Youngblood (Literary Folio of The SEEDS Publication-JHS) by JHS SEEDS Publication SHS-AdC Student Publication

youngblood: |’jʌŋ,blʊd| noun 1 any person with potentials untapped seeking to realize them

to the fullest dreamer, artist, human 3 a being becoming 4 the undisputed hope of this world [optional] 5 the person holding this 2

YOUNGBLOOD Volume I | Issue No. 1 | February 2020 Note: “Youngblood”—one could argue—is a term coined by blending the adjective young and the noun blood, a process literally and metaphorically illustrating the birth of a new line of individuals: ones who are filled with hopes, ideals, and potentials. Youngblood is the theme of the first literary folio published by The SEEDS Publication, Junior High School Department of Sacred Heart SchoolAteneo de Cebu. The works compiled here are contributed by Ateneo Hearters—students and members of the said institution, as well as those who have been part of the publication for the past two years. SEEDS reserves the right to edit and publish the outputs with permission from the respective authors. For more information, you may contact us through:

a E-mail : a Facebook : a Address :

jhsseeds@shs-adc.edu.ph https://www.fb.com/shsadcjhsseeds H. Abellana St., Canduman, Mandaue City, Cebu, Philippines 6014

Roma Jane A. Hechanova, MA | Consulting Editor & Layout Artist Shana Raine L. Burgos Kellyn Claire C. Lim Nathan Cole A. Retardo | Literary Editors Maria Nynia C. Lumbay | Cover Chantal Therese P. Ramos | Theme Disclaimer: Please note that the contents of this anthology are works of fiction. Characters, events, and the like that resemble actual people and experiences are either coincidental or pure products of the author’s mind. 4

INTO THE YOUNGBLOODS’ MINDS [TABLE OF CONTENTS]

8-9 10 11

INTRODUCTION TO YOUNGBLOOD NOTE FROM THE LITERARY EDITOR NOTE FROM THE CONSULTING EDITOR

BTFL / Nathan Cole A. Retardo

VIEUX COUPLE / Stella Mariz S. Villacampa

Photograph / Lexie Louise A. Chan

FORGIVE MY STEMS, THEY’RE NOT TOO STRONG / Ea Ffion C. Wing

18-19

SUNFLOWER / Venise Alexandria B. Taboada

A STORMY YOUTH / Jon Michael Pasana

VANITY / Sophia Nicole N. Nacua

HE WEEPS LIKE A CHILD / Venise Alexandria B. Taboada

EX NIHILO / Andrea Kate L. Bantug

24 25

THE ARMY’S PAINTER: GARBAGE COLLECTION /Sean Ikaia J. Alviso Art / Atreus Jonn T. Chang

Art / Marga Francesca M. Foronda

SEASON / Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

28 29

CAPABLE / Rojo Julian M. Galvan Art / Jasmine Natalie S. Go

BATTLES / Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

/ Roma Jane A. Hechanova

Photograph / Darren James T. Maglasang

ILAW / Francine Marie Dane N. Gaviola

34-35

THE STUDENT’S APPROACH | THE TEACHER’S RESPONSE / Nicholas Francisco G. Amor

PRELUDE TO MARIONETTES / Andrea Kate L. Bantug

YOUTH, ALAS! / Christian Anthony T. Ang

PIECE OF PI / Angelina M. Bernadez

40-43

HEY, AMBISYOSO / by Adrianne Therese P. Tolentino & Johanna Therese C. Ehido Art /Ma. Alyssa R. Cabaluna

44-45

OF CONSTANTS AND VARIABLES / Shana Raine L. Burgos

46-47

(DIS)CONNECTION / Tyler D. Deitchmeister

48-49

1- -1 / Jasmine Natalie S. Go

UNIVERSE REVOLVES AROUND HER / Angelina M. Bernadez

HUE-MAN / Kellyn Claire C. Lim

52-53

MAKINANG SIRA-SIRA / Carlo G. Gonzaga

A MIND-NUMBING POEM / Talitha Millicent N. Chua

PIECES / Kellyn Claire C. Lim

56-57

SIRANG PAKPAK / Satsuki I. Baring

UNTITLED ART / Tyler D. Deitchmeister

ALIMPUYO / Roma Jane A. Hechanova

60-63

MARUQUAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S QUEST / Jaienne Braveree F. Suralta

