(2018) Heights Tomo 66, Bilang 1

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TOMO 66 BILANG 1

heights tomo 66 bilang 1 Karapatang-ari 2018 heights ang opisyal na pampanitikang at pangsining na publikasyon at organizasyon ng Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila.

Reserbado ang karapatang-ari sa mga indibidwal na awtor ng mga akda ng isyung ito. Hindi maaaring ilathala, ipakopya, o ipamudmod sa anumang anyo ang mga akda nang walang pahintulot ng mga may-akda.

Hindi maaaring ibenta sa kahit anong paraan at pagkakataon ang kopyang ito.

Maaaring makipag-ugnayan sa: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University p.o. Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org facebook.com/HeightsAteneo @HeightsAteneo Malikhaing Direksyon: Diana F. David Dibuho ng pabalat: Diana F. David Paglalapat: Justine A. Daquioag, JJ Agcaoili, Eli Alconis, Liaa Austria, Kat Batara, Jana Codera, Valerie Cobankiat, Enrico Cruz, Casey del Rosario, Pilar Gonzalez, Ninna Lebrilla, Arien M. Lim, Giulia Lopez, Juancho Luna, Anya Nellas, Gabby Segovia, Moira Swann, Tash Parayno Folio Launch Team: Hanna Mabel Ypil, Alicia Pavia, Seph Tamayo, Sam Arnaldo, Robert Kwan Laurel, Hanna Alyne Ypil, Daniel Manguerra, Luigi Reyes, Alexis Ferreras, Julia Abella, Jacinta Maria Jocson, Pauline Baterna, Shelby O. Parlade, Ma. Camille Alessandra J. De Luna, Louise Dimalanta, Giane Ysabell Butalid, Justin Barbara, Zianne Agustin, Anicia Guanlao, Cesar Miguel V. Fabro, Louis Anton Dominic M. Molina, Sofia Andrea K. Guanzon, Rich Labao, Justine Psyche Villanueva Inilimbag sa mvb Verdigris

Mga Nilalaman Allan N. Derain 2 Huling Bakunawa Allan Popa 24 Ang Aking Mga Tinatanuran Joycel Vincent Dabalos 26 Dasalin ng isang anak sa ika-tatlo ng hapon Jerome Flor 28 De-lobong Sestina 49 A Pierrot 78 toys Mirick Paala 30 Argumento 64 The Source Raymon Ritumban 31 Pahayag 32 Pieta 34 Parousia Martina Herras 35 Ang Aking Katawang Hindi Ko Maipihit 36 Ang Aking Katawan bilang Hindi Aking Katawan,

Bilang Katawan Mo na Ipinagpipilitan Mong 'Ito ang

Iyong Katawan!’, bilang Bangka Mikaela Adrianne Regis 37 sipi mula sa Unica Hijas Louie Jon A. Sånchez 46 Tempus Per Annum Regine Cabato 48 Ordinary Time (While You Are Waiting)

Joshua Uyheng 50 Original Justice Sophia Bonoan 53 Peephole Elise Ofilada 62 Growing Pains Isabel Yap 65 Milagroso Joaquin J. Santana 77 Why Don’t We Hunt Bugs Anymore Trishia Gail G. Fernandez 79 Penelope’s Plight Daryll Delgado 80 Salve Alfred A. Yuson 95 Etiquette for EJKs Dominique La Victoria 97 excerpt from Toward the Fires of Revolution Jude Buendia 120 larong baril-barilan Clare Bianca Tantoco 123 Safety Reasons Marco T. Torrijos 128 Birth Aquirine Ong 130 Blood Money Isobel Francisco 134 Flood 135 Settlement Meneer Marcelo 136 House of Cards

Editoryal Isa sa mga kinakailangang harapin ng bawat patnugutan ng heights, sa bawat semestre at bawat folio na nailalathala, ay ang paghahanap o ang pagtatangkang maghanap ng sagot sa “Ano Ngayon?�—na siyang paglalakbay sa pag-aalinlangan at sa pag-uusisa. Sa mga unang bahagi ng pagguhit ng mga planong humantong sa kasalukuyang pakay ng publikasyon, isa sa mga naging sanga ng pagsusuri sa kung ano ang mga kinakailangang talakayin bilang isang institusyon ay ang kahalagahan ng pagpapatuloy. Noong 2017, tinalakay ng heights ang pagbawi sa papel na ginagampanan ng sining at panitikan sa konteksto ng ating katotohanang panlipunan. Ang hamon na hinaharap ng folio na ito ay nakaangkla sa kung ano na ang mga hakbang na kailangang isulong ngayon at mas tiyak, bagaman hindi lubos na tahasan, ang bigat ng tungkulin ng paglilikha.

Sa tuwing iniisip ko ang kasaysayan ng pag-uusisa ng heights sa sosyopolitikal, hindi ako bumabalik sa Pugadlawin, ang heights na hinugis ng mga karahasan noong Martial Law at siyang naging plataporma para sa mga makata upang tutulan ang rehimeng Marcos, kundi sa pagbangon nito muli noong 1974 mula sa sapilitang pagtigil ng gobyerno ng mga publikasyon. Dito, nagdesisyon ang patnugutan na humiwalay sa pulitika at sa halip ay bigyang pansin ang paglilikha bilang paglilikha lamang—isang desisyon na siyang nagdadala rin ng sariling bigat na politikal, isang desisyon na siyang humubog sa mga taon na sumunod dito mula sa paraan ng pagbabasa ng mga akdang ipinapasa sa deliberasyon, hanggang sa pangunahing kritisismo ng heights bilang isang publikasyon na hindi magawa-gawang iwanan ang pedestal ng pang-aapi, sa takot ng paglalathala ng mga akdang hindi akma sa timpla ng akademya.

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Isa sa mga mahahalagang makukuha natin sa pag-aaral ng kasaysayan ay ang posibilidad na mangyari ang lahat na nangyari na—na sa pamumukadkad ng mga sandaling nagtatahi sa ating mga naratibo, makikita natin na sa tuwing aakalain natin na nakita na natin ang lahat ay siyang magpapakita at magpapakita ang mga sandali na ito muli, at makakaramdam tayo ng takot sa pagkilala at hindi pagkilala. Hindi na bago ang pagpapaslang ng mga inosente at pamamaluktot ng mga makapangyarihang maysala sa kasaysayan, hindi na bago ang kolonisasyon ng katawan ng mga kababaihan sa pamamagitan ng pambabastos at pagturing bilang obheto, hindi na bago ang pagtanggi ng kultura ng pang-aapi ng mga pamantasang tulad ng atin. Ang lahat ng ito ay paulit-ulit nang nangyari’t nasaksihan ng ating lipunan, at sa bawat dako ng panahon, ang siyang nagbabago ay ang boses na ating pinakikinggan at pinalalakas.

Nagsimula ang pangangalap ng akda para sa folio na ito na may hangarin na makarinig ng mga naratibo mula sa mga miyembro ng Paaralang Loyola na karaniwang naisasantabi ang boses—ang mga manggagawa at mga tauhan ng pamantasan na madalas ay nakakalimutan nating alalahanin na kasama sila sa komunidad. Natapos ang panawagan para sa mga akda na wala kaming natanggap na ni isang tula o larawan man lang—higit sa katotohanan na marami pang paraan na maaring siyasatin upang maenganyo sila na magpasa sa folio, napagtanto namin na, sa kultura ng pagiging eksklusibo na nabuo ng heights sa mga taon na nagdaan, hindi magagawa ng isang folio lamang ang labanan ang mga istruktura ng panlulupig na nabuo nito.

Sa mga panahon ngayon kung saan hindi sapat ang mga salita, mahirap isipin na may maiaambag pa ang sining at panitikan sa pakikipagsagupa ng mga api sa lipunan—subalit, isa ito sa napakaraming paraan, kasabay sa pagkilos at pakikiisa sa mga nakikibaka sa lansangan, na maaaring magdala sa atin patungo sa tuluyang pagkawasak ng mga istrukturang mapang-api.

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Sa pagpapalitaw sa ating sining at panitikan ng kung paano gumagalaw ang kapangyarihan, at kung paano ito mahahanap sa pinakamaliliit na detalye na bumubuo sa ating pang arawaraw na pamumuhay, nagagawa nating maging mapagmasid sa mga sandali na kadalasan ay hindi natin napapansin na nakakasakit at nakapanghihina ng loob ng ating kapwa.

Matingkad at gumagaralgal ang bunga ng karahasan at kasakiman sa Blood Money ni Aquirine Ong, at nakakabasag ng sapilitang katahimikan ang Safety Reasons ni Clare Bianca Tantoco. Lantad dito ang pagnanais na ilagay sa harap ng paguusisa ang pagkabagabag, na siyang mahalaga sa pagtanggi natin sa tuluyang pagsupil.

Pinapasok ng Penelope’s Plight ni Trishia Gail G. Fernandez ang kamalayan ng isang tapat na naghihintay sa kanyang asawa—isang muling pagkukuwento sa karanasan ng asawa ni Odysseus na si Penelope, na kinikilala sa paniniwalang Griyego bilang simbolo ng pangako ng pagiging tapat sa pag-iisang dibdib ng mag-asawa. Nakikita natin kung paano, sa pagkawala ng kanyang asawa, ay tila bang nawawala rin niya ang kanyang sarili (Every night you don’t return, / I deconstruct.)—sa kabila ng katapatan bilang isang pangako, nagagawa pa rin nito sa kawalan ng kinakasama na ikulong ang sarili sa isang paulit-ulit na pagdududa, na siyang tatastas sa hawak ng isang nagnanais makasama muli ang kanyang minamahal sa realidad.

Nagagawa ni Mikaela Adrianne Regis sa Unica Hijas na talakayin ang mga sistema ng pang-aapi sa pagtatanggi ng mga paaralang katoliko sa pagmamahalan ng magkapareho ang kasarian—nakakabit pa rin sa ideya ng kawalan ng delikadesa ang kakayahang magmahal ng kung sino man ang nais mahalin, kung kaya’t mahihirapan ang dalawang tauhan na si Nikki at Mitch na piliin ang kanilang pagsasama o sumunod sa kung ano ang hinihingi sa kanila ng isang mapang-aping sistema.

Sa mga akda na ito, makikita natin ang kritisismo sa kasalukuyang mga sistema na siyang pumipigil sa atin na lubos na ihayag ang ating mga sarili. Bagaman hindi mala-higante ang

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mga detalye na nagpapakita sa mga istruktura ng kapangyarihan, nagagawa ng mga akdang ito na palitawin ang mga sandali na nagagawa natin na mang-api, na siyang nakasipit sa mga bagay kung saan ito hindi kadalasang napapansin. Bahagi lang ang folio, ang paglilikom ng mga akdang ito, ng pinag-isang pagpupunyagi natin laban sa mga makapangyarihan na patuloy na nang-aapi.

Hindi sapat ang sabihin na mauuwi lamang sa isang paglilikom ng mga akda ang ating pagpupumiglas sa mga kuko ng panlulupig.

Ito lamang ay isang pagpapatuloy ng laban kung saan tungkulin natin na laging palakasin ang mga boses na dapat pakinggan, kung saan ang tungkulin natin ay manindigan at tatagan ang ating loob kasama nila, at hindi lang para sa kanila.

Ang paglikha ay isang walang-kamatayang pakikibaka.

Martina Magpusao Herras 24 Okt. 2018

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MGA AKDA

allan n. derain

Huling Bakunawa* “Hindi batid ng mga katutubo kung anong uri ng isda iyon yamang hindi pa sila nakakikita nang gayon sa kanilang mga baybayin. Kung kaya itinuring na lamang nila ito bilang isang dambuhala na itinalaga ng Diyos sa malawak na Karagatan ng Silangan dahil sa angkin nitong laki.”

— Fray Ignacio Francisco Alcina Historia de las islas e indios e Bisayas 1668

nang sundan ni Datu Rabat ang tutok ng hintuturò ng kaniyang panauhin, nagtapos ito sa may bumubulwak na bahagi ng dagat kung saan mapapansin ang mabagal na galaw ng higanteng isda. Ang bakunawa kung tawagin ng mga mangingisda sa gawing ito ng dagat.

Ang bunga ng kanilang tatlong araw at tatlong gabing pag-aabang at pagmamatyag kasama ang tsinong mangangalakal.

Nakatayo si datu Rabat sa unahan ng kaniyang sinasakyang adyong habang nakamasid sa tsinong sakay naman ng sariling sampan. Nag-aalala ang datu sa mga piratang maaaring sumalisi sa kaniya. Kaya kailangan niyang bantayan ang mangangalakal na tsino habang naririto ito sa kaniyang sakop. Kaya siya nagtayo ng bantayog na magbabantay sa kaniyang pantalan. Kaya rin siya umupa ng mga mersenaryong tatambang sa mga pirata. Sa kakayahan niyang magbigay proteksyon sa mga panauhing mangangalakal nakasalalay ang mabuting pakikitungo sa kaniya ng mga tagasentro.

Hindi siya dapat mabigo kahit minsan lalo’t buhat sa Emperador na Anak ng Langit ang kaniyang pinangangalagaang panauhin. Pero dahil parang mga dikya ang mga tulisang dagat na ito na hindi na yata mauubos hangga’t may tubig ang dagat, pinirata na rin niya ang karamihan sa mga pirata para sa ibang sakop na lamang gawin ang kanilang pandarambong. * Inilathala sa Aklat Likhaan ng UP Institute of Creative Writing

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Tanghaling tapat at patuloy na umiikot ang araw sa palibot ng mundo. At palibhasa bata pa noon ang mundo, iilang manlalayag pa lang ang nakatitiyak na bilog ito at hindi lapad gaya ng pag-aakala ng mga karaniwang tao sa lupa. Sa kaniyang pag-ikot, pinili ng araw na hintuan sandali upang pagmasdan at maliitin ang dambuhalang isda sa gagawin nitong pag-abot sa langit. Ang araw at ang bakunawa, matagal na silang may alitan. Hindi naman nagustuhan ni datu Rabat ang pagkakatayong iyon ng araw malapit sa sinasakyan ng tsino.

Kanina lang, sumisilip-silip pa sa mga hanggahan at sulok ng malapad na layag ng sampan ang mga sinag nitong tila bungkos-bungkos na mga palaso. Ngunit napansin ng datu ang biglang pagdidilim ng sinasakyan niyang adyong. Natabunan kasi ito bigla ng anino galing sa layag ng sampan.

Pinabilisan niya sa kaniyang mga bataan ang paggagaod sa bangka. Kailangan nilang makasabay sa sampan. Kailangan niyang pakiramdamang mabuti ang bawat mumunting galaw ng kaniyang panauhin. Bisaya ang kaniyang sinasalita. Mahusay din siya sa Kiniray-a, Hiligaynon, Sulog, at Subanon at handa siyang managalog kahit papaano para sila magkaintindihan. Ngunit maliban sa ilang mga salita gaya ng “tapat”, “utang”, “mabuti”, “mahal”, at “mura” ay wala rin namang gaanong alam na salitang Tagalog itong dayuhan.

Paano kayang masasarhan ang agwat nila sa wika? Kailangan nila ng isang aliping may dalawang dila na magsisilbing tagapamagitan.

Ngunit hindi pa mahanap ang aliping ito at hindi rin niya alam kung saang daungan o kung saang bilihan ng mga alipin makahahanap.

At kung sakaling palarin siyang makahanap, hinding-hindi naman niya iaasa sa aliping ito ang mabuting pakikitungo sa panauhin.

Siya mismo. Siya ang mag-aaral at magtataglay ng dila ng banyaga.

Ganito ang mahigpit na kapit sa isang matalik na relasyon.

Dila sa dila dapat. Aaralin din niya ang mga sulat nitong parang mga kulisap sa kaniyang paningin. Ngunit matagal pa bago niya madakip at maipasok isa-isa sa kaniyang kukote ang mga kulisap na iyon.

Sa ngayon, pakikiramdam lang ang tanging paraan. Sa ganito nga niya nabasá ang matinding pananabik ng dayuhan kasabay ng pagtuturò nito. Wala halos itong iniba sa isang taong nakatanghod sa harap ng 3

isang mainit na palayok habang tinitiis ang sariling gutom. Nais ba ng kaniyang panauhing gawing pananghalian ang bakunawa? Paano kung namamali siya ng akala? Ngunit marami na siyang narinig tungkol sa kaniyang panauhin buhat sa kaniyang mga tagapayo.

Narinig niyang palahanap ng mga karneng di-pangkaraniwan ang mga tagasentro. Bayag ng bakang nilaga sa yasmin. Nguso ng elepanteng hiniwa-hiwa nang ubod nipis, inihaw at pagkatapos ay sinarsahan. Atay ng serpiyenteng ibinabad sa alak. Paa ng batang unggoy. Iyong malambot at maliroy-liroy na parte ng paa sa gawing pagitan ng mga daliri at talampakan. Bilang pampalasa, ibababad ito sa pinitpit na luya. Na ’di lang basta luya dahil ito raw iyong uri na umuuha na tila sanggol habang binubunot sa lupa. Kamatayan ang hatid ng uha sa sinumang makarinig nito. Kaya para mabunot ito nang ligtas, kinakailangang talian ang ibabaw ng luyang ito at ipahila ang mahabang tali sa isang alagang aso na siyang makaririnig sa uha, ngunit bago pa mamatay ang pobreng hayup, malamang-lamang na nabunot na nito ang luya na ngumunguyngoy na lamang kung ’di man tuluyan nang tumahan sa pag-iyak sa mga sandaling iyon. Pero kung nanghihinayang sa mauutas na buhay ng alagang aso, kung minsan, pinabubungkal at pinabubunot na lang nila ito sa kanilang mga alipin, o kung walang alipin, sa kanilang mga anak na babae.

Ano pa nga bang maaari niyang itapat sa mayaman ngunit kakaibang panlasa ng kanilang panauhin kung ’di ang karne ng bantog na isda?

May tikas at angas ang dambuhalang isda sa kaniyang ginagawang panaka-nakang paglusob sa araw. Napipigilan nga lang ito lagi ng kaniyang bigat. Tila higanteng laha ng adobe ang kaniyang katawan anupa’t nagmumukha rin itong isang isla sa gitna ng dagat.

Lumot, talaba, at naglalakihang mga taklobong nakakapit ang halos tumatakip sa kaniyang ilalim. May malapad na palikpik na halos tila koronang makikita malapit sa kaniyang ulunan at may dalawa pang palikpik malapit sa kaniyang buntot. Bongansiso minsan ang tawag sa kaniya. Tandayag naman siya para sa iba dahil sa haba ng katawan niyang tila ahas. Ngunit sa lapad ng ulo, sa laki ng mga ngipin at sa talim ng kaniyang tingin, berkakan din siya sa unang masid na kalahating dragon at kalahating pating na may laki at lapad 4

na parang isang paraw na pandigma na kayang maglulan ng daandaang katao. Kaya sa gitna ng ere ibabagsak siya ng sariling timbang pabalik sa kailaliman. Magdadala ito ng ligalig sa mga alon kasabay ng pagsirit ng matataas na pilansik ng tubig at lilikha ng mga lagasaw na gagapang hanggang sa kinaroroonan ng sampan ng tsino at ng adyong ng datu. Sapat ang lakas ng mga lagasaw para yugyugin ang dalawang bangka na parang nagpapakislot lang ng mga dahon sa batya ng tubig.

Napangiwi ang araw sa ipinakitang pagtatangka ng bakunawa.

Alamin mo ang dapat mong kalugaran, payo nito sa dambuhala.

Hindi pa ganap ang iyong birtud para abutin at lamunin ako at lumikha sa wakas ng isang eklipse. Ngunit muli itong magtatangka.

Dahil siya na ang huli sa kanilang lahi, hindi siya dapat sumuko.

Hindi siya magpapaalam sa mundo nang hindi man lang napadidilim kahit ang kalahating bahagi nito. Kaya muli itong aahon at sasalimbay lampas sa taas na unang narating. Ang ganitong pagpupumilit na maalpasan ang sariling limitasyon marahil ang lalong nagpapadakila sa kaniya sa mata ni Wu Guangling, iyon ay kung nauunawaan nga ng tsinong mangangalakal ang ibig sabihin ng mga balisang kilos ng dambuhala. Sapagkat sino ang maaaring umintindi sa bakunawa? Tumayo at humanga mula sa malayo.

Iyon lang ang maaaring gawin ng isang gaya niyang tao. Ilang mga daungan at siyudad sa paligid ng mundo tulad ng Baktria, Sumatra, at Mangalore ang kaniya nang narating sa ngalan ng pangangalakal.

Marami na rin siyang mga natuklasang bahagi ng daigdig na hindi pa nabibigyan ng pangalan kung kaya’t siya na ang nagpapangalan sa mga ito sa ngalan ng kaniyang Emperador. Dahil dito, bukod sa pagiging komersiyante, naging emisaryo na rin siya ng Dakilang Huang-di na Anak ng Langit at Emperador ng lupaing nasa sentro ng buong mundo. Sari-saring uri ng mga nilalang mula sa iba't ibang kabihasnan ang kaniya nang nasaksihan at nakadaupangpalad. Nakita na niya ang higanteng puting sawa ng Burma at narinig na rin niya itong umawit sa gabi. Nasalat na niya ang sungay ng rinoseronte habang nasa ilalim ito ng pampatulog na ipinainom ng hari ng Mali. Ngunit alin man sa mga ito, walang makadaraig 5

sa kabunian ng higanteng isdang namataan ng mangangalakal na sumusunod sa kaniyang sinasakyang sampan habang tinutugpa noon sa unang pagkakataon ang pantalan ng Himamaylan.

Tila pagtitig sa mata ng daluyong ang kaniyang naging unang engkuwentro sa halimaw. Lubhang mapanganib at lubhang nakapanliliit sa sarili. Tao ka lang na ang buhay sa mundo’y isang patak ng tubig sa dagat ang katumbas, tila sinasabi nito sa kaniya.

Ngunit anong yumi ng kilos nito habang sumasalunga sa mga alon!

Ipinagtanong niya sa mga tagaroon ang nasaksihang aparisyon.

Isang bagani na raw ang nilamon nito nang buhay. Sumisid sa dagat ang nasabing bagani para manghuli ng mga isdang atun na ihahandog sana sa dilag na nililigawan. Sa pagkakaalam kasi ng binata, ang atun ang pinakamasarap na isda sa dagat ng Himamaylan. Subalit ang hindi alam ng pobreng bagani, hindi atun kung ’di isang malabangungot na halimaw ang naghihintay sa kaniya roon, at sa pagkakaalam naman ng halimaw na ito, maliban sa araw, ang mga bagani na madalas na ipagbunyi ang giting sa mga epiko ang pinakamasarap na tanghaliang maaaring tikman sa ibabaw ng lupa.

Nagpakawala ng isang malalim na buntonghininga si Guangling nang marinig ang kuwento. Sabay suyod sa kaniyang bigoteng umaabot hanggang dibdib. Marahil, hindi niya naintindihan ang kuwento o naintindihan niya at lalo nitong pinagtibay para sa kaniya ang kadakilaan ng halimaw. Narinig niya noon buhat sa kaniyang mga kasama ang tungkol sa mga mandirigma sa gawing ito na kumakain daw ng laman ng kapwa nila mandirigma. May paniniwala ang mga barbaro sa gawing ito na kasamang pumapasok sa loob ng sikmura ng lumamon ang birtud ng baganing kaniyang nilamon, at ang birtud na ito’y naidaragdag sa birtud ng lumamon. Ilan na nga kaya silang mga mandirigmang nasa loob ngayon ng sikmura ng bakunawa? ’Di nga kaya isang buhay na libingan ang bakunawa?

Isang libingan ng mga bagani. At naroon sila, magkakasama at pinagiisa sa loob ng bituka ng dakilang isda. Anong laking karangalan ang mailibing dito. Pero mas malaking karangalan ang mapupunta sa sinumang makalalamon sa libingang ito! Biglang sumibol sa utak ng tsino ang larawan ng bakunawang lulutang-lutang sa loob ng isang 6

mangkok ng mainit-init na sabaw ng miki. Napalunok siya sa naisip.

Ngunit bigla rin siyang sinilaban ng hiya.

