(2022) Heights Vol. 69, Nos. 1 & 2 by Heights Ateneo

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heights tomo 69 bilang 1 at 2 Karapatang-ari 2022 heights ang opisyal na pampanitikan at pangsining na publikasyon at organisasyon ng Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila. Reserbado ang karapatang-ari sa mga may-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) 8426-6001 loc. 5448 heights-ateneo.com facebook.com/HeightsAteneo Twitter: @HeightsAteneo Instagram: @heightsateneo Malikhaing Direksyon at Dibuho ng Pabalat: Aitana Nellas Paglalapat: Karl Eli R. Alconis, Alfonso Arellano, Francisella S. Avila, Justin Christiane B. Bello, Jana Ysabel V. Codera, Carmencita G. Dolina, Patricia Grace R. Fermin, Kayla T. Geraldoy, Sarah Huang, Giulia Clara R. Lopez, Isabella Lozada, Raven Nakpil, Danelle Erin Natividad, Kristine T. Pabua, Franz Miguel Reyes, Marie Jilliene Cloe T. Sison, Divine-kai T. Tan, Justin Dhaniel Tan, Mia Genine D. Tupas, Nicole Ann E. Vargas, Dagny Eran M. Yenko Folio Launch Team: Ashlee Nicole L. Baritugo, Alexandra Maria P. Bringas, Maria Carmela R. Cabanos, Reign Iris M. Centeno, Paolo Gabriel B. Estrella, Mariana Gardoce, Angelika Portia L. Lapidario, Lindsey Therese U. Lim, Christina Bianca C. Mallari, Vaughn Dylan D. Ramos, Melanie Mae D. Silverio, Rashed Andrei V. Zafra Inilimbag sa mvb Verdigris

Nilalaman Bilang 1: Pagbabaluktot Ryan Gabriel Suarez 1 doble kara Jerome Agpalza 2 Color Game Lawrence Angelo Malasa 3 Ang Gabi’y Tahimik Adíng Kiko, dps 4 Mangá Tsonggo ng Siyudad Ian Bundoc 5 Kids Arnold Manuel Rillorta 13 The poor dragonfly Angela Lanuza 14 My First Big Party 15 Signal No. 3 Samuel Franklin Gomez 16 In Defense of Our Republic 18 VIOLENCE Aidan Reuel A. Bernales 20 Noah, Leanne Waverly Sy 24 Weather Forecast: Cloudy Amiana Joy Saguid 26 call the vet Justine Daquioag 27 I hope this e-mail finds you well Kevin Castro & C Crespo 28 And Yet There is No Blood on The Hands of Pseudologos, Herself Mello Jericho Malig 30 Late Night Eric Jabagat 31 Vulnerabilities Carl Lorenz Cervantes 34 How to gaslight the people you love

Bilang 2: Paghaharap Jerome Agpalza 43 Jesus Teaching Nicodemus Jerome Matthew Maiquez 44 takaw-apoy Angela Cole 45 Paghapag Jack Lorenz Acebedo Rivera 46 COVID FLASH SALE (Kalipunan ng Iba’t Ibang Listings) Abner Dormiendo 48 Tungkol sa Voyager Golden Record 49 Patayo o Pahiga 50 “Cut ng Ties” Sola Fide Ramos 52 ang unang beses na papahiran ko ng langis ang aking katawan 74 commercial sermons Nicko Reginio Caluya 54 Katawan Ko ang Eskaparate at Kalansay ng Aking Nakaraan ang Laman Stanley Guevarra 55 Grade 12 Ryan Gabriel Suarez 56 reply slip 60 status quo Anjanette Cayabyab 59 Maalaala mo kaya ang sumpa ninyo sa amin Samuel Franklin Gomez 62 The Stars Are Below Us 77 Moro-moro Beatris Cabana 72 The Ouroboros Complex: untangled in three sessions Mheliza Ann Therese Madrid 76 Haunted Iago B. Guballa 87 notes i received in the theater, out of order Nicholas Sy 90 My high school notebook Eala Julienne P. Nolasco 92 Never trust men, only some, and other exceptions

Bea Racoma 96 A One-Time, Big-Time Offering To Malacañang Sarah Huang 99 Untitled C Crespo 100 All is Fair Rosalaine Pesarit 101 Tallies to Death Kevin Castro 102 kahit ano pa man ang sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite Anonymous 109 what have you done

Editoryal lampas dalawang taon na mula nang magsimula ang pandemya. Ang virus na inakala nating maliit na problema ang siyang naging kasawian ng buong mundo, at ang lockdown na dapat isang buwan lamang ay pinahaba lang. Sa nakaraang taon, sinikap bigyan ng kahulugan ng heights ang mga karanasang hindi kayang ipahayag ng diretsong pananalita. Mula sa malayang tema, lumitaw ang kabalintunaang nagsasalaysay ng kawalan ng kalayaan, kaya naman sinundan ito ng panawagang naging aluyan ng mga hinaing natin. Matapos tiyakin ang ating nadarama sa panahon ng ligalig, ang tanong ngayon ay tumuturo sa anumang gagawin natin dito. Madalas kong iniisip kung paano naging kaaya-aya ang tinatawag nating “new normal” bilang natatanging sagot sa mga suliranin natin ngayon. Hindi matatakasan ang kalupitan ng pandemya kaya dapat daw harapin na lamang ang “katotohanan” na hanggang kathang isip lang ang ayuda, na kahit sa COVID response ay militar ang namamahala, o na kailangang magpahulí ang Pilipinas sa pagbubukas ng mga paaralan. Kapag nasa “new normal” daw, kinakailangang may nagdurusa dahil wala namang pinipiling biktima ang virus, ngunit huwag na lang luminga sa iilang bansang kinayanan namang timbagin ang pandemya at ang mga buhay na apektado nito. Kung tutuusin, alin ba talaga ang sanhi ng ligalig: ang virus o ang mga kamalian na kinukupkop natin bilang “katotohanan”? Kung ito ang isyu ng “new normal,” hindi nakagugulat na hindi pa rin natin mahiwalay ang katotohanan sa kasinungalingan hanggang sa panahon ng pangangampanya. Kakatwang isipin na isa sa mga nangugunang kandidato sa pagkapangulo ang siyang anak ng diktador na nagsisilbing kataas-taasang ehemplo ng kabulaanan. Nang hindi pa sapat ang atraso ng pamilya mula sa Batas Militar, tila pinakapal pa ang mukha sa pinakinabangan niyang nakaw-yaman, pag-iwas ng kanyang kaso sa tax evasion, o pagsabi na siya raw mismo ang biktima ng fake news. Ngunit sa lahat ng ito, bakit marami pa rin sa atin ay hiyang sa kanyang pagkatao? Kung ang tanong ay “bakit si BBM?” bakit ang sagot ay “respect my opinion”? Kongkretong patunay ang lahat ng mga ito sa tinatawag na “posttruth”—ang kalagayang mas nangingibabaw ang propaganda sa mga katotohanan. Sa ganitong klaseng lipunan, hindi maaaring sabihing akma ang “false consciousness” ni Friedrich Engels upang ipaliwanag na biktima lamang ang masa sa panlilinlang ng mga nakatataas. Hindi rin sapat ang “culture industry” nina Theodor Adorno at Max Horkheimer, na ang kakayahang mag-isip para sa sarili ay kinitil ng industriya ng xi

kulturang popular. Kahit sa panahon ng post-truth, hindi matatanggal ang ahensya ng tao sa pagpili ng katotohanan. Kung sa gayon, mas mahalaga ang mga ideya ni Stuart Hall sa kanyang paninindigang may kakayahan tayong lahat na pagnilayan ang mga katotohanang pumapaligid sa atin. Nilinaw ng teorista na hindi pare-pareho ang mga posisyon na pinanggagalingan natin, kung kaya’t ang mga katotohanang inaangkop ng isa ay malayong malayo o wala mismo sa abot-tanaw ng iba. Ngunit sa anumang kaso, kinukulayan ng tinatawag na ideolohiya ang mga katotohanang pinaniniwalaan natin, na para kay Louis Althusser ay representasyon ng likhang-isip na relasyon ng mga tao sa kanilang kinalalagyan. Dagdag naman ni Slavoj Žižek na ideolohiya ang ating pinipiling relasyon sa mundo. Samakatwid, pinagpapasyahan ang mga katotohanan, kaya kinakailangan din ng lente ng pagiging kritikal na siyang hindi madaling mahawakan ng lahat. Dito pumapasok ang sining at panitikan. Kung sistemikong problema ang isyu ng katotohanan, kinakailangan din nito ng solusyong kayang pumuna sa sistema. Sa totoo lang, hindi ako kumbinsido sa mga argumentong hiwalay ang politikal na pagkilos sa paglikha o pagbasa, na nagsisimula lamang ang pakikipag-ugnayan sa lipunan matapos isarado ang libro o talikuran ang larawan. Kung ilalapat sa lenteng medikal, nagmumukhang instrumento ng diyagnosis ang sining at panitikan habang ang paggamot ay nakaalalay sa mga gawain ng “totoong buhay.” Bagaman malaki ang halaga ng pagprotesta sa kalye o pagtanggol sa korte, may pinagkakaibahan ang pinagtutuunan ng sining at panitikan, tulad na lang ng kung paano magkaiba ang neurolohiya sa immunolohiya. Para labanan ang kasinungalingan, kailangan natin ng instrumentong mabisa sa paglantad ng mga siwang ng balikong pag-iisip, na kayang magmulat ng mga nabulagan at sadyang nagbubulagbulagan. Lilinawin ko: Hindi ito katangi-tangi sa sining at panitikan, at maraming paraan upang mawasak ang kasinungaligan, bagkus ang punto ay mabisa ang mga anyong ito sa pagpuna ng sistema. Sa madaling sabi, nagsisilbi nang politikal ang sining at panitikan, maging sa paglikha o pagbasa. Dahil katotohanan nga ang kasulukuyang krisis ng lipunan natin ngayon, napagpasyahan ng patnagutan ang pagpapatibay-loob sa mga kinaiisahang espasyo laban sa pinasidhing paniniil. Pinakapunto nito ang pag-ugnay ng loob at ng labas kung kaya’t pinagtuunan namin ang tungkulin ng mga panloob na gawain sa mga pang-labas na reyalidad. Sa aming organisasyon, nagsilbi itong gabay upang baguhin ang ilan sa aming mga internal na sistema nang maging mas mabisa ang pagtugon namin sa pamantasan at sa lipunan. Para naman sa folio na ito, bumalik kami sa katotohanan at tumiyak ng dalawang pagtungo: pagbabaluktot xii

at paghaharap. Kaugnay nito ang desisyon ng heights na maglathala ng double issue na umaayon sa dalawang temang nabanggit. Sa unang isyu, sinikap ng mga akda na baklasin ang mga sadyang pagbabagong-bihis ng katotohanang naglalago ng panloloko—ang pagbabaluktot. Isa sa mga larangang likas sa pagbabaluktot ang wika. Kapansin-pansin ang “In Defense of Our Republic” ni Samuel Franklin Gomez na sinisikap ilantad ang halatang ibinabalikong pangangatwiran ni Emilio Aguinaldo sa kanyang pagpuksa kay Antonio Luna. Tunay na maraming pwedeng baluktutin sa wika, ngunit hindi ibig sabihing wala tayong kakayahang batikusin ang tunay na ipinapahiwatig ng mananalita, tulad na lang sa “doble kara” ni Ryan Gabriel Suarez, na katapat ng literal na ipinapahayag ng persona ang tunay niyang layunin. Samakatuwid, sumusunod na dapat nating kilalanin ang iba’t ibang klase ng pagbabaluktot ng wika upang agad nating malaman kung kailan ito ginagamit laban sa atin, kaya naman nagsisilbing babala para sa mga ganitong sitwasyon ang “How to gaslight the people you love” ni Carl Lorenz Cervantes. Ipinapakita rin ng mga akda na hindi palaging nanggagaling sa ibang ahente ang pagbabaluktot; sa katunayan, malimit na tayo mismo ang gumagawa ng pagbabaluktot sa ating sarili. Magandang tingnan ang “I hope this e-mail finds you well” ni Justine Daquioag sa paglalarawan ng sitwasyong pamilyar sa maraming nagtapos ng pag-aaral ngayong pandemya: ang pagpapaniwala ng ating kakayahang maging produktibo sa harap ng lahat ng nangyayari sa mundo ngayon. May pagkawangis ang ganitong panlilinlang sa sarili sa “Noah” ni Aidan Reuel Bernales, na nilalahad kung paano nagdulot ng sakuna sa persona at kanyang minamahal ang pagbabaluktot ng pag-ibig at pagnanasa. Kung paminsan pa, nahihirapan din tayong pakawalan ang mga kasinungalingan na naging kandungan para sa ating konsensya, tulad na lang sa “Kids” ni Ian Bundoc kung saan hirap na hirap ang pangunahing tauhan na harapin ang kamalian ng kanyang ginagawa. Sa halos lahat ng pagkakataon, ang pagbaluktot ng katotohanan sa ating sarili ay hindi lamang nakapipinsala sa personal kundi sa kapwa na rin. Gayumpaman, hindi nakasasama ang lahat ng pagbabaluktot; kung tutuusin, maaaring mangatwiran na walang pinagkikilingan ang pagbabaluktot mismo, at dumedepende na lamang ito sa kung paano ito binibigyan ng malisya. Naaalala ko ang mga punto ni Rob Cham sa kanyang Creative Talk noong nakaraang taon kung saan binigyang diin niya ang relasyon ng pagbabaluktot sa imahinasyon, lalo’t lalo na pagdating sa muling paggawa o pagsalaysay ng kwento. Magandang halimbawa ang “My First Big Party” ni Angela Lanuza xiii

dahil nagsisilbing malikhaing pagkwento ang pagtingin sa libing bilang maligayang kaarawan. Hindi natin pwedeng sabihing “masama” ang pagbabaluktot na nangyayari dito sapagkat paraan ito ng persona sa pagproseso ng kanyang pighati. Mayaman din ang “And Yet There is No Blood on The Hands of Pseudologos, Herself ” ni Kevin Castro at C Crespo na sa paraan ng photo manipulation ay nagawang baluktutin ang imahen ng batas para mas lumitaw ang likas na pagiging baluktot nito. Kahanga-hanga naman ang intertekstwalidad sa “Ang Gabi’y Tahimik” ni Lawrence Angelo Malasa na humahalaw sa kantang “Payapang Daigdig” upang kulayan ng balintuna at dalamhati ang orihinal na awiting isinulat matapos bombahin ng mga Amerikano ang Maynila noong panahon ng digmaan. Sa ganitong paraan, inaangkop ng manunulat ang tekstong may pagbabaluktot upang ibunyag ang malagim na katotohanan. Sa kabilang banda, itinatampok naman ng pangalawang isyu ang mga akdang umiikot sa paghaharap ng katotohanan. Sa dami nitong natanggap na submisyon, ang palagay ko’y mas marami ang gustong magnilay sa ating mga paninindigan ukol sa iba’t ibang katotohanan. Marami rito ay pagpuna sa mga sistemikong karahasang nakaugat sa paglalaro ng kapangyarihan, tulad na lang ng “A One-Time, Big-Time Offering To Malacañang” ni Bea Racoma, “takaw-apoy” ni Jerome Matthew Maiquez, at “Cut ng Ties” ni Abner Dormiendo. Hindi naman nag-alinlangang maging tiyak ang iba sa mga isyu na hinaharap ng akda nila, gaya ng “kahit ano pa man ang sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite” ni Kevin Castro ukol sa silbi ng kakutya-kutyang Manila Dolomite Beach at “COVID FLASH SALE (Kalipunan ng Iba’t Ibang Listings)” ni Jack Lorenz Acebedo Rivera na tumutukoy sa bulok na pagtugon ng pamahalaaan sa pandemya, lalo na sa karanasan ng mga nasa laylayan. Kahanga-hanga ang katapangan na ipinapakita ng mga akdang ito sa pagpuna ng mga suliraning hindi basta-basta panandalian at hindi maliit na problema lamang, lalo na’t panlipunang pinsala ang dala nito. Mahalaga ring pansinin ang mga akdang mas personal ang paglalarawan sa paghaharap. Kahit na hindi tahasang lumilitaw ang politika tulad ng mga nabanggit na akda, napayayaman nila ang konsepto mismo ng paghaharap sa pagpapakita ng iba’t ibang mukha ng ahensya. Hinaharap ni Mheliza Ann Therese Madrid ang konsepto ng sarili sa kanyang akdang “Haunted,” lalo na sa pagkakataong nagpapakita ito matapos sugpuin ng sarili. Parehas namang tinatalakay ang pulitika ng katawan ng “ang unang beses na papahiran ko ng langis ang aking katawan” ni Sola Fide Ramos at “Katawan Ko ang Eskaparate at Kalansay ng Aking Nakaraan ang Laman” ni Nicko Reginio Caluya, na parehong humahantong sa kahalagahan ng pagtanggap sa sarili. Kaakit-akit din ang xiv

dalawang táong parehong hinaharap ang panganib sa mundo ng lila at berde ng “Untitled” ni Sarah Huang. Hawig ng pagsasamang ito ang “All is Fair” ni C Crespo sa pagbibigay-bisa sa isang relasyong hindi perpekto ngunit pinaninindigan. Minsan naman, kailangan ding balikan ang mga sugat na hindi pa naghihilom upang tunay na makamit ang ating paglunas. Pamilya ang sumugat sa mga persona ng “Never trust men, only some, and other exceptions” ni Eala Julienne P. Nolasco at “The Ouroboros Complex: untangled in three sessions” ni Beatris Cabana, kaya pamilya rin ang kailangan nilang harapin. Ngunit may mga sakit na nakukuha sa labas ng pamilya—hindi biro ang mga kwento ng “what have you done” at “Grade 12” sa pagsiwalat ng mga karahasang sekswal na nangyayari sa loob ng paaralan. At dahil iba’t iba ang hiwa at lalim ng mga sugat na ito, tunay na may kabuluhan pa rin ang pagharap ng mga isyung may kinalaman sa buhay at kamatayan gaya ng “Tallies to Death” ni Rosalaine Pesarit at “Patayo o Pahiga” ni Abner Dormiendo. Kahit ano man ang hinaharap, may halaga ang pagtingin sa pinakahubad na anyo ng mga katotohanan. Sa harap ng lahat ng ito, hinihimok kong balikan ang isyu ng katotohanan at iangat ang katanungang: Ano ang nagagawa ng mga akdang ito sa ating kasalukuyang reyalidad? Sa madaling sabi, nagsisilbi silang instrumento ng paghasa sa ating pagtingin sa sarili at sa ating kinalalagyan. Wala mang konkretong hugis at anyo ang katotohanan, hindi maitatanggi na sila ang kinababatayan ng ating pananaw, karanasan, at mga istruktura ng lipunan. Dahil sistemikong isyu ang katotohanan, hindi madaling lutasin ang mga problemang kaakibat nito nang kasinungaligan ang tunay na kalaban. Kung pagkain ang sagot sa gutom at tubig naman para sa uhaw, paano naman sa mga paniniwalang hindi humihiwalay sa kasinungalingan, na siya ring naghuhulma ng ating suliraning personal at panlipunan? Nais kong sabihing ang sining at panitikan ang ilan sa mga may hawak ng sagot. May halaga ang lahat ng akda rito, at inaanyayahan ko kayong basahin ang bawat isa. Iba-iba ang mga isyung tinatalakay nila, at sigurado akong may kahit isa na aakma sa inyong mga karanasan. Matapos mahasa ang iyong pananaw, huwag itong bitawan. Kupkupin ito. Bahagi na ito ng inyong sarili. Pwedeng magbago at pwedeng mas mahasa pa, ngunit huwag humiwalay sa kritikal na lenteng inalay sa inyo. Gamitin ito hindi lang para sa sarili kundi sa iba; maging instrumento ng mabisang pagbabago. Dito nagtatagumpay ang sining at panitikan—at ito rin ang tutulong sa inyo sa pag-ugnay sa ating politikal na mundo. Stanley Guevarra Marso 2022 xv