Art / Summer Thea B. Menchavez

PAGPIKIT / Louis Arvin C. Gio

Art / Dominic Craig L. Carpio

UNTITLED ART / Kristine Anne J. Subaan

THE WORKER / Sophia Nicole N. Nacua

FULL CIRCLE / Seungjae Yoo

Photograph / Darren James T. Maglasang

AFLOAT / Camila Kim N. Lopez

A SCHOOL OF FISH / Kyla Monique A. Esterioso

REBEL WITH A CAUSE / Marianne G. Suezo

FLY ME TO THE MOON / Angelina M. Bernadez

THE WALL BETWEEN THEM / Ea Ffion C. Wing

SILENCE / Nathan Cole A. Retardo

UNTITLED ART / Julia Brooks M. Lao

LANA / Roma Jane A. Hechanova

ADSUM / Venise Alexandria B. Taboada

Photograph / Darren James T. Maglasang

WIKANG WALA / Darlene Jean Ranoco

DAY IN AND DAY OUT / Tristan Lasola

GLASS / Nicholas Francisco G. Amor

FACEBOOK / Shana Raine L. Burgos Art / Tyler D. Deitchmeister

SUNSHINE / Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

PURPOSE / Ea Ffion C. Wing

TINY BUT MIGHTY / Dominic Craig L. Carpio

89 90

TO THE NEST [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS] THE SEEDS EDITORIAL BOARD a

beginning with the tail-end: an introduction to youngblood

othing.

Nothing begins the journey on a parchment road, nothing walks, nothing runs, nothing just stands. A perfect still-life, a blank scape. Nothing begins to be… Something.

Something starts the journey on a paper plane. Something drives it, leading the way to spread its wings and soar high diving into the deep vastness of the bright empty sky. Something flies by it, spreading its feathers as something soars into the sky. Something begins to be a... Bird.

The bird starts the journey through folding its wings, tucking them at the sides and shaping them into small cylinders of life. The bird begins to give warmth to its small nest, cradling itself in the vibrancy of the night. It begins to crack, to move and to rattle until it rolls off its nest from the high tree. The egg begins to be the… Fox.

The fox remembers where it came from, a simple shell that rolled out of the nest. However, it is ashamed of how it came to live, and thus, runs away from its past. The fox learns to hunt, to climb, and to slide around its papery land. Finally, the fox learns to jump higher than any creature. The fox turns into the... Tiger.

The tiger lands on all fours, pouncing towards its prey. Such green eyes turn brighter and brighter as it roams without any trace. The tiger hungers, but has much to learn- patience, courage and faith. It remembers who it was before, and decides to run back to where it began. The tiger sprints forth and turns into a… Cheetah.

The cheetah gathers the wind beneath and above itself, running and running—gunning for the prize. A prize it wanted, a prize it hunted. The cheetah begins to sprint for the vision of who it was before. A spirit who ran 8

through confidence from knowing who it was, the past and present beginning to lift itself up higher and higher—up there the cheetah takes flight and becomes an.... Eagle.

The eagle spreads its wings and soars on the endless sky. Through clouds it bolts, and aloud it shouts victory. After being far away from home, it finally conquers the fear of its past, and accepts who it was. Now, it carries the wind to those who seek the path to become better versions of themselves. The eagle begins to descend, humbly it bows to the sky and returns to its nest. It folds its wings and the grand eagle transforms into an… Egg.

The egg—blind, minute, and fragile cannot see the world it used to live in. It cannot see the color of the sky, the wonders of the forest and the sea, the grandeur of the parched pavement that surrounds it. The egg begins to move; it begins to grow, to kick, to roll until it falls once more. The egg breaks free from its pale prison and there comes… Man.

The man looks up the sky, the world that promised him wonders — wonders he has already once seen. He rises from the ink that formed him, the ink that runs in his veins, the ink that fuels his mind, the ink that has led him to this very day. Youth fuels his mind and his every way. His steps are every first strike of a pen, every stroke of a pencil, every crumpled draft, every perfect masterpiece, and every click of a camera. He roams the world where nothing begins to be filled, page by page. Man begins to grow. He begins to be… The voice that was once silenced, the eyes that once saw nothing, the ears which heard only the echoes of the past, the nose that smelled only loneliness, the touch that only felt emptiness. Now, he stands tall, paving the land where nothing was born. He inks the path and leads others through it. The river he has shaped is a map withink us all. From this day, a story is born— that of the...

Youngblood. a - Kellyn Claire C. Lim & Nathan Cole A. Retardo 9

the

Birth

he next time you hear an elder ask, “What happened to your generation?”, tell them:

“We were born with hearts of white. “We were born with hearts of white that are easily stained by the colors of the hearts around us. Hearts of white that we wish could be as easily repaired as these are broken by the blotted inked tattoos of the words that stereotype us. Hearts of blank canvas that could be ripped, rebuilt, smashed, and changed over and over again from glass to wood to bricks to the pieces left that make up the unrecognizable hearts that we have today.