Naging isang malaking dahilan ang aparisyon para sa tsinong mangangalakal na bumalik sa Himamaylan taun-taon. Tuwing uuwi naman siya sa Hunan na kaniyang bayan, isang batang pamangkin na kaniya nang inampon at pinaaalaga sa mga kapatid na soltera ang maghihintay sa kaniya doon pa lamang sa aplaya. Bukod sa mga pasalubong, inuuwian niya ito ng mga kuwento tungkol sa kaniyang mga paglalakbay. Madalas na laman ng mga kuwento ang tungkol sa pambihirang isdang namataan niya sa Silangan. Mahahawa ang bata sa kaniyang pagkahumaling. Itatanim nito sa musmos na isip ang mga kuwento ng tiyuhin. Wala pang babaeng nakapaglakbay at nakarating sa mga kahariang nasa Silangan. Ngunit paglaki ni Mei Li, hinding-hindi siya magpapabigkis ng mga paa gaya ng ginagawa sa mga kababaihan sa kanilang bayan. Sa halip, maglalakbay din siya sa dakong iyon kung saan nakarating ang kaniyang tiyuhin at kung saan nito nakita ang bakunawa.

Ikalawang pagpapakawala ng malalim na buntonghininga. Mas malalim pa sa nauna. At ngayon nga’y narito’t nakabalik na siyang muli at hindi naman siya binigo ng kaniyang kinatipan. Mamayang gabi sa loob ng kaniyang sampan, kung pagbibigyan siya ng dagat ng isang tahimik na gabi, sa kaniyang pag-iisa’y balak niyang pagmunimunihan ang pagbubuklod ng lakas at alindog nitong Anak ng Kalikasan. Susulat siya ng isang tula tungkol dito. Gagamitin niya ang tulang “Atas sa Buwaya” ng makatang si Han Yü bilang modelo.

Subalit sa kaniyang tula, sa halip na pagbantaan at utusang lumayas sa kaharian ang nilalang, ito’y aakitin pa niyang manirahan sa ilog ng Yangtze upang hindi na malayo sa kaniyang piling kahit kailan.

Isa pa uling malalim na buntonghininga. Hinding-hindi maitatago ang tuwa kahit sa kaniyang mga matang ubod nang singkit.

At natutuwa rin si datu Rabat na nakikitang masaya ang kaniyang panauhin. Labis ang kaniyang tuwa.

Nang muli na namang pumayapa ang alon, nagtatarang sa tuwa ang mga tagagaod ng adyong ng datu. Natanaw nila sa ’di kalayuan na muling bumubwelo ang higanteng nilalang na pinanonood ng tsino.

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Ang nilalang na muntik nang magpataob sa kanilang sinasakyan.

Nabulabog ang dambuhala sa kanilang sigawan. Takot palibhasa sa kahit anong uri ng ingay, agad itong sumisid sa kailaliman upang hindi na magpakita. Dito biglang nagwakas ang maligayang sandali ni Guangling. Buong pagkadismaya niyang nilingon ang adyong kung saan nagmumula ang sigawan. Naroon si datu Rabat, kumakaway. * Nang sumunod na araw, umalis sa Himamaylan ang sampan ng mangangalakal upang tumulak pabalik sa sinasabing sentro ng mundo. Habang nasa dagat ang tsino at abala sa pagsusulat ng tula, walang sinayang na sandali ang datu ng Himamaylan. Nagpasya agad siyang paghandaan ang muling pagdating ni Guangling.

Sa pagbabalik ng panauhin, pauunlakan at bibigyang dangal na niya ang ginawang pagtuturò nito sa gitna ng laot. Iturò mo, kukunin ko.

Iturò mo, huhulihin ko. Iturò mo, lulutuin ko. Madalas na rin niyang naitanong sa sarili kung ano nga kaya talaga ang lasa ng karne ng bakunawa. Naaalala pa niya ang matagal na panahon nang unang makatikim siya ng laman ng isa ring dambuhala mula sa dagat.

Datu pa ng Himamaylan noon ang kaniyang ama nang may isang bongansisong kasing-laki ng burol ang napasadsad sa kanilang baybayin. Abot hanggang sa kabilang nayon ang lansa nito kaya nagtulong ang mga tao na pagtipak-tipakin ang karne ng dambuhala para ibilad sa araw at gawing daing. Isang buwan halos nila itong pinagsaluhan bago naubos.

Sa susunod na ikatlong pagbilog ng buwan, ang naiturong isda naman ang ihahanda nila sa pagbabalik ng Sugo ng Anak ng Langit.

Sa susunod na ikatlong pagbilog ng buwan, isasagawa nila ang isang salu-salong walang kapantay.

Tumutol si Amandiwing, ang babaylan ng kanilang banwa na siya rin niyang pinakamatanda at pinakamatalinong tagapayo.

Hindi dapat galawin ang bakunawa. Lilikha ito ng alingasngas buhat sa ibang mga banwa. Baka ito pa ang pagmulan ng gulo. Pero nangatuwiran ang datu. Aniya, kung maipapakita natin na tayo dito’y 8

kayang magpakasakit para sa Emperador, mapupukaw ang loob ng Emperador na magpakasakit din para sa atin. At kung magkagayon, anong hindi natin kayang hingin sa kanila? “Sa lahat naman kasi ng mga datu, ikaw Rabat ang pinakapalahingi,� malutong na tugon sa kaniya ng babaylan na parang lansakang kinikilala ang sakit na taglay ng kausap. Batid ni Amandiwing na dahil sa maliit na sakop ng datu kung bakit nagkakaganito ang kaniyang anak-anakan. At kung gayon, dahil din ito sa maliit na tingin ng datu sa sarili. Kaya batid din ni Amandiwing na batid ng datu ang kahalagahan ng pagiging maagap. Sa buong kahabaan pa lang ng tabing-dagat ng Himamaylan, labimpito na silang mga nakapuwestong datu. Isang datu ang nakaposisyon sa bawat bungad ng ilog. Tungkulin ng bawat isa ang pamunuan ang kaniyang nasasakupan sa dapat na paggamit sa ilog mula sa pangingisda hanggang sa pagtatanim. Bukod sa labimpitong ito, may pito pang datu sa ilaya, mayroon pa sa ilawud, at mayroon din sa mga kabundukan. Tanging ang mga datu sa mga bayan ng Tayasan, Ayungon, Bindoy, Amlan, at Sibulan ang kumikilala sa kapangyarihan ni Rabat, at ito’y hangga’t hawak niya ang pantalan ng Himamaylan na dinaraungan ng mga mangangalakal buhat sa sentro. Naniniwala ang karamihan sa mga datu na sapat na ang mga hayup at pananim na matatagpuan sa sarili nilang mga sakop upang mapanatili ang lakas at yaman ng kanilang mga bayan.

Si datu Rabat lang ang naniniwala na mahalaga rin ang paghawak sa pantalan sapagkat malaking ganansya pa ang maaaring makuha mula sa mga tagalabas. Isang beses pa lang na nailibot ang datu sa loob ng sampan ng dayuhang mangangalakal pero simula noon, madalas na siyang hindi mapagkatulog. Madalas nang maging laman ng kaniyang malulungkot ngunit matatamis na alaala ang mga porselanang gusi at banga, mga bakal na lalagyan ng alak; balat ng tigre, oso, leopardo, balahibo ng paboreal, talukab ng pawikan; mga ginto, mga karayom na may iba't ibang laki at haba; mga lorong may iba't ibang disenyo ang plumahe at may kani-kaniyang mga wikang sinasalita gaya ng Arabe, Mandarin at Hindu; mga kuwintas at purselas na abaloryong yari sa bubog, marmol, ihada at 9

ngipin; rolyo-rolyong kayong lino; mga espesyas gaya ng paminta, kanela, basil, bawang, luya, sibuyas, asin, safron; mga pabango gaya ng kampor, yasmin, insenso, at mira; mga sungay buhat sa elepante, olikorniyo, usa, at demonyo. Subalit sa lahat ng mga kalakal na laman ng sasakyang hugis sapatos, iisa lang ang tunay na bumighani sa kaniya. Kung mahihiling niya sa mangangalakal na sa kaniya na lang at tanging sa kaniya na lang ibenta ang mga bughaw na porselanang gusi at banga sa halip na ikalakal pa ito sa ibang mga datu, at sa ganito’y magsirami rin ang koleksyon ng ibang mga datu ng mga bahanding tulad niyon na siyang ayaw niyang mangyari.

Ngunit nasa bakunawa ang susi.

“At kailan mo naman ito binabalak na hulihin?” tanong sa kaniya ni Amandiwing.

“Luto na dapat ang isda bago pa dumating ang bisita,” tugon ni datu Rabat.

Anong sarap kung maibabalik lang sana ang kamusmusan ni Rabat kung kailan maaari niya itong tuktukan sa ulo, nahiling bigla ni Amandiwing. “Paano kung mahuli mo nga ang bakunawa pero pagkatapos mong paghirapang hulihin at kitlan ng buhay, hindi naman pala darating ang iyong inaasahang bisita? Kanino mo ngayon ’yan ipakakaing lahat?”

“Babalik iyon dito.”

“Pero paano nga kung hindi na makabalik ’yong tao? Paano kung ayaw nang pabalikin dito ng kaniyang amo? O kung babalik man, paano kung madisgrasya sa laot, simbaku?”

Nangislap ang mga mata ni datu Rabat bago nakasagot.

“Kapag nangyari iyon, Amandiwing, ako mismo ang pupunta sa bayan ni Guangling para dalhin ang ulo ng bakunawa sa Emperador.”

“Pero paano mo huhulihin ang bakunawa?”

Ito ang pinakamahalagang tanong. Bilang paghahanap sa sagot, nagtalaga ang datu ng isang pangkat ng mga tanod para lamang sa dambuhalang isda. Binubuo ito ng pinakamagagaling na mga mangingisda ng Himamaylan. Sila ang aantabay sa mga lugar kung saan nagpapakita ang dambuhala, kung saan ito madalas manginain at magpahinga. Aaralin nila ang kilos nito. Kung ano ang 10

kinakain nito bukod sa tao. Kung may kumakandili pa ba ritong mga magulang. Kung ito ba’y isang lalake o isang babae. Kung ito kaya’y may kaparis na kinakaulayaw. At higit sa lahat, kung ito ba’y may taglay na kahinaan. Limang kaban ng bigas na sinamahan ng bultobultong ube, kamote, at isang buwig na saging na kung tawagi’y todlong binokot o “daliri ng binibini” ang pabuya para sa bawat impormasyong maibibigay ng mga tanod.

Ngayon pa lang, nakikita na ni Rabat sa kaniyang isip ang magiging engkuwentro niya sa bakunawa. Pipili siya ng pinakamabuting araw para isagawa ang pagsalakay. Iaayon niya ito sa sasabihin ng mga bituin. Habang hinihintay ang mapalad na araw, ihahanda niya ang kaniyang mga sasakyang pandagat. Uupa siya ng limang pirata para pamunuan ang kaniyang mga paraw na pandigma.

Nakikita na niya ang pinuno ng kaniyang mga pirata. May suot itong turban yaring Bengal. May balabal itong marlota na madalas makitang suot ng mga Turko anupa’t mapagkakamalan nga niya itong isang Turko sa unang tingin. Ngunit hindi niya iaasa rito ang paghuli sa bakunawa. Siya mismo ang mamumuno sa sarili niyang paraw na may dalawang layag. Nakikita na rin niya ang kaniyang sarili bago pumalaot, magbibilin sa kaniyang asawang laging panatilihing bukas ang pintuan ng kanilang bahay habang nasa gitna sila ng dagat upang maakit pumasok ang malaking isda dito. Sa dalampasigan, lahat ng makakakita sa kanila buhat sa malayo’y mag-aakalang isang malaking digmaan ang kanilang pupuntahan. Tatlong araw at tatlong gabi nilang susuyurin ang karagatan. Sa pang-apat na araw, matatanaw nila mula sa malayo ang hinahanap. Maaabutan nila itong may tinutugis na isang balyenang bulik. Pinipikpik ng bakunawa ang hinahagad na balyena gamit ang kaniyang nguso. Sa lakas ng pagkakabayo, tatalsik ang balyena. Hahampasin pa ito ng bakunawa gamit ang buntot. Mawawarak ang katawan ng biktima.

Mahahati sa dalawa. Ang gawing ulo muna ang sasagpangin ng halimaw at ’di pa halos ito nangunguya nang husto nang isinunod naman ang sa gawing buntot. Magsisiahon ang mga pating para sana lapitan ang pinanggagalingan ng dugo na kanilang naamoy buhat sa malayo. Ang mga aswang, busaw, sigbin, alok, balbal, kakag, oko, onglo, wakwak, ik-ik, at mantiw ng dagat. Tila ito nang 11

lahat ang mga pating na mailuluwa maging ng pinakamadilim na bahagi nito. Ngunit sa kabila ng kanilang dami, nang makita nila ang nanginginaing dambuhala, agad din silang babalik sa kung saang bahagi man ng dagat sila nanggaling. Sandaling matatahimik ang kaniyang bataan sa kanilang nasaksihan. Dahan-dahan nilang ibababa ang mga layag upang hindi maging sagabal. Iihi muna sa gilid-gilid ang mga kailangang umihi bago bumalik sa kanilang mga kasama upang sama-samang magtawag sa mga anito ng dagat. “Sa wakas,� sasabihin niya sa kaniyang mga kasama matapos nilang magdasal, “ngayon natin masusubok kung totoo ngang nagliliyab ang titig ng bakunawa.�

Kaya sabay-sabay nilang ihahagis ang kanilang mga sibat sa ulo ng higanteng isda. Patatagusin nila ito hanggang sa utak. Ngunit paano nila iyon magagawa sa kapal ng bungo ng halimaw? At kung maibaon man nila sa ulo nito ang kanilang mga sibat, paano kung mas malakas ang hatak ng bakunawa sa kanilang mga paraw? Alam niyang gagapangan siya ng kilabot sa buong katawan kung mahuhulaan niya ang balak ng bakunawang lumundag patungong araw. Isasama sila sa paglundag nito. Sa pag-angat ng katawan ng dambuhala patungo sa inaasam, magsisilbing sagabal na pabigat ang mga nagsisabit na bangka. Hindi makapaniniwala ang mga nasa bangkang totoong nagsisiangat din sila dahil sa kinakapitan. Palibhasa walang anumang gamit na angkla, sama-sama silang magsisitakbo patungo sa likuran sa pag-asang ang pinagsama-samang timbang ng kanilang mga katawan mismo ang magsisilbing pabigat na sasalba sa kanila at sa kanilang mga bangka. Pero hindi pa man din sila naiaangat, naisip na nilang mas malaking pinsala ang naghihintay pagbagsak ng dambuhala pabalik sa dagat kung nakasabit pa rin sila dito.

Hindi makaliligtas ang kanilang mga bangka. Madudurog sila.

Kaya sisikapin ng kanyang mga bataan na putulin na ang lubid na nagdurugtong sa paraw sa katawan ng bakunawa. Alam niyang walang makikinig sa kaniya kung pipigilan niya ang mga ito dahil mas marami silang mas nais pang makabalik sa pantalan nang buhay. Sisimulan din ng mga nasa ibang mga paraw na gayahin ang kanilang ginagawa. Ilan ang matagumpay na makabibitiw, 12

ilan naman ang hindi papalarin. Kasamang matatangay ang mga ito sa pagtaas at pagbagsak ng dambuhala. Pagtambog sa tubig, tuloytuloy sa kailaliman ang mga naisamang bangka. Doon sa ilalim masusubukan ang tibay ng pagkakagawa sa mga ito. Mapuputulan ng mastil ang ilan. Mababalian pa ng katig ang iba. Samantalang ganap na mawawasak ang mga naihampas sa mga koral at batuhan.

Mga lubid at kalawit na lang na nakatarak pa rin sa katawan ng dambuhala ang lulutang nang lumutang din ang dambuhala pabalik sa dagat. Sa pagkakaalis ng mga sagabal sa katawan, sisikapin nitong muling lundagin ang araw.

At simula pa lang talaga ito.

Kumalat ang balita tungkol sa binabalak ni datu Rabat.

Naligalig ang iba pang mga datu mula Mait hanggang Bohol. Ilan pa sa kanila ang dinalaw daw ng mga misteryosong kataw. Mula sa dagat, nagsisampa raw sa kanilang kuta ang mga Bantay ng Dagat na nagsipag-anyong mga dugong at may dalang babala: sa paanan ni datu Rabat mangangayupapa ang lahat pagdating ng panahon dahil hihigitan pa nito ang pinagsamang kapangyarihan ng isang libong datu. Mag-ingat kapag nahuli na ni Rabat ang bakunawa. Ito na ang simula ng kaniyang paglakas. * Bago muling bumilog ang buwan at bago muling lumalim ang tubig sa mga pampang, maliban sa datu ng Sugbo na humaharap sa kaguluhan ng sariling mga sakop, nagpadala ng kani-kanilang mga sugo ang mga datu ng Mait, Hantik, at Bohol sa silong ng datu ng Himamaylan.

“Mag-ingat sa pagsagot sa kanila,” bilin ng matandang tagapayo kay datu Rabat bago ito humarap sa mga panauhin. “Piliin mong mabuti ang iyong mga sasalitain.” Tila isang bata at hindi isang datu ang kinakausap ni Amandiwing. ‘‘Ama ng ibong diwing’’ ang ibig sabihin ng kaniyang pangalan at siya na halos ang nagpalaki sa datu nang maagang mamatay ang ama nito. Kailangan niyang subaybayan hanggang ngayon ang kaniyang anak-anakan dahil sa mga kakaibang gawi at pagtingin nito sa buhay. Bata pa rin kung tutuusin ang datu 13

kahit ito’y may tatlumpung taong gulang na. Naintindihan naman ng datu ang nais sabihin ng matanda. Bilang paghahanda sa kaniyang pagharap sa mga sugo, isang matinding pagsisiyasat ng sarili ang kaniyang ginawa habang nasa harap ng kaniyang mga banga at gusi, dito sa kaniyang mga bahandi na binigyan niya ng kani-kaniyang mga pangalan ayon sa kanilang halaga at anyo. Itong mga gining na ginagamit sa pangasi. Ang mga abdan at lumbang na tinawag nang gayon dahil sila ang pinakamalalaki. Ang kaniyang mga linoping na may taingang hawakan, tila mga pintados na ginapangan ng mga tato ang buong katawan. Ang kaniyang mga tinampilak na kulay itim, naglalakihan at nagtataasan; may mga anak pa ito na tuytuy naman ang pangalan. Ang kaniyang mga kabo na mumunting mga sisidlan na bughaw at puti ang mga kulay. At ang pinakapaborito niya sa lahat, ang mga hinalasan na may ukit na dragong halas sa magkabilang gilid. Sa loob ng ganitong banga niya pinapangarap na malagak ang sariling labi pagdating ng araw. Ang isa nito’y nagkakahalaga ng isang basing ng mga ginto. Ilang alipin din ang kayang bilhin kapalit ng isa nito. Lahat sila’y hagdan-hagdang nakadambana sa haligi ng kaniyang bahay, at ngayo’y nagpapaalala sa kaniya kung tungkol saan talaga ang pulong ng mga sugo. Alam niyang nagkukumahog din ang kaniyang mga kapitbahay na makuha ang pabor ng dayuhang mangangalakal. Kani-kaniya lang sila ng paraan. Ilan pa nga sa kanila’y iniaalok kahit ang kanilang mga dalagang binokot para lang masarili ang mga bughaw na porselanang banga at gusi lalong-lalo na iyong hinalasan. Nagkataon lang na siya ang nakahula sa totoong mithi ng dayuhan. Dahil kung dati mga aliping nakuha sa digmaan at pananalakay ang binibilang na karangalan, hindi na ngayon.

Nagbabago na ang panahon. Pagod na ang mga tao sa digmaan.

Ang bughaw na porselanang hinalasan na nagmula pa sa Anak ng Langit na nakaluklok doon sa Gitnang Kaharian ang bagong birtud. Ang pinakamahalagang bahandi. Ang bagong pamantayan.

Dito na nakatutok ang mata ng halos lahat. Sapagkat ang sinumang may pinakamalawak na koleksyon nito’y pinagpapalagay agad na may malawig na impluwensyang aabot hanggang sa kabilang kabihasnan.

Ito ang magsasabi kung sino ang kaibigan ng Anak ng Langit. Ito ang 14

magsasabi kung sino ang may pinakamaraming gintong nagagamit sa pakikipagpalitan. Ito ang magsasabi kung kaninong pantalan ang dapat na puntahan. Ito ang magsasabi kung sino ang totoong may sinasabi. Ngayon nila nakikita ang bisa ng simpleng pagkakaroon ng ganitong uri ng pag-aari. Ano ang pag-aari mo? Ang pag-aari ng hari.

Ang pag-aari sa ari ng hari. Hindi ang pagtatanim sa malawak na lupa. Hindi ang pag-uutos sa mga alipin. Hindi rin ang pagkakaroon ng mabunying angkan.

Bilang pagsalubong sa mga sugo, naglabas si datu Rabat ng buyo, apog, at ikmo. Nagsiupo sa harap ng dulang ang mga sugo at nagsipagnganga habang nagpapahinga buhat sa mahabang paglalakbay. Sinamantala ni datu Rabat ang pagkakataong ito para mailabas din at maipamalas sa mga panauhin ang isang sisidlan na bagong bili mula sa tsinong mangangalakal. Isang porselanang lalagyan na hugis arinola dahil sa isa talaga itong arinola ngunit ginagamit nila ngayon bilang luraan habang nagnganganga.

Nang magkulay pula na ang kanilang laway at mga ngipin dahil sa katas ng buyo, pinagsaluhan naman nila ang alak na dala ng mga sugo. Naglabas naman ng tapang usa ang asawa ni datu Rabat upang mayroon silang mapulutan. Tinagayan ni datu Rabat ang mga panauhin. Ibinuhos sa lupa ang unang tagay. Para raw ito sa demonyo. Napuna lang ng ilang sugo na sa halip na sa iisang baso sila uminom na magkakaharap, mag-isang ginamit ni datu Rabat ang kaniyang inumang tanso. May pagtangi sa basong ito ang datu.

Sa katawan nito nakaukit ang isang sulat-tsino na tila tinik ng isda ang hugis. Nang ipagtanong noon ni Rabat kay Guangling na siyang nagregalo ng inumang tanso kung ano’ng basa sa nakaukit na sulat, ‘‘Tê’’ ang itinugon nito. Nang tanungin naman ng datu kung anong ibig sabihin niyon, sunod-sunod na pagmomonstra ang ginawa ng kausap na tumagal din halos ng kalahating oras. Tê ang tawag sa pagwawagi ng mga bagani sa digmaan. Tê ang tawag sa pag-uwi ng pinakamalaking huling baboyramo sa panahon ng pangangaso. Tê ang dahilan ng paglalayag ng mga manlalakbay buhat sa Gitnang Kaharian patungo sa mga kasuluk-sulukang bahagi ng mundo.

Tê ang uban sa ulo ng matatandang tagapayo. Tê ang tawag sa 15

kakayahan ng haring magpataw ng buwis nang hindi gumagamit ng dahas o pamimilit. TĂŞ rin ang tawag sa tapat na pagbabayad ng utang sa isang pinagkakautangan kahit taon na ang nagdaan. Karangalan.

Kadakilaan. Kabantugan. Ito na marahil ang ibig sabihin ng ukit na iyon sa kaniyang baso na hinding-hindi ipinagagamit ng datu sa kaniyang mga kainuman, kahit pa kawalan ng paggalang ang maaari nitong maging kahulugan.

Unang nagsalita ang sugo ng Mait. Ipinaalala nito sa bawat isang naroroon ang mapayapa nilang pagsasamahan sa loob ng mahabang panahon. Na matagal nang walang digmaang nagaganap sa pagitan ng kanilang mga banwa at naging susi rito ang pagkakapantay-pantay ng kadatuan sa dangal at kapangyarihan. Walang iisang naghahariharian gaya ng naririnig nilang nagaganap sa Maguindanao.

Hindi natagalan ni datu Rabat ang pagmumukha nitong nagsasalita. Natatandaan niyang ang datu mismo ng Mait ang madalas magmalaking ang mga banga at gusing kinakalakal sa Himamaylan ay una nang naialok sa Mait kaya napagpilian na raw ito bago pa nakarating sa kanilang daungan. Ang nakararating sa inyo’y mga tira-tira na lamang namin, ang madalas nitong ipamukha.

