen as she was seated in her lola’s ancient dining table, clutching the sides of her wooden chair as the mangoes in her great-grandma’s tree were just starting to ripen.

The song was the dissonant screeches of her parents’ arguing voices, her father’s barbed insults, her mama’s pleas of “She’s your child! Your child!” It was the governor’s scoff that she was a bastard. It was the maid’s blood-curling scream. It was her uncle, telling her to listen to the sound of hatred, to foster it, to cultivate it. The song drowned out anything else. It was all she could hear as she gazed outside her window into the darkness.

“Melody,” said a voice, at once foreign and familiar. “Melody, please, look at me.”

Someone was calling her name and she realized she was no longer alone. “What is it, Uncle?”

He was silent for a long, long time. She did not bother turning to him, engrossed as she was staring outside her window, thinking about things that led nowhere, listening to sounds, to voices, to the noise that only existed in her head and lived in her memories. She wondered if her uncle could hear them too. But she knew he couldn’t. She imagined that he was staring outside her window, still thinking about what to say. Hours passed in this manner, and soon light broke through the horizon.

Dawn had come that brought with it the sound of thousands of chirping mayas, when her uncle spoke once more. “I’m sorry, Melody. I’m so, so sorry.”

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She swallowed, wondering what he could be sorry for. For a moment there, she thought he was going to say goodbye.

“I barely knew your mother, but she did not deserve this. You do not deserve this. You’re only sixteen . . . so young.”

“I am old enough,” said Melody, staring at her great-grandmother’s mango tree, its fruits wrapped in grey newspapers.

“There is more,” said her uncle, his voice breaking into a sob.

His low baritone sounded even deeper in his tears, she noted absently.

“I spoke with your father before I came here. He told me to take you with me. He told me to take you with me back to the mountains, back to where I live with the NPA, because he will kill you if I don’t, the way he killed your mama.”

All of a sudden the noise in her head went quiet, and with perfect clarity, she knew what she had to do.

“I will go, Uncle, but first let me do one thing.”

“Anything.”

The mangoes in her great-grandmother’s tree were covered in newspapers, and she imagined what they would look like once unwrapped—their color, their shape, their texture, how they would smell, how they would feel in her hands and fit her palm perfectly, and how they would taste. She wondered if they would be bitter.

“The mangoes. They are ripe enough, now, for the picking.”

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Takumi, Digital Photography by Maluz Nakai

The Contributors

Notes on Contributors Keith Abellanosa has a degree on Applied Linguistics from the University of San Carlos. Enthusiastic about language, literature, and the humanities, he was a participant in several workshops and seminars that include the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop, Pagtuki (a seminar on Sugbuanong Bisaya), and Translation: Beyond Basics. His deep passion for language really only stemmed from his time in the university, and he hopes to do further research and contribute to the literatures on linguistics, particularly that of the study on the Cebuano language. He plans on proceeding to either study speech pathology or major in philosophy.

Jessamyn Adigue is a literature major at the University of San Carlos. She has dabbled in writing stories as far as she could remember, even had a short story published for an anthology under a secret pen name, and has self-published a poetry collection recently, this time under her own name.

Richelle Alalim is a student of Applied Linguistics at the University of San Carlos.

Samantha Almaden is a literature major, spoken word artist and self-published poet. She is a member of the Almost Poets Society and was a fellow for Fiction in the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop. She won second place for poetry reading organized

by CESAFI. She is currently organizing outreach programs that focuses on poetry.

Ushabelle Bongo likes to call herself Shaw. She graduated cum laude with a degree on Linguistics and Literature from the University of San Carlos. Although a proud daughter of the Queen City of the South, Shaw has been hustling in Makati 111

for more than three years now. She initially tried her hands at banking, only to be proven once and for all that her hands are indeed more adept at playing with words than they ever will be at handling numbers. Now, Shaw is in a better place—digital marketing heaven.

Veronica Berdin is a literature student and a self-proclaimed recluse. She spends her time drowning herself in isolation. She has attended a fiction writing workshop and has written three major short stories and seven other writings which consists of drabbles, vignettes, and sketch stories. She has minor works of poetry as she mostly writes nonfiction like essays, diaries, letters, and travelogues. She has a predilection for sensitivity and the tragic and also believes that introversion is her greatest strength. Self-expression and transcendence are her main drive for writing.