“We were born with lips wide open. “We were born with lips wide open to take our first breath and scream loudly to the world to announce our arrival lest we be the only ones to celebrate it. Lips that are now sewn with invisible threads every time we force them open, reminding us of our place in the age-hierarchy pyramid—the bottom. These very same lips which were once sealed also used to touch another’s heart, reach another’s mind, and connect with another’s feelings.

“We were born baptized with blood. “We were born and baptized with blood, the garring shade of red that symbolizes death but also birth. The blood of the new life, mixed with his mother’s, as he’s borne into a world where opportunities for his future are defined by the amount of money he has and the status of those that bore him. We were born on fabrics soaked with blood, an inevitable rite of passage to enter the paradise of sinners.

“We were born, and [we] changed. “Circumstance keeps pouring her paint on our hearts. Insecurity over the thoughts of not being enough compels us to play puzzle pieces of whatever material we have left in order to shape our hearts—a reason for humanity. The feeling of being compared is something we’ve grown accustomed to that we’re too numb to feel, the lot of us choosing to either stay up most nights proving them wrong but some succumbing to the sweet taste of giving up. “So, for once, by hearts bedraggled and lips shut tight, silence yourself and let the youngblood write.” a

- Shana Raine L. Burgos 10

the

Baptism

assivity. PIronically, this uneventful word has bred something that

actively occupies many: mediocrity. It, however, does not necessarily equate to inaction. The latter at least requires contemplation and leads to a decision even if it means not acting upon the dilemma (see Hamlet). Passivity, on the other hand, is simply the acceptance of the current state even though one is aware that it needs radical changing. It is not mere indifference, but the total surrendering of existence, the rejection of the “I am”.

Most people nowadays are comfortable in their ignorance. Lack of courage is normal. Resourcefulness is a word that has lost its functional meaning. ‘Struggle’ is an action word done only by patriots. Believing in oneself is a hackneyed phrase locked up in treasure boxes that were lost during the wars. The glory this generation celebrates is but a washedout bloodstain compared to the indelible red that was shed from too much toil out of love for freedom from relatively aeons ago. ‘Progress is a comfortable disease...’ ...and the afflicted ones have let it metastasize, rendering them incapacitated. In fact, it is the New Black Death that kills one and their potentials to achieve, to be, and to become. People adore comfort but it is the singular thing humans should never have the privilege of feeling unless one believes stagnation is equivalent to satisfaction. The only few people who succeed in declaring the ‘I am’ are those who are bothered. Bothered by incompetence. Bothered by complacency. Bothered by the silence of truths and noise of untruths. Bothered by the extinction of heroes and miracles. Bothered by the decaying of books, the degradation of educational systems, the heavy traffic due to poor urban planning, the drastic changes in seasons, the proliferation of triviality, the dismissing of metaphors, the condemnation of the intelligent, the irreverence of the profound, the forgetting of the Divine and the ‘I’ that resides within. Conflict — and not comfort — is the literal driving force. It is what sparks the fires of change that purge and purify one; it is what first inspires the battles for individuation. The greatest revolution there is, is the one that happens within — and conflict, is its catalyst. When cultivated properly, its flames will bring about the flux: the continuous change that flows, that transforms...until we are stripped of everything but the essence of the individual, the ‘I’. You, youngblood, in seeking and reanimating the ‘I’, let yourself be baptized with fire. a

- Roma Jane A. Hechanova, MA

‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ |

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1601)

btfl

Nathan Cole A. Retardo

tht s y ys th bty ny vn f yr mprft ll lv y fr wh y r

Art by Stella Mariz S. Villacampa

Vieux Couple

Photo by Lexie Louise A. Chan

forgive my stems, they’re not too strong Ea Ffion C. Wing

i haven’t been doing too well lately been pushed down by it all the storm, the heat, the crushing fate i’m trying to grow, but i’m not doing so great rain pours hard on my little leaves so much to hold, still alive, barely i get so sad and i’m so flooded please understand i’m still young blooded there’s a drought coming through i feel i am dry no feelings going through only asking, wondering, “why?” i am truly just a mess of a sapling i feel so small in this world so wide so please understand that i am still growing but please be patient, i’ll be better in time.

Sunflower

Venise Alexandria B. Taboada

er scars are sunflowers, they follow the sun. And the sun sheds light on them.