Ang masaklap, may katotohanan ang yabang ng taga-Mait dahil kung hindi sa daungan ng Maynilad, ay sa Mait unang lumalapag ang mga mangangalakal, at kung lalong minamalas, minsan hindi na nga ito nakararating pa sa kanila. Kapag nangyayari ito, sa mga taga-Mait na lamang sila napipilitang makipagpalitan sa halip na dumirekta sa mga tsino. At sa ganito nababawasan ang kanilang dangal, ang kanilang tĂŞ. Pero malapit na itong magbago. Titiyakin niyang mailalagay na sa mapa ng mga dayuhang mangangalakal ang kanilang Himamaylan.

Ngayon pa lang, nakikita na niyang nakatayo sa kaniyang pantalan ang mga pamilihang dinarayo ng mga mangangalakal na tsino, gayon din ng mga galing Maynilad, Sulu, at Burney. Sa mga pamilihang ito lamang kasi mabibili ang uri ng mga alipin, pagkain, tela, armas, at mga kasangkapang hindi mabibili sa ibang bayan. At siya, si datu Rabat, ang babago sa mundo ng kalakalan.

Patuloy sa kaniyang pagtatalumpati ang sugo ng Mait. Biglang tinalon ni datu Rabat mula sa kaniyang kinauupuan ang nagsasalita.

16

Binigyan niya ito ng isang bigwas at saka niluraan sa mukha.

“Ulol!” singhal niya rito. “Walang totoong pagkakapantay-pantay sa kadatuan!” Pero nanatili lamang sa kaniyang utak ang lahat ng pandarahas na iyon. Mabuti’t nakapagpigil siya. Nakita niya ang kaniyang sarili sa kaniyang tabi, tinapik siya nito at saka sinabing hindi pa ito ang panahon mo. Pero sa kaniyang isip, kaniya pa ring ipinagpatuloy ang naunsyaming pananakit sa sugo hanggang sa kaniya na itong pagsasaksakin at maglabas-masok ang kaniyang kampilan sa dibdib nito.

Sumunod na nagsalita ang sugo mula sa Bohol. Ang taga-Mait lang ang naglatag ng panimula, ngunit ang taga-Bohol bilang pinakamatanda sa kanilang lahat ang umungkat sa tunay nilang pakay. Hindi na nagpaligoy-ligoy ang sugo ng Bohol. Narito sila para kumbinsihin ang datu ng Himamaylan na huwag nang ituloy ang binabalak.

“Walang dapat gumalaw sa bakunawa. Bunsong anak ito ng diwata ng karagatan. Ang dagat mismo ang kakalabanin mo.

Sa dagat tayong lahat nabubuhay kaya mahirap kapag ito ang nagalit sa atin.” Napansin ni Rabat na paubos na halos ang pinagsasaluhan nilang tapa at malamang na itong taga-Bohol ang pinakamaraming nakain sa kanila.

“Ano bang binabalak mong gawin sa bakunawa? Bakit mo ito gustong tugisin?” Nagtatanong ang sugo ng Bohol habang ngumangalot ng karne.

Ibinaba ni Rabat ang basong kanina pa niya hawak-hawak sa takot na mainuman ito ng tatlo. “Hindi lang ito para sa akin,” mahinahon niyang tugon. Sa simula, hindi naunawaan ng tatlo kung ano ang ‘‘ito’’ na tinutukoy ni Rabat. Kung ang binabalak na pagdakip ba sa bakunawa o ang basong kanina pa ipinagdaramot sa kanila. “Para ito sa ating lahat na mga nabubuhay at nais pang mabuhay sa hinaharap.”

Pinilit ng taga-Bohol na lulunin ang nalalabing malaking hiwa ng tapa sa paraang hindi siya masasamid. Napatulala naman ang dalawa niyang kasama sa pagkamangha sa mukha ni Rabat na biglang nagmistulang sa isang anito na naghihintay na maihugis sa kahoy at magawan ng sariling dambana. Muntik na nilang malimutan na naghihintay sila ng paliwanag kung hindi lang muling nagsalita ang datu.

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“Nakatira ang bakunawa sa dagat pero hindi ibig sabihin na parte ito ng dagat. Ang kuto kahit gaano pa katagal na nakatira sa ulo, hindi pa rin puwedeng maging parte ng ulo.” Sinikap ni Rabat na gamitin ang mga turo ni Amandiwing sa mabisang pangangatuwiran.

“Pero nagmamalasakit sa kahihinatnan ng bakunawa kahit ang mga kataw,” sagot ng taga-Mait.

“Sino-sino sa inyo ang dinalaw ng mga kataw kahit sa panaginip?”

“Dinalaw ng mga ito ang Datu ng Mait.”

“Dinalaw din ng mga ito ang Datu ng Bohol.”

“Pero dinalaw rin ba ng mga ito ang Datu ng Hantik?”

Hinintay nila ang sagot buhat sa sugo ng Hantik na kanina pa nananahimik.

“Hindi,” pagtatapat nito.

Natuwa si Rabat. Tama ang balitang naipaabot sa kaniya.

“Wala rin namang dumalaw sa akin,” dugtong pa niya. “Kaya bakit tila pinipili lang ng mga kataw ang kanilang dadalawin kung totoong nagmamalasakit sila sa bakunawa? O kung totoo nga ang mga panaginip?” Parang isang kuyom ng buhanging isinaboy ng datu ang huling tanong na iyon sa kaniyang mga kaharap. Nagtalo-talo ang tatlo. Nganingani nilang pagbabatukan itong taga-Hantik na ayaw palang makisama ay kung bakit hindi nagsabi nang maaga.

“Ni dilis walang pumaroon sa amin para maghatid ng kahit anong orakulo. Hindi ako puwedeng magsinungaling tungkol diyan,” mariing pagtatanggol ng taga-Hantik sa sarili.

“At kung dinalaw nga ng mga kataw na iyan ang datu ng Mait at Bohol ngunit hindi ang datu ng Himamaylan at Hantik, ibig bang sabihin na hindi pantay ang tingin ng dagat sa kadatuan?” panggagatong pa ni Rabat sa gulo ng tatlong sugo. Hindi na niya hinintay na makasagot ang sinuman sa tatlo. Sa kanyang hudyat, pumasok sa loob ng silid ang babaylang si Amandiwing. Nakasuot ito ng itim at puting baro na yari sa kayong dala ng mga tsino at sayang itim na yari sa abaka at hinabing bulak. May makulay na turban na may sungay ng usa sa magkabilang gilid ang ulo ng babaylan. Sa kasuotan niyang pambabae, tila bumata ng sampung taon ang matandang tagapayong nagsilbi nang ama kay datu Rabat sa mahabang panahon.

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Sa kaniyang mga kamay at braso, nakatatong gaya ng sa mandirigma ang eksena ng paghahabulan ng mga buwaya at labuyong tandang.

Hawak niya sa isang kamay ang isang malapad na pamaypay na may ganoon ding eksena ng mga buwaya at labuyo. Sumalampak din siya sa sahig ngunit sa halip na makisali sa harap ng dulang, naupo siya may dalawang dipa ang layo buhat sa mga bisita. Kasunod niya, nagsipasok din ang tatlo pang kalalakihan. May hawak na kudyapi ang una, may subing ang ikalawa, at kalatong naman ang ikatlo.

Naupo rin sila sa sahig na may dalawang dipa ang layo buhat naman sa babaylan. Hindi madalas na mangyaring magsama ang tatlong musikerong ito.

“Makinig kayong mabuti kung gusto n’yong malaman ang totoo tungkol sa bakunawa,” anyaya ng babaylan sa mga naroon.

Unang tumugtog ang kudyapi na sinundan naman ng subing at kalatong. Nagpatuloy ang babaylan sa saliw nitong tatlo. “Nang pasimula, inihugis at sinilaban ni Makaptang Nakatira Sa Dakong Kaitas-taasan Ng Langit ang labintatlong bola ng apoy, ihooooy!

Ang mga bolang ito na tinatawag nating araw ang naghahalinhinan sa pagbibigay ng liwanag at init sa mundo. Ngunit dahil naaakit ang mga bakunawa sa mga bola, nagagawa nilang lumipad sa langit upang lunukin ang mga ito at sa ganito’y nalilikha nila ang pusikit na kadiliman sa mundong ibabaw. Ang dilim na hatid nito ang nagsisilbi namang pasimula ng mga digmaan, sakit, peste, at gutom, kruutaaay! Dahil dito kaya itinuring na salot ang mga bakunawa. Salot na kasalutsalutan! Maraming mga bagani noon ang naglakbay sa paghahanap sa mga dambuhalang salot. Sinikap nilang ubusin ang lahi ng mga salot. Pero may mga nagsasabi na hindi mga ninuno nating bagani ang pumuksa sa mga bakunawa kung ’di ang mga agta, ihoooy! Nakipagdigma noon sa mga bakunawa itong mga agta.

Dahil ang mga agta ang mga naunang tao sa mundo na nabuhay kasabay ng mga unang bakunawa, alam nila ang pinakamabisang pain para sa mga dambuhala. Sa pamamagitan ng paing ito na ilalagak nila sa tuktok ng Bundok Kanlaon, maaakit nila ang mga bakunawang sumampa sa dalampasigan at gumapang na tila ahas papunta sa itaas ng bundok. Tulad ng karaniwang isdang hindi nagtatagal ang buhay 19

sa lupa, mauubusan ng hininga ang mga bakunawa, kruut-aaaay! kaya hindi na sila nakababalik pa sa dagat. Sa halip, sa tuktok ng Kanlaon na lamang sila mababalaho (iyon ay kung narating nila iyon nang buhay) para matuyo at maging isang malaking tipak ng bato.

Ang mga agta lang ang may alam sa sekretong pain. Hanggang ngayon, hindi nila sinasabi kung ano iyon. Hinayaan din nilang mabuhay ang pinakabatang bakunawa. Balang-araw, inaasahan nilang ito ang magiging pahirap sa buhay ng mga naninirahan sa tabing-dagat. Ito ang paraan nila para tikisin tayong mga unat dahil sa inagaw daw natin ang kanilang mga lupa. Samantala, labindalawa sa mga bolang apoy ang natangay na ng mga naunang bakunawa.

Isang bolang apoy na lang ang natitira sa langit at nais din itong lamunin ng natitirang bakunawa na gumagala ngayon sa ating karagatan, salamat sa mga agta. Kung matatangay ng halimaw na ito ang huling araw sa langit, hindi lang ito maghahatid ng dilim sa mundong ibabaw, magdudulot din ito ng matinding lamig.”

Sa bahaging ito biglang tumayo ang babaylan, naglakad ng tatlong hakbang palapit sa mga panauhin. Gamit ang matinding takot sa kaniyang mga mata, sinikap niyang dalhin ang mga panauhin sa hinaharap na kaniya na ngayong nakikita. “At kung mangyayari iyon, ay! ay! ay! mababalot ng dilim at yelo ang buong mundo na gaya ng nangyari sa panahon ng ating mga kanununuan.” At dito nanahimik ang babaylan. Huminto rin sa pagtugtog ang kudyapi, subing, at kalatong.

“Kung totoo nga iyang kuwento, bakit nasa langit pa rin hanggang ngayon ang araw?” tanong ni datu Rabat na parang hindi pa nalalaman ang nakahandang sagot ng babaylan.

Bilang tugon, tumugtog muli ang subing. Ngunit nag-iisa na lang ito. Pabilis nang pabilis na parang iyak ng isang baboyramong nahuli sa bitag at nais kumawala. Ngunit bigla rin itong tumigil.

“Dahil hindi pa sapat ang kaniyang birtud,” sagot ng babaylan na tila biglang binalikan ng buhay para lang sagutin ang tanong ng datu.

“At dahil wala pa siya sa tamang gulang.” Ang kalatong naman ngayon ang tumugtog. Palakas nang palakas ang hampas na parang mga yabag ng isang papalapit na sigbin. “Ngunit kapag narating na 20

niya ang tamang gulang, kapag naipon na niya ang sapat na birtud, at kapag naabot na niya ang tamang laki, ay, ay, ay, simbaku!” At upang dagdagan ang diin ng kaniyang sinalita sa dulo, sinamahan pa niya ito ng paghigop ng sariling laway. Nagtapos ang lahat sa huling hampas ng kalatong.

Nangangatal sa takot ang tatlong sugo matapos na marinig ang buong salaysay ng babaylan. Hindi na hinintay ng datung makapagsalita ang sinuman sa tatlo. Tinapos niya ang pulong sa ganitong pahayag: “Kung mahihingi ko ang basbas ng inyong mga pinuno, ako, si datu Rabat ay nangangakong ipagkakaloob ang dila ng bakunawa sa datu ng Mait, ang bungsanga ng bakunawa sa datu ng Hantik, at ang langis ng bakunawa sa datu ng Bohol sa sandaling mahuli ko ang halimaw.” Matapos ang pagpapasabing iyon, nagpapasok pa ng ibang mga putahe si Rabat. Nagpatuloy ang inuman, tugtugan, at kantahan. Kasama nang kumakain at umiinom sa dulang ang babaylang si Amandiwing na nagsikap na maibaling sa ibang paksa ang mga pag-uusap. Pagsapit ng hapon, nagpaalam na ang tatlong sugo. Inihatid ng datu ang mga panauhin hanggang sa pantalan kung saan naghihintay ang sasakyang karakoa ng bawat sugo. Bago namaalam, nagpabaon pa si Rabat ng mga handog para sa mga datu: mga rolyo ng seda at sarong na yari sa bulak, mga bangang may lamang miki at pugad ng ibong yanwo na nakapagpapataas daw ng libido kapag isinahog sa sopas, at ilang mga aliping pinili dahil sa pagiging mahuhusay na mananayaw.

Magtatakip-silim na nang makabalik si datu Rabat sa kaniyang bahay. Nagulat siya nang makitang nakaupo sa hagdan ng kaniyang bahay si Amandiwing na nakasuot pa rin ng kasuotan ng isang babae at tila naghihintay sa kaniya roon nang buong panahon.

“May nakalimutan kasi akong sabihin kanina roon sa tatlo,” walang kaabog-abog na paliwanag ng babaylan pagsapit ng datu sa kaniyang kinauupuan. Para sa matandang tagapayong ito, hindi pa pala talaga tapos ang mga kuwentuhan at inuman. Maaari pa rin itong ituloy kahit ngayong wala na ang tatlong sugo. Naupo ang datu sa tabi niya para pakinggan ang kaniyang sasabihin. “Nakalimutan kong banggitin ang tungkol sa buwan. Nilalamon nga rin pala 21

ng mga bakunawa ang buwan. Nilalamon nila kapwa ang araw at buwan. Naintindihan mo ba ang ibig nitong sabihin? Panahon ang tunay na nilalamon ng bakunawa. Binabakunawa din kahit ang panahon natin.” Naulit ang paghigop ng sariling laway pagdating sa dulo ng kaniyang pahayag ngunit hindi na para sa diin, sapagkat ang mga huling tinuran ay tila sinasabi na lang ng babaylan para sa kaniyang sarili.

“Anong mawawala kung gayon nga?” tanong ni datu Rabat na hindi na makita ang kaibhan ng palabas sa katotohanan.

“Mawawala sa atin ang panahon ng paglitaw ng mga bituing Ulalen, ng mga Kambing, ng buntalang Moroporo. Hindi na magtatawag sa umaga ang ibong kahaw para magpaalala sa nalalapit na panahon ng pagtatanim. Mawawalan ang mga punong katparasan, kattaloto, katlawaan, at katkisiw ng kani-kanilang mga panahon ng pamumulaklak. Mawawala ang paghahalinhinan sa pagdating ng mga hanging amihan at habagat. Mawawala ang panahon kung kailan tayo naghahanda ng mga binhing ihahasik sa lupa.

Mawawala sa atin ang panahon ng dagankahuy kung kailan tayo nagkakaingin. Mawawala ang daganenan bulan kung kailan natin ikinakamada ang mga kahoy sa bukid. Mawawala ang elkilin kung kailan natin sinusunog ang mga kahoy sa bukid. Mawawala ang inabuyan kung kailan dumarating ang banayad na hangin galing timog. Mawawala ang panahon ng paglitaw sa langit ng mga buntalang hudyat natin sa pagdating ng tag-ulan, ng Losong, Balatik, Lubi, Butete at Alimango. Mawawala ang panahon ng tag-ulan.

Mawawala rin ang panahon ng paghahasik ng mga binhi. Higit sa lahat, mawawala ang panahon ng anihan, gayon din ang katapusan ng anihan. Mawawala ang siklong ating sinusunod. Mawawala ang kaayusan. Mapapalitan ito lahat ng paglimot.”

Sandaling katahimikan ang namagitan sa dalawa.

Nakatingin na sa malayo ang babaylan na parang may tinatahak nang ibang mundo sa kaniyang isip, isang mundong hindi na marahil sinusukat ng panahon. Tumayo si datu Rabat nang maintindihan niyang tapos nang magsalita ang kausap. Pumasok siya sa bahay.

May kinuha sandali at saka muling lumabas at pumanaog.

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Naroon pa rin sa silong ang babaylan na tila may hinihintay.

Binubugaw nito ang mga niknik na lumiligid-ligid sa kaniyang mukha. Nilapitan siya muli ng datu. Dalawang kamay na iniabot rito ang ulo ng usa na galing sa piging. Inilaan ito ng datu para lang talaga sa babaylan. Tinanggap naman ito ng babaylan, humakbang papalayo at saka inihagis ang ulo pabalik sa datu. Sinalo ito ni Rabat. Nahulaan niya agad ang nais mangyari ng babaylan. Inihagis niya pabalik sa babaylan ang ulo. Sinalo naman ito ng kaharap.

Nagpatuloy sila sa paghagis at pagsalo. Dahil naalala ng babaylan ang huling ulong dinala sa kaniya ng datu. Ulo iyon ng isang kaaway.

Na pinagpasahan din nilang parang bola bago inialay sa mga anito.

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Isang araw, pinatawag ako ng pinuno ng aming sandatahang lakas.

Iniwan ko ang hinahabing basket at humarap sa kanya.

Ni hindi niya inangat ang mga talukap para tingnan ako pero tinanggap ko ang tungkuling iniatang na humihinging iwanan ko ang lahat: ang aking pamilya, mga pag-aari, kinabukasan at pansariling kaligayahan.

Ang maaari ko lang baunin, ang damit na suot patungo sa liwasan.

Ang aking babantayan, isang libingan na hindi ko matiyak kung may laman.

Hindi ako kailanman lumiban.

Hindi bumaling sa pagtitig sa kawalan.

Hindi kumupas ang kinang ng mga bituin sa aking uniporme ilang tag-araw man ang lumipas.

Ang Aking mga Tinatanuran

allan popa

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Pero kung minsan, hindi ko malabanan na maisip ang buhay na tinalikuran.

Bahagya kong nararamdaman muli ang baril na araw-araw kong pasan na parang bahagi na ng aking katawan.

O mas tama sigurong sabihing bahagi na ng baril ang aking katawan.

Kapag naririnig ang awiting bitbit ng hanging ligaw mula sa pornograpong walang kapaguran sa pag-ikot na sa unang pagsagitsit ng karayom sa plaka muling pagdaraanan ng mang-aawit na may tinig na kababakasan ng mga pinagdaanan ang kirot at kakailanganin niyang muli ang buong lakas upang maiangat ang awit palabas ng kanyang lalamunan, dumadalaw ang alaala ng una kong pag-ibig.

Ang aming mga supling na hindi maisisilang naghahabulan lagpas sa nilubid na bakal, hindi ko sila masaway, hindi ko mabuhat ang kanilang walang hanggang kagaanan.

joycel vincent dabalos

Dasalin ng isang anak sa ika-tatlo ng hapon (Kapangyarihan at Kaligtasan) Pinahawak ang rosaryong taglay ang banal na dugo’t tubig pinakabisado ang lahat ng misteryo ng hapis na nagbibigay ganap sa kwento ng mga rebùltong may iisang mukhâ.

Nasaksihan ko kung paano naging sanhi ang hugis dahon na apoy sa pagtangis ng kandila at pamumuô ng bawat patak nito sa isang nakabaliktad na tasa.

Ganap na kaligtasan ang pangako para sa bawat sambit ng bibig katuwang ang buong katawang pisikal.

Pag-uulit ng himno para sa dakilang ama, pasasalamat sa pag-aalay ng kanyang bugtong na anak.

Nauutal sa gitnang bahagi, nangangatog ang mga tuhod sa tagal ng seremonyang binubuo lamang ng paulit-ulit na mga salità.

Narinig iyon ni ama. Agad ang kanyang paghintò para itàma ang mga salitang hindi tàma ang diin at hàba kasunod ng matalas niyang tingin sa pagod kong mga mata.

Sa takot na masundan ng sarili niyang seremonya, muli akong humarap. Nagpatuloy.

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Naiintindihan ko na ang bugtong na anak: mahirap palang maging alay ng sarili mong magulang, sa gitna ng maraming tanong na tanging panalangin lang ang kasagutan.

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jerome flor

De-lobong Sestina Isang tusok lamang mula sa karayom ang nagsilbing wakas nitong elepante. narinig ng lahat ang kanyang pagputok— Nawalan ng hangin ang de-lobong hayop!

Nakiramay sila, ang bawat laruang nagpapaligaya sa lahat ng bata.

“Ngunit magsasaya kami, parang bata!

Mapupurol muna’ng lahat ng karayom bago malimutan ang kapwa-laruan.”

Wika nitong leon, “Eleng elepante: isang halimbawa para sa ’ming hayop.

Matikas na tindig, pusong ’di-puputok, Bumalik sa Hangin, sa ’yong pagputok.

Doon alagaan ang lahat ng bata: sila na nauna sa ’ming mga hayop.

Ipagtanggol sila sa mga karayom ng abuso’t lumbay. Pusong elepante’y para sa kanila. ’Di sila laruan.

At para sa aming naiwang laruan, kaming mga lobong ’di pa pumuputok, lobong leon, lobong usa, kapwa elepante, kapwa tayong musmos sa diwa ng bata.

Tumbasan ang gaan ng mismong karayom nilang humihigit sa ’ming pagkahayop.’’

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At nagsialisan ang sangkahayupan, naiwan si Leon sa mga laruan, tila nakalunok ng isang karayom, “Bakit ka humadlang at nagpaputok, Bakit mo ginawa ’yon para sa bata? ’Di ka tulad nila, ika’y elepante!

Paanong tumapat, Eleng elepante?

Kung panghahawakan, aking pagkahayop, katulad na ako ng nanakit sa bata.

Kahit sa sandaling siya’y may laruan bago ako kunin ng amo’t putukin sa harap ng bata gamit ang karayom— Marahil tadhana ko nga ang karayom Maging kaibigan bago’ng aking pagputok Kaibigang ganap at ’di lang laruan.’’

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mirick paala

Argumento* Handa ang loob samantalang hinahanda ng oposisyon ang susog sa dokumento. Hinahanapan ng butas ang solusyon. Lehitimo ang argumento subalit limitado. Sarado ang pinto. Nakapaloob sa disenyo ang sistema at hindi hinahawi ang kurtina. Mahuhugot ba sa kasunduan ang interpretasyon. Labas sa kasunduan ang sinasaad at malalagom sa tatlong salita ang pinagpupulungan. Sa likod ng institusyon ang diagramo ng apat na kanto ng kuwadro mula baba hanggang taas mula sangay hanggang pribado. Nakaturo ang mga senyales sa mga detalye sa kisame. At hindi nalalayo sa rason ng departamento ang bintana. Malinaw na hindi ipapaliwanag.

Mungkahi ang distabilisasyon kahit nayon-nayon ang winawaglit sa pagrarason. Sala-salabid na lohika sapagkat ginugugulan ng panahon ang retorika. Nakalista ang proseso ng sahig. May mekanismo sa pagpapaandar ng orasan para marating ang resolusyon. Pareho lamang tayo ng pinaglalaban. Pareho lamang ng pinagdadaanan subalit magkaiba ang pamamaraan. Sinisinop ang dokumentasyon.

Pampubliko ang impormasyon.