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ryan gabriel suarez

doble kara ito ang katotohanan. taumbayan, makinig kayo sa akin. huwag kayong maniwala na aming binulsa ang kaban ng bayan. inyong makikita sa aming tahanan, simple ang pamumuhay, at hindi totoo ang sinasabi nila tungkol sa akin. hindi ako katulad ng kabilang kampo— nagbabalat-kayo. mananatili akong tapat sa serbisyo, at higit sa lahat, hindi ako magnanakaw.

magnanakaw ako, at higit sa lahat, hindi tapat sa serbisyo. mananatili akong nagbabalat-kayo. hindi ako katulad ng kabilang kampo. totoo ang sinasabi nila tungkol sa akin. hindi simple ang pamumuhay, at inyong makikita sa aming tahanan ang kaban ng bayan na aming binulsa. huwag kayong maniwala sa akin. taumbayan, makinig kayo, ito ang katotohanan.

jerome agpalza

Color Game Bwenas lang ang sasapat tuwing binabaling namin ang pag-asa sa bilugang kahon. Kahel bughaw dilaw berde pula at pink. Ang pamato, gumugulong sa paanan ng pagkalimot parang bago kada likom. May alam ang nagtataya, kumbaga, sabwatan ang watcher at operator. Binabantayan nila ang tumataya, ang nakakaalam ng sikreto. Ang sabi nila: tunghayan ang kasaysayan ng kulay, kumbaga. Volume betting. Maniwala sa isa at tayaan ng lima-limang piso. Dinudukot ang may alam nito. Alam ko, pinapaalis kami nang walang tunay na manalo. Basta ako, maglalaro ako nang patas. Kahit maputik, madilim, at sardinas kami sa ilalim ng trapal, tataya ako. Piso-piso, kahit magka-onsehan dito.

lawrence angelo malasa

Ang Gabi’y Tahimik (halaw sa Payapang Daigdig) Ang gabi’y tahimik Lahat namayapa Saksi ang mga tala Sa mapula na langit Kay hinhin ng hangin Malamig ang ihip Sa mga namayapa Dito sa bayang ibig Payapang paligid Dala ay ginhawa Biyaya ng Poon Sa sansinukuban Ang gabi’y tahimik Maiingay, namayapa Naglahong alaala Ng malagim na sinapit

ading kiko, dps

Mangá Tsonggo ng Siyudad Si Tiyong Go, Sa gubat sa siyudad, Ay lumalambitin Sa mangá naglalakihang mangá sanga Ng punong balete. Si Tiyong Ko, Sa gubat sa siyudad, Ay nadudulas Sa mangá pira-pirasong mangá singa Na nagkalat sa mamasa-masang lupa. Habang lumalambitin, Ngumiti si Tiyong Go Kay Tiyong Ko.

ian bundoc

Kids* mga tauhan kuya migs – 25. matigas ang galaw. nakasuot ng uniform. miguelito (lito) – 15. Masayahin at matanong. Nakasuot ng gulanit na sando at basketbol shorts. tagpuan Isang bangko sa gitna ng public park. panahon 8:45 PM.

*Itinanghal ang “Kids” bilang bahagi ng Virgin Labfest 16 Writing Fellowship Program Showcase sa gabay ni Glenn Sevilla Mas at direksyon ni Dennis Marasigan.

lito

Kuya! Kuya Migs dito oh!

Pagbukas ng ilaw sa entablado, makikita na may bilog na guhit ng chalk ang sahig, si LITO, na nakatayo sa isang bangko sa gitna ng bilog na ito, at si KUYA MIGS na nasa dulo ng entablado. kuya migs

Huy, Lito. Mabuti at nandito ka.

lito Syempre naman kuya, paborito nating tambayan ‘to dati e. Ayos a, alam mo pa rin po kung nasaan ‘to. Tahimik si KUYA MIGS. ‘Lika na kuya, natatakot kang tumawid no? Pwede ka naman dito a. Lalapit siya at hahakbangan ang guhit sa sahig.

Ayan, ngayon pwede na po tayo magusap!

kuya migs

Matagal na nating hindi ginagawa ‘to, yung...pagguhit sa paligid ng mga bangkong tulad nito.

lito

Buti naaalala mo pa po, kuya.

kuya migs

Oo naman, ako kaya nagpauso niyan para sa ating dalawa. Ang ibig sabihin kasi ng guhit na ‘to, ligtas tayo kapag nasa loob tayo nito. Walang ibang pwedeng pumasok. Ikaw naman kasi—matatakutin!

lito

‘Sus...‘to namang si kuya Migs, ikaw kaya dito ‘yung natatakot sa dilim!

kuya migs Grabe ka naman! Sinabi ko na kasi sayo noon, minsan may nararamdaman akong... Kikilos siya na para bang susunggaban si LITO.

Nagmamasid...may binabalak kasuluk-sulukan ng dilim!

Susunggaban niya sa LITO at kikilitiin ito. 6

masama...mula

lito

Kuya! Awat na! Sorry na!

Titigil din ito sa pagkiliti. Pero grabe, katakot nga namang isipin ‘yun kuya. Dati pa nga, makaramdam o makarinig lang ng kung ano sa dilim e magtatakbuhan na tayong dalawa. Pero alam mo kuya? Napansin ko na kahit anong mangyari, ‘di tayo maghihiwalay. (beat) Kahit ako ‘yung mas mabilis tumakbo sa ‘ting dalawa. kuya migs

Natatakot ka pa sa lagay mong iyan?

Ngingiti lang sa LITO. lito Alam mo naman ako kuya, takot lang namang sumakit ang tiyan ko. kuya migs

Nako, naaalala ko pa rin ‘yan. Kaya talagang sinikap ko na maghanap ng trabahong magpapakain sa atin. Kahit mahirap mangalakal ng mga boteng ibebenta natin dun sa junkshop sa may kainang Tsino—

lito

‘Yung Le Ching Tea House?

kuya migs

Oo, ‘yung Le Ching Tea House na ‘yun! Sinikap ko talaga yung makaipon ng pambili natin sa pang-araw-araw. Ang takaw mo kasi!

lito

Kasi naman kuya, kailangan ko ‘yun para lumaking malakas—para matulad sa mga superhero. ‘Tsaka alam mo namang nakaseapood dayet ako noon.

kuya migs

Ah...ano ulit ‘yun?

lito

When I see pood, I eat et! (beat)

kuya migs

Alam mo...namimiss ko ‘yun.

lito

Hala, ‘yung pangangalakal po ba? Bakit ho? E mukha ngang may mas maganda ka nang trabaho ngayon. 7

kuya migs

Oo naman. Ang saya-saya kaya noon.

lito

Bakit, kamusta ka ba ngayon kuya?

kuya migs

Eto, may trabaho na nga. Mahirap noong una, pero nailakad ko naman ‘yung pag-aaral ko, tapos ngayon pwede ako magtrabaho kung saan ko gusto magtrabaho.

lito

Oo na kuya, alam ko pong magaling ka kasi maghanap ng paraan. Grabe, ‘grown ap’ ka na talaga!

kuya migs

Hindi naman masyado. Takot pa rin ako sa dilim.

Tutunog ang cellphone niya. lito Sino ‘yan kuya? Anong oras na o. Sasagutin niya ang tawag. kuya migs Ah, hello po? Good evening din po boss. Nandito pa ho ako sa QC, may dinaanan lang. Ah ganun po ba...tuloy pa rin po ‘yung operation natin ngayong gabi? Akala ko po sa susunod pa? (beat) Sige ho...tapusin ko lang ‘yung inaasikaso ko. Sige po, salamat. lito

Parang lagi ka nang may pinagkakaabalahan ngayon kuya.

kuya migs

Ganun talaga, Lito. Hindi madali makarating kung saan ako ngayon. ‘Tsaka kailangan kong makuha ‘yung tiwala ng boss ko.

lito

At kasama na dun ang pagtratrabaho sa ganitong oras? Pati anong operasyon ‘yan kuya...e hindi ka naman ata doktor?

kuya migs

Hindi mo pa maiintindihan.

lito

At kailan ko pa maiintindihan kuya? ‘Tsaka kung minamadali ka, bakit ‘di ka pa umalis?

kuya migs

Gusto lang naman kita makausap. E ngayon lang din naman ako makakasali sa gagawin nila ngayong gabi...

lito

Naku naman si kuya! Baka namimiss mo ako masyado?

Tutunog ulit ang cellphone. kuya migs

Boss? Ngayon na talaga? Ah— pasensiya na ho di pa po kasi kami tapos...Teka, sino po? May inassign na po kayong partner sa ‘kin? (beat) Hello. O, Rodriguez ikaw pala yung inassign sa ‘kin. Sige pupunta na ako maya-maya. Alam mo naman itong si hepe mahilig magmadali...o sige na, sandali lang naman ‘to.

lito

Gagi kuya, seryoso ka ba? Si hepe yung boss mo? Kuya naman. Sa dinami-daming pwedeng pasukin na trabaho, at sa dinami-raming pwedeng pagtrabahuhan na boss, bakit sa kanya pa?

kuya migs

Lito, hindi mo pa maiintindihan—

lito Kuya...hindi ko naman ata talaga maiintindihan. Hindi ko maiintindihan kung bakit mo pinili magtrabaho sa ilalim ng isang katulad niya. Kahit alam mo kung paano siya manira ng buhay ng mga katulad natin. Ang dami mo pang sinasabi kanina... Magtitimpi siya ng pagkabigo. kuya migs

May plano ako! At alam ko ginagawa ko...Pati ‘di ba nga kapag may pinagdesisyunan na ako na gagawin ko...Wala nang magbabago sa isip ko? Alam mo na ‘yun, Lito. At ngayon, kailangan ko munang umalis.

Kikilos si LITO na parang pinipigilan si KUYA MIGS. lito

Kuya...bata ako, hindi bobo. Alam ko kung ano ang gagawin mo ngayon gabi.

kuya migs

Hindi ko gagawin ‘yung ginawa nila sa ‘yo dati.

lito

Hindi mo kasi sila katulad, kuya. 9

kuya migs Lito, kailangan ko siyang pagbayarin sa mga ginawa niya dati, at sa mga gagawin niya pa. Tatapusin ko na ‘to ngayong gabi. lito

At saan ka naman pupunta pagkatapos, kuya? Nagbago ka na nga e, meron ka na pong mainit na pagkain sa hapag at damit sa likod. Hindi ka naman pwedeng bumalik sa pagtulog sa iba’t ibang bangko para ‘di mahuli. Bakit hindi mo na lang po takbuhan ‘tong lugar na ‘to? ‘Yung tao na iyon? Tutal may pera ka na naman...

kuya migs Napakain ko na sarili ko, oo. Pero hindi ko kayang mabuhay nang nakikitang buhay pa siya...at lumilibot kung saan-saan. lito

‘Wag natin silang tularan...‘yun nga po ang pangako natin sa isa’t isa diba? Hindi tayo lalaki katulad ng mga matatandang nagkasala sa ‘tin. (beat) Kung pipiliin mong umalis ngayon...hindi na tayo makakapag-usap ulit. Alam mo na siguro ‘yun kuya.

kuya migs

Sana nakapag-aral ka.

lito

Kuya...may magagawa pa ba tayo tungkol doon?

kuya migs

Sana na lang talaga ‘di na kita sinama...

lito

Ako ang nagpumilit na sumama, kuya. Hindi mo kasalanan ang mga nangyari noon.

kuya migs

Hindi talaga, Lito...hindi ko talaga— (beat) Dapat tumakbo ka na lang.

lito

At ano kuya, para ikaw naman ang madawit sa gulo?

kuya migs

Tangina oo Lito! Dapat ako na lang ang naiwan noon!

lito Kuya! (beat) Makinig ka naman sa akin...alam kong nakita mo ang mga mata nila noon... napagdesisyunan nila na sangkot na tayo sa mga nangyari dati... 10

At ako...napagdesisyunan ko na itawid ka sa kaligtasan. O ‘di ba, para na rin po akong superhero?

kuya migs

Lito...

Tila manghihina si LITO. Tutunog ulit ang cellphone. Mag-aalinlangan si KUYA MIGS, ngunit pipiliin niyang lumayo at hakbangan ang guhit sa sahig. kuya migs

Rodriguez, pasensiya ka na at natatagalan na talaga ako. Huh, ano yun? Anong gagawin ng hepe kapag ‘di ako pupunta ngayon? Puta...sige na. Sandali na lang talaga, aalis na talaga ako.

Babalik siya sa bangko. Matatagpuan niyang nakayuko at nakahawak sa tiyan si MIGUELITO.

Lito...aalis na talaga ako.

lito

‘Wag, kuya...

Maghihingalo si LITO. Hindi siya magsasalita.

Huy, Lito! Ano bang nangyayari sa ‘yo?

Tatanggalin ni KUYA MIGS ang mga kamay na nakahawak sa tiyan ni MIGUELITO. Makikita na duguan na ito.

Miguelito! Ano ‘to...‘Wag mong sabihing—

lito Kuya, alam ko na ang pinili mo. Matagal naman na ring dapat mangyari ito kuya. Alam ko na ring nagbago ka na. kuya migs

Hindi nga masyado ‘di ba? Ito parin ako, Miguelito. Miguelito...patawad...bakit nangyayari ulit ‘to...Lito... T-teka lang...‘wag ka munang aalis...

lito

Ang kulit mo pa rin kuya...hindi mo nga kasalanan ‘to...‘Tsaka ikaw naman ‘yung aalis e...

kuya migs

Kaya ganito na lang? Iiwan mo nanaman ako? (beat) Hindi ka ba natatakot tumawid Miguelito...? 11

lito

Mas...mas natatakot ako para sa ‘yo, kuya...Hindi mo naman sila katulad ‘di ba?

kuya migs Kailangan kong gawin ito Miguelito...hindi naman ‘to para sa akin lang...(beat) Huy...superhero, sagutin mo naman ako... Lalaglag ang katawan ni LITO habang hawak-hawak ng humahagulgol na KUYA MIGS. Lito? Huy...Miguelito! Didilim ang entablado.

arnold manuel rillorta

The poor dragonfly The poor dragonfly flutters through its bleak prison of bright white. Its wings call out “Oh God, I will die here.” Father, do you remember the swell of my thigh or the softness of my cheek or my fractured apology? The hesitant murmur of my damned flesh— you must have felt it, Father. I flutter my wings to your amusement or to your fury, I do not know yet. I am terrified of the afterlife—do you see, Father? My mercurial body flies and flies and flies into whatever light, through every which way. I am trying to acquaint myself with this body of your creation, Father. I am met with empty white walls. They whisper soulless safety and unobtainable covenants and bloody hands. To where does the dragonfly flutter when I have killed it? You ought to know, Father. You have been killing them all my life. 13

angela lanuza

My First Big Party crowns of flowers, woven ribbons morning dew down freshly cut grass where a tent tiptoes to the clouds tables adorned with linen, pancit, lumpia, puto juice boxes near everyone’s lips along with pockets of little laughter Mama told me to put on my best dress white, fluffy, like a polar bear decorated with polka-dots of mud from running around believing I could fly with just one balloon Mama hands me a slice of cake swirls of icing on purple sponge, I spit earthy taste from my mouth Mama takes me to a wooden present shiny, smooth on bitten fingernails. I trace a smiley-face on the glass. I see snow hair frozen rose painted cheeks. I look for his eyes. I listen for his voice so I sing Happy Birthday I clap my hands sprinkle confetti soil and balloons begin to fly Lolo Someday we’ll have another party in the sky 14

angela lanuza

Signal No. 3 the sky unleashes grief unto the earth every drop, a body too heavy to stay in the clouds. candlewax drips in pools on the wooden floors where the price of living is risking distortion beyond recognition. I am overflowing, resilience1 places my bones in my pockets, my lungs left on dry land, my teeth shine like a shipwreck. tonight, three oceans learn the art of drowning in front of an audience.