It’s the aftermath. She’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed, shoulders back. She’s laughing. And every time she laughs it’s correction tape on blotted, black ink. Every time she laughs, she forgets. But her scars are sunflowers, and they follow the sun. He’s bright and angry. He walks to her. She stops laughing. They stare one moment, and then he blinks, and when she looks at his eyes, all she can see is a reflection of herself. “Let’s talk.” She doesn’t say no. She can never say no. Her shoulders sigh, her legs unfurl from beneath her, and she stands. He turns and walks. She follows—a sinner walking to the gallows. When they find a place to sit, he asks her why. She smiles, solemn, broken. “My scars are sunflowers,” she says, “they follow the sun.” They stand. They stare. Then they part ways. As he walks to the east, she walks to the west, and the farther they get she feels something inside of her die. Foolishly, she thinks, “The sun has set. These scars have nothing left to follow.” She tells herself to grow, and she does. Like a garden full of flowers. All kinds of flowers. Roses, irises, plumerias…sunflowers. They cross paths again, one day. Of course they do. When she looks into his eyes she feels the familiar pull. Her mind says, stay. Her heart screams, revolve. She doesn’t say no. They stand still. They acknowledge each other. They acknowledge the time that has gone by. She’s apprehensive. Scared. Torn. He’s unreadable—she is blinded by the 18

light. Silent greetings pass. She feels resurrected. She feels crucified. Her scars are sunflowers, and they follow the sun. “I’m tired,” he says. “Of this.” “This,” she repeats. She understands. It was inevitable. But her scars bristle, they burn her skin. A reminder. She still has a debt to pay. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you.” But it’s worthless. He has seen it all. His light diminishes, growing smaller and smaller. And then it’s gone. It’s like he walked away. She smiles, bitter. No, he did not walk away. He did not do anything. She merely released her hold and fell. Her scars are sunflowers, they follow the sun. And when the sun is gone, they wither away. a

A Stormy Youth Jon Michael Pasana

It’s a beautiful day outside. Kids are running down the street Their ragged bodies mingling in the heat And voices stronger than anyone else’s there But through the clouds there’s always a storm It’s coming faster than any could imagine And so they run back into their houses Adults huddling up and holding their spouses On days like these, kids like them Would rather run back out and pretend it never happened But it just can’t be that way anymore ’cause the storms are back and they’re stronger than ever before It’s a beautiful day outside Blood is running down the street Kids’ ragged bodies falling to the beat And voices weaker than anyone else’s there

Art by Andrea Kate L. Bantug

Vanity

Sophia Nicole N. Nacua

If a pretty face was makeup, You’d apply it on your face If charm was perfume, You’d spritz in every place If compliments were earrings, You’d pierce your ears If beauty was pain, You’d resist the tears What’s the purpose for this vanity? No need, my dear dame For if loving yourself was an outfit You’d definitely look the same 21

he weeps like a child Venise Alexandria B. Tabaoda

[based off of kylo ren, that jerk a testament to wasted potential, mostly] slaughterer, they call him, that little child as he stands glorified, his weapon alight and beneath his sneer hides his masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s smile ignorance has always been a parentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s might a flash of blue to parry green, and raging on, an inferno in his wake a child whose fright could so be seen and so be used to seal his fate the slaughterer kneels, obedient with nothing of his own his heart with dread, his strength all spent he reaps all he has sown he weeps, this slaughterer, like a child, after all he has been shown and when he stands to face the world, he finds heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all alone.

ex nihilo

Andrea Kate L. Bantug

they say feelings never know when to find consummation which tramples all of mankind every deduction leads to another distortion of reality which contradicts my sense of morality sometimes, i would think of the air as quiet but when the wind blows, i could hear soft whispers the north wind enters my lungs, seizing it oftentimes, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d hear screams of silence; yawns of dauntless dreamers trapped and guarded, there was nowhere to hide my flaws painting the scene of the crime in solitary confinement, there i was to ponder over things that couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been; thus pursuing ambitions which never solidified would have me gathering all but a drive to succeed an endless chase mocking me like a child ergo: allowing dissipation is what i would heed 23

The Army’s Painter: Garbage Collection Sean Ikaia J. Alviso

Art by Atreus Jonn T. Chang

“What do you do with that?” “Bag it.” “How about this one, it still looks… okay?” “Put it with the others.” “What if it’s torn like this?” “Leave it.” “Sorry for asking so many questions. I’m new here.”