* Inilathala sa Katipunan No. 2 (2017)

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raymon ritumban

Pahayag kung maririnig ninyo ang pagkalembang ng batingaw mamamaalam kayo sa kahuntahan mangungusap na lang muli pagdating ng araw pakikinggan iyang hudyat at dali-daling uuwi huwag mananakbo pihadong mabubuwal at daratnang tiyak ng mga impaktong iniluluwa ng impiyerno kung maririnig ninyo ang pagkalembang ng batingaw isasarang maigi iyang tarangkaha’t seradura at uusal nang uusal ipag-adya po ninyo ipag-adya po ninyo ipag-adya po ninyo sa rimarim nitong gabi ng mga impaktong iniluluwa ng impiyerno sa pagkalembang ng batingaw

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raymon ritumban

Pieta noon ihahatid nila sa kaanak at doon pa lang tatangis silang mga naulila nasaan ang utak paanong nahati ang katawan bakit luwa ang mga mata ano ang may gawa nito ngayon ihahatid nila ang kaanak at doon sila tatangis kung saan nagtatagpo ang mga libag at dumi ng kapitbahayang nadudumi sa ligalig ng gabi kung saan naghahalo ang mga binasurang bulok at hindi mabubulok pati mga naaagnas na kung saan dumadaloy ang langis at lasong likido mula sa mga pabrika na aagos patungo sa ilog na itim na itim sa pagkamuhi sa sinapit na hapis kung saan namumugad ang mga pesteng sakit at kamatayan ang hasik 32

kung saan tayo dumaraan nang mabilis nang hindi lumilingon baka pa maligaw sa gabing ligalig karay-karay nila ang nagpasuso sa binatang hindi pumasa sa kaniyang pagsusulit nang gabing iyon karay-karay niya itong butas-butas ang kamiseta maging ang ulo iuuwing takdang aralin

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raymon ritumban

Parousia kumakaripas na ng takbo ang lumpo kung mauulinigan ang yabag ng mga disipulong maghahatid ng salita ng poon at isa-isa namang pupulutin ng bulag ang mga batong asintadong ipupukol sa mga hindi iibig sa poong nanginginain sa mga kawatan habang hinihimod sa talampakan ng babaeng mahaba ang buhok anong sama ang sinisigaw ng pipi gawain niya iyan noon pa man hindi ba at nasusulat sa nililibak ng lipunan mananahan ang poon at nagising tuloy sa narinig ang bingi at nagsimulang umawit ng papuri narito na siya at naghahari mabuhay ang mahusay na poon narito na siya at naghahari mabuhay itong mahusay na poon sa biyayang dunong sa mangmang at sinimulan nilang magkarakol nang mangusap ang pastol na magsaya at magalak ito ang araw na ginawa ng dios ipagkakalulo siyang muli ng mga disipulo at aabangan na ang kanyang pagbangon mga hangal ang sepulturero

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martina herras

Ang Aking Katawang Hindi Ko Maipihit Alinsunod kay Donna Haraway

Ang makina na totoo,

ng makina at laman, ang nilalang ang nilalang na ating pinakamahalagang

katha, Ang babae

na bumuo ng karanasang pambabae,

itong pagbubuo, isang katha, ang pagkalaya ay nakasalalay sa

mapanlihang pangamba, ang makina ay usapin ng pagkakatha

ito ay agawang buhay at kamatayan, sapagkat ang hangganan ng mga kwento at lipunan ay panlilinlang.

Ang pagsusulat ay makinang nakaukit sa isang siglo. Ang wika at pakikibaka laban sa doktrina ng bayag, ang paggigitgit ng ingay, ng karumihan, ang kagalakan sa kahayupan at pagnanais, ng pananalamin at ng mata.

Hindi natin pinili na maging mga makina.

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martina herras

Ang Aking Katawan bilang Hindi Aking Katawan, Bilang Katawan Mo na Ipinagpipilitan Mong ‘Ito ang Iyong Katawan!’, bilang Bangka Alinsunod kay Andrea Dworkin Hindi ko kailangang lumakbay patungo sa buwan upang makita ang kabilugan ng ating daigdig sapagkat pinapakita na ito ng karagatan, binibigkas na ito ng karagatan. Ilang milyong alingawngaw, munting ingay, na mahahanap sa puso. Wala na akong matutunan maliban sa gulo kung saan nabubuo ang digmaan ng kalalakihan. Wala akong hinahangad at wala akong kinatatakutan. Natutunan ko mula sa kalalakihan na ang kaalaman ay nasa kawakasan. Na nasa kawakasan ang digmaan ng kababaihan, nasa dulo ang paghahangad sa wala at sa kalayaan—ito ang alamat ng pagkatakot: sapagkat tayo ang nagdadalang tao, tayo ang nagdadalang takot. Ang kalalakihan ay mga higanteng binababad ang daigdig sa dugo, at tayo ang gintong nakatago sa baul. Ang pagtusok ng talim ng espada sa upak ay hindi atin.

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mikaela adrianne regis

sipi mula sa Unica Hijas mga tauhan mitch cruz – 17, senior high school student na running for honors.

Outgoing student council president. Mahinhin. nikki santos – 16, junior, consistent academic awardee.

Class officer. Galawgaw. tagpuan Sa labas ng principal’s office ng isang all girls catholic school. Sa tabi ng pinto ni Sister, isang bangko na nagsisilbing waiting area. oras Pagkatapos ng dismissal time, lampas 4:00 p.m. sa kasalukuyan.

* Itinanghal sa Bulwagang Amado Hernandez noong 15 Hulyo 2018 para sa Virgin Labfest XIV Writing Fellowship Program

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Liliwanag. Nakaupo si MITCH sa dulo ng bangko, si NIKKI sa kabila.

Sa tabi ang mga backpack at file case nila. Hindi mapakali si MITCH na pabalik-balik ang tingin sa pinto. mitch

Ano nang gagawin natin Nikki?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. mitch

Anong sasabihin natin?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. mitch

Pa’no kung ipatawag parents natin?

Mabilis ang sagot ni NIKKI. nikki

Wala tayong ginawa.

mitch

Pa’no kung ’di sila maniwala?

Saglit. mitch

Subukan ko kayang makinig sa pinto?

Akmang tatayo si MITCH. Pipigilan ni NIKKI sa kanyang pagsasalita. nikki

Hindi tayo guilty.

mitch

Pero mas papaniwalaan ba tayo ni ma’am kesa kay Sister Elise?

Dahan-dahang lalakas ang tawa ni NIKKI. Magtataka si MITCH. nikki

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Sorry, sorry, naaalala ko lang pagmumukha niya nung sinubukan niya tayong picturan.

Gagayahin niya si Sister na hirap sa dalang malaking iPad. nikki

Bagong-bago iPad ’di marunong mag-take ng pics.

Matatawa si NIKKI. mitch

Nikki...

nikki

Narinig mo ba sinabi ko paglapit natin sa kanya?

Iiling si MITCH. nikki

“Sister naka-front cam po kayo.”

Lalakas ang tawa ni NIKKI. Mapapangiti si MITCH. nikki

Sorry, ewan ko ba, tawang-tawa talaga ako ’pag kabado.

mitch

I know.

nikki

At least nakangiti ka na.

Hahawakan ni NIKKI si MITCH. Saglit. Babatukan niya si MITCH. nikki yieeeeee! Kilig siya ih.

Mahinang tatawa si MITCH ngunit mabilis ding babalik sa kaba at mapapatingin ulit sa pinto.

Mapapansin ni NIKKI. Katahimikan. nikki

Sabihin nating nagrereview lang tayo ng Math sa sahig, kasi ’yun naman talaga ginagawa natin.

39

mitch

Maniniwala ba sila?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. mitch

Kung i-deny natin the whole time?

nikki

Maniniwala ba sila?

Katahimikan. mitch

Last year, yung kina Frances tsaka Chesca, bago sila mag-graduate todo deny lang sila diba?

nikki

Oo. Pero nagawa lang nila ’yun kasi wala namang naglaglag sa kanila.

mitch

May maglalaglag ba sa’tin?

nikki ’Di natin sure, kilala ka ng buong high school department.

Saglit. nikki

Ba’t ka pa kasi tumakbong president. Sabi sayo magp.r.o. ka na lang ‘e, walang ginagawa.

Saglit. nikki

Joke lang, I’m a supportive girlfriend.

mitch

Sshh!

Ibubulong ni NIKKI sa mukha ni MITCH. nikki 40

girlfriend! girlfriend! girlfriend!

Babatukan siya ni MITCH at mapapatingin muli sa pinto. mitch

Hindi ka na nakakatuwa.

nikki

Maging girlfriend?

Sisingap si NIKKI at aarteng sinasaksak ang puso. Puwedeng kantahin ang “Wag Ka Nang Umiyak” ni Gary V. Susubukan niyang higaan ang mga hita ni MITCH. Itutulak siya ni MITCH paupo. mitch

May cctv kasi.

Ituturo ni MITCH ang bandang kanan ng kisame. nikki

Sina kuya guard lang naman nanonood niyan kung may nakawan ’e.

Titingin muna si NIKKI sa paligid. Pagkatapos, mabilisan niyang ipapakita ang middle finger sa CCTV. Magugulat si MITCH at mapapatingin sa pinto. mitch

Nikki please, baka lumabas na sila. Sabi sa ’kin tayo naman daw kakausapin by five.

Titingnan ni MITCH ang relo niya. mitch

Nikki, ayokong ma-sanction or ma-suspend...and ikaw, pa’no na ’yung running for honors mo?

Magtataka si MITCH sa katahimikan ni NIKKI at makikitang nanginginig ang mga kamay niya.

Maluluha si NIKKI at iiwas ng tingin. Mahabang katahimikan.

41

nikki

Shocks Mitch, sobrang ma-didisappoint sina mama and papa. Sinayang nila pera nila sa “million dollar baby” nila na—

mitch

9 years in the making dahil ivf. I know, palagi mong kinukuwento sa ’kin na palagi nilang kinukuwento sa ’yo ’yan.

Malungkot na ngingiti ang dalawa. nikki

Pramis, dl ako every sem ’di dahil gusto ko maganda transcript ko. ’Di ko pa nga alam gusto kong gawin after high school ’e. Gusto ko lang proud sila sa unica hija nila.

Yung mabalik ko yung mga numerong ginastos nila sa’kin sa ibang paraan.

mitch

And they are.

nikki

Ngayon iisipin nilang wala na yung unica hija nila, dahil lang nag mahal ako ng unica hija rin. Pero anong magagawa nila?

Saglit. mitch

And anong magagawa natin?

Malungkot na ngingiti ang dalawa. nikki

Deny and deny until they recede? Parang sina Frances lang.

Mahabang katahimikan. mitch

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Si Frances tinanggal sa honor roll, sabi technicalities daw pero I’m sure...

Saglit. mitch

I heard it cost her a college scholarship.

Saglit. mitch

Si Chesca, nag-seself-harm na raw. During the investigation kasi halos araw-araw daw siyang thinethreaten ng mga teachers. And her family...

Mahabang katahimikan. Manlulumo lalo si NIKKI. Makikita ni MITCH. mitch

Alam mo tama ka.

Saglit. mitch

Sana nag p.r.o. nalang ako. Siya kasi yung nagbabasa ng [gagayahin ang tunog ng pagbukas ng pa at gagawing malumanay at pormal ang boses] “Corinthians chapter 1 verses four to eight” every after morning rights sa pa.

Yung “love is patient”—

Itutuloy ni NIKKI ng mabilis at walang damdamin. nikki

“Love is kind, it does not envy, boast, is not proud...” bla bla bla. Kingina ’di mo na kailangang basahin ’yun, araw-araw kaya ’yun sinasabi ever since Grade 1. ’Lang kuwentang p.r.o.

Mahinang magtatawanan ang dalawa. Mahabang katahimikan.

Seseryoso si NIKKI. nikki

“It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

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Saglit. nikki

O diba puwede na ’kong pumasok sa kumbento. Kabogin ko ’yang Siz Elise na ’yan ’e. Magtatawanan ang dalawa.

Magtatawanan ang dalawa. Saglit. nikki

Hindi siya ironic Mitch, hypocritical siya.

Mapapatingin si MITCH sa CCTV. Makikita ni NIKKI. Mag ko-korean finger hearts siya sa camera. Matatawa si MITCH. Saglit. mitch

[susubuking gayahin ang boses ni NIKKI] yieeeeee.

Kilig siya ih.

Ngingiti sila. Sisikuhin ni NIKKI si MITCH. nikki

Landi mo.

mitch

Tapos naiisip ko rin ’yung mga tulad natin sa school na imbis na pressures to overachieve nalang yung iniisip, nadadagdagan pa ng hiya, pag-ingat, at takot sa pagtago.

Saglit. mitch

Tapos it becomes too much na hindi na nila kinakaya...

Saglit. nikki

Kaya ba natin Mitch?

Magtititigan lamang ang dalawa. Katahimikan. Pagkatapos, titingnan ni MITCH ang relo niya.

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mitch

Nikki, five na.

nikki

Anong gagawin natin Mitch? Anong sasabihin natin?

Saglit. mitch

Wala tayong ginawa.

Dahan-dahang aabutin ni MITCH ang kamay ni NIKKI upang hawakan. Titingnan ng dalawa ang pinto. Magdidilim.

telon

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louie jon a. sánchez

Tempus Per Annum* Nagsasabit ng estola ang pari sa balikat, hinahagkan Ang lungti na parang dayong dumaratal sa bagong Lupang may hamog, ay sumasapit ang isang hiwaga— Lumalapat ang lahat ng rubdob at rurok, pinapatag Ng kung anong tumatahang katahimikan ngayon, Ulit-ulit mang magsuntok ng dibdib, umamin sa salá.

Ganitong paglunggati sa lungti ang humahapon Sa loob, habang humahakbang ang mga sakristan, At ang madla’y humihimig ng bagong awit sa diyos.

Sapagkat naroon na raw siya sa nakapinid na tabernakulo Na mayâ-mayâ’y bubuksan, luluhuran ng mga ministro, Upang siya'y maiabot sa hugás na kamay ng tinawag Na may dulot na bigkas upang magsalaman ang tinapay At magsadugo ang alak. Minsan sa isang taon, lantad Ng tabernakulong ito ang makinang na kahungkagan, Wari’y mga dibdib nating walang lamáng kapanatagan Habang gunita ang lumbay ng panginoong mag-isang Tinatangisan ang palad na hindi na maipagpapaliban.

Lumipas na ngang muli ang lahat tungo sa karaniwang Panahon at ebanghelyong muli ang kaniyang paglalakbay Sa mga lupalop ng pangangaral. Nagaganap ang inog

* 2nd Prize, Tula, 2016 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards

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At tumutugon ang mga alagad. Ngunit nananatiling ganap Ang pagkapinid ng tabernakulo, walang handog na tugon.

May pagbĂĄsang magpapabaling sa kaniyang pag-akyat Sa langit at paggawad ng kapayapaan ay nagtitilang Napanatili akong nagbabantay sa gabi ng sisidlang bukĂĄs, Sa gabi sa Getsemani kung saan napatirapa ang diyos.

Doon pa rin ako nagtatanod, kahit nakakikita na ang bulag, Gumagaling na ang maysakit, at bumabangon na ang patay.

Nais kong katukin ang tabernakulo sa gitna ng pag-awit Sa pangakong ipagdiriwang ang pag-ibig ng panginoon.

Nais kong maaninag ang kaniyang mailap na mukha Habang nadaramtan ang altar ng karaniwang lungtian At nagyuyugto ang lahat sa payak na pagpapatĂşloy.

Nais kong itanong sa kaniya kung bakit karaniwang Puspos ng ligalig at bagabag ang panahong karaniwan.

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regine cabato

Ordinary Time (While You Are Waiting) Every day you walk past the same slum between your flat and the bus station. You catalog the same sights: two generators, 52 steps up the footbridge, graffiti reading Free the nation. While you are waiting, a radio broadcaster claims advent, the coming of a king. You study the changing billboards: beer, Bench, Belo, rotate. Water plants crowd the river until they are swept away.

While you are waiting, you navigate the mountainheap of clothes stockpiling in your bedroom, turning hypnotically in the wash, loose fibers clumping to dust bunnies. You wake up to find the clothes have outgrown you.

While you are waiting, the rest of the city never changes— it only peels. The rain washes away its layers, each under-color duller than before. Men plaster new posters over old ones: Tubero, call center job, missing. You carry the same difficult umbrella, the same rain-soaked sundae home.

There is no dramatic situation. Only the passage of ordinary time. How will you find poetry here, or how will poetry find you? The days all look the same, until they do not. Newspapers count the days to the election, promising rapture or rupture, while you are waiting for a poem to wake you from your stupor and lend you the words for joy, or grief, or rage. When it finally arrives, you do not expect to be robbed the words for fear.

It happens on the way home one evening.

A street lamp flickers. The shanties in the slum are boarded shut. A dozen onlookers crowd the sidewalk, arguing. Across them is the transport service of a morgue.

48

jerome flor

A Pierrot Proving himself funny when the red from his nose washes away with the circus water for the hundredth time.

The lions say otherwise.

You are most certainly unfunny, said the elephants and birds with their sharp beaks and tusks of ivory.

Atop the tower this clown sits. “Nothing lasts,� says Pierrot to the widower who aimed just above the bullseye. A splash. Laughter erupts, and so do other ways of forgetting: terrible puns, awkward silences, inside jokes, notes, and all the ways out of that which lingers in our heads. Pierrot forgets he will again swan dive into the jungle of innocence just like he rehearsed.

He smells animal scents with his red, red nose.

49

joshua uyheng

Original Justice There was a sense in which I believed my disappearance meant only the space

it would leave behind. Not the skin of my lacuna. Not

the mouth of the hollow. Not your bright fingers shoved into the shell

of the fruit, teasing the seed out, untangling the fibers, dense, belligerent, scraping all

of the flesh but the flesh you thought sweet enough for tasting. You can always tell by the color, how to do with it what you will. In the beginning, I told you to stay away, to live

with the absence of its shadow above your body, called it a forbidden thing, the one thing, the singular object from now on

banished from the rest of the abundance I let you take. The tilt of your neck

from behind the mess of vines belied assent. The lucent movement of your figure

wading slowly into the water before me betrayed no malice. I was content with your obedience. I was a creature born

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asymmetry of forms—patient in the cruelty of light, stasis maintained by this vast machinery of tensions, hands to earth, shoulders to tree-bark, mouths

into the flesh of new animals yet unnamed, into other mouths, into the restless pull of the river-current.

And still, I had no power over you, no final say, no knuckle-driven will to an ultimatum, no pleasure

but to watch you revolt against my kindness. To tremble on my knees with each furtive glance you cast the knowledge in the center, the moments of thirst you quenched, back arched, in my presence almost parching yourself with alternatives, your mind hidden in the crown of its branches.

Say I was gone a while, say centuries passed between us like letters carried over by pigeons over

the cities you’d invent, the bridges you’d build, the great works of art and philosophy you’d create, all the people you’d enslave, all the new uses for the elements you’d discover and rediscover and repurpose to maim your children with. Say I could be a more potent god, more consistent with my edicts, more marvelous with my goodness,

my all-knowledge of things visible

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and invisible—would you cease desiring it then? I could flood your nations if this will please you. I could blight your fields if this will catch your attention. I could trouble your women and men with the fear of me so they no longer love you, or love you too much, or love you in silence

the way, once, you believed in the garden, too, as if it were enough to subsist upon, until you wanted a life instead, so be it. Oh how could I have created you and still desired

your downfall, how you desired it even in the palm of my hand, still taking shape, taking breath, taking heed of my first material utterance, your name bequeathed upon you, my almighty

given meaning, given away in its first and final consummation, finally true? If I am the maker of eternity whose caprice is time?

If I am the steward of your history

whose plot device are the eyes lurking quietly beneath the shadows between the leaves?

52

sophia bonoan

Peephole josie’s laughter filled the bedroom as she watched Kristina fan herself with a wad of five-hundred peso bills. There were several stacks of money on the queen-sized bed they sat on, arranged neatly in rows and held together by rubber bands.

“Business is booming!” Kristina exclaimed in English, her thick accent making Josie laugh harder. It was December, the busiest time of the year for them. This month was particularly kind, the kindest it had ever been to them in the years they had been running their small business.

“I think it’s because the girls are prettier this time around,” Josie said, picking up a pile of unorganized cash and quickly separating the bills by type. Five-hundred goes here. One-thousand goes there. She was glad to see the rubber bands in the small box on her lap diminish quite quickly.

“I don’t think so. Remember Marie Anne? The one with the virgin hair, really long and silky? My goodness, she was a man-killer. Her legs went on for days, they were flawless! We had her just a few years ago and the sales weren’t even close to this,” Kristina replied, waving several bills in the air.

“Maybe the girls are just getting better, you know? Skills, I mean.

You could be ugly, but an animal in bed. Men like that.”

“Or maybe, it’s just because Christmas season is coming up and they want to buy some nice things. Maybe. But it’s a great encouragement, that’s for sure,” Kristina stood up from the bed and walked over to a closet in the corner of the small room. The doors bulged and didn’t close completely, the inside overflowing with clothes. She swung them open and squatted down, pushing clothes on hangers aside to reveal a small, beaten-up safe. Inputting the code, she turned the knob in the center with some effort, the entire thing rusty from age and neglect. Opening it revealed an assortment of valuables— 53

more wads of cash, ziplock bags filled with tangled-up necklaces of silver and gold, manila envelopes thick with documents, and several maroon passports. Kristina shoved the money into whatever empty slots there were and closed the safe. “We need a bigger one,” she said plainly as she plopped down onto the bed, waving open a fan in her hand and cooling herself down.

“Now that’s the type of problem I’ve always wanted us to have,” Josie replied, piling the uncounted money into the box in her lap, replacing the used up rubber bands. She shoved it beneath the bed, amongst the dust bunnies and other junk that had accumulated there throughout the years. She stood up, stretched, and yawned.

“Time to open up shop.” * Josie knocked on the doors systematically, starting from the one closest to hers and Kristina’s bedroom. “Get up!” she yelled into the crack of the door, reaching for the light switch and seeing the girls squirm on the mattresses crammed on the floor. She kept all the doors ajar, allowing no one respite from her repeated shouts for them to wake and get ready for the day. Reaching the end of the hallway, she found that the final door was already wide open, the small window in the corner cracked open and letting in the afternoon sunlight.

Most of the mattresses contained girls half-awake, leaning over and clacking away at the buttons on their cellphones. Angel was the only one fully up, sitting cross-legged and braiding her hair as she looked into a small compact mirror perched atop her pillow.

“Haven’t you been an early bird all week,” Josie said, a smirk on her face. “Are you actually, finally, excited to be on the job?” She leaned against the door, fanning herself.

Angel didn’t move her eyes away from the mirror. “I’m getting used to things,” she replied simply.

“Would you look at that,” Josie muttered, leaving the conversation there. She never liked talking to any of the girls for long because, to put it simply, they annoyed her.

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She wondered if she ever got on the nerves of her own landladies when she was a young girl, just starting out in the exact same house years ago, when her stomach was still flat and her skin smooth of any wrinkles. Much like Angel, she remembered barely opening her mouth during her first few weeks, save for when someone asked a question and she had no choice but to respond. Kristina was the one who got her out of her shell; she was the most experienced girl in the house at the time, and she liked that Josie clung to her like a toddler would to its mother. Josie watched Kristina’s every move, followed how she picked up men and smooth-talked a good price. As a team they earned the most money, and it was their business-like methods that made them the heirs to the house once their landladies decided to retire. By the looks of it, you’ll probably end up richer at forty than we were at seventy, one of them had said as she handed them the keys to the house. She wasn’t wrong.

Josie took deliberately heavy steps down the narrow and creaky stairwell, letting the entire boarding house shake beneath her weight.

Wake up or you won’t get any breakfast, they all knew this signaled.

Josie cooked everything, and did the manual labor around the place.

Kristina couldn’t cook even if her life depended on it, but she was the entrepreneur of the two: good at numbers, making deals, networking.

They had a good partnership like that, and it showed results.