1 Golez, Ella, and Kelly Ronveaux. “REFUSE TO GLORIFY RESILIENCY, DEMAND ACCOUNTABILITY.” Forum-Dimensions. Facebook, November 20, 2020. https://www. facebook.com/WVSU.Forum.Dimensions/photos/a.489740581073710/358797882124 9855/?type=3

samuel franklin gomez

In Defense of Our Republic Señor Sir, It has lately come to my attention That I have been accused of a most grievous crime That has shaken to the very core The foundations of our sacred Republic. Treason: Yes, sir, that is what has been staining my good name As well as my good conscience Ever since I have arrived here. Treason, for killing a man In the hills of Cabanatuan! How am I the traitor, And not he who has burned our own countrymen’s fields, Whipped our own countrymen’s families, And shot our own countrymen’s soldiers In order to defend, as he says, our most sacred Republic? Our nation is many things, sir, But if she must be defended by barbarians and insurgents, Then it is better that she be blinded for a little while By the light of Liberty that guides her. So do not think, sir, not even for a minute, That this unfortunate incident Is a reflection of our so-called “anarchy and misrule” That plagues our most sacred Republic. At your behest, sir, We have killed the last insurgent And buried the last barbarian on these islands, So that you are only left with A youth or two, Who will burn gloriously for hours

And perish in the blink of an eye. We have no shame doing this, sir, Because our Republic is more than the men of flesh Who have shamelessly bled all over it And it is certainly more Than the man that I have just bled In her defense.

samuel franklin gomez

VIOLENCE “Any person who without taking any direct part in the commission of terrorism, shall incite others to the execution of any of the acts specified in Section 4 hereof by means of speeches, proclamations, writings, emblems, banners or other representations tending to the same end, shall suffer the penalty of imprisonment of twelve (12) years.” — RA 11479 Before I get started, could I please just emphasize to everyone That there is no need for violence, none at all. You there! Do you want to join the NPA? Do you want to be a terrorist? Do you want to go around blowing off the legs of soccer players in the forest? No? Then put that rifle away. Playing soldier is boys’ work—you are a man! You have your letters and your framed diploma, you have your own brain: That’s a lot more than what most people can credit to their name these days. Remember, we are all here today to show these brave and daring media men That the people can have a good time without resorting to violence. Ladies and gentlemen, what is with all this nasty name-calling? I thought we were all here to show everyone our commendable lack of violence! You there! How about you go over there and tell that to the face Of this poor, tired policeman? He sweats blood in the sun, same as you and me, So that you don’t need to cripple someone with the lifeblood of revolution In order to make a perfectly valid point. Don’t feed the trolls! Because remember, dear brother, what these policemen want Is to see us turn assuredly, ruthlessly, shamelessly violent. I must emphasize, brothers and sisters, that there has been absolutely no need For the hooliganism that has been taking place here since the day started. Look at you, dirty, unwashed, stinking—remember your human dignity, at least! Feel that great brown mass of skin that God gave you. Feel it! We might all be poor, but at least we do not have to be filthy. Remember that you will be respected as you respect yourselves! And remember, siblings in Christ, that there is no need for violence.

Do I have to keep on repeating myself? Does anyone even hear me? Oh, we’ll never get anywhere if we keep on going on like this. But please, for anyone who is still there, listening to me: remember! Remember our lack of rifles, remember our peace. Remember that we had no need of bloodshed or tears! And above all, remember Christ! And that He has no need of you

The seat of his bike. That little show-off Noah. Browbeating the wind that attempts to ruin his tide. Just an inch closer, I would have traced the gooseflesh on his skin. Just a glimpse, fleeting, but I had it pictured out in a lifetime. How I would crash into a sycamore, staring at him

Patron saint of desire, if any good man were bestowed That title. But if desire’s reserved for a sinner’s prayer, Then I’m down on my knees, feet crossed, feet tapping Against the marble floor for Noah lunging his body from

Sticking out the handles of his bicycle. Just a glimpse, fleeting, but renewed me still. The fly-away strands of baby hair domino to his Forehead. Under this light, he looked like the

It was only in a glimpse that I caught him, White sando with his arms branching out Of their open holes, knuckles like crescent moons

Noah,

aidan reuel bernales

White rice from banana leaves. He professes his adoration via text An hour before Christmas, and I spill my heart right back. Then he castigates me when I bring it up. His breath stale With the Pilsen he only drinks when his father beats him up.

Noah would listen to symphonic metal music and take his shirt off When it’s hot. Though he knows my eyes play devious tricks, He does it so I’ll watch. Noah and I would bike down rocky roads midnight, with flashlights on our mouths and helmets off. We eat

One night in the cold and grease and grass of the province, he’d slide off my body like sweat after he finishes inside my cupped hand. Beaming candle light and blooming daffodils. “Feed a cold, starve a fever,” he tells me before inserting his tongue inside my caverns again.

Much bigger than mine and we would crawl into his Father’s rented jeepney truck at midnight and he would tell me Stories in his native tongue of which I can barely comprehend. He would rub his pinky on my thigh until I understood what he said.

How he would stop dead his ride, walk over to my bruised kneecap Turning purple in prick and pastime, how he would spit On the ground before kissing me from ankle to neck, Like he was performing a ritual. Noah’s hands would be

And he would cry on my shoulder when things got hard and things got hard Then things got harder. And, sometimes, when he’d fall asleep in the middle of his aching, I’d trace the sockets of his spine and track the measure of his breath. How tender and beautiful the sight of when a man born into chaos stills.

Noah and I lived in cities with no good men, with two-lane highways and Catholic private schools. We would outline our bodies with chalk on the street like we had been discovered dead by early morning street sweepers or joggers, romanticizing the idea of an unconsented passing, then play hopscotch over our invisible corpses like it’s nothing.

With neglect. Flushed with inconsolable regret. Noah reads me Out his poetry and I cry as he says, “Never let your Father know that you love him. He gave you your name in hopes He could wash the sins he made and start over again.”

He’s expensive like aged scotch and when he walks up in shorts with the bruises still fresh on his knees, I lick his troubles clean in a department store fitting room from the ankle going up. Noah’s name was hand-picked straight from the Bible because his father wanted to be a priest until God sent him his only son to flood him

Noah told me that happy children don’t make good poets. He’s a master of his proverbs, more so his province. How I’d watch him like a maiden as he circles the prairie in his boxers, ryegrass poking at his skin. Two knotted-tongues dancing, eyeing the barrel of our gun-like eyes before sundown.

“Noah, I like your name because the flood ended in rainbows. You’re the reason that I pray.” Then we crash into a sycamore, the Shards scintillate, sting my face. The engine immolates and I know, Noah, You’re dead on the driver’s seat but I domino to your shoulder, anyway.

And when he comes to my house crying the day my parents Learn of my ill-omened affair, we burn down my kitchen with his Cigarette lighter and I hop on his father’s truck and we drive until The auroras saturate into sunrise. Riding shotgun, I say,

Did you know that rose-tinted glasses are made of magic? They can turn Blood into rain. These special rain showers which paint our streets For only a few peso bills. Such wonderful art, all these puddles and streaks. Don’t mind the metallic scent; the air fresheners will clear it up in a moment. At least, that is what the newscaster said. He also reported the sleeping curse which has plagued the neighborhood recently. No wonder so many people are resting outside these days.

When the clouds obscure the sky, we can only imagine The starscapes which lie beyond our sight. There are no telescopes or inventions to conquer light pollution So we can thank our local astronomers for telling us That the autumn constellations are in season. Now we can visualize them hanging over our heads, bright and transcendent, Even though it is April.

Weather Forecast: Cloudy

leanne waverly sy

The angels of death are always lurking. Day and night, weapons raised, But don’t worry about them. They only go after the sinners And they bring fog machines to showcase their drawings on the windows. What a beautiful picture of the neighborhood, wouldn’t you say? There are the rainy murals decorating the streets. The neighbors deep in slumber, cozy and safe. The rosebushes with their fragrant scent of petrichor. And the autumn constellations twinkling across the sky on a miraculous April night.

amiana joy saguid

call the vet the world is desperate to heal because if you let time deal with it, humanity will be wiped out with all civilizations perishing after it. patients are deathly sick but they don’t want: (1) to admit the fact that they need to go far just to see their loved ones never, nor (2) to admit in a financial hell that took more miserable lives than what the maths told us—as if you can ever count how much our mentality has crushed; perhaps that lifted the fog of positivity to such extent that it’s only poisonous to gasp. and i’m also desperate to heal, as time isn’t an antiseptic nor an antiparasitic drug to eat after a meal. but if i do get the pills, without permit, isn’t it against the war waged when it was 2016—just a few years ago? it isn’t approved nor to get it is legal. but they gave it for free! i crave it more since it has a unique benefit, one so special that when i take it, i’m reduced to a small animal.

Justine Daquioag. I hope this e-mail finds you well. Digital illustration. 8.3 × 11.7 in.

artist statement for And Yet There is No Blood On The Hands of Pseudologos, Herself. The footless twin of Veritas stands atop her pedestal, holding a sword in one hand, a dubious scale in the other and wearing the thinnest of blindfolds to complete the fiction of the idol, Themis.

Kevin Castro & C Crespo. And Yet There is No Blood On The Hands of Pseudologos, Herself. Hybrid digital photo manipulation and illustration. 3072 × 4608 px.

Mello Jericho M. Malig. Late Night. Digital art. 3000 × 3000 px.

Eric Jabagat. Vulnerabilities (1). Photo manipulation. 8.3 × 11.7 in.

Eric Jabagat. Vulnerabilities (2). Photo manipulation. 8.3 × 11.7 in.

Eric Jabagat. Vulnerabilities (3). Photo manipulation. 8.3 × 11.7 in.

Carl Lorenz Cervantes. How to gaslight the people you love (1). Digital Zine. 1080 × 1080 px.

Carl Lorenz Cervantes. How to gaslight the people you love (2). Digital Zine. 1080 × 1080 px.

Carl Lorenz Cervantes. How to gaslight the people you love (3). Digital Zine. 1080 × 1080 px.

Carl Lorenz Cervantes. How to gaslight the people you love (4). Digital Zine. 1080 × 1080 px.

Carl Lorenz Cervantes. How to gaslight the people you love (5). Digital Zine. 1080 × 1080 px.

jerome agpalza

Jesus Teaching Nicodemus For God so loved the world He gave us His only Son so God Bless Our Trip. Make sure the annals of our estero remember this. To mend this meager meal sewn shut in long esophagus, Tapsilog, 70 pesos, self-service. Like peeling garlic. So hot hot to the touch, my wife, May bebot sa kalendaryo ng kwatro kantos. My wife: seven bags for severed fingers. Equals quieter nights. The rumble and grumble Ng dalawang pusang nagkakalmutan. How lonely must it be to drive trucks— Radyo Singko 92.3. I heard in the morning How this new road is going to usher us in A new society. The promise like lotto, thereby PCSO. Do you notice the line-in codgers Tuwing kakagat na ang dilim at desperado? In this new society: Bawal Tumawid Dito. Nakamamatay. Buy 1 Take 1, and Get 2 if you must. Take 3 if you’re desolate, And your house is on fire. Di kalaunan, Delpan. Tango on my seven. Bawal utang, bukas pwede.

jerome matthew maiquez

takaw-apoy binabalot ang mundo ng isang malalim na lumbay. paunti-unting sumusulong ang isang alon ng lagim. lamang-loob ng impiyerno, karagatan ng gintong itim, siyang hinuhukay, hinihigop ng sandaang tore ng bakal, tone-toneladang minumumog at sinusuka ng Babilonya. nilulunod ang santinakpan ng isang gabing walang bituin. dinungisang hininga ng Diyos, nalalabing laman ng langit, tanging dala ay kamatayang marahan, tahimik, madilim.

hanggang sa may magsindi...

angela cole

Paghapag Oo naman, nais kong mabuhay nang malaya kasama ka, ang magmahal nang walang nakapataw na kundisyon. Ang harapin ang namumulaklak na umaga nang hindi kumakapit sa maso, sa karit sa anti-pasistang baril, ang bumangon nang hindi kuyom ang aking kamao. Oo naman napapagod ako. Gusto kong matulog. Pero makinig ka. Hindi tayo maaaring magpahinga hangga't nabubuhay pa ang mga panginoong maylupa.

jack lorenz acebedo rivera

COVID FLASH SALE (Kalipunan ng Iba't Ibang Listings) BABALA SA NILALAMAN: Maaaring naglalaman ang akdang ito ng mabibigat at sensitibong tema, katulad na lamang ng karahasan, pornograpiya, at pagpapatiwakal.

ON HAND ITEM

REASON FOR SELLING

Gadgets (all types, all brand, cellphones, laptops)

Walang Ayuda

Alahas (all types, all brands, all carats)

Walang Ayuda

Bikes (all types, all brands)

Walang Ayuda

Desserts (leche flan, ube halaya, floating island)

Walang Ayuda

Kakanin

Walang Ayuda

Meat (free delivery)

Walang Ayuda

Gulay at prutas (free delivery)

Walang Ayuda

Wedding Rings

Walang Ayuda

Palanca Medals (5 on hand)

Walang Ayuda

Palanca Hall of Fame Plaque (3 on hand)

Walang Ayuda

FAMAS Trophies (all categories: Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Director…)

Walang Ayuda

National Artists’ Exclusive Heirloom Painting

Walang Ayuda

Child porn

Walang Ayuda

Geriatric porn

Walang Ayuda

Pregnant porn

Walang Ayuda

Self-harm videos

Walang Ayuda

One-night stands (all ages, all genders, all body types)

Walang Ayuda

Customized Fetishes videos (massive dildo, BDSM, feet, veiny hands, fisting)

Walang Ayuda

Personalised Snuff films

Walang Ayuda

Hair (all color, all lengths, all genders)

Walang Ayuda

Nails (all lengths, all genders)

Walang Ayuda

All types of blood including platelets

Walang Ayuda

Body organs (kidney, lungs, liver…)

Walang Ayuda

0-2 year-old babies (5 on hand)

Walang Ayuda

Human Rights (with complete papers)

Walang Ayuda

abner dormiendo

Tungkol sa Voyager Golden Record “God must have been somewhere else or forgot that there was planet Earth.” — Pres. Rodrigo Duterte Matagal nang naghahagis ang mga tao ng boteng may mensahe sa dagat sa iba’t ibang dahilan. Nang tumaob ang barko ni Chunosuke Matsuyama noong 1784, nagpaanod siya ng isang boteng may mensahe, umaasang may darating na saklolo. Mayroong simbahan sa tapat ng aming bahay na napupuno lamang tuwing Linggo. Lumuluhod ang mga bubuyog sa bawat bulaklak hindi para kumuha ng nektar kundi upang makinig sa matamis nilang kumpisal. Litanya ng pagbulong pabalik sa pukyutan. Magtakip ng tainga. Wala kang karapatang malaman ang misteryo nilang dala, bagaman walang pumipigil sa iyo na magtanong: kapag nagdidilig ang lola ko ng orkidyas sa umaga, sino ba talaga ang kinakausap niya? 40 taon na mula nang ipadala ng mga siyentista sa kalawakan ang gintong plakang naglalaman ng mga larawan at awitin ng ating mundo. Hanggang ngayon, wala pa ring tumutugon.

abner dormiendo

Patayo o Pahiga “Stop or leave. If you cannot or will not, you will not survive. You can either leave vertically or horizontally.” — Pres. Rodrigo Duterte Di mo na kayang mabuhay, at di ko na kayang makita kang hindi kinakayang mabuhay, kaya niyaya mo akong tumalon mula sa tuktok ng iyong condominium. At dahil ayaw mo mamerwisyo ng mga tao, nais mong gawin ang pagtalon nang hatinggabi. Kahit papaano, sabi mo, makikita mo ang bituin. At baka, dagdag ko, sabayan ka pa nila sa paglundag. Umaga noon. Tila walang intensyon ang bawat ulap na magpatiwakal, at himala ng himala, hindi sira ang tren. Tiniklop mo ang iyong puting polo at isinalansan ko naman nang maayos ang mga sapatos ko sa sapatusan. Nilinis mo ang banyo’t itinapon ko ang mga tirang pagkain sa pridyider. Nang sumapit ang gabi, kaunti lamang ang ating kinain hindi dahil sa nalula ang kutsara sa lalim ng bituka, kundi dahil takot tayong sumambulat sa kalsada ang kinain natin, at baka may masabi sila sa ating huling hapunan. Biglang umulan. Napuno ng tubig ang bawat alulod at kanal ng lungsod, nagpupumiglas, tila di makalabas, walang patutunguhan. Sabi mo, dalawa lang iyan: kung di aakyat, magpapatianod patungo sa dagat. Kahit anong mangyari. Gusto mo pa ba, tanong ko. Gusto mo pa bang tumalon? Siguro, sabi mo. Kapag hindi tumigil ang ulan.

abner dormiendo

“Cut ng Ties” “Siguro ang mahalaga diyan, is dapat intindihin natin ‘yung word na ‘cut ng ties.’ Sabi niya it’s a possibility that he could, that he might. Hindi ba ‘yun pagkakasabi kanina, ‘might,’ that he might, okay? So let’s try to use our creative imagination, okay? Huwag tayo masyadong literal.” — Ernesto Abella, Ex-Presidential Spokesperson : kung saan dahil ayon sa iyo hindi na ito ang tunay na buhay, ang ilaw ng iyong laptop, ang listahan ng mga kaibigan na hindi mo naman talaga kaibigan, dahil ang alaala’y isang alambreng nagninisnis at hindi mo na alam kung paano umugnay. : kung saan habang nakasabit ang bayani at ang kaniyang kaibigan sa bingit ng isang gumuhong tulay, at dahil hindi natin masasagip ang lahat, dahil dalawa lang ang ating kamay, ang hubog niyang tumutuldok sa talata ng bangin. : kung saan matapos magapos ang isang babaeng dinakip, sa gitna ng gabi habang kinakalag ng liwanag ang anino ng puganteng nabuhol sa sanga ng mga puno. : kung saan bilang biro, may isang lalaking ginupit ang kaniyang kurbata, at maaari kang tumawa, ang hininga mong hinihigkit palabas ng kataga hanggang humina ang puwersa ng isang talinghaga, at paglaon, makaligtaan mo na kung ano ang biro.