Hazel Ann Cesa is a literature student at the University of San Carlos. She was one of the fortunate fellows who had the chance to have her works critiqued in the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop. She was also a fellow for Poetry in the 1st Kagis Creative Writers Workshop. Some of her poems have been published in Inday-Inday, a creative zine edited by Cebuana poet Karla Quimsing; and Bukambibig, the official poetry folio of the Spoken Word Philippines. She has also self-published a poetry collection with two other poets, titled Into Other Worlds. When not being buried alive in books and paper works, she typically lazes around to make up for the sleep-deprived days.

Melanie Cuenco graduated Applied Linguistics from the University of San Carlos. When she’s not busy adjusting to her new life as a working girl, she likes watching movies, reading, and listening to a little band called The Beatles.

Jude Escasio is a literature major studying at the University of San Carlos. She also has self-published her very first poetry 112

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collection, Whispers of a Mimosa.

Zerah Esmero is a student of Applied Linguistics at the University of San Carlos. She is into writing, photography, free diving, and wandering around. She also runs an online diary.

Jeong Hyeon is a graduate of Applied Linguistics from the University of San Carlos.

Michael Mahinay is an undergraduate of the Literature program at the University of San Carlos. A prose writer with a feline sensitivity to details, he prefers morning walks to start the day. Short stories and novels of the fantasy ilk aside, he also has an interest in video games such as Final Fantasy and Assassin’s Creed, and firmly believes that everything should contain a touch of reality to achieve sublimity. Detached from the mundane reality of violence, drugs, and women, he is currently working on his Faerknights series, hoping to break what he calls “the romantic saturation that plagues the country”. When he isn’t hiding from his responsibilities, he consults with his sidekick, Jack, who, for all the faith the young man puts in him, is actually a poodle who has inherited his owner’s reluctance to listen to commands. He is deathly allergic to chocolate.

Dianna Manguling is a linguistics major and a part-time unicorn. She works as a content manager for KGM Digital Marketing and side hustles as a freelance writer for various clients across Europe and the United States. An active student leader and expert procrastinator, she spends her time trying to multitask and failing miserably.

Donna Medalla is a linguistics major at the University of San Carlos, but is more passionate with photography than language. She loves to take photos of random people in the streets of Cebu, and other random things.

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Maluz Nakai is a literature major at the University of San Carlos. She was one of the fellows of the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop. She has also self-published a poetry collection in collaboration with the visual artist, Roy Chan Parker. Aside from writing, she can often be seen at Café Egao eavesdropping on random people’s conversations. On nights when she can’t sleep, she spends most of her time at Turtle’s Nest among other damaged souls.

Kristoff Peralta misspent his youth on countless thingsthat-must-not-be-named. He was a blogger and book reviewer and has reviewed books for HarperCollins, Penguin Random House, and Macmillan, among others. He is a literature student who dabbles in both things literary and non-literary. He was a fellow for Fiction in the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop. He co-edited a poetry chapbook, Palabi sa Gibati, and co-authored and self-published a collection of poems, Into Other Worlds. His works-in-progress include more than fifty novel and short story ideas.

Sievney Quidet is a bespectacled petite person and currently in her third year in Applied Linguistics. She has written poetry for and been published by Cebu Literary Festival; co-produced and published the chapbook Palabi Sa Gibati; and had won a poetry contest hosted by a local cafe. She was a fellow of the 1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop for Poetry and the Cebu Young Writers Studio for Creative Nonfiction. She also blogs at thenationalsoup. tumblr.com.

Mary Robin Quinain is a nineteen-year-old aspiring linguist, who typically spends her time collecting films in all genres and decades, shooting portraits, and listening to bands. She is a fan of the words of John Koenig and Eden Sher.

Dolph Verallo is a literature major at the University of San Carlos. He was a fellow for Poetry in the 1st Bidlisiw Writers 114

Hangtod

Workshop. He also collaborated and self-published a poetry collection titled Into Other Worlds.

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1st Bidlisiw Writers Workshop

February 24-25, 2017 University of San Carlos, Nasipit, Talamban, Cebu City PANELISTS

Nancy Cudis Jessrel Gilbuena Januar Yap FELLOWS

Keith Moon Abellanosa, Creative Nonfiction Samantha Almaden, Sugilanon Eldawn Catalan, Balak Hazel Ann Cesa, Poetry Michael Angelo Mahinay, Fiction Ma. Luz Nakai, Poetry Sievney Klyze Quidet, Poetry Kristoffer Von Pierre Peralta, Fiction Jessamine Vasquez, Creative Nonfiction Dolph Alphonse Verallo, Poetry INAUGURAL KEYNOTE SPEAKER

Dr. Erlinda K. Alburo WORKSHOP DIRECTOR & MODERATOR

Adonis Enricuso, MA WORKSHOP COMMITTEE

Literature Department