In the kitchen, Josie cracked several eggs at a time into a large bowl, whisking it with a fork and making sure the soupy mixture was a uniform yellow before pouring it into a large frying pan on the stove with a sizzle. The girls began shuffling in then, rubbing their eyes and yawning or chattering amongst themselves. They crowded around the large, plastic table in the center, grabbing stools and fighting for a space, like they did every day. Others had simply given this up long ago, eating cross-legged on the tiled floor or on the window ledge.

Josie had noticed when she entered that Angel had already found a spot there, and sat staring out at the bustling street below. Josie wondered what was up with her, what was going on in her pretty head, but before she could make fun of her, she noticed one of the other girls standing by the stove.

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“Hoy!” she yelled, twisting her body and hitting the girl’s back with the spatula in her hand. The girl, Cel, squeaked and retreated. “Stay away from the stove.”

They didn’t allow any of the girls to do any cooking in case they did something stupid and got hot oil splattered all over, ruining their skin forever. This had happened several years ago, and the burns turned even all of her regulars away. The less imperfections, the better, they considered. Giving their girls restrictions, they realized, like giving them daily allowances or only letting them work around a particular area of the city, was what made their business one of the best amongst all the others in that part of Makati.

When their very late breakfast was over and the girls got their allotted servings (two spoonfuls of scrambled egg and one pandesal, a cup of black coffee without sugar if they needed it), they slowly filed out of the kitchen to get ready. Josie was at the sink and was still washing plates when Angel came down the steps and stood at the doorway. She had on a full face of makeup now and wore a tube top and micro skirt.

“I’m starting now,” she told Josie.

Josie looked up at the wall clock above Angel, the seconds hand twitching perpetually between five and six, but the other hands still working just fine. “Three o’ clock. Last time, you started at four. Most of the other girls are out there by five-thirty. Trying to earn some extra cash for Christmas, iha?” She asked the girl. It was curious. Most would delay the time they had, since the customers with the thickest wallets came out late at night.

“Sure. Or maybe I’m trying to set a personal record,” Angel smiled and went on her way.

Josie scoffed as she returned her attention to the plate in her hands.

The girl’s making jokes now. She reminded Josie of dozens of girls she had encountered throughout her time in the business: shy but beautiful, naive yet desirable. They could earn tons of cash in a night if they wanted to. Josie remembered all of the offers they would get from foreign men to take them away, offers that were almost always accepted immediately. When she first started out, her much younger 56

self couldn’t imagine being chained to a single man for the rest of her life, much less to a stranger whose language she could barely speak.

But she always felt a pang of jealousy every time a girl gushed about it at the breakfast table or in front of a noisy nightclub, and she waited for those same offers to eventually come her way. They never did.

Even in her older and self-proclaimed undesirable state as a landlady and business owner, she would allow the same daydream to enter her mind every so often.

Just as Angel closed the front door behind her, Kristina waddled into the kitchen and sat at the table, dropping her slippers to the floor and raising her legs up on a second stool.

“Boyet called late last night, by the way. Said that Jo Ann tried to get into one of the taxis at the bay, but they knew she was ours so they refused her.”

“Alone?”

“Mhmm. That’s one-five of hers gone. When will these girls learn…” She went on and on. Outwardly, they expressed their disappointment when the girls violated the verbal contract of the house. No cheap men. If they’re Filipino and their English is broken, drop them. No coming home if you haven’t brought at least three-thousand pesos with you. No working outside of these boundaries. No getting into taxis alone. Weighings happen every month; go over the weight limit and you’re out. Disobeying any of the rest and we take away from your share.

We know everyone around here, Kristina would tell them from the start. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

But with every violation, their pockets got heavier. So the rules never really got any stricter, rather the eyes they had around the city just got sharper. When they were first laying out the ground rules, they both wondered if they were being too harsh on the girls. But then they realized that wherever else they went, mostly places controlled by men, the girls were covered in bruises or looked sallow and unhealthy. By all means, the two of them were godsends.

“Angel’s been acting strange recently,” Kristina said suddenly, and Josie was pulled back into the conversation.

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“She’s been leaving earlier and earlier,” she replied. “Before she left just a while ago, she told me she was trying to set a personal record.

Would you believe? I wouldn’t have imagined that that meek little seventeen-year-old had such a sex drive. Should we be getting more teenagers?” She thought aloud. Most of their girls were upwards of nineteen, but none were over twenty-six.

Kristina scoffed. “That’s part of it. Not the sex drive, but the hours she’s putting in. She’s out there, what, over twelve hours? She’s been handing me the bare minimum a night. That’s one fuck and a blowjob. The other girls are working way harder. And I remember one night on her second week when she brought in eight-thousand.

I let her keep a bit more that time because I was impressed. What the hell is happening with this girl? Is she sick or something? Pregnant?”

“She can’t be sick if she’s getting out there so early and coming back so late. I’ve been smelling something suspicious lately. Maybe she’s found a man. Either way, call Boyet and tell to him to have his boys on her tonight.” Just as she said this, Josie had a thought. “Actually, I’ve been feeling a bit claustrophobic lately. Call him still, but I’ll go out and watch her myself. I’ve been missing some drama in my life.”

“Oh, you sounded so evil then,” Kristina swatted the air with the folded fan in her hand and cackled. * Strolling down the sidewalk as the sunlight disappeared behind buildings and left in its wake an orange and purple tint across the sky, Josie remembered why she barely left the house. All of the foreigners—American, Australian, Russian, what have you, they were all the same—were coming out of the woodworks.

Kristina once told her that you could tell when they were businessmen or sex tourists; the businessmen had dinner, went to bed at a decent hour, and only came out on Fridays or Saturdays.

The sex tourists never bothered to adjust their body clocks to the new timezone, knowing that the best of what they were looking for came out at night, every night. They were like nocturnal animals, she had said, and they acted like it.

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She spotted two of their girls, Kimberly and Cel, standing outside a derelict Korean restaurant, the blinking lights of the neon sign above its glass doors dim from all the grime that covered it. Kimberly was leaning into the passenger-side window of an suv as Cel, the less experienced of the two, watched her negotiate from behind. She saw Josie walking towards them and waved nervously.

“Angel?” Josie asked. Kimberly looked over at her for a moment, then shifted her attention back to the faceless driver just as quickly.

“Don’t know,” Cel replied. “I think I saw her standing by Stardust earlier, but that also could have just been that really pretty ladyboy who hangs around there a lot. They look alike from afar.”

“Text me if you come by her. Don’t tell her I’m looking for her either, if you see her,” she told the girl, and Cel’s eyes widened.

“Someone’s in trouble,” she muttered as Josie kept walking.

All their girls were out by now. On almost all of the dusty street corners she passed, two to three of them were huddled together, or were already linked arm in arm with a man in a crisp button-down and light wash jeans. The transition into night was the same as she remembered—the roads and sidewalks congested with people rushing to get home or to places that served alcohol or women, the women clustered in impenetrable circles and the men prowling in packs. The only things that seemed to change about them were their clothes and their faces—but otherwise, Josie couldn’t tell them apart.

She felt the cellphone in her pocket vibrate. Taking it out and seeing Boyet’s name, she placed it against her ear. She could hear the honks of car horns and chatter in the background, but it was almost indiscernible from the same noise that surrounded her.

“Ma’am, one of my boys spotted your girl during one of his rounds. She should be in the 7-Eleven just two roads away from your place, you know the one,” he said. She thanked him and hung up as she crossed the road and took a left.

She sat at the curb directly in front of the convenience store.

Through the glass panels, she could see Angel sitting at the back behind the rows of prepackaged snacks and toiletries, sipping delicately on a Slurpee. Fattening, Josie thought. The girl’s crossed legs bumped up and down like a nervous tick, and her 59

eyes darted towards the door every time someone entered. What is she waiting for?

Josie had an inkling that it was a boyfriend, another thing these girls weren’t allowed to keep. The only exception was when they were rich and paid her daily dues. Otherwise, forbidden. Poor Angel, what little she already had was going to be taken away, Josie thought. She should have asked for more money from the guy. Josie felt an ounce of pity for her, remembering her own fleeting desires for a man. But she only let this last for a moment, shaking the feeling away.

Angel’s back straightened as she stared at the door. Josie looked at who entered: a tall blonde man, much older, wearing a worn t-shirt and cargo shorts. She knew it. At least he’s foreign. She saw Angel smile a big grin and hug the man as he sat next to her, and wrapped his arms around her small waist. To Josie, they looked ridiculous next to each other; she looked tiny compared to him, like he could crush her with his hands. She wondered how good Angel’s English or charm could have been to snag the guy.

She spent the next half-hour watching them. They leaned into one another, Angel more so than him, talking and laughing. Sometimes, only one talked while the other stared intensely with a serious expression, eyes often darting to the other’s lips as they spoke. He even kissed on her on the forehead. Josie sighed and pulled out her cellphone, typing out a text message to Kristina: Angel. bf.

She stood idly for a few moments, unsure of what to do next.

Watching them made her feel strange, for a reason she couldn’t explain to herself. When the girls brought men back to the house to one of the special rooms, Josie and Kristina would sometimes peek through the small holes they carved through the hallway walls to watch them. They were there so they could keep an eye on the girls, but most of the time they used them to make fun of the men. Their grunting and heaving over the girls’ delicate bodies made Kristina think of gorillas humping cats, an idea that made Josie enter a fit of laughter. But whenever Kristina wasn’t around to watch, Josie would do so alone. During these times, she would watch them all the way through. Her favorite part wasn’t when the men reached climax and howled or moaned; it was at the end of it all, when they just held the 60

girls, even for a brief second. In those moments, it almost looked like they had known each other all their lives. Josie didn’t recall ever being held like that, even for a moment.

Angel and the man exited the 7-Eleven, and Josie got a good look at his face. Stubble grew all over his chin, and blonde curls fell over his eyes. When he smiled, which he was then as he looked at Angel, the skin around his eyes crinkled. He was handsome.

They were crossing the street, and Josie turned her body away, hiding behind a telephone post that reeked of urine. Angel’s laugh passed by her, and she watched them disappear behind the curb. She looked down at the cellphone in her hands, finding that she had yet to send the text to Kristina. She knew how her partner was; business over anything else. Between them, she considered herself to be the nicer one. To let Kristina know about the boyfriend would be an end to Angel’s obvious happiness. But why do you care? Josie questioned herself. Since when did you care?

She walked down the sidewalk that Angel and the man disappeared down, and at its far end, she spotted the two in an embrace. A car’s horn blared directly in front of them, but they didn’t seem to mind it. Josie saw her reflection in the window of a parked car right next to her. She was smaller, slightly warped. The creases in her face were more defined and she looked pudgier than she remembered being. She looked better when she was younger, leaning into car windows like Kimberly. But it bothered her then, and she remembered all of the men who had once slept with her: why didn’t they hold her like that? Why didn’t they embrace her on a noisy sidewalk somewhere in the very same red light district?

Why did they never ask her to be theirs?

She imagined the man kneeling down there and then, asking Angel for her hand. She thought of Angel moving out of their seedy and decrepit love house to some far-off country to take care of little babies with blonde hair and light brown skin. She imagined herself, white hair and bent spine washing dishes for even younger girls, sharing the same bed with Kristina until the Lord decided to take both of their greedy and lonely souls away. She looked at her cellphone and pressed send, watching Angel and the man walk hand in hand to wherever.

61

elise ofilada

Growing Pains* Baby’s first political scandal summons a man who is named in reverse; On local tv, there is every noise. Plunder rhymes with sense of wonder. My mother takes my hand. Joseph Estrada steps down.

Slowly. As all babies do, I learn to walk. vhs tapes start to die. I kick my brother, make him cry, but it is Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo who is saying I’m sorry, eyes dead, center on the camera where my mother is so angry. She is going to teach me a lesson: abc is to zte, is to Hello, Garci.

Whatever that means. In the third grade, all we studied were the words to Taylor Swift’s Fearless and I don’t know, she sings.

How it gets better than this. My teacher asks me to join the school paper. In Maguindanao, Thirty-four journalists are murdered.

There is radio silence. There are no songs about massacre.

My mother changes the station, but all they are playing is Manny Villar’s jingle on infinite loop, asking kung nakaligo na ba ako sa dagat ng basura? No. All I’ve done is fold my fingers in the shape of my mother’s; in the shape of her mother’s; in the shape of an accusation that my classmates think is funny to put up on their foreheads. But, come election day, the letter is not a symbol for loser. It only means we’ve elected too many ghosts.

It only means my classmates and I do not go to high school because PNoy says it doesn’t exist, anymore than the forty-four, whose Exodus goes unaccounted

62

* Published in The Rising Phoenix Review (2018) and The Youth is on Fire by Young Star (2017)

for, like the time my best friend transferred schools to Antipolo.

I took their hands and kissed them. This, too, is political. The PNP give a boy a gun, tell him to go run. When my mother asks me, what I want to be after Senior High, I must hesitate, before I say: I want to be alive.

I turn eighteen to the sounds of thousands being shot every time Digong opens his mouth. This is the last juxtaposition.

He says my god I hate everyone, while wiping blood off his hands with the viral headlines the media churn out, until they are clean.

But the bodies are still swaddled in garbage bags, too dark for this time of day, I think, these poor people. The cardboard is still screaming.

This corpse is an example of our progress; our justice, without justification.

Tell me, Digong. What’s it like, on the losing side of the war?

If you can call this a war. If it’s not just that no one’s getting any older. There is no growing up in a country that has yet to do the same.

If my inheritance is babies crying because the government killed their fathers, you raise angry children who believe there is little left to lose.

63

mirick paala

The Source The design guarantees nothing has to be feared.

Except for swarms yet to be named and disarmed.

The branch is not the tree nor the tree a branch but days keep marching forward business as usual.

The design is made of fish bones.

Everything relates to the source.

The white light adores us: we were told to perfect the little we have and fill, feel all that we lack.

The design has eyes but no mouth.

64

isabel yap

Milagroso* it’s late afternoon on the eve of the Pahiyas Festival when Marty finally drives into Lucban. The streets are filled with people congregating outside their houses, stringing up fruits and vegetables shaped into chandeliers. Entire roofs are covered in kiping, leafshaped rice wafers, their colors flared to dazzling by the slowly setting sun. Someone has tacked poster paper all over the preschool wall, and children with paint smeared on their cheeks are making trees full of hand-shaped leaves. Vendors have already set up shop, prepping for the onslaught of tourists.

Most side streets are blocked, so Marty has to drive through the town center, which is the usual explosion of propaganda—posters of the mayor and councilors alternate with banners for washing detergents, Coca-Cola, Granny Goose Chips, and the latest summerspecial, MangoMazings—exactly like the real thing! Marty ignores these as he navigates the still-familiar streets. They didn’t leave Manila for this.

They left Manila to see a miracle.

Inez is stirring awake, though she keeps her eyes shut. She groans, shifts, and slaps her thigh, impatiently. In the rearview mirror, Marty can see Mariah’s head snapping back and forth to match the car’s rhythm, her mouth hanging open. jr is also asleep; the seat belt is tight across his hunched chest, making him look smaller than he is.

Sunlight beams through the car, shading half his face yellow.

“Is this Lucban, hon?” Inez has finally stopped forcing sleep. She yawns and stretches her arms.

“Yep.” Marty tries to sound more awake and cheerful than he feels.

Inez looks out the window. “How colorful,” she says, as they drive past a house with a giant Ronald McDonald stationed by the doorway, waving his hands. Her tone makes everything seem gray. * First published on Tor.com (2015)

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* Marty stands by the door, wiping his palms on his shorts.

Looking up, he sees five strings of kiping dangling from the second floor balcony. Even their ratty papier-mâché carabao is out, gazing forlornly at the street with its one remaining eye.

Inez is looking for a spot with better reception; he can hear her muttering in the distance. The kids are unloading their luggage.

“Tao po,” Marty calls. When no one replies, he enters, heading for the living room. “Manong? Mang Kikoy? You there?”

He hears a door creak open, then the slap of slippers as Mang Kikoy shuffles into view. His skin is wrinkled and brown as tree bark.

The mole on his cheek has grown even more colossal, but otherwise he is the same old Mang Kikoy who has maintained this house, Marty’s ancestral home, since forever.

“Boy? Is that you?”

“Yes, manong.”

“Just in time, just in time. Where is your family?”

“Outside,” Marty says, feeling a twinge of guilt. It’s been a little too long, perhaps, a little too late—but once he married Inez, and they had Mariah, he’d felt compelled to remain in Manila. He liked his job at San Miguel Corp., and he always believed that Lucban was near enough that they could visit anytime. As a result, they never did. To ignore these thoughts, he asks, “I noticed the décor. Are we part of the procession this year?”

“No, but I thought it might be good to decorate the house anyway.

You never know.”

Mariah materializes at Marty’s elbow, dragging her duffel bag.

“Dad, it’s so hot,” she says, fanning herself.

Mang Kikoy beams at her and moves forward to take her bag.

“Please don’t—it’s heavy.” Marty turns to his daughter. “Mariah, this is your Manong Kikoy. Show him you can carry your own bag, please.”

“Hello po,” she says, straining for politeness as she lugs her bag towards the stairs.

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“Hello, hija.” Mang Kikoy grins wider as she slouches past. His teeth are a gray, sickly color. “Well, Boy, I must go back outside; the kiping is cooking. Let’s talk again later.”

“Sure,” he says. Mang Kikoy has already turned to go when jr rushes past, arms held stiffly away from his body, making fighter-jet noises.

“Wee-oop! Wee-oop!” He yells. “I’m attacking you! Propeller blast!”

He makes swiping motions at Mang Kikoy, who laughs. “So this is your little kulilit. Has he ever tasted a miracle before?”

Marty’s throat dries. He swallows. He doesn’t ask, Is it true, manong? Is it real? He doesn’t say, It’s not right, who knows what eating those things can do. Instead he puts a hand on jr’s head, to stop him from airplane-ing, and says, “No, never.” * Dinner is at Aling Merrigold’s. Inez fusses over their clothes and hair, and asks Marty twice whether they shouldn’t have brought some pasalubong from Manila. The children are sleepy, already bored.

Marty promises that tomorrow will be more fun.

On the way to dinner they walk past increasingly extravagant houses. One has a robo-rooster attached to its roof, where it cacaws ear-splittingly every five minutes. Another has The Last Supper rendered on its walls, made with colored straw and palm leaves. Still another bears the mayor’s face, fashioned out of kiping, all across the roof. Two giant animatronic carabaos are lowing by the main door, while a life-sized San Isidro stands on a rotating platform. He holds a spade in one hand and a sheaf of corn in the other.

“Farmer Jesus!” jr exclaims.

“That’s not Jesus, you idiot.” Mariah snaps a picture with her phone. “Who’s this, Dad? I want to tag it properly.”

“San Isidro Labrador. Patron saint of farmers and peasants.”

“That’s Mang Delfin’s house,” Mang Kikoy adds. “This year, the procession goes through this road, and he’s determined to win.

He’s got a pretty good chance, don’t you think?”

Marty nods, although the house speaks for itself. The Pahiyas Festival has always been a chance to show off one’s home, but now 67

the stakes are even higher. These homeowners want to be chosen for the miracle. They want to boast of a natural harvest, and have jealous neighbors beg them for a taste.

Aling Merrigold’s house at the far end of the main street is simpler, though she has deployed her trademark rose pattern that no one has been able to copy. Vivid fuchsias and yellows adorn the typically drab white walls. She welcomes each of them in by smelling their cheeks.

“Martino!” she coos. “I haven’t seen you since you were a young man! But how old you look now!” In a softer tone that everyone still hears, she adds, “You’ve grown quite the belly!”

“Thank you for having us,” Marty says. “You look healthy as always.”

She laughs with delight then swats him on the shoulder, the flab of her arms jiggling.

“This is Inez, my wife,” Marty says.

“Well, but you look so very young for Martino!”

“Oh, not at all,” Inez demurs.

“And what do you do, Inez?”

“I’m a merchandiser for Rustan’s.” She tips her chin up, just a fraction.

“Wonderful,” Aling Merrigold says.

“And these are my children.” Mariah and jr give her halfhearted hellos, and she smacks her lips at them.

“And Mang Kikoy, of course, how good to see you,” Aling Merrigold says. Mang Kikoy smiles, then shuffles off to eat with the rest of her household staff. She leads Marty and his family to the dining room, babbling the whole time: “I can’t believe it’s been four years since your father died. I spent lots of time with him after your mama died, you know. And he did talk about you such a lot—how he was so proud of you, and how he missed you so much! But then I can’t blame you, my dear; it’s so hard to get time off with the economy like this, no? And then you have these two children. So healthy!” She beams at the kids. “So healthy! You feed them well! Do you get plenty of free food from San Miguel? You still work there, di’ba?”

“Yes. He was recently promoted to Procurement Manager,” Inez says. “Extra vacation time is one of the perks, so we were finally able to take this trip.”

68

“Is that so?” Aling Merrigold draws a dramatic breath. “Well, I’m not really surprised. When San Miguel created that breakthrough formula for the Perfect Pork—wow. I said to myself, This is it, this is the future! And you know, I was right. I mean, the Lechon we’re having tomorrow... and you will eat here tomorrow. I insist. After all the events, of course. My balcony has a great view of the fireworks!..

What was I saying? Oh yes, tomorrow’s lechon is Perfect Pork, which truly is perfect.”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Marty says.

They walk past a sliding door into the air-conditioned dining room. Aling Merrigold gestures for them to sit. “This dinner is mostly from San Miguel, as well—the roasted chicken is, for sure.

This is your Spam, and I think the bangus relleno is yours, too.

Pero the cake is from Gardenia. And the chicken cordon bleu is by Universal Robina, because I’m sorry, their cheese is better than yours, you know? Anyway, let’s eat.”

She says grace, and they dig in.

Marty takes a bite of the roasted chicken. It’s delicious. He feels a swell of pride. He helped make these things. Not directly—that was the research team’s job—but he handled most of the exports and imports that provided the raw materials for their meats. After the lockout with China he had shifted grudgingly to more expensive vendors in Vietnam, only to realize that their bio-plasticine millet (bpm) adhered to flavorants more easily, and could be molded into more convincing shapes. Chicken and tuna, in particular, could be replicated using Vietnamese bpm for a cheaper unit cost, and San Miguel was quickly able to launch a new line of canned goods, labeled: More nutritious.

Extra-delicious!

People still say it doesn’t beat the real thing, but Marty thinks it comes pretty damn close. They’ve finally reached an era when neither Mariah nor jr will incur a health risk from their diet; when people don’t need to fret about food-borne illnesses; when it’s conceivable, if the government gets its shit together, for people below the poverty line to have three meals a day.

69

“Has the Department of Health decided on a budget for its feeding program yet?” Aling Merrigold asks.

“No,” Marty says. “I hear they’re working on it.”

Aling Merrigold rolls her eyes. “They’re always working on it.”

She takes a sip of Coke. “Still, I can’t pretend I’m thinking about anything except tomorrow. You haven’t seen it live, but the moment when San Isidro makes his choice and the produce becomes—you know, natural—it’s wow. Talagang wow.”

The news reporters said the same thing, when the first miracle happened during Pahiyas three years ago. No one believed the sensational coverage on tv Patrol at first, but then the owners of the winning house started selling chunks of food as proof: a bite of real corn, a handful of real green beans, a cluster of real juicy grapes. The reporters showed the old church’s statue of San Isidro in the town square, surrounded by people bursting into tears as they bit into their first unsafe food in years. It was ridiculous. Marty remembers thinking, Why is everyone so hung up on this? Why is everyone freaking out?

He remembers thinking, It can’t be a miracle, because we’ve already invented the miracle.

What are you doing here, then? Something inside him asks. He recalls the twist in his gut, the saliva filling his mouth, as he watched an old woman nibble on a real banana, weeping wretchedly.

This is home, another voice that sounds more like him insists. I just wanted to see the fiesta. I wanted the kids to see.

He pauses over his next forkful. “You don’t think it’s—you know, a hoax, or something?”

“Ay naku, no, never! You’ll understand when you see it,” Aling Merrigold says. “You don’t even need to taste it. It’s the smell, the color, the everything. I mean, the mayor tried to keep it from spreading, played it up as airbrush and fake imports, but there’s no denying it. Really, how long naman can you lie without shame? Last year, I shelled out for a few pieces of camote—that’s my favorite, you know?—and when I ate it, Diyos ko, it was so good.”

“I see.” Marty licks his lips. “Well, it’ll be fun to watch.”