: kung saan dahil mahigpit ang laso sa buhok ng babae, ang pusod ng sanggol na nakalubid sa ina, sa tubig, ang milya-milyang kadenang umaangkla sa isang barkong nag-aalangang lumarga. : kung saan anuman ang kuwento, ganito ang takbo, ang lalaking idinidiin ng umaga sa iyong kama, nakakalag na sinturong parang ahas sa baywang ng pinaghunusang pantalon, kung saan alam mong may aalis, at wala nang ibang katapusan.

sola fide ramos

ang unang beses na papahiran ko ng langis ang aking katawan bagama't maaaring hindi ko na ito mabalikan iiwan ko ang aking mga paa para sa pagkakataong maabot ang mga bituin liliparin ko ang himpapawid sa gabing madilim kung kailan lang ako maaaring maging malaya kahit na ba ako'y matuklasan ng buong sambayanan madama lamang ang hangin sa aking mga pakpak kahit na ba ako'y kanilang sugurin dala ang sulo bilang sandata kahit na ba sa mata nila'y ako'y isang halimaw basta ba't matigilan na ang aking pagpapanggap kahit na sinagan ako ng araw maging abo't bumalik sa lupang pinagmulan basta ba't ako'y lumaya basta ba't ako'y nakalipad basta ba't naabot ko ang langit basta ba't masilayan nila ang aking mga pakpak wala akong takot sa dalang kapalaran ng araw at mula ngayon wala na rin akong bibitbiting takot sa sulo ng mga nasa lupa hindi ito ang huling beses na papahiran ko ng langis ang aking katawan iindahin ko ang sakit ng pag-iwan ko sa'king paa dahil wala itong ginawa kundi ikulong ako sa lupa ng mapanghusgang mga mata bulung-bulungan nangangasasumpa

hindi na ko muling matatakot sa’king paglaya dahil bitbit ko sa paglaya ang aking mga pangil taglay ng aking kamay ang kukong nagsasakarit bilad sa kalangitan ang paniking pakpak sa likuran sila naman ang makulong sa takot mula sa halimaw na kanilang binuo pagkat sila naman ang nagdiktang aking wangis ay dapat katakutan kaya nga kahit pag-abuhin ako ng araw ako ang tunay na nakawala sa wakas, himpapawid sa wakas, laya para sa akin ang laya

nicko reginio caluya

Katawan Ko ang Eskaparate at Kalansay ng Aking Nakaraan ang Laman Hiningal ako matapos magtatakbo sa kanilang isipan. Bumigay ang maghapong suot na uniporme: kumawala ang natitirang ikalawang butones hanggang naghunos. Umiiyak ako sa loob ng pawisang kamiseta. Bumaling ako sa sarili kong mga repleksyon sa mga salaming nakapagitan sa akin, at habang tumatanaw palayo kasabay naglalaho sa dilim ang tinig ng tanong: Ano ang tingin ninyo sa dating ako? Lampa? Kumaripas silang lahat, ang bawat sarili kong higit na maliksi sa akin, mga nakahilerang damit, wari saranggolang lumilipad sa maninipis na tela. Subalit hungkag. Sapagkat nilamon ko na ang lahat ng kahihiyan sa anyo ng mga nakaraan kong katawan. Itinago ko sila bago magsitakas sa sisidlan ko ng mga alaalang walang kuwenta.

stanley guevarra

Grade 12 O, KUNG BAKIT NAPANAGINIPAN KONG GINAHASA AKO NG AKING PAMILY BREAKUP • PASKO • KLASE • PASALUBONG • GRADWAITING • 95, 93 • BLACKMAIL • BOOM, CLAP • PISHBALL • NOMI • THESIS • TEATRO • SCHOOL VLOGS • INCIDENT REPORT • CNF • CHAPEL • COMMUTE SA UMAGA • GUIDANCE OFFICE • CHAR CHAR LANG • SURPRISE, NANDITO SI TATAY AT NANAY • HEEEEY BARBARA • YOU HAVE 13 NEW MESSAGES ON MESSENGER • BAG SA KANDUNGAN • KARAYOM • EKIS • PUNAS LUHA • EKIS • EKIS • “BAKIT NAWALA SI CHER” • OVERTHINKING • SI ROLDT • PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE • “NEVER IN OUR SCHOOL” • MICHEL FOUCAULT • BUSINESS PROPOSAL • MILK TEA • A LITTLE LIFE • DEBUT INVITATION • SPOLIARIUM • SELFIE MUNA HABANG UMIIYAK SA GAZEBO • MINGMINGMINGMING • ANTON CHEKHOV • SEARCH HISTORY: SYMPTOMS OF HIV/AIDS • MAY SASABIHIN AKO • TULOG SA JEEP • “I THINK YOU JUST LIKE THE ATTENTION” • SENIORS PRODUCTION: CANCELLED • STATUS: ACCEPTED • RETREAT • SI ROLDT NA NAMAN • ENERGY GAP • #BEACHDAY • #MENTALHEALTH • “GINUSTO MO ‘YAN EH” • PHOTOSHOOT • TIME CAPSULE • WAG NA WAG MONG SASABIHIN (COVER BY SUD) • CONTRACT • WINDOW PERIOD • BANGUNGOT • MYRRHA • KUYA WAG • TALON BUILDING • COMMUTE SA GABI • 214 • NASAAN SI HAPPINESS • RESEARCH CONGRESS • “I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN TRUST YOU ANYMORE” • ALEXA PLAY DEAR JOHN BY TAYLOR SWIFT • DIARY OF A WIMPY KID • HI ROLDT, ESTE, PAPA GOD • CASE DISMISSED • JUSTICE DENIED

ryan gabriel suarez

reply slip Institusyon ng Kapalaran Kagawaran ng mga Moirai Oktubre 31, 20xx Pat A. Ykana 6 Misericordia St., Evergreen Village, Lungsod ng Patay Pasay, NCR Magandang buhay, PAT A. YKANA! Ikinalulungkot naming sa iyo’y sabihin, Masamang balitang dala-dala’y iyong dinggin, Indayog ng buhay, ito’y aming aawitin. Ang iyong buhay, aming hinabi’t itinahi, Sinukat ang haba, sinuri ang pagkayari, Sa dulo ng bahaghari, ginupit ang tali. Winaksi na ng Tadhana ang iyong kandila, Inapula ang apoy nang hinipan ang mitsa, Tanging natira’y multo ng mga alaala. Panahon na para ang buhay mo’y mahatulan, Titingnan ang takbo ng gulong ng kapalaran, Mapa-Elysium, Asphodel, o Tartarus man. Regalo sa ‘yo’y aming pagbati’t palakpakan, Nalagpasan mo na ang hamon sa Kalupaan, Ika’y hinihintay na ng buhay-kamatayan. Nagmamahal, Clotho, itinatahi ang nakaraan, Lachesis, hinahabi ang pangkasalukuyan, At Atropos, itinatakda ang kinabukasan. 56

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------□ Sumasang-ayon ako sa sinabi ng mga Moirai at hinahayaan kong hatulan nila ang aking kapalaran pagkatapos ng aking panahon sa Kalupaan. sa mga tagahabi, ako’y isang mortal na nilalang, binubuo ng kaluluwa’t katawan, nagdurugo’t nasasaktan, nakararamdam at nagdaramdam. sa takbo ng aking buhay, ako’y ginapos at diniktahan ng lipunang mapanghusga, at ako’y ikinulong at hinawla ng tadhanang hindi makatuwiran. bakit pa ba naming mga mortal pinagsisikapan ang kinabukasan kung ito’y itinakda na’t nagmumula pa sa aming pagkasilang? hindi ba lumuluha ang mga bituin nang kanilang nasasaksihan ang aming paghihirap? tila sinadya ng sansinukob na hindi maunawaan naming mga mortal ang takbo ng oras at kapalaran, sapagkat kami’y pinaglalaruan niyo lamang gamit ng mga nagdidiyos-diyosan sa lupa. kayo man ang gugupit ng aming kinabukasan, ang magtatakda ng aming kapalaran, at ang may hawak ng buong kalawakan, pipilitin at pipiliin pa rin naming lumaban. 57

LUBOS NA GUMAGALANG, pat a. ykana HATOL KAY PAT A. YKANA: □ Elysium □ Bukid Asphodel

■ Tartarus

Naaalala mo ba kaming hinikahos dahil ang awa n‘yong namumuno’y kinapos habang sa pagpabango ng sarili’y lubos?

Naaalala ba ninyo ang ating yaman nang umunlad ang ekonomiya ng bayan at sa buong mundo, tayo’y hinahangaan?

kalilimutan sa darating na halalan.

Kung oo’t nais mong muli pang iparanas ika’y di namin

Naaalala mo ba kaming hinagupit ng pagdurusa nang tuligsain ang lupit ng pamumuno ninyong sa baya’y gumipit?

Naaalala ba ninyo ang mapayapa’t disiplinadong másang mapagpaubaya sa pinúnong sa kanila’y namamahala?

Kung oo’t nais ninyong muling maranasan ako’y h‘wag ninyong

Naaalala mo ba kaming pinalayas nang may uwian ang hayop na itinakas ng ina mong puro luho ang nasa utak?

Naaalala ba ninyo ang paraisong nilikha namin noon kung saan ang tao at hayop ay masiglang naghahalubilo?

Maalaala mo kaya ang sumpa ninyo sa amin?

anjanette cayabyab

kung kanilang nilalapastangan ang aming dakilang karapatan— ang simpleng pagkilos ng katawan?

paano naging totoo ang kalayaang konsepto ng mga egotistiko,

playing with the Toys— a family heirloom— skin against wood, strings in my fist.

forebears. I twirled freewill around my fingers during my free time,

first epiphany shed light that I was meant for greater things beyond fate, treading precariously down the path laid by my

ii. me

lumaki akong naniniwalang nakasulat na sa kalawakan ang ating mga kinabukasan.

Unearthed from the clay with a silver spoon and the world beneath me, my

i. ako

ipinanganak nang kulong sa ‘di matakasang gulong ng tadhanang nanghuhukom,

status quo

ryan gabriel suarez

laging mayroong mabibiktima.”

ngunit hindi ipauubaya sa itaas ang pagpapalaya— “at habang ganito ang sistema,

the pawns will remain as marionettes.”

as these are the greater things that I am meant for— “and as royalty reigns,

But these are our cosmic roles, if I may say so. Daresay, there is nothing wrong with the gift of power pulsating through my hands,

mahirap nang maniwalang ang buhay ay nasa kamay ng mga kahoy ang kulay,

every movement, calculated; every snap, controlled; every twist, amusing. Grip tightening on the unbreakable strings, control was a need more than a luxury, with the fear of everything toppling down.

bawat usog, kalkulado; bawat pitik, kontrolado; bawat ikot, tensyonado.

sa higpit ng kanilang pagkapit, kasarinlan ba ay makakamit kapag pinutol na ang sinulid?

samuel franklin gomez

The Stars Are Below Us They had passed through hell already; their bare soles had tread painfully upon the embers from the scorched nipa roofs and the splintered carriage wheels, they had inhaled the fumes from the burnt plantains mingling with the tortured sweetness of rotting flesh, they had slept fitfully by the burnt stumps of the sugarcane husks through the gunshots and the anguished horse cries; they had seen what happened when the Americans waged war. Pedro Alpas wandered hell, and he found that it disappeared within him. His skin had become coated with the same dark soot that clouded the mountains and the sky, his calluses had become senseless to the dryness of the earth, and his nose had stopped wrinkling at the persistent stench of death that tinged his sweat and stuck to his clothes. He rubbed his stomach for the first time in days, and noted how concave, how hard as a rock it had become. The stench until now had stifled what little was left of his appetite. As he thought about his own stomach, he turned to look at his wife’s. She was with child but only for a few months now, and she could still walk for many hours while carrying a heavy sack of rice and dried fish. Pedro saw her feet and saw that they were beginning to be full of sores and lumps, but she did not complain. He was pleased that she did not complain. They both knew that there were far more important things to care about than the sores on some peasant woman’s feet. Luna. She had been born on a full moon, and Pedro thought she looked like one too: her face was round and plain and not much to look at, but radiant all the same. He turned forward again and continued along the dirt path into the sugarcane fields, where they would not be as easily seen. The American lay half-submerged in the shallow field water. His intestines spilled out of his stomach and his frayed navy coat, bloated and frothing with maggots in the afternoon heat. His blonde sideburns were torn from the pits of his sallow cheeks, maggots pouring into the wells in his pale skin. The greying man stared upwards into a sunless sky. Pedro turned back to look at Luna, who was covering her mouth with her hands, about to gag at the smell and back away. But Pedro urged her on with that wordless look that bound a man and his wife, the furtive glint in his eyes that bound them with one blood and one heart. No, woman, look!

The American still had a holster buried in the mud, and Pedro saw a handle protruding from it. Covering his own mouth, he stumbled through the brown water and yanked the revolver from underneath the corpse, causing a wave of maggots to suddenly burst forth. He stumbled again and fell back into the mud. The revolver was rusty and long-barrelled, and Pedro doubted that it would work—until he pulled the trigger, spewing damp gunpowder and powdered rust. He remembered how he had seen the old guardsman clean his revolver, and faintly mirroring his own distant memories, he gently nudged the cylinder open. Three bullets. A galloping came from behind. Luna had never seen a revolutionary scout before, but she knew what they looked like from a patchwork of legends: waves of colorful bandits thundering through villages with bolos and looted rifles, heroes in their purest form. This one just looked like a man with a red-tipped collar and a sabre too long for his height, but Luna did not think that made him any less of a distant hero. He had his horse slow to a trot, and raised one gloved hand to the wayside. “Ho there! What is that by your side?” Pedro and his wife moved aside to show the officer’s stinking remains. “An American, señor,” he weakly noted. “And what is that in your hand?” Pedro slowly held up the revolver, the rusted iron gleaming in the grey fog. The scout leaned closer from his saddle, his eyes betraying some form of scrutiny that Pedro could not understand. “Where are you headed to?” “East, towards the sea.” “And what do you hope to find by the sea?” “Our son, señor.” At this, the scout fell silent, and he finally understood why two peasants were travelling alone through no-man’s land, drowning in mud and triggerhappy Yanquis. “Have you seen him?” the woman suddenly asked. The scout was taken aback. The woman’s grey eyes had lit up, albeit with a tired, time-tested sort of hope. “He has a birthmark on his cheek. It looks like a river.” The scout stayed quiet for a long time, long enough for the couple to realize that he did not know, and it was best for them not to know either. “You will take care now.” The scout rummaged inside his satchel and tossed a small gleaming trinket towards Pedro, who upon inspection found 63

it was a coin of value. “They are shooting every brown-skinned fellow they can find.” Before Pedro could respond, the scout had already spurred his horse and galloped off in the direction from whence they came. He looked forward again towards the plains in the distance, awash in the orange glow of the setting sun. Night fell, and the moon blazed in a sky studded with dying stars. Pedro laid back on the sack of rice he had been carrying earlier, eyes focused upwards. He remembered how his grandmother had once said each star was the light of a vigilant ancestor, all arranging themselves into patterns to guide the future travels of their descendants. He felt Luna’s hair graze his neck, her scent mingling with the bitter breeze. They both wondered which star was guiding their own descendant within the burning wilderness around them. Luna suddenly sat up. “Pedro.” “Hmm?” “The gun.” “What about it?” Then he sat up to look in the same direction, and understood. The three navy-blue uniforms wading in the paddy water in the distance did as well. The revolver trembled in Pedro’s grip. The cries in the distance became louder, and Luna recognized the commands for them to halt in English. Three bullets, three Americans. He could have done something. But they were closing in enough for them to recognize a weapon, and if he fired once, he would have needed to kill all of them. He was no sharpshooter. And so, as Luna looked on with a dejected sort of horror, Pedro threw the revolver into a nearby thicket of burnt cane. Then they both waited, hands meekly raised in surrender, for the Americans to fall upon them. They smelled like pigs, Pedro thought, and acted the part. They were punched, kicked, shoved, slammed with rifle butts, spat on, pinched, all accompanied by a guttural and harsh language not unlike the whinnying of incensed horses. Pedro could only understand one thing emanating from the slew of curses: nigger. As far as he could tell, they used it as a noun, adjective, verb, and conjunction all at once. Then he realized they were now repeating a certain phrase in between the pummeling of fists and gunstocks, which he recognized as a poor form of Spanish: a language he could barely understand any more than they did. “No comprende, no comprende…”

“No compren-dey?” one of them guffawed, spewing garlic breath followed by another riflebutt to his stomach. The question was repeated. One of them pointed at the distant fields where they had come from: the same place where they had found the American’s body. tu—matar—blanco—hombre? The Americans were jovial, but they were tired, and soon Pedro anticipated they would also grow tired of terrorizing two peasants in the middle of a dark field. After many repetitions of the same question, complete with charades of slit throats and stomachs, they made as if to finally leave them and continue on their way. But one of them had the foresight to walk around the area, digging up the occasional stone and clump of soil, eventually pulling the revolver out of a mass of dried cane husks. An angry question was issued, and Pedro did not know how to answer. The Americans fell on them again, but this time there was real rage and venom in their threats, more force behind their punches and pinches and kicks. Someone pulled hoods over both their heads, and Pedro could not help but vomit up a little bit of blood against the black canvas.