Aling Merrigold nods and swallows a spoonful of milkfish relleno.

70

Marty watches her, satisfied. It doesn’t matter that the milkfish is made of the same thing as the chicken, the rice, the vegetables. They look different, taste different, and have the same high nutritional content. They’re better for everyone. * Mass the following morning is at 6:00 a.m., which causes much groaning. They manage to make it through the church doors in time for the second reading. The priest is particularly zealous, exhorting everyone to give thanks for their gathering together as one community, and for the bountiful harvest that San Isidro—“and our sponsors San Miguel Corp., Universal Robina, Golden Arches, and Monde Nissin”—have provided. The people of Lucban are restless, beaming at each other as they exchange signs of peace. Only the image of San Isidro remains calm, already primed on a float for the beauty pageant winner to carry him in later.

After mass there are a few hours left before the procession, so they decide to explore the town. Stalls selling woven buri hats, fans, handbags, and little straw birds are interspersed with old ladies on fold-out stools, hawking rice cakes and empanadas. Inez haggles over a bundle of hats. Mariah picks out keychains for her friends. jr drops the buko juice he’s slurping and it bursts on the concrete, leaving a slushy puddle that nobody minds. Inez tsks, and Mariah wonders loudly when the procession will start. They each have a serving of pancit habhab on banana leaves.

Marty remembers not caring much about the actual Pahiyas Festival as a child. He was more interested in the preparations leading up to it. He would squat next to Mang Kikoy as the old man ground soaked rice, until it was pale and liquid as milk. Mang Kikoy would stir the wet rice, divide it into shallow buckets, then mix in the coloring: blue and yellow to make apple green, red and blue to make dark pink.

Then he would dip a large kabal leaf in the mixture, as a mold for the kiping, and hang it so that the excess coloring dripped. To finish he would cook them over a charcoal grill, while Marty ate the rejected attempts and recited random facts he had learned at school.

71

Marty didn’t watch the kiping preparation yesterday. Something about the bpm Mang Kikoy was using instead of rice made Marty feel weird. It might have been misplaced nostalgia, and he knew that was a useless feeling. jr, however, had watched and reported to Marty after: about how he had eaten some of the leftovers and they tasted kind of funny, kind of like nothing, but Mang Kikoy said it was made of rice so that was probably normal, right, Dad? “Kiping has no taste,” Marty said, laughing. “I mean, rice itself has barely any flavor.”

“But Mang Kikoy said the real foods in the fiesta taste awesome, and if I can eat a fruit or veggie from the winning house tomorrow, I’ll understand what he means!”

“Oh, did he say that? Those things are really expensive. And they’ll probably make your tummy ache. Or make your teeth gray, like Mang Kikoy’s!” Marty rumpled jr’s hair, so that jr squirmed. “Don’t know if you’ll get to taste any of that, anak.”

“I will,” jr said. “I’m gonna grab some with my stretchy arms— shee-ow!” He whipped his arm wildly. “And then I can tell all the kids in my class, and they’ll be jealous, because they’ve never eaten yummy real food and they never will!” He chuckled, evil and gleeful, and robotically walked away to heckle his sister.

Marty remembers the great glass houses they passed on their way to Lucban, lining the fields stretched beneath Mt. Banahaw. Piles of corn and rice, endless rows of pineapple and root crop, stewing in their meticulously engineered domes, more delicious than nature could ever make them. Simply more than God could ever make them. * The procession begins at 1:00 p.m. with the local policemen leading the marching band through the streets. The crowd surges from the town center. Those who live along the procession route peer out from windows and balconies, waving at onlookers. An abs-cbn tv crew starts their segment. People in bright red shirts bearing the Universal 72

Robina logo hover near the cameras, holding up signs that say Don’t Eat the Miracle Food—It’s Poison! You Could Die! Marty frowns at their lack of respect for the festivities, even as he recalls his last meeting, where the Procurement Division Head had raised her eyebrows at his vacation request. (“For Lucban?”—and when Marty nodded, how she cleared her throat and averted her eyes.) Ignoring this, he gestures for his family to follow, and heads for the middle of the parade. jr complains that he can’t see, so Marty hoists him onto his shoulders. They walk on, keeping to the edges of the crowd. The higantes come after the band: giant, cartoony replicas of the president, the kagawad, a schoolgirl, a farmer. A carabao—live this time—follows it, pulling a cart full of waving children. Unlike the animatronic version, this carabao plods silently on, martyr-like. It is trailed by girls with feathered headpieces and dresses in garish colors, shimmying to a syncopated drumbeat.

The priest from morning mass scoops water out of a bucket and sprinkles everyone with it. Behind him walk the beauty pageant entrants, led by the newly-crowned Miss Lucban and her escort, standing on a float, carrying San Isidro between them. Marty is transfixed by the face of the saint—how it looks tired and drawn in the middle of the crowd, rocked to and fro by the music. The parade is pushing, pulsing from all sides; Marty presses onward, checking that Inez and Mariah are still following. The band has gone through its traditional repertoire and is now playing the Top 40. Everyone sings along—some droning, some with effort. Marty moves faster so that he can keep pace with San Isidro, but it’s difficult. He feels crazed, dehydrated, but he’s determined to witness the so-called miracle, determined not to care.

“Dad,” jr says, “Dad, hurry up, we’re going to miss the selection!”

Marty tries to walk more quickly, but the crowd keeps him at bay, measuring his pace. The people proceed down the street in a blare of noise and sound and color, getting more raucous as they approach the fancier homes. At some point the fiesta-goers begin to stop in front of each house, and lift San Isidro above the crowd, holding him there for a few moments. Each time this happens the procession 73

holds its breath, then bursts into cheering when nothing changes.

Marty is starting to get exhausted. He brings jr down and clutches his hand. jr beams up at him, infected by the delight of the crowd.

Marty smiles back, as best as he can through the heat and confusion and the sudden shower of confetti and kiping raining from the house they are passing.

They’re drawing closer to Mang Delfin’s house, with the animatronic carabaos and giant replica of the mayor’s face. The frenzy and expectation heightens each time San Isidro is raised, but there is also a sense of inevitability, because only one house can win, and everyone seems to know which house it is. Someone starts chanting: “Mang Delfin! Mang Delfin!” The marching band launches into the current chart-topper. People are headbanging and wiggling and notquite-accidentally grinding each other.

Marty realizes they’re not going to see anything if they stay where they are. Ducking into a side street, he skirts past former neighbors’ houses. He counts the walls before turning back onto the main road, right at the cross street between Mang Delfin and Aling Sheila’s house. They have a perfect view of the proceedings: the crowd is amassing in the home right before this one, breathing a collective “Ooooh!” as San Isidro is raised, then bursting into laughter when nothing happens, and he is lowered once more. jr jumps up and down. “It’s going to be this one! It’s going to be this one!”

Marty’s heart races. He squeezes jr’s hand, and gazes at the façade of Mang Delfin’s house: up close, he can see potato-faced people pieced from squash and taro, with string-bean-and-okra hair; intricate butterflies made of rambutan and longgan; long, sweeping bunches of banana mingled with kiping. The mooing of the fake carabaos is incredibly loud. If there’s any house that can feed the whole town, it’s this one.

But what’s wrong with this food? He thinks. Isn’t this worth giving thanks for? What more do people want?

“Mang Delfin! Mang Delfin! Yaaaay!” The crowd whoops as it reaches its destination. Everyone quiets down enough so that the 74

band can start a drumroll. Miss Lucban and her escort slowly, tenderly lift San Isidro up to face the house. Marty is magnetized, again, by the saint’s face: its severely rosy cheeks and sleepy eyebrows, the stiff golden halo behind his head. He can’t tell if San Isidro wears a look of benevolence, or of agony.

“Real food! Real food! Real veggies, real fruit!” jr hasn’t stopped jumping or chanting. Marty fights the urge to tell him to shut up.

“Oh my god,” Inez says. “This is actually so exciting!”

Mariah, who has whipped out her phone to record everything, says, “The signal here sucks!”

The hush continues. As the crowd watches, the statue of San Isidro—now facing its life-sized twin, in front of Mang Delfin’s house—lifts its wooden arm, the one holding the sheaf of corn, in a rigid salute. His face remains frozen, but for one instant, his eyes seem alive—and even though they aren’t directed at Marty, his belly churns and his eyes water. A child in the crowd bursts into tears.

Then: an explosion of smell and color. The house is suddenly unable to bear its own weight, and several ornaments come loose from the ceiling and balcony, falling on the crowd below. Potatoes and bananas roll off the shingles, detach from the windows; tufts of kiping billow out and descend on everyone’s heads. Marty sees this in slow motion. Each fruit and vegetable is more alive, the smell so intoxicating Marty nearly vomits. He lets go of jr’s hand to cover his mouth, and jr immediately lunges for the food. Inez shrieks and darts forward as a squash face starts to come loose from the wall. She tries to catch it in one of her new hats, shouting, “What are you doing, Marts? Grab some! Hurry!”

Everyone is frantically scooping. Mariah has her mouth full of something. “Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god, it tastes totally different!”

Marty looks back at where the procession had been neatly standing, and it’s all gone—San Isidro has disappeared, swallowed by a swarm of flailing limbs. Someone—Mang Delfin?—roars over the noise, “This is my house! Those are mine! Stop! Stop!”

“There’s enough for everyone, you greedy ass!” someone shouts back. The cheer that follows quickly dissolves into grunting as people 75

climb over each other.

Marty comes into focus. “jr!” He calls frantically. “jr? jr!”

His little boy could be trampled. His little boy could get lbm, salmonella, stomach cancer. That food should never touch his lips.

Inez is still filling her hats; Mariah is helping her. Marty tries to enter the writhing mass of fiesta-goers. An elbow bashes him on the cheek, a knee catches his ribs. Someone to his left retches. The stench of body odor and puke overpowers the sweet fragrance of the fruits. “jr!” He keeps shouting.

“Dad!” jr squeezes his way towards him, reaching over two women grappling with a knot of bitter gourd. Marty manages to grab jr under the armpits, lifting then hauling him toward a side street. He takes deep breaths, trying to clear his head, and through a haze of nausea he sees jr’s giant grin. jr is clutching a swollen banana in his fist: a banana full of bruises, green at the base, just like the ones Marty used to eat as a child, nothing like the ones they now grow. “Dad! I got one! Can I eat it?”

Marty feels sick, overwhelmed, like too many eyes are on him.

He reaches out, grabs the banana, and peels it without thinking. jr watches him, wide-eyed. Marty has no idea what he’s going to do— hold it out to his child and let him eat it? Eat it himself, because it looks so goddamn delicious? Thank God, San Isidro, for a miracle?

Cry for his manmade miracles, so much nothing when held to the light of day, to a pair of tired eyes in a wooden face?

“Yes,” he says. “Go ahead,” he says, his mouth already tasting the sweetness, craving it—the truth of a miracle, too bitter to swallow— “But don’t, no, you shouldn’t, it isn’t safe, it isn’t right,” he says, and he is suddenly crying, and jr looks at him with an expression that edges bewilderment and terror. In his closed fist the banana has been mashed to a pulp.

76

joaquin j. santana

Why Don’t We Hunt Bugs Anymore Remember, when we were younger, How we would meet at the end of Iron Street, and head towards the Field where we caught insects in Emptied-out jars of lengua de gato?

We’d take to the park benches where You would tear grasshoppers from Their hind legs, and we’d laugh as They dragged their battered bodies Back to the dirt below them. Once, You forgot how we were—in our own Way—giants, and you accidentally split A body in two. The creature lay before The both of us, a black cord of intestine Tying its torso to its waist, and in that Moment, we dropped our butterfly nets Into the grass and dead leaves. Maybe it Was youth that fooled us into thinking We could only hurt others as much as We intended to. Maybe we just never Stopped to consider what it meant to Take something that was never ours.

Maybe we were just kids, and we saw How big the world was—and failed to Realize we were trampling it beneath us.

77

jerome flor

toys no puzzle play mat of foam. only the long march of marble tiles cemented, concrete on soil. no clay, marbles nor yarn. only beads, a novena, a mystery or four. no dolls to act as nurse, nor shopkeep. only being a wife, and not a mother. no stories of growing up. only first and last words. no play, only rest.

78

trishia gail g. fernandez

Penelope’s Plight Every morning you leave for work, I head to the loom, and intertwine my fingers with the fraying threads of the white shroud that’s

not quite done.

Every night you don’t return, I deconstruct.

79

daryll delgado

Salve* i ask the taxi driver to avoid the big murky puddle and drop me off at the corner, in front of the bakery. I tip him fifty pesos for the trouble. Salamat, doktora. He smiles in gratitude. I don’t correct him.

I realize I’m still in scrubs. Let him think I’m a doctor. Why the hell not? I’ve practically taken over the primary care of my patient. I even give the physician advice. Of course, I’m always careful to make Dr. Enrique think the suggestions came from him. No use antagonizing the Crisologos’ family doctor.

Maybe Edwin is right. I take on too much for too little, from this family. But he doesn’t understand that this is not a simple patientnurse relationship, and I don’t like getting into it with him. He can be relentless, sees things only in black and white, and doesn’t stop until I am convinced that I am oppressed, I am a victim.

Another text came from him earlier. I ignored it. Not interested in what else he has to say. Too early in the morning for his drama. Why do I have to relieve him of his feelings of guilt? Screw him. I want to get on with my day. Can’t wait to get to the salon, extract the painful ingrown that’s been pushing insistently against the tender insides of my left toe. * It’s a great day to be out. I am struck again by the strange beauty, yes, beauty, of early mornings in Talipapa. I guess anything, even this pigsty of a place, can look gentler in the first light of day. The streets are clear of tricycles and vendors. Only a few shops are open, but the bakery is already filled with barely-awake night shift laborers, getting their pan de sal, before returning to makeshift quarters on construction sites. I pass the street sweepers on the gutter, hugging their brooms, waiting for the truck to collect the previous day’s refuse, huddled over what looks like a tabloid.

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* Published in Cha Issue 40: Writing in the Philippines

I’ve stopped buying tabloids, though I still watch the news. Same thing every day. Bodies in sidewalks and garbage dumps and creeks.

Nothing new. Don’t know why last night’s news bothered me. A grandmother shot in the face, in broad daylight. Her granddaughter next to her. Could have happened at this very corner, by the jeepney terminal, but of course there would be no trace of it now. Hard to tell.

All slums look the same. All crime scenes look the same.

God knows we’re no strangers to killings in this area, though maybe not in this scale. Funny, how much prominence, notoriety, this godforsaken place has acquired in the last months. Morgues and funeral homes have sprouted almost overnight.

Libing Things Funeral Services. Still cracks me up. In Bisaya we say lubong instead of libing for burial, so pun won’t work. Perfect in Tagalog, where we sometimes pronounce living as libing anyway. I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m certainly not amused at how we’ve become fodder for primetime news. It’s always Talipapa. As if killings weren’t happening in other areas too. As if neighborhoods didn’t exist here, as if we were just one big dumpsite. To be fair, that’s how I feel most times about this place—a large bin of Metro Manila’s undesirables.

How else would have I been able to afford a house and lot here? But now everyone knows where Talipapa is. Now very few taxis want to venture to these parts at night.

At least no bodies are getting dumped in Green View. A few months ago, the homeowners agreed to fix the abandoned guardhouse and the rickety gates, and hire a night shift security guard to man the post.

This means a monthly contribution of some three hundred pesos per household. I think it’s fair. I wasn’t at the meeting. Edwin was. It was one of the last things he did as a member of our household. As my husband.

Edwin thought it was frivolous, we’re a low-cost subdivision, we can barely afford the monthly bills. Barangay council’s responsibility to keep our neighborhood safe— I bet he enjoyed being the contrarian. I imagine him in that meeting: well-dressed, generously-cologned, hair neatly-combed.

Prepared for combat. He likes to remind people that he is not just your typical supermarket merchandiser. He used to be a union organizer.

He is a thinking man. He reads the papers, not just tabloids.

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He was outvoted. Practicality, not so much paranoia, contrary to Edwin’s claim, won. Everybody hates drugs and addicts. But even the ones who actively supported the president, like myself, are afraid. We know our city, our police. Mistakes happen, negligence is common, corruption is rampant. We know all that, we learn how to live with all that.

Some think the barangay officers are in on it. Sa tingin mo? Feeling ko, oo.

Where else would the names come from? I told Edwin.

But that’s just the wrong attitude to take! We must make our government accountable, but let’s play our part too, Edwin said. Besides, it’s just a list, there’s a proper criminal procedure for arrests, it’s not as if they’ll just storm houses and take people— That was four months ago. Now there are more reports of masked men and police officers in uniform, storming houses, dragging people out, or shooting them inside their homes. But not here in our subdivision, no, thank goodness.

A tricycle driver I talked to told me that his father was shot multiple times while taking a bath in an outhouse bathroom. He said his father was practically naked, but the blotter and the news report indicated that he had fought back and left the police no choice but to shoot him.

A man in his walwal, loose-garter, briefs, the boy said, shaking his head, laughing sardonically. How the hell could he have fought back, where would he have hidden his gun? Maybe they were surprised at the sight of his titi! Ha ha!

He said no one among his neighbors was willing to be a witness, even if they all saw what happened. They saw the police break open the wobbly door, scan the small house, head for the bathroom at the back. They heard several shots fired. A few minutes later, the men came back out to the street. Some went to the small convenience store, to buy and smoke cigarettes. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Like they were casually waiting for somebody. After a while, a white van from one of the funeral parlors came to collect the body.

The boy had to scour all the morgues and funeral homes and hospitals in the city to look for his father, before finding him at Libing Things. He said he was thankful that the body was still there, that it 82

had not been dumped in the trash pile, or the creek. Problem was, he couldn’t take his father home. Must raise twenty-four thousand pesos first, para daw sa body retrieval, embalming— I told Edwin the boy’s story. He said these are exceptions among thousands of legal arrests and legitimate encounters. And then, parroting the police, Edwin added, if people have nothing to hide, they shouldn’t have anything to fear— That made me laugh out loud, as in lol, as my daughter, Mela, would say. I guess some people do have something to hide, yes? I said flippantly, trying to lighten his mood, while I vigorously mixed the garlic-and-chorizo fried rice I was cooking then.

Edwin turned silent. I looked at him, his face was pale, his eyes twitched. I didn’t think then that he had anything to hide. I thought he was just stumped by my response. How could I have been so blind? * God, I can barely keep my eyes open. Been pulling too many allnighters, thanks to Ms. C’s nocturnal hyperactivity. It drives me nuts that she would be so docile in the mornings and afternoons, when Dr. Enrique and Jen, the daughter, were around. Then it’s as though she’s a totally different person, many different persons rather, at nighttime.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Anxiety, hallucination, in terminally ill patients usually manifest at night. I just wish her excretions didn’t have to happen during the tail end of my shift too. Lately, I’ve had to be extra alert, make sure she is settled on her commode at the right time. I’ve been missing the signs more times than I care to admit, and she’s been missing the target, deliberately, I sometimes think.

I was probably a bit rough with her last night, rubbing the thick wad of dry tissue against her already sore anus harder than usual.

Don’t know why I did that. Maybe I do. Too many reasons. The woman in the news. Edwin’s text message. Mela growing farther and farther away from me. But no, no, I shouldn’t have done that. I should have used wet wipes. Ms. C had winced, but went on with her litany of names and places, continued in the imaginary conversation I have ceased to try to make sense of many nights ago.

83

I tried to make up for my actions by patting on calamine lotion on the sore spots, and massaging her lower back. I admit to a few tears escaping from my tired, tired eyes, when I saw the sores, when I heard her sigh in deep relief. But then, after that, I was subjected to an annoying girly shriek. Ms. C was obviously still somewhere else, and barely noticed my penance, my remorse.

Her mood lightened me up though. I decided to ditch, just for that night, the adult diaper which she always resists wearing. I picked a soft cotton underwear instead, and gently inserted one pale thin leg after another into the pant holes. She could tell the difference right away. I saw her face soften, savor the comfort of diaper-less underwear. Less than two hours later, she soiled her underwear and the bed again. * God, I miss my bed. I wish I can go straight home and collapse on my bed. But I need to get supplies from the bakery: a dozen pan de sal, some sliced bread, coconut jam, and Cheez Whiz for little Monina.

Mela usually leaves Monina with me when she knows I’m off-duty.

I do miss my sweet apo, but just this once, I wish I can have two full days all to myself. Catch up on sleep, on tv viewing. Spend a day at sm North. But I cannot say no to Mela, and she knows it. Maybe I also need to have my granddaughter around, after spending too many nights with my elderly patient. I do sometimes need to feel, to be reminded, that I am far from old, even if I am a certified lola.

No one believes that I am a lola, a grandmother, at my age, fortyeight. My own mother died at forty-eight. The life span in my family tends to be short. I guess that’s why things have to happen at a much faster pace. Mela had Monina at twenty-two, just a year younger than I was when I had her.

Mine has turned into a story worthy of those afternoon radio dramas I used to listen to all the time, I told Jen once.

And what is that, what’s your melodrama?

I’m not even fifty and I have a two-year-old apo, an irresponsible daughter, a husband who’s left me for a woman half my age. No, not sordid enough for telenovela, no? But maybe for radio drama…

84

Jenny didn’t know if she should laugh or say sorry when I told her this. We were sharing a cup of coffee in the kitchen. My shift had just ended. She patted my hand gently, made some sympathetic sounds.

Only thing Jenny and I have in common is that we’re both separated from our husbands. At forty-two, she has no children. Although she’s living with an eighty-one-year-old mother whom she’s devoted to, nothing much tethers Jenny to the ground. That’s why she can afford to fly and travel so much, take on risky assignments in remote places.

I could have had that kind of life, if I had decided to work abroad, if I had pursued public health. I did well in our community nursing course, taking the lead in the field research we conducted in the barrios. I wrote well, my teachers told me. I got an a in my research paper. I could have pursued that track earlier, could have traveled, but then Mela came along. Also, do I really want what Jenny has? Maybe not all of it, no. I can imagine liking the independence, the mobility, certainly the money. But I can’t imagine being on a plane every other week, doing field work in remote places for days. * I met Jen in Tacloban, right after Haiyan. I managed to land a contractual job at care Intl. My first time to work for an international ngo, and to be back in Leyte since I left in 1990. It was also Jenny’s first time to be in the island since moving to Manila for high school.

Turned out, Jenny and I were the only Waray speakers in the team of foreign aid consultants. We ended up spending a lot of time together.

She was with the project for only a few months, but we stayed in touch.

Several months ago, she contacted me for referrals. Need a caregiver or private nurse for Mom. Patient too picky, prickly, you can imagine, Sal. We need someone firm, someone she can respect, she said.

I had just finished my contract then. Was hoping for a renewal.

We heard that the new president was against receiving aid from international agencies. He said something funny about un agencies on tv, but I didn’t believe he would actually prevent us from doing our jobs. That would be stupid. I was wrong. We were advised that a 85

reevaluation of priority areas was underway. Meanwhile, most of us were not getting renewed.

I was fine with it, really. Though I wasn’t sure I wanted to return to hospital work, or if I should finally try working abroad. I took on Ms. Crisologo, temporarily, while I looked for another project, while Jen looked for a hospice care nurse. It’s been almost a year. I have been caring for Ms. Crisologo since.

My ex-colleague is now my employer, even if she calls me her caregiving partner, saying she relies on me to keep her mom alive. I think I can claim to being a friend, even if Jen has to pay me for my services. I don’t come cheap, I’m overqualified. I could have applied for a job abroad, with my credentials. But I don’t need to remind Jenny of this. * I remember to text Jenny that another nurse has been booked and that she should take the weekend off. Earlier I had to force her to go out, nothing will happen to your mom. I hope she took my advice.

I tick this off my to-do list. I need to get all my errands out of the way before my two precious off-days are completely taken over by household and Monina duties. I have not done a full check of what I need to restock in the house since Edwin left. I’ve been mostly at the Crisologos’. I’m home only for a night or two every other week.

Unless Monina is around, I’m usually too tired to cook, have no appetite for food.

I used to eat a lot, cook a lot. On my days off, I would cook three or four dishes to last Edwin the rest of the week. I loved it, cooking.

Used to give me a deep sense of satisfaction watching Edwin devour the dishes I prepared. Also used to whet my appetite, for food, and even for sex, which we always had on my few days off, and which I thought we were still good at, after more than twenty years of being married. Maybe I have been deluding myself. We did both love food, that’s for sure. I loved eating with him, that one I and my belly fat cannot deny.

86

I wonder if the thin woman he’s with knows how to cook. I wonder if she even eats. I know I have to learn to eat alone. Soon. If I know what’s good for me. * I almost get hit by a tricycle as I limp across the street. Sorry, doktora! The young driver calls out, smiling in a too-friendly manner. Sakay kayo?

I am about to yell, I’m fine, I can walk, and I’m a nurse, not a doctor, okay?! I realize it is the young driver who brought me to the subdivision gate the last time. I can’t recall his name, only his story, about his father.

Uy, kumusta? How’s everything?

He shrugs, smiles sadly. I tell him I have to drop by a few other places, but will look for him later at the terminal, when I’m ready to go.

Okay, Mam. Ingat.

Ingat. Take care, he says, driving off, leaving me staring after his red tricycle. Take care. How does one do that these days? How does he do it, still driving around Talipapa, still living in the house where his father was killed? I’m pretty sure the lola taking her apo to school two days ago was taking care. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting to get shot in the face that day. I know I was taking care of my family, my husband.

He left anyway. Mela, as soon as she could, also went away. I ignore the beginnings of a migraine in my right temple, the slight pinprick somewhere in my chest. Not as bothersome as the grumbling in my stomach, or the piercing pain in my left toe anyway. * I wait for my turn in the bakery, letting hungrier construction workers have their time at the counter. I watch them flirt with the store attendants, while I wince at the growing discomfort in my left toe. I’m positive that it is an abscessed ingrown. I shouldn’t have skipped my mani-pedi schedule two weeks ago. I have my own set with me, I always do. But there has simply been no time to deal with the darn toenail. Ms. C’s stats and behavior have been erratic in the last couple of days.

87

I can’t help but also keep close watch over Jenny. I see a breakdown coming. I see it in the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremors in her hands. I see it in her distractedness, alternating with intense focus. I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she does not ask for help. She cannot do this alone, clearly. Most patients’ families are quite the opposite. Too many carers, too many interfering relatives.

I don’t know what reason Jenny has for withholding information.

Maybe she wants to protect her elderly relatives? Maybe she herself is in denial?

Maybe I am a bit too fascinated with her self-denials and delusions.

I know I shouldn’t think this way. But hers takes my mind off my own dramas in life. Too many of them, God knows. * Lord, I can’t wait to sit in the salon and have this goddamn ingrown removed. I think I might just indulge in a full body massage, too. And a haircut. Yes, definitely a haircut.

Ever since I could afford it, I have always indulged in at least a mani-pedi, every month. Back home in Matalom, I used to have special mani-pedi service from my mother every Sunday. Never mind that she was really just trying out different nail polish colors on me.

We’d be on the wooden stairs of our house, facing the back of St. Joseph Parish Church. I’d be on the top step, Nanay two steps below me, cradling my feet in her lap. While she worked on my toenails, clipping away dead cells methodically, rhythmically, I’d be lost in thought.

Radio drama would be blaring from the small transistor radio placed on the step between us. Nanay’s hair in curlers, a finely rolled tobacco sometimes in one hand, and a cuticle remover in another. Then there’s me, trying hard not to fall asleep so I won’t miss the climax of the radio drama: when the identity of the woman is revealed—she is, of course, invariably, the long-lost daughter of a very rich man. And just like that, all her troubles fall away from her, like the dead skin and overgrown nails being clipped away from my toes.

Nanay liked to listen to the panawagan breaks, more than to 88

the drama. Whenever the panawagan—announcements/appeals/ requests—came on, she would pause in mid-air, listen intently, hoping and dreading at the same time that the message would be for someone she knows or, simba ko, God forbid, the message would be for her.

The panawagan could be good or bad news: death or sickness or childbirth, an accident, a celebration, a missing person, a found person, money needed, money offered, a promo, a contest, a warning, an invitation. They always came during the most thrilling parts of the drama. So annoying. But Nanay would always shush me, make clucking noises of regret when the panawagan was about something tragic, even if it happened to someone she didn’t know. She’d clap her hands with glee, or sigh in envy, ah how lucky, ka-suerte, when it was about someone’s accomplishment or good fortune being announced.

Beyond the sounds coming out of our radio, around us it was almost pure quiet. Dead hours, I used to call them, the hours between noontime and the first afternoon mass.

I don’t know why I’ve been recalling those afternoon hours with Nanay lately. She’s been dead for almost thirty years now. Could be my age. Same as her death age. Though I’ve no problem with death, not at all. I’ve seen too many people die, too many dead bodies untended. * I wasn’t with Nanay when she died. Sometimes I imagine how it must have been. I try not to dwell. I focus on my patient and the patient’s family as much as I can. But some Sundays are particularly challenging.

Sunday was always our special day. Nanay worked as a parlor assistant from Monday to Saturday. On slow days she accepted laundry from the women whose nails she buffed and painted. Sundays were always for me.

It was her dream to see me in a white uniform, not so much to earn the same kind of money that the daughters of our neighbors earned as nurses in Saudi, the U.K., or the U.S. Rather, she thought the uniform itself was dignified, clean, beautiful. She herself liked to tie her hair in a bun and wear white when she was in the parlor.

So, Nursing then. After that, Medicine, if the grades and scholarship will 89

allow it, I told Nanay, while she eagerly watched me fill out admission and scholarship applications for schools in Tacloban.

Nanay passed away when I was on my second year in Nursing School. By then, I had become adept at doing mani-pedi myself.

Adept enough to earn from it, servicing the boarders in that dank, dimly lit boarding house in Tacloban. Occasionally, I would service the landlady in the main house, too.

I distinctly remember that afternoon, I was in the middle of pedicuring my landlady in their airy living room. In the background, the radio was blaring some drama, and then the panawagan came on.

I was only half-listening, annoyed at the panawagan interruption, when I caught the word Matalom. My ears pricked. My heart started palpitating. I forced myself to calm down, keep my hands still, while I tried to very gently pry a thick ingrown from my landlady’s slightly swollen, right big toe.

Nananawagan, an pamilya ni Manuela Ilagan, kun hino man an nakakabati, alayon pag-pasabot han iya anak nga hi Salve Ilagan, nga an lawas han iya nawara nga Nanay, aadto yana ha Funeraria… * Nawara. Lost, missing, disappeared, absent, not there. In the panawagan, they never use the word namatay, expired, dead.

My Nanay had been dead for three days by the time I made it to Matalom. I recovered her body from the morgue. I dressed her in white—a button-down blouse, a lace skirt. I buffed and painted her hardened, curled, toenails. She looked beautiful, neat, though so much tinier than how I remembered her.

It happened in the afternoon, between noontime and the afternoon mass, they said. A las tres, the hour of great mercy. Others said she died in the hospital, while being treated. For what? Nobody could tell. A neighbor she was doing laundry for brought her there when she collapsed while in the middle of hanging clothes in the yard. She had been feverish for days. Some said it was sanib, a curse, an evil possession. She was as healthy as a carabao, all of a sudden she was so sick, so thin. Others said poison, hilo, 90

lason. She was beautiful, but sometimes too friendly with the husbands of her jealous clients. The parish priest said God’s plan. Life is a mystery, only God knows what lies in store for each of us. Our sister Manuela was a good woman. Even if she bore a daughter out of wedlock, she lived a simple life, served her community, and with our intercession, her sins will be forgiven…

I read the death certificate. Cause of death: Pneumonia.

Right after the burial, I gathered what few belongings Nanay had into a box: her mani-pedi set, a few clothes, my school certificates and trophies, photos of me in school ceremonies and one of me in my white nursing uniform. I brought them all to my boarding house in Tacloban. The box came with me too, when I moved to Manila. Box now lies under my bed. I have neither opened it nor have I been back to Matalom since. * I step out of the bakery, and start eating the warm pan de sal. Still too early, but I walk to the salon, my left toe throbbing. I like being the first customer. The salon gets crowded on Sundays. It used to be called Divina’s Divine Divas Salon for the longest time, but is now iPrettiserie. Thankfully, everything else about it is the same, even if two of the senior stylists, Reenah and Divine, are also now called Ringo and Dino, for some reason.

A young woman I have not seen before lets me in. Tiny creature with too much makeup on, and blond, yellow corn, dyed hair. Bago? I ask her if she is new here, and she nods, smiles brightly.

There are always two or three of them young women, salon assistants. All from the province, and they are invariably Bisaya, exploring possibilities in Manila. I speak to them in our language, and they warm up to me immediately. I always wish they would stay longer, unless they have to move to bigger salons, better-paying jobs. But I know that some of them end up in the row of bars along Mindanao Avenue or, worse, on the sidewalks of Quezon Avenue.

The salon is not quite open yet. I can smell the canned corned beef and burnt garlic fried rice breakfast from the small pantry behind 91

the hair-washing station. A Tagalog song is blaring from the radio which is usually tuned to an fm station that plays English-language standards, supposedly to give the salon an air of elegance.

I like the Tagalog song. I sometimes hear it sung in church, about faith and banishing fears. I can’t remember the last time I was inside a church. I always plan to attend mass, but tiredness, the long list of errands, overtake me. The salon appointment, however, I always try to keep.

Haircut, mani-pedi, and massage, I tell the girl, Megs, as I get settled in my usual seat, near the window. Stylist? I tell her it’s Reenah, I mean Ringo. She nods and goes to the storage area for the necessaries.

I spy him, Ringo, at the cashier’s counter, racked with sobs, two of the apprentices comforting him. Dino, meanwhile, is in front of one of the mirrors, sprucing up his hair. He seems angry, but it’s not clear to me to whom the anger is directed.

I’ve told you a million times, a million times, to take him out of here, send him to the province, stop enabling him… But no, no, no, because you are blinded by lust. You’re a fool! And now what happens? Maybe we are all on the list, ha? Maybe one of us is next? Did you not think of that?

Ringo mumbles something in between sobs. I figure that someone named Ton has either been caught or killed, by either a masked man or the police.

I should have been there, I should have gone straight home, he manages to say, almost choking on the words.

Gaga ka! Dino makes an act of throwing his hairbrush at Ringo, but slams it instead on the counter. Gusto mo pati ikaw? You want to join him in jail, in the dumpster wrapped in masking tape, inside a garbage bag, is that what you want?! Tell me now and I’ll let you go, I’ll replace you! Leche ka— Dino storms into the pantry. I hear him smashing more things on the table, while lecturing Ringo.

The girls try to comfort Ringo, but seem more eager to extract the juicier parts of the story out of him, asking a barrage of questions. So, where did it happen? What time? We were still here in the salon, right? Ay, no, were we at Jollibee by then? Yes, you should have gone straight home, you could have seen the men’s faces then. You could have explained that Ton had 92

surrendered as soon as he found out his name was on the list. Was it a police man, you say? How many of them? Were they masked? Did they shoot him before taking him? Was he alive when they took him? * Tsk, poor Ringo, Megs tells me. Doesn’t matter, deads na ’yan, if it happened here in Talipapa. These days, people get shot even inside police stations, in broad daylight…

I recall again last night’s news. The image of the woman’s body being heaved onto the stretcher flashed in my head. Her blouse was pulled apart when she was lifted, revealing her flabby stomach in an unflattering way. Her hair was matted with blood, plastered to her face.

Mouth slack. Photos of her when she was alive showed someone who took good care of herself. Hair well-kempt, face nicely made up, dress clean and decent. She was probably just a few years older than me.

Megs arranges some tabloids in front of me, and I glimpse bodies, again, slumped like sacks of trash, on gutters.

It’s his boy, Tony, adik talaga, everybody knows. In fairness, guapo. Been with Ringo for almost a year— I shrug my shoulders in response, trying to shake off the unexpected sense of grief starting to invade me. I feel for Ringo, but I don’t want to know the details. My throbbing toe feels like it is about to explode.

She keeps going. Ser Dino is correct, Ringo shouldn’t go to the Station or the hospitals, or morgues. He shouldn’t be linked. He should just wait. The body always turns up, she says, raising one of the tabloids to prove her point.

I pointedly look at my watch and ask when I can get my service started.

She grudgingly fills the tub with warm water, scented oils, something minty. Ser Ringo! Mam is ready! She calls out.

Ringo composes himself. I’ll be right there Mommy Sal, pasensya na, sorry…

Okay lang, Reens, I’ll wait.

My phone vibrates. Text from Mela. Sorry, Nay. Won’t bring Monina today. Maybe next week. Please deposit allowance as soon as you can.

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I heave off my disappointment, decide not to reply. I check for other messages. Nothing from Jenny. The one from Edwin remains unopened. I turn my phone off, drop it inside my bag.

The girls have lost interest in Ringo, now tidying themselves, putting on makeup, talking excitedly about last night’s episode of My Dear Heart. One of them receives a text message and groans loudly.

What?! I just sent money a week ago, ha! What do they think I do here?— I immerse my sore feet and ankles in the tub of aromatic warm water, lean my aching neck and head against the padded back of the chair. Ringo is still sobbing loud, dry sobs, and blowing his nose noisily. I close my eyes. I wish I could close my ears, my other senses too. I feel the abscess in my swollen ingrown softening.

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alfred a. yuson

Etiquette for EJKs* Wash hands clean before you leave your own hovel.

Put on gloves when palms are dry.

Cross the muddy creek and alleys of forever.

Wait at the corner for your partner with the helmets and the bonnets.

Ride pillion, revel in passive wind and aggressive tailpipe smoke of the familiar city.

Pay no heed to countless faces on narrowing streets.

Their anonymity serves your purpose until the area of choice.

There an identity steps up to the plate — the round figure of a quota adding up lackluster certainty. * Published in Cha Issue 40: Writing in the Philippines

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Any youth will do.

Idling on a bench or closing shop.

Just avoid line of sight of cctvs that have a way with post-mortem reality.

The hell with the public.

Drive slowly for accuracy.

Or if you have to, park and dismount, strong-arm the lean boy to privacy.

Nearing a dark dump, tell him to run. Shoot him in the back, approach him fallen, and make sure his life stops begging. Drop a gun by his hand, a sachet into his pocket.

Walk off as epitome of cool.

Ride the wind again, and when you reach home, before you sit for late dinner, wash your hands of the war—on truth’s tough morsels.

Pick at your teeth as nightly you do your duty for bounty. Pick lives clean.

Wipe off any slop from the table.

Wipe off the blood from your mind.

Deny yourself of scraps of memory.

Sport no stains that may be seen.

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dominique la victoria

excerpt from Toward the Fires of Revolution* A play in two acts Adapted from the short story Odd and Ugly by Vida Cruz Yesterday's revolution for today's revolutionaries. mga tauhan gabriela – early twenties, a young Filipino woman ezequiel – looks late twenties, tall and dark skinned, a Kapre 2 guardia civil/engkanto (leron and pipay) – no specific features, any type of actors may play these characters setting December 1896. The Philippine revolution against Spain has only just begun. Spain has strengthened its military presence in the colony and is imprisoning and executing anyone suspected of treason. The Katipunan has declared an armed revolution against Spain. War is breaking out.

San Jose, Cavite. A village in the mountains situated beside a thick and dense forest.

* 3rd Prize, Full-Length Play in English, 2018 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards

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act 1 Curtain The sky is dark, the last few minutes before sunrise. In the heart of a dense forest. The sound of crickets is heard.

The stage is dark, with only twinkling lights to serve as stars or fireflies. There is a large tree upstage center. A few mangoes are hanging off the tree.

GABRIELA enters the stage, rushing. She is carrying a bag full of books. A book falls out of the bag. She hurriedly picks it up and puts it back.

She stops in front of the huge tree and looks up. gabriela

Is this…no…third tree to the right after the pond and then past the beehive…

The sounds of people searching for her follow. She hides behind the tree. When the sounds fade out, she comes out of hiding. gabriela

Ayo! Ayo! Pa, I hope you’re right about this! Ayo! Ayo!

EZEQUIEL emerges from the other side of the tree, smoking tobacco.

He peeks at GABRIELA, but she does not see him. gabriela

Dios mio! Tabi tabi po. Ayo…ayo…

ezequiel

Who goes there?

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gabriela

Where are you?

ezequiel

I said, who goes there?

gabriela

It’s me, Gabriela Delos Reyes. Where are you?

ezequiel

Gabriela Delos Reyes?

gabriela

Yes. I have come to pay my father’s debt.

ezequiel

Father?

gabriela

You know who I’m talking about, señor.

EZEQUIEL shows himself to GABRIELA. GABRIELA is surprised at his appearance. ezequiel

Didn’t your father ever teach you that it’s rude to stare, neng?

gabriela

Forgive me, señor, I was mesmerized by your necklace.

EZEQUIEL hides the necklace under his shirt. GABRIELA frowns.

gabriela

My father taught me many things, señor, but not how to act in front of a…a…

ezequiel

Kapre. I am not ashamed of what I am.

gabriela

Of course, señor. What’s your name? What may I call you?

ezequiel

You have not earned that yet, neng. Now tell me, why have you disturbed me at this hour?

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gabriela

I have come to pay my father’s debt.

ezequiel

Humans have been in debt to me for centuries.

You’ll have to be more specific.

gabriela

Last week, my father stole a mango from your grove.

You threatened to keep him in your realm if he did not agree to send me to your service.

Silence. ezequiel

Ahh, I remember now. But I told him I’d send for you, not the other way around. Go home, neng, this is not how it is supposed to be.

gabriela

But time is running out, señor.

ezequiel

What are you talking about?

gabriela

Seven days. That’s what the rhyme says. If you offend a spirit, beware. You have seven days to clear the air. Repay the debt before the time is out. Or a curse will fall on your family’s house. Those are the laws set forth by Bathala, and not even I can change that.

ezequiel

I’ve heard of no such thing!

gabriela It’s what we’ve been taught, señor, from the day

our grandmothers told us to keep the forest sacred.

When the sun comes up it will be seven days, and

I don’t want to be cursed. ezequiel

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Fine, come back in the morning and we’ll settle this.

You shouldn’t wander out here by yourself at night!

The town’s tongues will wag about you meeting a lover!

gabriela

Let them wag!

ezequiel

The friars will denounce you as a witch.

gabriela

I will denounce them for molesting altar boys.

ezequiel The Guardia Civil will say you are conspiring with revolutionaries.

GABRIELA pauses and looks around. She clutches the bag tighter.

gabriela

I’m not afraid of them, señor. I’ve come to erase my father’s debt.

ezequiel Erase his debt with what? Another mango? Whatever

you have there in your bag? Material things do not

satisfy me. I’ve no use for money, I have everything

I need in my realm. Are you going to offer me yourself, neng? gabriela

Yes.

ezequiel

What?

gabriela

I mean, I suppose…I’ll be of service to you…I’ll be your housekeeper.

ezequiel

I don’t have a house to keep!

gabriela

Then I’ll be your tree keeper, or realm keeper!

ezequiel

Go home, neng.

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The sound of the search party is heard again. GABRIELA steps closer towards the tree and EZEQUIEL. gabriela

It is a fair trade, señor. You don’t even have to give me wages or anything more than a place to stay! I only have to work off the debt!

ezequiel

And why should I agree to that? What do you know of the upkeep of a Kapre’s tree?

gabriela

It’s not about what I know, señor, I just…don’t want to be cursed, so this starts tonight. I insist.

ezequiel

Fine. Follow me.

EZEQUIEL turns to go around the tree. GABRIELA follows him. They circle the tree and when they come to the other side, the lights change.

The lighting change indicates that they are in the realm of Engkantos.

GABRIELA looks around, mesmerized.

The two attendants, LERON and PIPAY emerge to receive them. pipay Señor, you have brought home a girl? ezequiel

Yes. She’s to stay here for the time being.

leron

Doing what?

ezequiel

I haven’t figured that out yet—

leron

Who is she? What’s her name?

pipay

Wait, is that her?

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leron Her her? pipay

What is she doing here?

leron

She shouldn’t be here, right?

ezequiel

Shush!

GABRIELA looks to the two engkantos and smiles. gabriela

I’m Gabriela Delos Reyes. You are?

pipay

I’m Pipay!

leron

I’m Leron! We’re the resident engkantos.

pipay

Elves of this Kapre’s tree!

gabriela

Well, I’m the Kapre’s new housekeeper.

leron

What? Housekeeper?

pipay

We can’t have a human girl housekeeper.

leron

Especially not her!

gabriela

I’m right here, you know.

ezequiel

She’s staying here, and that’s the end of this discussion.

leron

We could do with a fresh face.

pipay

How old are you, señorita?

gabriela

I’m— 103

leron

She looks young, I’m sure she has time!

gabriela

Time for what?

ezequiel

Careful, Leron.

leron

Time to do all the housekeeping that needs to be done!

pipay

Or just spend time with us! I’m sure the señorita will be a very entertaining guest.

leron

Can we play with her, almighty Kapre, please?

ezequiel I don’t have time for this. You two know the rules set

forth by Bathala, so do as you like but stay out of my way. Neng, these two will show you around. leron

We’d be happy to, señorita!

pipay

But, we often go to the village so we can’t be with you all the time.

gabriela

The village?

leron Si, señorita. We’re the ones who usually bring news

of the humans to the creatures of the forest. pipay

They often think us a nuisance, which is why we stay here in the Kapre’s tree.

ezequiel

You are parasites I could not get rid of.

Anything interesting happen in the village?

pipay

Oh yes! There’s a commotion!

A group of Guardia Civil arrived from Manila!

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ezequiel

Why?

leron The Katipuneros in Maynila tore their cedulas and

ceded from Spain! Espanya is protecting its colony,

so they’re searching out every village for traitors. gabriela

Every village? Every village?

pipay

Of course! I’ve heard there are whole cities that have broken off from Spain!

leron

Not this village.

pipay

Not yet.

leron Mabuhay ang rebolusyon! Mabuhay ang Pilipina! ezequiel

They’ll be passing through the forests soon, let the others know, will you?

pipay

Who’s they? The Guardia Civil or the revolutionaries?

ezequiel

Both are a nuisance.

leron Si, señor. pipay Oh, señorita, beware the time here. gabriela

The time?

leron Poor señorita, she doesn’t understand that time

is different for us in this realm! pipay

How will she tell time, though?

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leron

Let’s help her!

pipay Señor?

EZEQUIEL rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers. The sound of a bird’s wings flapping is heard, as well as a chirp.

leron

When the Maya bird chirps, it means 2 days have passed!

gabriela

2 days!?

ezequiel

Two days are minutes to us immortals, neng.

pipay

We will see you soon, señorita! Adios!

The two engkantos exit. gabriela

Well, señor, what would you like me to do?

EZEQUIEL walks around GABRIELA, staring her down while talking to himself. ezequiel

I thought you’d be taller.

gabriela

Excuse me?

ezequiel

Your cheeks are a bit dirty.

GABRIELA hastily wipes her cheeks. ezequiel

Hair a tad unruly.

Gabriela gathers her hair to one side.

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gabriela

What are you doing?

ezequiel

Not too much bosom—

gabriela

What the—How dare you!

ezequiel

I’m just stating facts, neng.

gabriela

What gives you the right to judge my appearance?

ezequiel

This is my realm, I can judge anything in here.

gabriela

That doesn’t mean you can be inappropriate and rude!

ezequiel

You’re too loud for a 19 year—

gabriela

I’m 20.

ezequiel

No, you’re not.

gabriela

I know how old I am, señor. I’m 20, and I will be 21 on the first day of the new year.

ezequiel

Eight days from now? Are you certain?

gabriela

I think I’d know my own age, señor. I’m 20.

EZEQUIEL is silent. gabriela

Is something the matter?

ezequiel

This whole situation is a nuisance. It is not in my nature to take in human girl housekeepers.

Your kind do nothing but disrespect the forest—

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gabriela

Surely none from San Jose! We hold the forest in deep regard—

ezequiel

Do not interrupt me when I’m talking, neng.

That’s rule number one.

gabriela

There are rules?

ezequiel

Of course, there are rules. What, you think you can just come here and do what you like? There’s an order to things. The laws set forth by Bathala—

gabriela

I’m sure Bathala wouldn’t care if I interrupted you—

ezequiel

Strike one. Three strikes and I’ll send you back to that little village of yours.

gabriela

All right, all right. Sorry. What are the other rules?

ezequiel You will not pester me with nonsense questions.