* He had technically woken up some time ago, but he did not fully come to his consciousness until the first of the sun’s rays had alighted on the tree he was tied to. He looked around to see Luna bound to an adjacent tree, like him: awake but only half-aware of her surroundings. His throat was beginning to feel shriveled like sandpaper on account of the rag stuffed in his mouth. They were in the middle of a great clearing, with a large, old wooden barn to their side. Surrounding them were dozens of tents: some big, most small, all full of American soldiers that began to emerge as the sun rose. The sun turned their skin a piggish pink and awakened terrible odors from the recesses of their bodies, and it occurred to Pedro that most of these men were once, an ocean away, sons of the land like him. It was to her surprise that Luna learned they did not all look the same. There were some fat Americans, some skinny ones, some yellow-haired ones, some black-haired ones, some younger ones, some older ones, but all of them were glaring at the two peasants tied to the tree with poisonous contempt. The first one to pass by Pedro’s tree took his rifle and slammed its buttstock into his shin, eliciting a muted yelp. His companion laughed, but he did not. As they walked away, Pedro heard them conversing in their strange language. It seemed to be weightier and less cultured than the delicate Castilian he was used to. 65

“Where’d you get the gugus?” “Down west in the cane fields, where they found poor old Scranton with his stomach half-open.” “Goddamn animals. Gutting folk comes second nature to ‘em, don’t it?” Luna suddenly started to shift more in her restraints, and Pedro soon smelled why: breakfast was being served. It was beef stew, and soon the entire camp stank of it, emanating from bowls found all across the camp. Pedro started breathing rapidly, hoping to blot out the fragrant steam from wafting into his nostrils. He heard loud howls and hollering from the other side, and turned to see Luna squirming in her restraints, her gagged mouth desperately trying to lap up the bits of stew one of the soldiers had thrown at her face. “That’s enough. Take them to the brig for questioning.” “But sir—” “I said that’s enough!” The smell of the stew grew stronger as they were cut down, and Pedro struggled to keep from passing out again. There were only two soldiers inside the big barn: a darker-skinned American who spoke fluent Spanish, and a native soldier who served as a translator. They both stood as Pedro and Luna sat cross-legged on the straw floor, hands still tied behind their backs. The dark American was taut, almost bored in his interrogation, something his native translator reflected. The old man’s eyes were grey and tired, glossing over both the captives’ faces as if they were just a couple in the many he had seen once and never seen again. His voice was low and muted. “Where are the insurgents encamped?” “W-what?” Pedro whimpered. The sordid glare of the interrogator made it clear to Pedro that that was not an acceptable response. “W-we aren’t insurgents…” “Do not play games with us,” the interpreter said drily. “You were found wandering the same area an American officer was executed in, you were in unlawful possession of his sidearm, and according to your captors you resisted arrest. What kind of person does that who is not an insurgent?” “W-we only wanted to find our son.” “Your son?” The interpreter relayed this to the dark American. “What is he doing away from you two?” At this, Pedro was about to give an answer, but swallowed it back down when Luna kicked his shin. Blood flowed to his cheeks, and he suddenly realized what a foolish mistake he’d made.

The interpreter was still looking at them expectantly. “You do not want to answer?” For a moment, it seemed as if the other was on the verge of responding with some life-saving excuse, but after a while they both exhaled in quiet dread. “This is very serious,” intoned the interpreter, parroting the drab timbre of the American. “It seems as if you do not want to cooperate.” Pedro opened his mouth to protest but again found no alibi to cloud his own panic. Four men tied the both of them down to a wooden bench, two Americans and two natives. The natives worked quickly, their movements soft and invisible. The Americans were also quiet, but they strung and pulled the ropes with more vigor, the grins on their faces silent yet expectant. A large tank was wheeled into the barn, and jars were passed out. Finally, their jaws were forcefully held open as an American unceremoniously jammed a long bamboo funnel into each of their mouths, their shrieks and pleas for mercy becoming no more than muffled cries. And then the water came. It was easy to bear at first—all you had to do was drink. But the water came down faster than you can drink it, and there came a point where the stomach had been filled up so much that the surface of the water could not help but retreat up to the throat, and when even that had been filled the water pushed and tore and beat itself against the walls of your stomach, your bladder, your lungs, your nose, behind your eyes, so much water there was not even enough space to cry for help when you looked down at your stomach and saw it inflating like a balloon… The funnels were removed and both of them were pushed onto their stomachs. They vomited and shat and pissed so much water, for a moment it looked to them as if they were to drown again on the floor in their own filth. An American pressed hard on Pedro’s stomach and a jet of water flew out his mouth, much to the loud amusement of everyone present. “The next one will kill you,” one native soldier whispered in Luna’s ear. “Where’s the boy?” another called to the men outside. As if on command, a young native soldier with a river birthmark on his cheek entered the barn. The recognition was not instant. The boy did not like to look at the faces of the people he was killing. But as he was pouring the pails he was holding into the tank and refilling the jars, he thought he recognized the voices begging for mercy from under the bamboo funnels. As he looked longer, a pail dropped to the floor. 67

“No…” He had stopped refilling the jars, and everyone turned to look at him. The words slowly came out from his mouth in halting, half-heard Spanish. “Estos…estos son mis padres.” “¿Tus padres?” The Mexican interrogator scratched his head. “¿Qué hacen tus padres aquí?” “Por favor.” The boy shakily clasped his hands in supplication. The Mexican, confused and slightly overwhelmed, ordered the funnels to be taken out of their mouths. All four of the soldiers stepped away from the benches as Elio reached a tentative hand out to his bound mother. “Mama…Papa…” One of the natives whispered something to the Mexican, and after some hesitation, he ordered all of the soldiers out of the barn save one who discreetly remained in the corner. “Elio…” Luna struggled to speak through her watery lungs. “…I told you not to look for me, Mama, didn’t I?” Elio whispered softly as he knelt to caress his mother’s emaciated cheeks. “The farm, there’s…” Luna coughed out even more water, “…there’s nothing left…” “Do they… do they treat you well, my son?” wheezed Pedro from the other side, retching a stream of water and bile that ran down his chest. “Yes, they—” “You are not…a prisoner here?” Luna asked. The question took Elio by surprise, but then he stopped to remember the rifle slung over his back and the bayonet fastened to his belt. “You told us…” Pedro descended yet again into another round of wheezing and coughing. “That you would…join those that fight…for our land…” The soldier in the back tensed and whispered to someone outside, while Elio shook his head and turned to his father. “They give me a good wage, Papa, way more than the revolucionarios. I have saved up enough. We can buy our land b—” “You fool!” Pedro suddenly raised his voice, which proved to be a mistake as a tortured noise emanated from his throat and more blood poured from his mouth. “We…may not have…our land…but we have…our dignity…” “Soldado!” Elio stood and snapped to attention as the barn doors opened once again. The Mexican and the interpreter stood in the open doorway. “Tus armas.” Elio reluctantly unslung his rifle and removed his bayonet from his belt. As the Mexican received them, he passed them to an unseen waiting soldier outside. 68

“Do you still want to cooperate?” the interpreter asked Pedro. “…Did you not see our son?!” Luna spat back with an unusual ferocity. “You still expected your son to be an insurgent, and killed an American officer in your search.” The interpreter struggled to get the words out, knowing they would be his last to them. “You still have not confessed.” With that, he silently slipped out the doorway. More of his countrymen, gone for the day. The Mexican tossed something to Elio, who found it was another jar. He suddenly heard his mother scream his name, and looked up to see the Mexican already by her bench and ramming the funnel once more down Luna’s throat. Before Elio could react, the Mexican drew and aimed his revolver with his free hand. “Vertir.” He gestured to the jar. Elio stood motionless at the order given to him, the jar frozen in his grip. “¡Vertir!” The Mexican cocked the chamber, eyes like daggers. As if every step led closer to his death, Elio gingerly stepped over to the tank and dipped the jar in. He could still hesitate, if he took this easy. He could still have time— Luna screamed as the Mexican pointed the revolver at her temple. Pedro, still weak, started to struggle against his bindings on the other end. With a quiet whimper on the verge of tears, Elio stepped over and began to pour. Luna’s muffled screams went up once more as she began to feel the water pushing at the walls of her lungs, tearing holes so big in her stomach she would never be able to eat again… She closed her eyes and waited for the familiar drowning, dying sensation to resume, but when she opened her eyes again she found that the water flowing down her throat had slowed down to a trickle. She looked up to see Elio roughly grappling with the dark American, trying to force down the revolver that the latter held in his hand. “No! No, you can’t…” “¡¿Qué estás haciendo?!” The Mexican struggled, the barrel of the black Smith & Wesson gleaming in the light of the single lamp in the barn. “Sargento, por favor…” A voice, native, suddenly intruded from outside. “¡Ayúdame aquí, idiota!” The Mexican began to panic as the muzzle of the revolver started ever so slowly turning towards his general direction. The voice spoke up again, shivering panic more evident in its tone. “Sargento, hay insurrectos afuera—” before it was cut down by a bullet through its throat and the whinnying of a dozen war horses in the distance.

In momentary shock, the Mexican’s muscles stopped tensing up for a brief moment—allowing Elio to lower down the revolver’s barrel enough to pull the trigger in between his eyes. Elio stumbled and fell backwards as the Mexican’s body thumped to the ground, just as the screams of war and chaos erupted outside the barn. Elio lay on the dirt floor in shock, his eyes unable to break away from the blood on his hands and splattered on his face. Then he turned and saw that his parents were still bound in their restraints, just as wide-eyed at the candidness of death as he was. He rushed to their side and took out a knife, feeling with every sundering of their restraints the galloping of horses thundering about the earth. Suddenly, he threw himself to the ground as a volley of flying bullets splintered the wooden walls, one of them making an uncanny tink. When Elio looked up, he saw the light and flames of a hanging lamp spilled all over the floor, hungry for fuel. The barn was ablaze. He finished severing the last of Pedro’s bindings and helped the both of them to their feet. Luna stumbled to her knees not long after, retching drops of bile onto the dirt. Pedro realized it as the childbearing sickness appearing again. He looked up again to the doors to see Elio about to cautiously nudge them open, stolen revolver in hand. “Elio, your uniform—” Pedro weakly pointed again to his son’s white shirt and blue slacks. Elio looked down and thought nothing more of it. “We must go—” he called back to them from the open doors before promptly crumpling to the ground, a bullet hitting the back of the barn not long after. Despite the flames picking up behind them, neither Pedro nor Luna could move a muscle. The whites of their son’s eyes emptily stared back at them, as still and as unmoving as the Mexican by his side. “Check that barn, corporal!” someone yelled from outside. They could hear the sound of a horse slowing to a stop and someone dismounting from it. Suddenly, a revolutionary scout burst through the doors, revolver in hand. He stepped over the bodies and pointed it at the couple, then slowly lowered it as the spark of recognition from that faraway field glimmered in both their eyes. “It’s you!” he cried at last. “My son—” Luna’s words choked halfway in her throat. “Your son? He’s here?” The scout stepped over the bodies and looked around. “Do you know where he’s being held? Is he—” “My son!” The wail escaped her fitfully like that of a bloody, mauled animal, as she ran to Elio’s body at the doorway. Pedro stayed where he was, too shocked to move, eyes glazing over as the roaring flames grew ever more ravenous behind him. 70

The scout looked at Luna grieving over Elio, the Mexican’s body, Pedro, and then back to Elio. He quietly pushed away the realization of what he had done when he had shot that shadow emerging from the doors seconds earlier. Death came quickly in his line of work, and he had learned not to fear it. “We must go.” “You killed him.” Luna suddenly looked up, a smoldering rage as hot as the fires around her starting to fester in her eyes. “No, it must have been someone else.” The scout looked around again as the flames began to spread to the ceiling. “You two, we need to go now—” “You killed him!” Luna screamed as the scout grabbed her and began to drag her through the barn doors. “You killed my son, you animals! Let me go! You killed him! You killed my boy! You killed my baby boy!” At the cries of his wife, Pedro’s muscles started to work again, compelling him to stumble outside the doors as the half-eaten ceiling above began to collapse. As he reached the door, he grabbed onto Elio’s cold hands and dragged his limp, bleeding corpse outside with him, leaving a thick trail of blood staining the dust in their wake. When he got outside, he found a half-delirious Luna being held down by several other scouts, the wildness of her rage eventually cooling and collapsing upon itself into a sick, unintelligible wailing: “You killed him—you killed my boy—you killed my baby boy—he did nothing to you—he did nothing to anyone—you have no shame—none among you have shame—none of you have shame for killing a boy—he was just a boy—he was just my baby boy…” In the distance, the sounds of gunshots and the galloping of horses grew fainter as the ambush on the camp turned into a chase through the forest. In the clearing, tents lay as trampled and torn as the corpses of their former inhabitants, white and brown alike. Pedro looked back again at his son’s lifeless body, remembering the days when he was small enough for Luna to hold him in her arms. The river on his cheek was paler and greyer now, the last of his blood still pouring from the hole in his skull. His eyes still lay wide open in postmortem shock, coldly gazing up at his ancestors in the sky.

beatris cabana

The Ouroboros Complex: untangled in three sessions Session One “Why don’t you want to have kids?” What a loaded question that is. But I didn’t cry at my grandmother’s funeral. Let’s start there. Freud’s most famous work is in reference to Oedipus, who fucked his mother. But I would argue in reference to Ouroboros, in the end, we all just fuck each other. She wanted to be called “Nanay.” Other names made her feel old. What an exercise in irony, for she was neither motherly, nor well-aged. Her wrinkled skin clung tightly stretched over brittle bones. Harsh words are compared to a thousand cuts. But her tongue spun a thousand knives. They live underneath my skin. Perhaps you can extract them. Session Two “What do you mean by displacement?” I read about it once, it was coined by Freud too. My father was born with his father’s face, and I later learned that this damned him, in Nanay’s eyes. My father’s face reminded her of he, who’d soiled the marital bed. She could not love them both. My father drew the short stick. And when I was born with my father’s face, 72

it was passed to me, a baton blackened with rage, generationally displaced. Perhaps you can bury it. Session Three “When was the last time you visited her?” It’s been years now, I didn’t want to give her that respect. But they say that grave visitations, benefit the living, not the dead. And I suppose that’s true. Where else can I place, the ugliness she left in me? I do not wish to scatter her fragments, atop the life I have planted. So I will visit her once more, to bury her a second time. Perhaps I can start there.

sola fide ramos

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1 Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. Sea Shepherd Uses Depictions of Tortured Animals to Fight Against Plastic in the Oceans. Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. Mar. 7, 2019. Photograph. https://seashepherd.org/2019/03/07/sea-shepherd-usesdepictions-of-tortured-animals-to-fight-against-plastic-in-the-oceans/. 2 Animal Liberation South Australia. Untitled. Animal Liberation South Australia. Billboard Poster. https://animalliberation.org.au/.

add all of that to your list of sins because you follow none you, without a care for the world living without a care for nature shame on you. you sinned your way through life (let's keep it secret that the devil is the one on the thrones of the earth, shall we?) for all of your sins you deserve hell but god will not put you there because hell came first before all the transgressions (hell is where you live because you were born sinful dirty under a tattered home sunken in mud born cursed, born damned, with life you shall pay) are you going to consider where you're drinking your water from when your tongue is dry from the heat of the eternal embers? (i'm sorry, i mean of the sidewalk, of the gutter, of the cardboard, of the galvanized iron sheets that cover your “home”) yes. you have to. you pay for your life with burnt scars (still has more worth than 537 pesos, am i right?) have you considered baptism? (have you considered being born better?) have you considered god? (you know who i mean) have you considered god? (o̵͐f̸͖͇̐ ̝͋f̑e̵͎̻ ̴̱̋ŗ̙ ̇͗ ̸ ͕ t̷̶͔̂ ͗ h̸̠́͒ ̫̃͘ys̷̢̲̍ ̇ ̵̡̕e̺ ̍l̶̟ ̭ ̴̲̈ ́f̴̨͛̀ ̶̮̕u̩ n ̶͚̍ ̂ ͈ ͋t̷̠ ̶̞͑ỏͅ ͚ ͗ ̸ ȟ̶̙̒̊ ̺ i̵̵ ̦͛m̩ ̴͔̒ for you have no use for this body you leave lying in those streets to dirty the sights of the angels) ͑̇̓ ̐ ̑ ̋ ͑͗ ̈̇ ͝ ͋́̿ ̈ ́̄ ̇ ̀ ́͂ ̊ ͊ ̌ ́ ̑́ ̀ ̆ can we introduce you to our god? (*̷͈ ̜ b̴̮́ ̀ ̥ ͉ą̸̛͙̍ ̋ ̭ ͉̿ ͂ ̕ n̶͔ ͇͝g̻̑ ̏ ̀ ͕ ͘*̷͕͋ ̝̘ )̵̹͂ ̈̿ ͇ ͎̹ ͎ ͉ ͚ ̼ ̬ ̜

mheliza ann therese madrid

Haunted Sometimes I’m scared that they see You In the reflection of the window, shotgun of a car Hands on the wheel, glancing in my direction — Your words slip from my lips and I stutter. They ask me a question and I let out a laugh, nervous and throat dry They blink and You’re gone and I brush my inner wrist You’re gone You’re gone You’re gone Ditched on the side of the road Arms bruised and eyes covered Barely breathing and left behind They notice Your habits It’s a minefield they should be unwilling to tread — I’ve checked the barbed wires, sharp and intrusive But their curiosity outweighs the risk and they ask of You I think of red when I answer: You’re gone You’re gone You’re gone Buried, six feet under the ground Your body laid out to rest Claws wiped clean, dressed in black Hair cut short and ribs wide open They ask where You are, bottles on the table — Skins burning and eyes unfocused, searching You laugh in their face, presence echoing and ringing in my ears Glasses clink, a moment lost forever Taken away I’m right here. You speak, eyes twinkling. Always here. I’m gone I’m gone I’m gone Below the water, lungs filled — Deeper and deeper I sink Your smile, a reflection above the water Hand reaching out and further I go. 76

samuel franklin gomez

Moro-moro My finger, trembling, feels the smooth contours of my shotgun’s trigger guard. It dances on the curves of the black steel, but dares not land. Datu watches from the side with his arms crossed, his stolid dark eyes betraying an unusually vulnerable expectancy. He always says he has never expected much of me: but I know from how his brows furrow this time, how his gaze from the side drills into my neck, that just for this moment he has lifted my title as his own brotherly disappointment. As I take longer to aim, the gun becomes heavier and heavier in my hands, until my hesitation finally forces the barrel down towards the earth. I raise it again, but this time I find it is much harder to steady the iron sights, assume the correct stance, and time my shot with the beating of my heart. The gun shakes a little too much in my grip, or maybe my blood is already flowing too fast in my veins, and when I lower my gun for the second time it never goes back up. I turn to Datu, wordlessly acknowledging my own failure. “Father would be proud,” comes the icy, sarcastic remark after some time. “I am not used to this.” “Should have known better than to trust you with it, then.” I break open the barrels and relieve them of their shells, still cold to the touch. “I shoot painted metal pans, not people.” “Pans won’t be of use if you don’t move on to people later,” Datu spits. “And besides, I don’t really think Kumander Basey counts as a person.” At this I look back again at the disheveled, half-naked guerilla we had just gagged and hogtied to the frayed branches of the balete tree. He looks up at me with eyes as big as dinner plates, his threats and pleas all reduced to whining moans on account of the dirty rag I stuffed into his mouth earlier. On a surface level, it would be hard for Datu to be wrong. Far from the snarling, weeping man we had beaten into submission an hour earlier, Kumander Basey had long resigned himself to the role of whimpering animal, a rodent flinching at the slightest threat of harm. As I ruminate over what kind of thing Basey might have been, Datu has already unsheathed his long hunting knife, striding over to the tree. Lightly at first, and then pressing harder, he runs the blade through the surfaces of Basey’s nose, eyes, and ears, until he finally settles on his throat.

I know what is going to happen now, and I look over to the side—which Datu notices and sharply rebukes with a furtive hiss. “Watch.” I reluctantly acquiesce. You can’t slit throats in one clean movement like they do in the movies. Throats are nasty, tangled things, so full of life such that a single slice can only take away a man’s voice, or his ability to drink or to cough. No, you have to move the blade back and forwards multiple times through the tendons and bone in a motion not unlike brushing your teeth. That way, you can take them away all at once. Muffled screams give way to gargling as the rag stuffed in Basey’s mouth begins to turn dark red. With every thrust of Datu’s knife, an ebb of Basey’s life flows from his eyes into the thick stream of blood now pouring out into the dirt. I focus on the whites of his eyes, which proves to be a mistake. His gaze bores right into mine, reminding me with every choked and muffled curse from his bloodied mouth that Datu is not killing an animal, he is killing a man who has made himself one. Datu watches the guerilla’s body twitch in his restraints, then after a while removes the stained rag from its mouth to wipe his knife with. He turns to me, noticeably pleased with his day’s work. “Get in the truck.” As I wait for Datu to start the engines, I gaze from my window at the sun setting over the gulf, the blue waters of the bay bathing in warm saffron. A lone fisherman had just landed down below the cliff we were on, emptying the scant contents of his net onto a fast-disappearing beach. He disappears beyond the ridge as the pickup lurches into a sudden start. We pass through the thicker parts of the forest, where the sun’s rays can only occasionally penetrate the undergrowth here and there. I put my feet up on the seats beside me and watch the landscape outside change from forest, to plain, to sea, and then back to forest. I roll down a window. The air inside still feels eerily stagnant, the air freshener not quite overpowering the faint stench of the blood yet to be rubbed out of the leather seats. Datu must have felt it too, reaching for the radio dial to fill the cold void left in the wake of our guilt—my guilt. chzzx “—bringing you news about Sanligan, anytime, anywhere—this is DZRX 88.9! A very auspicious evening to you all, my fellow countrymen. This afternoon, another guerilla leader was shot dead in a firefight with police in Vallaverde Subdivisions. Police Sergeant Atienza, the leading officer for the raid, would like to give credit to the late Mayor Tanyag’s previous anti-communist campaign for their department’s efficiency in 78

cracking down on terrorist activity. Peasant groups have claimed that it was a summary execution—” chzzx “—festival will be a great way for our Muslim and indigenous brothers and sisters to get the representation they deserve after decades of suffering under the insurgency. Already thirteen cultural dance troupes from all over the province are gathering in Sanligan to perform in the town square tomorrow. This achievement was in no small part due to our late Mayor Tanyag’s funding of our local commission for cultural minorities—” chzzx “—least some of the Muslims are willing to talk to the government in Manila, air out their differences clearly. These Reds, Mario, even when there are peace talks, they still have the gall to ambush our convoys and our outposts. You know what we saw in our last raid up in the mountains? Sex slaves. Children. Reading those demonic seditious writings, poisoning their brains. The mayor’s eldest, Datu, I know for a fact he can fight. He’s been in the military himself, he knows the kinds of situations we face—” chzzx “—as the lawyer for the late mayor, would like to categorically deny that Mayor Tanyag ordered any extrajudicial killings during his lifetime. Everyone in this town knows that he was an honest and God-fearing man, very different from the communist terrorists that bring much sorrow to the people here. You know these students from Manila going on and on about their ‘human rights,’ they have no idea what happens in the provinces far away. I think the mayor’s youngest son, Nico, studied there. How about they ask—” chzzx “—a hypocrite! That’s what he was, comrades. The whole town says he made friends with the Lumads and the Muslims. Well, how can that be, when yet another Lumad activist was shot dead by his police thugs today? How are they going to blame the communists for setting up shop again, when we’re already part of the ‘Top Ten Exemplary Terrorist-free Towns in Mindanao?’ Sanligan is only safe, my compatriots, for the corrupt Tanyag family and those who dare not oppose them! This is Juan Palad, Crusader for the Downtrodden, bringing you an alternative from the Tanyagcontrolled media—” Datu nearly rips off the radio dial, breathing so heavily that he is either going to suddenly press on the gas or slow to a stop to calm down first, like Mom taught him. Thankfully, he does the latter, slowing near a rocky beach. He grips the steering wheel tightly and shakily at first, then relaxes bit by bit until he sinks back into his seat. 79

“You know he does that all the time, just to get you riled up, right?” I say to him. He does not answer. We both listen to the waves crashing against the rocks for a while. Afterwards, Datu gets the car moving again. As the evening darkens, the breeze becomes more oppressively cold and forceful than welcoming. I roll up the window, the smell of blood slightly reintensifying inside the car. Questions, irreverent and pertinent alike, pick at the back of my brain. Some of them prove more persistent than others. One, patiently waiting, suddenly slips out: “Why was he called Basey anyway?” A pause, as Datu tries to find the patience to speak again. “I dunno.” Another pause, as a snippet of memory starts to surface in his mind. “I think his mother was from there.” As the night ripples across the dark blue of late evening, imagined visions spring up in my mind of the guerilla’s mother, waiting in that unseen town in Samar across the sea. It is well into the evening when we arrive at the house. Our complex is the only light for miles around; the mountains and fields in the distance are shrouded in an ocean of pitch darkness. I remember that many a time Father would suddenly take his rifle and shoot at a moving shadow far into the sea of black, and I would not know what he had hit until I saw a dark puddle staining the shallow paddy water. We are let inside by a guard with a shotgun similar to mine slung over his shoulder. Other guards like him mill around the complex with a motley assortment of assault rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns, eyes all piercing into the ocean of black outside. Warm light, the smell of lechon and a chattering of conversations emanate from within the main house. I discreetly do away with the shotgun; Datu sends for someone to scrub the car seats. We dust off our boots on the marble patio, swatting off mosquitoes and the occasional large moth attracted to the porch lights. It is a ritual we both relish in silence. One of the voices inside proves itself to be louder and shriller than the others; Datu and I are involuntarily subject to a brief anecdote involving an overexcitable puppy and a glass vase. When we enter, we are instantly greeted by a deluge of humanity: “Datu! Nico! We’ve been waiting for you!” The inside of our house smells polished and unfamiliar, the bright lights momentarily blinding. A long queue of plump, bejewelled titas in indigenous-patterned dresses awaits our customary manos and pecks on the cheek, along with answers to their frivolous inquiries into our heights, weights, choices of schooling, favorite foods, and hypothetical girlfriends. Though I barely know half of them, their overbearing presence has always 80

been a strange form of refuge ever since Mom died. I struggle again to match faces to names, until in a flurry of hurried greetings and small-talk, we are informed that the important people on the other side of the door have been waiting for us too. A fat, sweating police chief, asking the maids to bring over more icecold beer. A grizzled retired colonel, his back unable to lean into the sofa he is sitting in. A barkada of Chinese businessmen, cheerfully reminiscing college days gone by. An up-and-coming union leader, preening in his best polo shirt. A slick-haired middle-aged lawyer from Manila, who has brought along his lankier, somewhat less-traveled son. A gaggle of tipsy town councilors, one of them loudly telling some lurid joke. A mustachioed smuggler from Cebu City, his gold chain dangling against the police chief ’s face whom he has put his arm around while explaining with gusto the ins and outs of his latest scheme. And like the sectors of the town that they emulate, these microcosms of Sanligan are not without their differences. The businessmen and the union leader exchange awkward greetings, while the lawyer moves away from the rowdy councilors and whispers an embarrassing rumor to his son. But all of these petty quarrels dissipate before Datu and me. The police chief stumbles to his feet to extend a sweaty palm towards Datu, while one of the councilors quickly regains his composure and rushes towards me, regaling me with the troubles he went to solicit some cultural dance troupe or another for the festival tomorrow. Datu embraces the colonel with the arms he used to choke Basey into unconsciousness before shoving him into the back of the truck, and I shake the lawyer’s hand with the same hand I used to beat the guerilla’s nose into a bloody pulp. And then they greet and embrace each other with the hands they have touched us with, until all of the room has tasted Basey’s blood. We have brought our ghosts home with us, silently haunting the town with the unspoken costs of their unity, the order which we have given to them. At least, that’s how Datu would have said it. A maid calls out from the kitchen, and a tita answers in return. Dinner is a whirlwind of sauces, ginger steam, and burnt tongues. Several guards patrol the darkness outside the terrace we are all seated at, weathering the scent of the food with stoic grace. There is the matter of my family, of course. It is the only reason anyone is there. Father is still spoken of in low tones, occupying in the town’s zeitgeist a murky pedestal between hero, murderer, and god. A councilor expresses his belated condolences. The smuggler says he will send over some more flowers to his memorial during the festival.

Conversation is not easy to strike up across a table this long. At first it is disjointed, as people talk about marriages, business deals, and mild commentary on some national political happenings. Suddenly, Juan Palad’s name is mentioned, to a collective groan. “Oh, that horrible man,” one of the councilors pipes up. “He has no respect for this town. No respect for how anything here works,” the smuggler adds. “He unearths one small-time corruption scheme and he thinks he owns the place!” “He has no shame. Imagine accusing me of assassinating labor leaders. Absolutely preposterous. I can’t even afford new machinery for my business, let alone a hitman!” “Oh, and you know the basketball court which I helped pay for, out of my meager salary as a public servant? He had the gall to call it the Crocodile’s Court!” “He is not good for the economy. Every time our port nets a big shipment, he always says there are a few kilograms missing of this and that, and I think it scares off the investors. Why can’t he just be proud of what our town has done for once?” “Will you do something about him, Datu?” Datu tries to look taken aback as the whole table turns to him. “Uh, well, you know we have freedom of the press, and all…” “Oh, to hell with all that!” the police chief interjects. “There is such a thing as too much freedom, you know? Too much that it becomes unhelpful. Your father knew this well, Datu.” “Didn’t your father file some libel cases against him before he passed?” the colonel suddenly asks. “He has.” Datu nudges a piece of roast beef around his plate. “But they’re still sitting in the courts. I think he’s friends with some of the judges—or he’s paid them off.” Another collective groan, as the table bemoans the corruption and red tape of that nebulous body known as the Philippine government, a conversation millions of households across the country are familiar with. Datu grumbles and grimaces along with them, but this time there is an unspoken, higher expectation that floats in the air, that the grievances of this particular table will amount to much more than just grumbling and groaning. The conversation turns to business, slightly behind schedule. The lawyer asks me what I studied in Manila, I say urban planning. He chuckles and says that I should have pursued target shooting as a career instead, seeing as I’ve won so many medals for it there. “Datu would have probably wanted that,” I laugh, “but not with targets,” I almost say. 82

I vaguely remember excusing myself from a conversation about some documents from the labor secretary, and falling onto my bed upstairs with the details of a two hundred peso salary increase repeating in my mind. I dream of a cliff by the seashore, but the sea and sky are red. The waters are rising higher and higher, and caught amidst its waves I can see bodies. Bodies of the businessmen, of the councilors and the chief and the colonel, all bloated and deformed. The water reaches the clifftop and starts to flood the ridge. Something grabs onto my ankle from the water, and I see Basey’s face with his mangled torn mouth staring up at me. He pulls, and I fall into the deep.

* “Get up.” Datu is tugging on my arm. He is fully dressed and holding a radio. Why he has the radio, why he is fully dressed, I don’t want to know. I rub my eyes, the blinding sunlight flooding my room, about to bury my head in my pillows again. But when Datu turns on the radio, the shivering tones of Juan Palad’s voice crackle out. chzzx “Comrades, this is breaking news. Earlier this morning, guerilla leader Kumander Basey was found tied to a tree by the southern shoreline, his throat cruelly slit by a knife. What’s more, Tanyag sons, Datu and Nico, were found discreetly leaving the area not long after. I didn’t know the little Tanyag did his own hits! Take care who you learn from, Nico, or else you may face the same fate your father—” Datu stops the recording, his expression clearly expecting some sort of response. He only gets a confused shrug in reply. “So? I can just say it’s not true.” “Me, he can threaten with his guerilla friends all he wants. But now he wants to put you in danger.” “We can call our lawyer. We can sue him, like normal people.” I know we can’t, but I don’t care. I start to get up. “Why is it that every time something even remotely approaching a problem happens in this family—” “You know that Father made us promise we’d see to Juan’s death one day.” “Father made us promise a lot of things,” I mumble. Datu grips my arm with a sudden intensity that I rarely see from him. He chooses his words slowly and sincerely, coating them with a thin film of venom that I know has been festering for some time. “You can pretend all you want in Manila, shooting those painted targets as if your hands and eyes weren’t made for aiming at people. But you can’t run forever. Without us, this town goes to the DOGS!” 83

“Yeah, well, maybe it should, the murderers that we are.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, and I brace myself for a beating. The way Datu’s features suddenly contort, he makes sure his next words leave no more room for arguments. “…Get your gun.” We hurtle out onto the dirt track leading to the city in the distance. In half an hour, we disappear inside what passes for our little concrete jungle this side of the island. When we disembark, we have to pass by a throng of people milling towards the town plaza, holding cameras and phones. I look where they are going and see the gaudy costumes of moro-moro actors flurry about the gymnasium stage, boldly declaring through microphones grand, medieval threats in stilted dialects. The proud Moro chief insults the honor of the Christian settler and steel swords are drawn from scabbards, to the excitement of the audience that has been told they are real. My shotgun slung over my back is conspicuous, but none of the jostling tourists passing us by seem to notice it—or at least they pretend not to. We disappear into a maze of alleyways and damp stairwells until we reach a door. We open it, no one is there. We run up the stairs again to another floor in the same building. We open the door reading STUDIO, no one is there. We— “Mr. Tanyag.” Juan Palad puts away a typewritten script and swivels his chair to face us, just as we are about to step back out. He is short, brown, with a thin mustache. He looks at us with thinly veiled contempt. “Most of my workers took the day off early today. They anticipated your arrival.” Without missing a beat, Datu points to me. “Apologize to him.” “What?” “I said, get on your shitty radio channel and apologize to him on live air. Now.” “And what makes you think I’m going to do that?” Datu uncovers the .45 caliber tucked into his jeans, which Juan looks at with the same interest as he would a useless hunk of metal. “You kill me right here and now, you’re only going to prove everyone right.” “We have nothing to prove,” Datu seethes. “He was my brother, Datu. Did you expect me to take his death sitting down?” “And do you expect me to take my father’s the same way?” At this, Juan inhales deeply and leans back in his chair, retreating into some forgotten well of thought. After a while, he speaks slowly and clearly, looking both of us in the eyes. 84

“Basey did not kill your father.” “So who did?” Juan shrugs. “Well, we both know he had a lot of enemies—” “That’s not an answer.” “But you call this justice? Killing whoever your hotheaded brain tells you to?” He swivels in his chair to look at me. “And look at the example you’re setting to your baby brother—” “You shut the fuck up about my brother.” Datu unholsters his .45 and points to Juan’s chest. “Nico, shoot him.” Even though I anticipated this, I am still taken aback. I half-open my mouth as if to dumbly whimper, I thought you were going to be the one to do this— “I said motherfucking shoot!” My mouth still lies semi-open, my finger already on the trigger but refusing to relax even one muscle. Juan stares at me in what I can only assume is blank interest, until he breaks out in a sad smile. A great crash of electronic cymbals emanates from the performance outside, and Juan suddenly kicks the floor, sending his chair rolling. It is a miracle we do not kill him in the few immediate seconds that follow. His chair is now farther away from us, next to an open drawer inside which is a rusting .45, much like Datu’s. His hand hovers over it, his grey eyes becoming blank and unreadable again. I can feel Datu’s unspoken fury melting my back. If it were up to him, both of us would be dead by now. But it is not up to him today, and he knows it. He has promised me a rite of passage, and we will not leave until I have received it. I’m up. I curse myself for the frailness of my first words: “Juan, back away from the drawer.” Juan does no such thing, instead looking at me with a cross between mild interest and what I can only assume is patronizing pity. His hand remains hovering over the gun. Maybe this can still work. I claw inside my mind for words, for promises real and empty, anything. “We can always take you in peacefully. It doesn’t have to be this way.” I have no idea what I’m saying. So long as he and Datu both walk the same earth, there will be no peace. “Don’t make me do this, Juan.” I slowly shuffle ever so closer. Juan does not move an inch. “Please.” I hope to God those aren’t tears forming in my eyes. “I don’t want to be like them.” I look into the tired eyes of this man I have only known through the strained polemics of his voice, and I am met with only grey silence. 85

Then maybe Datu moves his pistol a little too quickly, or my shotgun shakes too much in my shivering hands again, and Juan makes one last lunge for the drawer. We both squeeze our triggers at the same time, and Juan topples over in his thick swivel chair, a final gurgled cry escaping his throat. Papers and gunpowder float in the air, and Juan’s blood begins to stain the grey carpet. Datu’s .45 is lodged in his lungs, but my buckshot has peppered the area around his heart, which is now pumping and pouring blood from a heaving, half-torn chest. He is still alive. Datu is watching me again, but differently this time. He knows I have gone past a tipping point, that now he only needs to usher, not goad me to my destination. I step over to where Juan’s face is, aim at it again, and pull the trigger, red mist spraying my jacket. Even as the bloody cave in his head stares back up at me, I still feel like I am being watched. When we wash up in the dingy bathroom at the back of the studio, I cannot bring myself to look in the mirror. I spit out a chewy, light-colored piece of flesh into the sink, and the possibility enters my mind that it is brain. I purposely avoid meeting Datu’s gaze. When we step back into the sunlight, he points out to me a clot of dried blood still stuck under my lip. And when my fingers can’t seem to find it, he reaches out and flicks it off himself. We pass by the gymnasium again, where the Christian warrior is now engaged in mortal combat with the Moro chief. Their swords sweep and clang back and forth to the blaring of the trumpets and the rhythm of the drums, which are rising and falling with the tension in the air. The Moro tires, the thrusts of his scimitar are becoming wider and less focused. The Christian’s rapier dances on his opponent’s battle dress billowing in the wind, but dares not land.