You will do everything I say—even if you don’t

understand my instructions. Your understanding

means nothing here, neng, you are in my realm now.

Lastly, you are forbidden to take, pluck, pick, or

disturb anything that grows or lives in the forest,

unless it is with my consent. Do we have an understanding, neng?

Pause. gabriela Si, señor. ezequiel

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Good. Do you have any questions? Keep in mind that if they are nonsense, then that’s strike two.

gabriela

What do I do about food? I know I cannot consume the same food you do, or else I become trapped here forever, but I have to eat something.

ezequiel

Ay, enough neng. You talk too much. The bananas behind that grove to your left should do—don’t worry, I’ve hidden it from human eyes.

GABRIELA looks toward the grove and sighs. gabriela

Thank you, señor, that should do.

ezequiel

If you have no other questions, let’s not waste time.

I’d like to get you started on work.

gabriela

Oh. Alright. What will you have me do, señor?

ezequiel

How well do you know this forest, neng?

gabriela

Very well, señor. This is my forest just as much as it is yours. I spent my childhood climbing up trees, picking up flowers, and eating sineguelas.

ezequiel

So, you know of the santelmos?

gabriela

Floating balls of fire—our elders say they’re the souls of fallen warriors.

ezequiel

Well, they’re a nuisance, that’s what they are. There’s a group of them hiding up that tree. I want you to get them down and shoo them away.

gabriela

I…how are they a nuisance?

ezequiel

They like to come and go as they please, and it’s 109

annoying when you’re trying to sleep and their light wakes you up. Get them down, that’s your first task.

gabriela

But…I…

ezequiel

What?

gabriela

I don’t know anything about how to move santelmos.

ezequiel

You say this is your forest, well the santelmos are part of the forest. You should be able to get them out of my tree.

gabriela

But I…

ezequiel

If you can’t do it, then I’ll have to send you away.

gabriela

Fine.

GABRIELA climbs up the tree. Once she’s up, light from a nook in the tree starts to glow. gabriela

They’re very hot.

ezequiel

They are made of fire, neng.

gabriela Umm…excuse me, santelmos? Will you please leave this Kapre’s tree?

The glowing dims a bit but shines again. ezequiel

You’re going to have to do better than that, neng.

gabriela

Let me get up a bit higher.

GABRIELA climbs a step up.

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gabriela

Oh wow, did you know you can see the village from here, señor?

ezequiel

Keep to the task, neng.

gabriela

Santelmos, please leave! The Kapre doesn’t want you here! Leave now!

EZEQUIEL laughs. GABRIELA turns to him, surprised. She loses her balance and slips. EZEQUIEL catches her. ezequiel

Be careful, neng!

gabriela

Let me down, please.

EZEQUIEL lets her go. gabriela

You could be a bit more helpful, you know.

ezequiel

Alright. They usually come down when the bells from the town starts to ring.

gabriela

But they won’t ring until much later.

ezequiel

That’s not my problem.

GABRIELA climbs back up again. gabriela

ring! ring! ring! ring!

The light glows very bright. ezequiel

Will you stop that?

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gabriela

I was thinking that the sound of the bells would…

ezequiel

That’ll just make them angry! For goodness’ sake, girl, that sounded nothing like the melodious sound your church bells make.

gabriela

Well…when the bells sing it sounds like…they they sing! The bells sing!

GABRIELA hums. She starts to sing, while climbing down. Dotted flashes of light (the santelmos) follow her down.

gabriela

(singing) Paruparong bukid na lilipad-lipad, sa gitna ng daan papaga-pagaspas, isang bara ang tapis. Isang dangkal ang manggas, ang sayang de kola, Isang piyesa ang sayad…

The lights eventually travel offstage, exiting. GABRIELA climbs down and waves them goodbye. EZEQUIEL slowly claps.

ezequiel . gabriela

I’m impressed. Well done, neng.

Thank you, señor.

ezequiel

Thanks to you, I now have my lovely view of the town back.

gabriela

It truly is a pretty view, señor. I see why you are fond of it.

ezequiel

Yes, if I wasn’t resting there seven days ago I wouldn’t have seen your father steal that mango.

EZEQUIEL smirks at GABRIELA and climbs up the tree. He looks at the view of the town for a while.

112

gabriela

What would you like me to do next, señor?

ezequiel

Just take a break, neng. You’ve earned it.

GABRIELA shrugs.

She takes her bag of books and sits against the tree. She takes out one book and begins to read. GABRIELA giggles at the book. ezequiel

What’s all that noise?

gabriela

I’m just reading.

ezequiel

What are you reading?

Gabriela looks up to Ezequiel. She whispers to him. gabriela

Noli Me Tangere by Dr. Jose Rizal.

ezequiel

Why are you whispering?

gabriela

Because the book…well, oh…I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway now that we’re here?

EZEQUIEL climbs down. ezequiel

You are a very strange young woman.

GABRIELA shrugs. ezequiel

And what were you reading that was worth all this noise?

GABRIELA turns to him and eagerly smiles. gabriela

See, this book is about a man named Crisostomo Ibarra. He comes from a wealthy family. He studied 113

in Espanya and has just come home to the Philippines

He’s spending time with his childhood sweetheart

Maria Clara by the river. ezequiel

Ah, of course, a romance. I suppose they marry in the end? Live happily ever after?

gabriela Oh, no. Maria Clara enters the nunnery where

there’s an old lecherous priest who desires her. It’s

implied she commits suicide, and Ibarra is forever changed. ezequiel

Isn’t that depressing for a love story, neng?

gabriela

It’s not just a love story, señor. It’s about the Filipinas!

The writer, Dr. Rizal, is an Ilustrado, he studied in Madrid and wrote propaganda asking the crown for political reforms in the Filipinas.

ezequiel

And where is he now?

gabriela

Dr. Rizal? He’s in prison in Fort Santiago.

ezequiel

Prison? You read the writings of an imprisoned man?

gabriela

Not just any imprisoned man, señor. An educated man who exposed the cruelties of the Espanyol through his writing.

ezequiel

His writing? A love story?

gabriela

Señor, I told you, it’s not just a love story! It’s about the friars, and Espanya—how they have abused us these past three hundred years. Maria Clara? She is the bastard child of a priest, Padre Damaso. And

114

there’s a chapter about a woman named Sisa; she loses her mind searching for her lost child Crispin, an altar boy falsely accused of stealing money.

ezequiel

How utterly depressing. Such strange tastes in books for a young woman.

Silence. gabriela

They say I’m odd too.

ezequiel

They?

gabriela

The village. Everyone. But it doesn’t matter to me.

This book, however, and what it represents, is important to me.

ezequiel

It doesn’t bother you that they think you’re odd?

gabriela

Why should it? I don’t plan on staying there any longer anyway.

ezequiel

Because you’ve made yourself at home in my tree?

gabriela

Señor, I didn’t know you could joke.

Pause.

EZEQUIEL grabs the book from GABRIELA. He skims through it. ezequiel It’s in Espanyol! You can read in the language of

your oppressors? gabriela

My mother taught me how, señor, before she died.

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ezequiel

And how did she learn?

gabriela

My mother was the daughter of an Ilustrado from Maynila. She went to a school run by nuns. When she married my father, her family disowned her. By the grace of God, she led a happy life with us.

ezequiel

By the grace of God? A God who lets his friars abuse you? I don’t understand your kind. If your friars are so cruel, why do you keep going to their church?

gabriela

The friars are cruel, señor, but not the Lord.

Pause. gabriela

Who is your God, señor?

ezequiel

God?

gabriela

Bathala.

ezequiel

Bathala.

gabriela

Have you met him?

The maya bird chirps. GABRIELA stands up. gabriela

Two days already?

ezequiel

I told you, neng, days are minutes to us.

gabriela

Well, it looks like I’ve been resting for two days.

Is there anything else you’d like me to do, señor?

ezequiel

Eager to get to work, neng?

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gabriela

I just want my father’s debt paid, señor.

ezequiel

Fine. Come over here.

EZEQUIEL stands and leads GABRIELA to stage left. ezequiel

Those pesky dwarves, the duwende, make a big deal out of celebrating new year’s. They like to go around the forest making noise and dancing when the clock strikes twelve. They also get annoyed if the other creatures don’t celebrate with them They jinx us if we don’t share their merriment, and frankly, I don’t have the desire to do so. I’d like you to grow some flowers over here to make their celebration more colorful.

gabriela

Easy enough, señor. Where can I find the seeds?

ezequiel

Seeds?

gabriela

Yes, to plant the flowers.

ezequiel

I didn’t say you have to plant them, I said you have to grow them.

gabriela Isn’t that the same thing? You’re speaking in riddles, señor. ezequiel

Look, you managed to get the santelmos out by singing. Surely you can grow flowers without seeds.

gabriela

That’s impossible, señor.

ezequiel

You are a Filipino, yes?

117

gabriela

Yes, but—

ezequiel

And you claim to be of this forest?

gabriela

Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have the power to—

ezequiel

Do what you have to, neng.

GABRIELA walks around the stage, looking around. She tries to search the ground for seeds. She tries to dig the soil to see if there are seeds. EZEQUIEL looks at her. ezequiel

You’re not getting any younger, neng, you won’t be 20 for long.

gabriela

Señor, with all due respect, I don’t know what I’m doing.

ezequiel

Tell me neng, what do flowers do?

gabriela

What?

ezequiel

What do flowers do?

gabriela

They…they’re colorful. They brighten up any room.

When they’re plucked, they wilt. When the breeze blows, they dance…

Pause. gabriela

You want me to create breeze, señor?

ezequiel

If you think it will help.

gabriela

How? Shall I pluck a leaf from the tree and make a fan?

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ezequiel

You will do no such thing, unless you want another debt on your shoulders.

gabriela

Then I’ll just use my hand to fan the ground.

GABRIELA does this, and suddenly, colorful spots flash on stage.

They disappear quickly. gabriela

What was that?

ezequiel

You moved your hand. But apparently, it’s not enough.

gabriela

Then I’d have to move my whole body?

GABRIELA starts to jump and shake. ezequiel

Stop that at once, you look like you’ve lost your mind!

If I were a tulip, my head would bow down in embarrassment. You can’t grow flowers moving like that.

gabriela

Then how do I move?

Beat. gabriela

The flowers? They…they move gracefully…

Beat. gabriela

They dance. telon

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Jude Buendia. larong baril-barilan.

Toy soldiers and acrylic on canvas. 12 x 12 in.

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larong baril-barilan. (Supporting media 4).

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larong baril-barilan. (Supporting media 5).

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Clare Bianca Tantoco. Safety Reasons. (Cover).

Ink on paper, A5 notebook.

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Safety Reasons. (Detail 1).

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Safety Reasons. (Detail 2).

125

Safety Reasons. (Detail 3).

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Safety Reasons. (Detail 4).

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Marco T. Torrijos. Birth (series) I. Ink on paper. 23.4 x 33.1 in.

128

Birth (series) 2. Ink on paper. 23.4 x 33.1 in.

129

Aquirine Ong. Blood Money. (Main).

Oil on ceramic and cast powder. 6 x 6 in.

130

Blood Money. (Supporting media 1).

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Blood Money. (Supporting media 2).

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Blood Money. (Supporting media 3).

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Isobel Francisco. Flood. Oil and acrylic on canvas. 4 x 6 ft.

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135 Settlement. Oil and acrylic on canvas. 40 x 32 ft.

Meneer Marcelo. House of Cards (series) 1. Digital.

136

House of Cards (series) 2. Digital.

137

House of Cards (series) 3. Digital.

138

House of Cards (series) 4. Digital.

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House of Cards (series) 5. Digital.

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House of Cards (series) 6. Digital.

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House of Cards (series) 7. Digital.

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MGA MAY-AKDA

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Sophia Bonoan (4 BFA Creative Writing) “You see, my problem is this, I’m dreaming away Wishing that heroes, they truly exist I cry, watching the days Can't you see I’m a fool in so many ways?

But to lose all my senses, That is just so typically me" — Britney Spears, “Oops!... I Did It Again” Jude Buendia (2 AB Development Studies) “Maybe I’ve always been more comfortable in chaos.”

— Florence + the Machine, “St. Jude” Regine Cabato (AB Communication 2016) “First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.’’

— Martin Niemöller Regine Cabato works as a journalist in Manila. Her work has been published in Kritika Kultura, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Cha Literary Journal, and Rambutan Literary. She received a Loyola School Award for the Arts for poetry and a La Sallian Scholarum for her online journalism. She hails from Zamboanga City.

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Jerome Flor (AB Psychology 2017) Umuwi ako tapos hinalungkat ko ’yung mga gamit ko sa bahay para ibigay ’to sa ’yo.

Martina Herras (4 AB Literature-English) Kasalukuyan niyang inaalagaan ang lahat ng kaya niyang alagaan. tinyletter.com/alun-sina Meneer Marcelo (Department of Fine Arts) Meneer Marcelo is a freelance graphic designer, illustrator, and teacher. He has been doing designs and illustrations for local and international publications for more than five years. He has also worked with some of the best agencies in the Philippines.

Currently, he is a lecturer in the Ateneo de Manila University and Mapúa University and Mapúa Institute of Technology. be.net/meneer meneermarcelo.tumblr.com Elise Ofilada (1 BFA Creative Writing) Elise Ofilada is not so perfect, but so beautiful. She was a poetry mentee for the 2018 Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program, and her work has been published in Softblow, Rambutan Literary, and The Rising Phoenix Review, among other places. Thanks, Pete Wentz.

Find more of her work at leonaesque.tumblr.com.

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Aquirine Ong (2 BS Legal Management) So I can write anything here and it will be part of the bionote?

Mirick Paala (BS Management Engineering 2013) Si Mirick Paala ay nagtapos ng bs Management Engineering at Minor in Creative Writing sa Ateneo de Manila University. Kasalukuyan niyang tinatapos ang kaniyang ma sa Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas at msc sa Sustainability in Transport sa University of Leeds.

Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Nagtuturo si Allan Popa ng Panitikan at Pagsulat sa Ateneo de Manila University. Nagtapos siya ng mfa in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize.

Awtor siya ng sampung aklat ng mgatula kabilang na ang Laan (De La Salle University Publishing House, 2013), Damagan (ust Publishing House, 2018), at Narkotiko at Panganorin (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2018). Ginawaran na siya ng Philippines Free Press Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Isa siya sa mga kasaping tagapagtatag ng High Chair. Tinanggap niya ang PhD in Literature mula sa De La Salle University.

Raymon Ritumban (MA Literary and Cultural Studies 2018, Lecturer at the Department of Filipino)

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Mikaela Adrianne Regis (3 BFA Creative Writing) Para kay Lolo Ber, ang bukal, ang pinagmulan ng lahat ng ito.

Balang araw, babasahin, panonoorin nila ang kuwento mo.

Joaquin J. Santana (2 BS Management Engineering) Nico Santana often struggles to express himself when it comes to talking about the little things in his life that bother him constantly.

To make up for this, he tries to reimagine these little things into little fictions, which he then tries to twist into poetry. Though the result is not always very good, he still finds joy in knowing he has some sort of expressive outlet that helps him make sense of his thoughts.

Joycel Vincent Dabalos (Department of English) Kasiyahan ni Joycel magsulat para sa bayan.

Clare Bianca Tantoco (2 BFA Art Management) Hi this is [insert nickname of choice, there are too many to type to be honest], your local panromantic demisexual (and if you don’t understand what that is, basta ’di ako straight). Anyway, to everyone whose closet is more of a bunker: this one’s for you.

Kakayanin niyo yan.

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Marco T. Torrijos (BS Management 2018) Marco T. Torrijos is a self-taught practicing visual artist who graduated with a Bachelor of Sciences degree in Management, Minor in Enterprise Development at the Ateneo de Manila University in 2018. Through creating works of ink on paper, Torrijos searches for intimacy in the monotony of the everyday, examining life as it is through its many different interactions; employing light, texture, and depth to produce powerful, intriguing scenes. Beyond his fondness for art, he also likes to spend his time taking videos and photographs, watching good films, and enjoying the afternoon sun.

Art Instagram: @marcotorrijos Twitter: @marcoett Joshua Uyheng (BS Psychology 2016 / BS Mathematics 2017) “I fell in love again.

All things go, all things go.”

– Sufjan Stevens, Chicago Josh is currently a PhD student in Societal Computing at Carnegie Mellon University. Twelve hours away from everyone he loves, he staves off the loneliness with countless group chats, Netflix, and attempts to cook without burning his apartment down.

He’s doing okay.

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Pasasalamat Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj at ang Office of the President Dr. Maria Luz C. Vilches at ang Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Dr. Roberto Conrado Guevara at ang Office of the Associate Dean for Student Affairs Dr. Josefina D. HofileĂąa at ang Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Jonathan Chua at ang Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Isabel Pefianco Martin at ang English Department Mr. Martin V. Villanueva at ang Department of Fine Arts Dr. J. Pilapil Jacobo at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa at ang Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Ralph Jacinto A. Quiblat at ang Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita at ang Office of Associate Dean for the Student and Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos at ang Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig at ang Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes at ang Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego at ang University Archives Ms. Ma. Victoria T. Herrera at ang Ateneo Art Gallery Ms. Yael A. Borromeo at ang AretĂŠ The mvp Maintenance at ang mga Security Personnel Dr. Vincenz Serrano at ang Kritika Kultura Ms. Geming Andrea A. Alonzo, Executive Director of sos clans at Mr. Allan de Vera, President ng Tunay na Alyansa ng Bayan Alay sa Katutubo (tabak Phils) Ms. Michelle Abad at ang The guidon Ms. Jessica Gayo at ang Matanglawin Ang Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, at ang Council of Organizations of the Ateneo At sa lahat ng nagpapanatiling buhay ang panitikan at sining sa komunidad ng Pamantasan ng Ateneo de Manila sa pamamagitan ng patuloy na pagbabahagi ng kanilang mga akda at sa patuloy na pagsuporta sa mga proyekto ng heights

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Patnugutan Editor - in - Chief Martina M. Herras [ab lit (eng) 2019] Associate Editor Catherine Lianza A. Aquino [ab psy 2020] Managing Editor for External Affairs Jamie Anne B. Gutierrez [ab is 2019] for Internal Affairs Sandra Nicole V. Añonuevo [ab dip ir 2019] for Finance Ryan Gabriel C. Molen [bs lfsci 2019] Art Editor Fernando Miguel U. Lofranco [ab ec 2020] Associate Art Editor Aisha Dominique Q. Causing [ab com, bfa am 2020] Design Editor Diana F. David [bfa id 2019] Associate Design Editor Justine Gabriella A. Daquioag [bfa id 2020] English Editor Nigel Renzo C. Yu [bs cs dgdd 2021] Associate English Editor Patricia Sarmiento [ab lit (eng) 2020] Filipino Editor Dorothy Claire G. Parungao [bs ch-mse 2020] Associate Filipino Editor Carissa Natalia DT. Baconguis [bfa cw 2019] Production Manager Charles Bernard J. Yuchioco [ab lit (eng) 2021] Associate Production Manager Brianna Louise M. Cayetano [ab com 2021] Heights Online Editor Tamia Gloria F. Reodica [ab com 2021] Associate Heights Online Editor Zoe Arianna T. Andin [ab is 2021]

Head Moderator and Moderator for English Martin V. Villanueva Moderator for Filipino Allan Popa Moderator for Art Yael A . Buencamino Moderator for Design Tanya Lea Francesca M. Mallillin Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Moderator for Heights Online Regine Miren D. Cabato

Mga Kasapi Art

Zofia Lyne R. Agama, Jude Buendia, Enrico Cruz, Antonio Rafael Florida, Genesis Gamilong, Pilar Gonzalez, Celline Marge Mercado, Aquirine Ong, Jayvee del Rosario, Caitlin Ann Sioson, Yuri Ysabel Tan, Clare Bianca Tantoco, Julienne Uy, Justine Valdez, Katherine Sophia Wong, Dexter L. Yu, Charles Bernard Yuchioco

Design

JJ Agcaoili, Eli Alconis, Liaa Austria, Kat Batara, Jana Codera, Valerie Cobankiat, Enrico Cruz, Casey del Rosario, Pilar Gonzalez, Ninna Lebrilla, Arien M. Lim, Giulia Lopez, Juancho Luna, Anya Nellas, Gabby Segovia, Moira Swann, Tash Parayno

English

Nathan Myles U. Lim, Ariana Gabrielle S. Domingo, Gabrielle Leung, Sophia Bonoan, Elissa Joy C. Ofilada, Ma. Arianne Aleta, Ana Martina R. Nevada, Aleiana Zelin T. Duque, Justine Psyche B.Villanueva, Andy Reysio-Cruz, Tim Yusingco, Mikaela C. Regis, Trishia Fernandez, Mika Alexei G. Tan, Madeleine Sy,Karl Estuart, Michaela Gonzales Tiglao, Miguel Santiago, Lia Pauline P. Paderon, Sofia Ysabel I. Bernedo, Trisha Anne K. Reyes, Danielle Michelle Cabahug, Ignacio Lorenzo C. Villareal

Filipino Paulo Alviar, Winslet Anne Bartolome, Ignacio Bunag,

Reesha Marion, Cata-al, Alyssa Gewell Llorin,

Cymon Kayle Lubangco, Jose Alfonso Ignacio Mirabueno,

Jelmer Jon Ochoa, Mikaela Adrianne Regis, Nina Lyan Romero,

Aubreylaine Salazar, Maria Isabel Santiago, Loreben Tuquero, Josemaria Villareal Production

Hanna Mabel Ypil, Alicia Pavia, Seph Tamayo, Sam Arnaldo, Robert Kwan Laurel, Hanna Alyne Ypil, Daniel Manguerra, Luigi Reyes, Alexis Ferreras, Julia Abella, Jacinta Maria Jocson, Pauline Baterna, Shelby O. Parlade, Ma. Camille Alessandra J. De Luna, Louise Dimalanta, Giane Ysabell Butalid, Justin Barbara, Zianne Agustin, Anicia Guanlao, Cesar Miguel V. Fabro, Louis Anton Dominic M. Molina, Sofia Andrea K. Guanzon, Rich Labao, Justine Psyche Villanueva

Heights Online

Ticia Almazan, Marianne Antonio, Angela Arguelles, Billy Caluag, Julia Carpio, Andrea Gerada, Micah Avry Guiao, Luisa C. Jocson, Hazel Lam, Ice Macatangay, Maiko Aira Ng, Kayla Ocampo, Aga Olympia, Aletha Payawal, Carla Reyes, Arnold Manuel Rillorta, Ryo Rodas, Ada Tabanao, Miguel Tarrosa, Sam Wong

9th ateneo heights artists workshop

october 27–28, 2018 Altaroca Mountain Resort, Antipolo Panelists Aldy Aguirre Karl Castro Mich Cervantes Regine David Meneer Marcelo Raxenne Maniquiz Kitkat Pajaro Tokwa Peùaflorida Jel Suarez Luigi Singson

Fellows China Palanas [watercolor] Dyan Louise N. Villegas [photography] Mary Frances Angeles K. De Guzman [digital] Frances Robina C. To [digital] Geri Mae P. Gonzales [acrylic] Hikaru Murakami [videography] Kathryn Alexandra Maria Mendoza Rodriguez [watercolor, digital, acrylic] Tamia F. Reodica [photography] Yuri Ysabel G. Tan [conceptual art, photography, illustration] Rizelle Diaz [pen and ink] Workshop Directors JJ Agcaoili Cat Aquino

Workshop Deliberation Committee Mr. John Alexis Balaguer Ms. Ja Cabato Ms. Corinne Victoria F. Garcia Mr. Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan Workshop Team Aisha Dominique Q. Causing, Sophia Bonoan, Elissa Joy C. Ofilada, Celline Marge Mercado, Rich Labao, Charles Bernard Yuchioco [programs and logistics] Julia Carpio, Shelby Parlade, Aletha Payawal, Arnold Manuel Rillorta, and Sophia Wong [online] Finance Hazel Lam Ryan Gabriel C. Molen Design Jana Codera Justine Daquioag Ninna Lebrilla Workshop Moderator Yael A. Buencamino Head Moderator Martin M. Villanueva