You love shutting your eyes, noh? Bring your political opinions into your performance. Higher stakes. I don’t see you seeing the people. The people you need to convince. None of you are doing the work. I think you think you are, but you’re not. What are your opinions on these characters? People from the province don’t think like that. Masyado siyang ambisyosa, the way you’re thinking of her. There are moments when I should feel you’re a God, but instead parang takot ka sa kanila. Mga hampaslupa lang sila— you’re a God! You’re being too afraid of being politically incorrect. You don’t give a shit about what any of these people think, remember? You need to learn the anatomy of a joke.

Who is He? I don’t know. And you’re not really telling us. Higher Stakes. Who are you doing this for? Is this really the way you want to depict them? What does drinking water mean to you? Do you want to know? Because none of you are alive. Dead air, dead air, dead air, dead air …dead air. You need to feel alive, otherwise you won’t be worth watching. What’s so special about you? What’s so special about tonight? Nothing and nothing, in that run. Be mindful of de-roleing. Please don’t go crazy. You haven’t even opened.

notes i received in the theatre, out of order

iago b. guballa

Thank you for the time check, but I don’t fucking care what time it is. They need to hear this. It’s okay for actors to have idiosyncrasies, but not at your age. I’m not hearing a 12-year old girl, I’m hearing a very low, very sad—how old are you—boy. Legato, legato. None of you are doing the work. I think you think you are, but you’re not. When I was your age, an ashtray, book, flying at your head by now. For less, even! You’re repeating the same mistakes from day one. No one else is. One day you might be the one embarrassing the children! Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that theatre? Is your character the kind to keep their finger on the trigger of the gun? Or do they think peace can happen here?

Kailangan talagang kuskusin mga ulo niyong dalawa, eh. The way you say ay is Beyond Awkward. When you speak to me, speak Tagalog. Masanay ka nga. Every baket? Should be different and I’m not hearing it. We need to see a bigger shift between your Pinoy and ‘merican selves. That’s the point of the job. Work on your As. Nasasabit ka sa As I’ve noticed. Very Alta. She sat in for a bit and found you all so cute, so sheltered daw. Other student actors, guerrang guerra. You can be your very smart, very you self offstage, but right now we need to see brusco. Watch your wrists. You have to convince us you’re a fisherman. Not even fisherman. Mangingisda. I was convinced you weren’t you. Sometimes I think you don’t know which way ibabaw is.

Feel free to wallow. I think he’s earned it at this point. Pain and levity make a good combination. Make this unlikeable human being do and say these things with full conviction. Remember the rehearsal space is safe, and a sacred space. Sana naman nothing leaves this room. How long have you wanted to say these lines? Higher stakes. Don’t be friendly to your audience. Be urgent. You want their judgment. Project. Nothing’s happening unless we hear you.

Although the rains have stopped areas North of Manila remain flooded Solve inequality as a normal equation Measure, words and words

He took his vorpal blade in hand Armor by TOMORROW! Crayons tomorrow Number the chain Filipino: 4/6, 16.5/20, 5.5/6, 3.5/6, 12/15

Formal coat and tie, long sleeve, tie Daughter of the star Ateneo prom March 13 灰心 Disheartened Need to read stories of Argonauts

My high school notebook

nicholas sy1

1 Assistant Professor, Department of History

“Can you please organize your SW and HW?” All cheese is weightless “Do not mix other subjects with your science. I suggest you use a different notebook (journal) for your daily musings/meanderings.” The enemy is listening All teachers are boring. He is our teacher so he is boring. A silence except for the sound of sweeping

Total internal reflection As the earth spins we spin Making a circle of consciousness and unconsciousness Base always positive

My dad knows me as his little girl, But also a woman, his female protege; His youngest daughter that brings him pride And his only child with my mother, The only child he cannot resist, only sometimes But when he says no, it’s not the way he closes doors on my mother Not the shutting out through banging doors and lies

Our house is built on two-way streets But you can make a pretty sturdy triangle with three that try so hard To know one the way the other never will

My father doesn’t know me the way ma does, He doesn’t map out my behavior and instincts from the moment I wake to the way I sleep My mom knows my every sleeping pattern I have long taken the space in her bed where her husband should be

It’s quite funny, how the only man you can trust won’t break your heart, Is the one who broke your mother’s

Never trust men, only some, and other exceptions

eala julienne p. nolasco

But he minds it when my mother does, When her voice raises higher than his And her furrowed brows dig deeper He wedges bigger between them too, And my sister anger grows inside

My father knows me as his focused, smart, and hardworking child The one who brings him pride The one who steps up one rank above him and he doesn’t mind

Instead I grew with their other child others call “anger” Ungrateful child and ball of viper tongue But I see her very clearly Sitting in this space the lines of our triangle won’t collapse into But are held by

When he tells me no because I ask for something, He tells me why He gives me the words and time my mother needed The words and time my mother also never gave

I wonder if he realized I love him as my father, As he loved me as his child, And regarded me an adult in my own right the way my mother never would But he is the man who broke my mother’s heart, And when I look at my boyfriend I hold the same question in my heart, the same fear, the thumping footsteps whispering Say goodbye

Told me I can ask him for practical advice

When I told my father I have a boyfriend He only smiled Told me it’s a give and take, Told me the boy should respect me Told me he’s happy that I am

But my father, still gives me his softest smiles My mother, to me too, And when she tells me how my own father broke her, I wonder how it is possible to love, be proud of, and resent someone at the same time So I loved my father in my own way And he loved me as his child and a woman to be respected His source of pride, His only child to my mother,

If it takes my heart shattered for fathers to love the mothers of their children Then I lay out my guts open But I know that’s nowhere true And the worst part is, I still do, I still lay my guts open, When this boy— Who will never love and see me the way you do— told me I love you

And I know, He will never love me the way you do, Because I know you will never break this thumping vessel inside But you showed me how exactly he would, And I wonder how you’ll feel when he does, Will you carry the hollow my mother did when you broke hers? Will fathers learn to love the mothers of their own child in the way You never cared for mine?

national nose now; you dare flick the pores and their bodies cannon back to the stars in thousands.

invitation. On the billboard dining table when at last they welcome you with thick plastic faces upon faces, you throw the plates for the last supper. Smile only, don’t speak up, or risk becoming lechon in rotation. How to avoid getting shot: tell them the plate’s of china. Finger on that

Halve the moon if they wish for grandeur beyond this land. Drag the halves back to your balcony and carve them into plates. Tow the plates in procession, brow-strong and servile, and observe how, in captivity, they impale pavement with Salem fire traces. Pocket the jeepney sukli. Pocket the article

Bring the gifts of your soul and nails for trained dogs to bark about on TV. Bring a whole bank, a red debut dress to bathe the halls in Christmas spirit;

When they party it’s as intrusive as the Big Bang; everyone’s invited whether you abide by it or not.

A One-Time, Big-Time Offering To Malacañang

bea racoma

Nothing else echoes after the litany of discarded shields and humid sorrows. O, Mother of Sorrows: blessed be the perpetual drought. Blessed be the corpse skin that fucks our cavities like bubonic rats reclaiming sewer kingdoms. Blessed be the palms that force feed our pockets from our pockets landfilled with more money than there are people on the planet.

Behold: this red-bloomed reception of self-praising bodies, grander than the last drug busts coated in exotic snow and blue guns. Grander than the throng of Manila bay limbs cawing for release. Behold as they centerpiece our mothers, who bellow when guns erect their teeth as tombstones for the most revered of thieves. Your afterhour dessert is this: into their tongues your weeping crackles as rusted doors tasting the bullet dew.

Back to the crowd—this is all you can do alone. Maybe someone will bless the patient, reward the silent. There is a designated spot for each of us after all. No upward travel can be granted to you, lest they strip you into white bird stuck in field of underpriced palay.

Blessed be the thousand-year wailing in echo chambers, prisons, mosquito net bedrooms, dust-engulfed news studios, wailing no mother can grapple from their babe. Blessed be the patient, blessed be the silent, blessed be the lost, blessed be the broken allegory we chant to preserve our exploding souls again and again—

Sarah Huang. Untitled. Digital. 2048 × 2048 px.

C Crespo. All is Fair. Digital illustration. 1080 × 1920 px.

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Rosalaine Pesarit. Tallies to Death. Oil on canvas. 30 × 30 cm.

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artist statement for kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite Approximately one cup of dolomite was taken from the artificial white “sand” beach in Manila Bay. A small dipping saucer was placed upside down in a food bowl in order to need less rice to fill it up. The rice was then topped with dolomite as its main viand, garnished with sliced onion leeks and decorated with carrots (which were carved into flower shapes). On a saucer, dolomite was formed into a square as a simulacrum of a slice of bread. On this bread, a slice of cooked ham and two slices of cheese were stacked. This was then topped off with more dolomite bread. Lastly, a rounded scoop of vanilla ice cream was placed in a chilled, crystal cup and topped off with crushed dolomite. With this series, I intend for the viewer to consider the value of food, taxes, beauty, propaganda and opportunities lost, with the “sand” of the dolomite beach as the catalyst for thought.

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Kevin Castro. kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) rice toppings. Food art. 3906 × 2604 px.

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kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) rice toppings. Food art (detail).

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Kevin Castro. kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) ham and cheese. Food art. 3940 × 2627 px.

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kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) ham and cheese. Food art (detail).

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Kevin Castro. kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) pinipig. Food art. 3984 × 2565 px.

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kahit ano pa man sabihin nila, hindi pa rin nakakain ang dolomite (series) pinipig. Food art (detail).

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artist statement for what have you done Content warning: Sexual violence, pedophilia, grooming what have you done is an embroidered P.E. shirt from St. Theresa’s College, Quezon City. This school was one of the highlighted institutions of the #DOBETTER and #HijaAko movement of 2020. It aims to explore the memory, trauma, language, and sensation of personal and institutionalized sexual violence. This piece is a never-ending cry and question: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

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Anonymous. what have you done (front). Textile. 57 cm × 65 cm.

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Anonymous. what have you done (back). Textile. 57 cm × 65 cm.

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Anonymous. what have you done (inside). Textile. 57 cm × 65 cm.

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what have you done. Textile (front detail).

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what have you done. Textile (front detail closeup).

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what have you done. Textile (inside detail).

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what have you done. Textile (inside detail closeup).

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Jerome Agpalza (3 BFA Creative Writing) Mahilig tumakbo at uminom ng tsaa si Jerome, for peace of mind. Aidan Reuel A. Bernales (1 AB Communication) Aidan Bernales is a 19-year-old Filipino writer from Cebu City. He was the Editor-in-Chief of Ateneo de Cebu’s Molave and is currently studying at Ateneo de Manila University. He is an essayist, poet, lyricist, and scriptwriter who has been published in SunStar, Inquirer, and Vox Populi PH. He has songs on Spotify and a poetry account on Instagram (@poemsbyaids). Ian Bundoc (3 BFA Creative Writing) Ian Carlo Bundoc is a 3rd Year BFA Creative Writing student at the Ateneo de Manila University. He sometimes speaks too much, and sometimes he doesn’t say much at all. Writing allows him to express himself about the things he wants to talk about, and in the right amount at the right time. He wishes he can say more cool things like that and be as cool as the other writers amongst which his own bionotes are currently sandwiched in. Beatris Cabana (3 AB Interdisciplinary Studies) Beatris is currently a college student studying Interdisciplinary Studies at Ateneo de Manila University. She majors in Communication and Management, and minors in Marketing. Although her relatives told her to aspire for a practical, money-making job, her soul has long been sold to the written word, and she yearns for the day she can make a living off of her maladaptive dreams. Nicko Reginio Caluya (BS Computer Science 2013) Kasalukuyang tinatapos ni Nicko R. Caluya ang kaniyang doktorado sa inhenyeriya, sa Nara Institute of Science and Technology sa bansang Hapon. Nagtapos siya ng Batsilyer sa Agham noong 2013 sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila. Sa Ateneo din siya ginantimpalaan ng Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts sa larang ng tula. Inilimbag noong 2020 ang chapbook niya na pinamagatang Nasa Loob ang Kulo, isang koleksyon ng mga haikai mula 2013–2019. Kevin Castro (5 BFA Information Design) Kevin Castro is visual artist whose hands have fully been digested by the gift horse he’s unfortunately chosen to look in the mouth. He intends to take his revenge on this horse, the sender and all their peers and next of kin so that not even history will remember them. He just needs to slay the dragon, and by dragon he means his thesis (and also ADHD). 121

Anjanette Cayabyab (3 BS/M Applied Mathematics, Major in Mathematical Finance) Si Anjanette C. Cayabyab ay isinilang sa Dagupan City, Pangasinan. Nag-aaral siya ng BS/M Applied Mathematics with specialization in Mathematical Finance sa Ateneo de Manila University. Nagsusulat siya ng mga tula at maikling kuwentong pambata sa Filipino at mahilig niya itong basahin sa mga bata ngunit ang unang nakakarinig ng kaniyang mga tula ay si Pula. Moon cactus po iyan. Ad majorem Dei gloriam. Carl Lorenz Cervantes (BS Psychology 2015) Carl Lorenz Cervantes graduated in 2015 with a bachelor’s degree in psychology. He has worked in the entertainment industry as an actor. He has also worked with vulnerable communities, organizing art exhibits and acting workshops. His written work has mostly been self-published in the form of zines, sold in art fairs and distributed around the world. His essays, short stories, and poems have also appeared in literary journals and news outlets. He likes Negronis, psychoanalysis, and the occult. Angela Cole (4 BFA Creative Writing) Naniniwala si Angela na mayroong dalawang uri ng sining—ang sining na nagsisilbi sa mga naghaharing-uri, at ang sining na naglilingkod sa masa. Wala siyang interes sa paglikha ng sining na hindi maglalahad ng panlipunang realidad at katotohanan. Naniniwala siya na ang paglikha ay isang walang kamatayang pakikibaka. C Crespo (2 AB Communication) “There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.” C is an illustrator, focusing mainly on digital illustration. C ate all the other letters in their name. See more of their art @cyllantro | cyllantro.com Justine Daquioag (BFA Information Design 2020) “I always knew the world moves on.” — Mitski, Working for the Knife Justine is a graphic designer by day and an illustrator by night. She waits for the day the party starts again. You may find her as @nanayjeans on Twitter and Instagram.

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Abner Dormiendo (AB Philosophy 2014) Nagsusulat si Abner mula sa kaniyang tahanan sa Antipolo. Mababasa ang iba pa niyang mga akda sa Likhaan, High Chair, Cha, at Heights. Kimiko de Guzman (3 AB Communication) Kimiko is an artist that chases around and courts art like an old lover she regrets not kissing years ago. She’s making up for it now. Art is the most beautiful language that needs no words. She hopes to be fluent in it. Samuel Franklin Gomez (2 AB Economics-Honors) Sam is a sophomore studying economics at the Ateneo de Manila University. He is working on his poetry and is currently compiling a portfolio of his own short stories. He hopes to complete a novel someday as well. Iago B. Guballa (AB Communication 2020, BFA Creative Writing 2021) Living imaginarily under truthful circumstances (i.e. delusional). Stanley Guevarra (3 AB Literature-English) Stanley aspires to write from the heart. He’s still learning. Much of his writing can be found on stanleyguevarra.wordpress.com Sarah Huang (2 BS Psychology) Sarah is a casual illustrator helping their friend’s dream come to life. If you can, visit @backdoor.ph and support local startups. Find them online at @radeeum. Eric Jabagat (3 BS Psychology) Eric Jabagat is a college junior trying his very best. On the rare occasion that he is not busy worrying (yet still not doing anything) about schoolwork, he can be found watching movies. On extremely rare occasions, he reads for leisure. On extremely rarer occasions, he makes collages and random drawings. He relies a lot on inspiration for motivation. Lately, he has been saying that it has been hard to come by. He is trying his best. Adíng Kiko, dps (MA Malikhaing Pagsusulat sa Filipino) MANUNULANG MANGANGATHA si Francis Gallano Delgado sa tunay na búhay. Unang edukasyon niya sa San Sebastian College – Recoletos de Manila at University of Manila. Sa elementarya nang napasali sa UE Little Drama Theatre. Nasa sekondarya si Delgado nang nakapasa sa editorial board eksam

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ng Junior Dawn at sa kolehiyo na nang tinanggap sa UE Chorale. Kabilang si Delgado sa kauna-unahang batch ng student campus minister sa ilalim ng Archdiocese of Manila, at naging editorial staff ng newsletter nito. Pagkatapos ay kumuha siya ng kurso sa batas at kaagad naging editorial staff sa isang law journal. Naging honorary member ng lingguhang pahayagang pangkampus na Dawn, nakapagtapos bilang fellow sa palihan ng Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo (LIRA), at rehistrado bilang awtor/manunulat ng National Book Development Board (NBDB). Lumabas ang kaniyang mangá akdâ sa Dawn, sa literary folio nitong Dimension, MaMag malayang magasin, mangá onlayn kagaya ng Artikulo Ko To!, at Panitikan.Ph, sa mangá aklat ng Dawn Poets Society, Huwag Tularan, Adik Sa Tula Ovo|Zen antolohiya ng mga tula ng mga 2016 Fellows ng LIRA, Philippines Graphic at Ani ng Cultural Center of the Philippines Intertextual Division. Panahon ng pandaigdigang pandemya nang napili ang kaniyang mangá patolohiyang akdâng pampanitikan nang ilathala sa pinakabagong bolyun ng The Reflective Practitioner. Nagpatuloy ang paglimbag ng ilan pa sa kaniyang mangá natatanging patolohiyang tula sa mangá dahon ng Mabaya: Mga Tula ng Galit at Pangamba an anthology about Covid-19 and people living with HIV and AIDS in the Philippines. Disyembre sa taong 2020 nang idineklara ang mangá aprubadong bakuna. Kasunod na kasunod nito ay ang paglathala naman ng NBDB sa Bookwatch Special Online Edition 2020, kung saan ay pinalad na mapasama ang isa pa sa kaniyang patolohiyang tula. Muli, ilalabas ang pinakabago niyang patolohiya sa panulaan sa aklat na Locked Down, Lit Up: An Anthology of Creative Work in a Time of Quarantine. Nakapaglimbag ng higit tatlumpong aklat-pampanitikan, ang kaniyang mangá akdâ, sa Filipino man o sa Ingles, ay ginagamitan niya ng mangá sagisag-panulat. Siya ay isa sa mangá alagad ng panitikang Filipino— tagapagturo, patnugot, tagapagsalin, kritiko, historyador, pilosopo, teorista, iskolar, mananaysay, at mandudula. Bukod dito ay isa din siyang photographer, ilustrador, at rebyuwer. Sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon, nagaral siya ng kursong pagkadalubhasa sa malikhaing pagsusulat sa Ateneo. Nang lumaon, sa University of Oxford. Angela Lanuza (3 BFA Creative Writing) As a child, Angela fashioned novels out of poorly stapled bond paper. Currently, she dreams of building a career in making sense of the real (and projecting her experiences into fictional characters). For more works: https://angelalanuza.carrd.co/#work

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Mheliza Ann Therese Madrid (3 BS Environmental Science) Liz Madrid is an aspiring Environmental Scientist who is as forgetful as she is stubborn. Known for her love of donuts, she’s often seen in the nearest Krispy Kreme outlet, trying to finish any papers due that afternoon. Often seeing the past and the present in a blur, she takes whatever pieces she can grasp and puts them in her writing—reminders for her future self. Jerome Matthew Maiquez (3 BS Environmental Studies) kasalukuyang naliligaw. brrrt, brrrrt, i’m a scooter! i’m a speedy, speedy scooter. ambilis-bilis kong gumalaw. beep beep! tabi, mga lowly pedestrians! mag-ingat kayo! ang pagkakaiba ng kalsada’t bangketa ay isang social construct lamang. huwag niyo kong susubukan. aararuhin ko kayo pag binadtrip niyo ko. (ig: @jeromethepoet) Lawrence Angelo Malasa (AB Development Studies 2015) Si Lawrence Malasa ay isang Policy and Advocacy Officer sa isang nonprofit organization at kasalukuyang kumukuha ng master’s degree sa public administration sa UP-NCPAG. Hangad niyang magbahagi ng mga tula at pagninilay tungkol sa maraming bagay. Naniniwala siya na ang buhay natin ay binubuo ng tagpi-tagping pakikipagtagpo sa ating kapwa at sa mundo. Mello Jericho Malig (4 BS Management in Information Systems) I do drawings, study, and play games. I daydream a lot and sometimes imagine different things, especially late at night. Eala Julienne P. Nolasco (4 AB Interdisciplinary Studies) Eala Julienne Ponce Nolasco is a Senior from the Ateneo de Manila University taking Interdisciplinary Studies, with tracks in Political Science and Psychology, and a minor in Development Management. When she is not writing for The GUIDON, or writing for her internship, she is weaving her reality into spoken word poetry. Outside her journals and word documents, she is a happy cat mom who will never function without coffee. Rosalaine Pesarit (AB English Literature 2019) Rosalaine is a self-learned artist, taking on any medium she could get her hands on. She was the Art Editor for Matanglawin Ateneo SY 2016–17, and she was a fellow for the 8th Heights Ateneo Artist’s Workshop SY 2017–18 for photography. She never did graduate from Ateneo because of a number of mental illnesses and an abusive relationship with her parents that debilitated her ability to keep up with the rigidity of university life. During the pandemic, she reclaimed her love for art by consistently creating almost 125

everyday and using it as a device to sort out her thoughts. Her personal comics feature creatures that stand in for her irrational fears that allow her to confront them and objectively see them for what they are; Liars. As distasteful as her art is, Elaine is grateful that its unapologetic, self-aware, volatile nature has helped her regulate and externalize her erratic thoughts. Bea Racoma (BFA Creative Writing (Playwriting) 2018) Bea Racoma is a Manila-based freelance writer, actress, production manager, and teacher who holds a BFA Creative Writing degree and Theater Arts and Global Politics minors from Ateneo de Manila University. Recently, she has performed for Tanghalang Ateneo in Makbetamaximus (2021) and for Dulaang UP in Nana Rosa (2019–20) and The House of/Ang Tahanan ni Bernarda Alba (2019) and has worked as a Co-Production Manager with Positive Space for its critically acclaimed inaugural production Stop Kiss (2019). During the pandemic, Bea has tried to migrate her multiple crafts to the online world. Her poems have been published in Ilahás and Heights Ateneo. Sola Fide Ramos (3 BS-MS Computer Science) Hindi na tao kundi apoy na lamang. Nauubos pero nagngangalit. Nagwawala’t hindi matatahimik. Nais kong isipin na may iba pa kong ginagawa sa buhay bukod sa Genshin pero parang hindi rin naman ito totoo. Patuloy na nagsusulat dahil patuloy na magmamahal. Patuloy na nagsusulat dahil ang alab para sa lipunan ay hindi mamamatay. #LigtasBalikEskwela #OustDuterteNOW Arnold Manuel Rillorta (4 AB Development Studies) Arnold only began writing again during the pandemic. He is grateful to Jannele, who has always met him and his work with contagious enthusiasm. He thinks his friends are amazing and loves all of them. He is also grateful to a former Heights EIC for telling him years ago that he should fear submitting to Heights when he does, it made him see the idea as something actually feasible. Finally, he is thankful for Irene. Jack Lorenz Acebedo Rivera Si Jack Lorenz Acebedo Rivera, 20, produkto ng LAVS Family pati na rin ng Don Bosco – Tondo, MLQES, MaSci, at Ateneo de Manila University 126

ay nasa larangan na ng sining noong bata pa lamang siya. Siya ay proud member ng PWD, LGBTQIA+, at impoverished and scholar sectors. Nagwagi siya ng Palanca, Unang Gantimpala, noong siya’y 17 years old pa lamang. Siya ang manunulat ng Kuwentong Pambatang “Ang Multo sa Aming Klase” na inilathala ng HEIGHTS Ateneo noong taong 2021. Isa siya sa dalawang natatanging fellow na hindi galing sa Western Visayas sa 18th San Agustin Writers Workshop. Nakamit niya roon ang Leoncio P. Deriada Award for Fiction. Nailathala na rin ang kaniyang gawa sa Philippine Daily Inquirer, Rappler, at sa mga international indie journals katulad ng TERSE. Siya ay isa ring organizer, speaker, at performance artist na nagtanghal na sa mga kompetisyon, Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP), National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA), Rizal Park, PNoise, DLSU at marami pang iba. Siya ngayon ay Magazine Editor at Content Writer ng Kris for Peace Organization. Siya ngayon ay Content Writer din ng Ugat ng Kalusugan. Siya rin ay isang Writing Mentor para sa workshop na kanyang inorganisa sa tulong ng Center for the Prevention and Treatment of Child Sexual Abuse para sa kanilang Blue Umbrella Day Campaign. Itinanghal din siyang kauna-unahang Best Supporting Actor sa CineMulat 2019 ng De La Salle University. Bukas siya sa kolaborasyon at maaari siyang kontakin sa kaniyang Gmail (jack.rivera@obf.ateneo.edu) Amiana Joy Saguid (2 BS Chemistry) Amidst all hopelessness and apparent futility, there’s always a hint of beauty—a drop of order in an ocean of chaos. That is what Amiana attempts to see in every encounter, even if she feels boxed inside her house with the pandemic dragging on longer. Feelings tend to be turbulent in these sour times and so she tries to capture them in a few words turned into perhaps, a poem or three. She likes to intertwine politics with the trivialities of life, as every little movement of a human being can be turned into art, and she deems art as political. And so is the art of poetry—there is a tendency for 127

it to be as transient as a revolution, or be transcendent of generations. Whether she seeks to create something lasting like the sciences she’s studying, or something fleeting like the frustrations she’s dealing with as a student and as a Filipino, remains a mystery. But, writing as an expressive act of deliberately dancing with the pen is (and will always be) a certain part of herself. Ryan Gabriel Suarez (2 AB Development Studies) Nangangarap maging manlilikhang tila isang phoenix. Maubos man, mabubuhay muli. Nicholas Sy (AB History 2010) Nicholas, a.k.a. Hobee, used to think of teaching as an occupational hazard to a research career. Now based in the Netherlands for his doctoral studies, he finds that he misses classroom discussions with his students. Leanne Waverly Sy (2 BFA Creative Writing) Leanne Waverly Sy is a BFA Creative Writing student. Her writing style is focused on imagery and metaphors. Weather Forecast: Cloudy was written with delusions and “beautiful” concepts in mind.

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Pasasalamat Fr. Roberto C. Yap, S.J. at ang Office of the President Dr. Maria Luz C. Vilches at ang Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Dr. Leland Joseph R. Dela Cruz at ang Office of the Associate Dean for Student Formation Dr. Josefina D. Hofileña at ang Office of the Associate Dean for Academic Affairs Dr. Jonathan Chua at ang Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Dr. Priscilla Angela T. Cruz at ang English Department G. Martin V. Villanueva at ang Department of Fine Arts Dr. Gary C. Devilles at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Dr. Allan Alberto N. Derain at ang Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (AILAP) G. Gino Cecilio N. Flores at ang Office of Student Activities Bb. Marie Joy R. Salita at ang Office of the Associate Dean for the Student and Administrative Services Gng. Liberty P. Santos at ang Central Accounting Office G. Regidor B. Macaraig at ang Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes at ang Rizal Library Bb. Carina C. Samaniego at ang University Archives Bb. Ma. Victoria T. Herrera at ang Ateneo Art Gallery Bb. Ma. Mercedes T. Rodrigo at ang Areté Ang MVP Maintenance at ang mga Security Personnel Dr. Vincenz Serrano at ang Kritika Kultura Bb. Tatiana L. Maligro at ang The GUIDON Bb. Dar Cerafica Brazil at ang Matanglawin Ang Sanggunian ng mga Paaralang Loyola ng Ateneo de Manila, at ang Council of Organizations of the Ateneo - Manila At sa lahat ng nagpapanatiling buhay sa panitikan at sining sa komunidad ng Pamantasan ng Ateneo de Manila sa pamamagitan ng patuloy na pagbabahagi ng kanilang mga akda at patuloy na pagsuporta sa mga proyekto ng heights

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Patnugutan Punong Patnugot Stanley Triston Y. Guevarra [ab lit(eng) 2023] Katuwang na Patnugot Ignacio C. Bunag [bs hs 2022] Tagapangasiwang Patnugot para sa mga Panlabas na Gawain Paul Stanlee V. Añonuevo [bs mis 2023] para sa mga Panloob na Gawain Cydney Maegan M. Mangubat [bfa cw 2022] para sa Pananalapi Alexis Nicole N. Ferreras [ab ec 2022] Patnugot sa Sining Andrea Faustine A. Isaac [ab am 2023] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Sining Kimiko Gabrielle R. de Guzman [ab com 2023] Patnugot sa Ingles Alexie Nichole S. Cruz [ab pos 2023] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Ingles Maria Angela D. Lanuza [bfa cw 2023] Patnugot sa Filipino Ryan Gabriel B. Suarez [ab ds 2024] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Filipino Ziona Gilia S. Castro [ab pos 2023] Patnugot sa Disenyo Aitana Therese T. Nellas [bfa id 2022] Katuwang na Patnugot sa Disenyo Justin Dhaniel C. Tan [bfa id 2023] Tagapangasiwa ng Produksyon Melanie Mae D. Silverio [bs me 2022] Katuwang na Tagapangasiwa ng Produksyon Lindsey Therese U. Lim [ab mec 2024] Patnugot ng Heights Online Andrea Mae U. Tibayan [ab com 2022]

Katuwang na Patnugot ng Heights Online Natania Shay S. Du [bfa cw 2024] Gumaganap na Katuwang na Patnugot ng Heights Online Maria Sophia Andrea E. Rosello [ab com 2024] Punong Tagapamagitan at Tagapamagitan sa Ingles Martin V. Villanueva Tagapamagitan sa Sining Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan Tagapamagitan sa Filipino Christian Jil R. Benitez Tagapamagitan sa Disenyo Tanya Lea Francesca M. Mallillin Tagapamagitan sa Produksyon Gino Cecilio N. Flores Tagapamagitan sa Heights Online Regine Miren D. Cabato

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Mga Kasapi Sining

Lucas Sebastian D. Abaya, Mikaela Alexandria M. Alvear, Jude Angelo S. Buendia, Kevin Bryce J. Castro, C C. Crespo, Regina P. Due, Kelsey Danielle B. Escareal, Eric Noel B. Jabagat, Hannah Stephanie G. Jaugan, Rianna Aurora G. Nolido, Ana Lucia D. Pineda, Ryan Joshua F. Reyes, Lars Michaelsen V. Salamante, Rachel Maxine T. Tan, Adrian Lance B. Teng, Nicole Keith T. Tolentino, Justine Clarisse S. Valdez

Ingles

Beatris V. Cabana, Jose Antonio D. Carballo, Dreibee Dorothy Rosedor P. Criste, Angela Nicole A. Divina, John Divinagracia, Ariana Gabrielle S. Domingo, Gayle Denise A. Dy, Sophia Alexis Escarez, Harvey D. Felipe, Lian Laya Leonen-de Vela, Sofia Ysabel C. Nicdao, Rina Julia B. Ortega, Andre Noel Pandan, Pauline Lyra B. Piedad, Andrea G. Posadas, Gianina Minerva C. Respicio, Bea Pauline Salcedo, Sophia Alessandra Co Sy, Adrian Lance B. Teng, James Simeon Tiu, Renee Andrea Villegas

Filipino

Jerome Allen C. Agpalza, Anjanette C. Cayabyab, Princess Angela Cole, Bernardine B. de Belen, Ivan Yuri P. De Leon, Richell Isaiah S. Flores, Vincent A. Halog, Marie Frances Therese M. Joson, Ma. Patricia Regina A. Larga, Alyssa Gewell A. Llorin, Jerome Matthew L. Maiquez, Sola Fide D. Ramos, Maria Jessica Franz L. Sakay, Lars Michaelsen V. Salamante, Marie Faith P. Santos

Disenyo

Karl Eli R. Alconis, Alfonso Arellano, Francisella S. Avila, Justine Christiane B. Bello, Jana Ysabel V. Codera, Carmencita G. Dolina, Patricia Grace R. Fermin, Kayla T. Geraldoy, Sarah Huang, Giulia Clara R. Lopez, Isabella Lozada, Raven Nakpil, Danelle Erin Natividad, Kristine T. Pabua, Franz Miguel Reyes, Marie Jilliene Cloe T. Sison, Divine-kai T. Tan, Mia Genine D. Tupas, Nicole Ann E. Vargas, Dagny Eran M. Yenko

Produksyon

Ashlee Nicole L. Baritugo, Alexandra Maria P. Bringas, Maria Carmela R. Cabanos, Reign Iris M. Centeno, Paolo Gabriel B. Estrella, Mariana D. Gardoce, Angelika Portia L. Lapidario, Christina Bianca C. Mallari, Vaughn Dylan D. Ramos, Rashed Andrei V. Zafra

Heights Online

Betina Victoria M. Aragon, Aidan Reuel A. Bernales, Alexandra V. Catapang, Czarina Kaye S. Dela Cruz, Mariana D. Gardoce, Margarita Eliana D. Guevarra, Jylianne Therese Carmela M. Macazo, Deanne F. Sy, Riana Patricia V. Tumale, Ines Sabina C. Verzosa, Simone Andrea L. Yatco

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Ateneo Heights Workshop ateneo heights art and literature workshop (12th ateneo heights artists workshop & 27th ateneo heights writers workshop)

february 26-27, 2022 Online Video Conference

Panelists Rob Cham [digital art] Gianne Encarnacion [digital illustration] Christine Lao [poetry] Christian Benitez [tula] Glenn Diaz [nonfiction] Fellows Kyla Nicole Villegas [digital art] Justin Dhaniel Tan [digital illustration] Arnold Manuel Rillorta [poetry] Ivan Yuri De Leon [tula] Zoe Arianna Andin [nonfiction] Workshop Director Ignacio Bunag Workshop Co-Directors Patricia Grace Fermin Mikaela Alexandria Alvear Jose Antonio Carballo Renee Andrea Villegas Workshop Guest Lecturers Karl Castro Dominic Sy

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Workshop Committee [design] Kelsey Danielle Escareal, Carmencita Dolina, Divine-kai Tan [programs] Sola Fide Ramos, C Crespo [logistics and documentation] Deanne Sy, Regina Due, Alexie Nichole Cruz, Vaughn Dylan Ramos, Eric Noel Jabagat, Simone Andrea Yatco, Gayle Denise Dy Finance Alexis Nicole Ferreras Online Andrea Tibayan Sophia Rosello Head Moderator Martin V. Villanueva

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