“It’s okay. It’s rare to find new people take this job; it’s even rarer for them to be like this in the beginning.” “Like what?” “You’re unfazed. Most would pause on account of the smell and filth alone at first.” “I don’t think it’s that bad; plus we have masks and gloves for those.” “Ha-ha, indeed. Anyway, welcome to the ‘dump’.” “Oh yes, thank you. I look forward to working with you, but why call it that?” “I call all the heaps like this that.” “It may be a pile of filth, but I don’t think it’s garbage. In fact, I find it a little beautiful.” “I see why they sent you here now.” “What’s wrong with a little bit of appreciation?” “Nothing, I was just surprised at first; you seemed sane. In hindsight no one sent here would volunteer if they were, or they’re too young and filled with fooling inexperience and propaganda.” “How about you, then? You don’t exactly seem to be in your prime, and you act like you are sane.” “I am, or maybe I still think I am.” “Why are you here, then?” “I’m here to gaze at my own work trying to take a glimpse at the pit of hell where I’ll be going to after this.” “Judging from your work here, I think you’re good at what you do.” “If you call painting this scene with the blood of the young, while people like me and your grandfather reap the benefits as good, then indeed, I am quite the painter.” “Who are you?” “I am merely an over-sized cog taking out the trash,” he said as his badge was hidden. a 25

Season

She will fall like the leaves do In autumn And society will strip her, Leaving her bare and shivering From the winds of winter, But she will not wither, She will sprout again Like the crops do in spring And in summer she will find the strength To grow again

Art by Marga Francesca M. Foronda

Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

Capable

Rojo Julian M. Galvan

I always thought of myself as weak Pathetic, insolent, meek An eaglet in a nest of eagles Everyone else is great, everyone else is regal Opinions of mine would go disdained Whilst my comrades are eternally famed I am a shadow surrounded by gorgeous lights A peasant amongst an army of noble knights This lonely fate, I won’t concede This conclusion shan’t persist till I bleed I pledge to everyone and I pledge to me Indolence in me, shall never be seen Always ignored, always forgotten That I can accomplish more than when I was begotten I have the chance to make myself found To never be hidden, never buried, never drowned I am not inept, I shan’t be incapable As young as I am, I can show the world I am capable

Art by Jasmine Natalie S. Go

Battles

Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

I could show you all the stories, Etched on my pale skin Waiting to be read and understood by someone Whose name is inked across my heart. I could show you all the battles That have been fought violently inside my mind Against pride and prejudice That inflicted wounds so deep but hopefully They shall be healed by the medicine of time. I could show you all the mysteries from the darkest crevices of my mind Which may or may not be easy to decipher, but maybe one day, you may know That all the false faces that I keep arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the ones I own. 30

Roma Jane A. Hechanova

(for ALP)

space is what gives this heaviness

weight

Photograph by Darren James T. Maglasang

‘Nasaan na ang kabataang naglaan ng kanilang magagandang sandali, mga pangarap at kasiglahan na ikabubuti ng kanilang bayan? ‘Nasaan ang kabataang magbubuwis ng buhay upang hugasan ang gayon karaming kahihiyan, ang gayon karaming krimen, ang gayon karaming bagay na nakamumuhi? ‘Malinis at walang bahid dungis kailangang maging buhay na alay upang ang handog ay maging karapat-dapat! ‘Saan kayo nangaroroon, kabataang nagtataglay ng lakas ng buhay, na tumakas na sa aming mga ugat? ‘Hinihintay namin kayo, kabataan!’ |

JOSE PROTACIO RIZAL MERCADO Y ALONSO REALONDA (1891)

Ilaw

Francine Marie Dane N. Gaviola

Mga kamay koâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nangangapkap sa harap, Naglalakad ako parang isang bulag; Wala akong nakikita kahit saanman. Bakit ka ba nandito, o kadiliman? Mga halakhak ay umabot sa aking tenga; Ako ay kanilang pinagtatawanan na! Gusto ko nang umiyak at sumuko Pero kakapit lang ako hanggang dulo. Ang pangarap, nanatili sa puso; Katiyagaan, nahahalo sa dugo; Determinasyon, nagbabaga sa mata; Hinding-hindi nila ako mapatumba! Sa sandaling mahanap ko ang minimithing ilaw, Itoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y magbibigay liwanag sa taong nooy naligaw. Mga pagsubok ay aking malalampasan At ang tamang daan ay siyang matatanaw. Bahagi nga ako ng mga kabataan, Kaunti pa lang ang aking mga karanasan, Subalit may magagawa ako sa kasalukuyan Para sa aking pangarap na nais kong makamtan.

Two Poems

by Nicholas Francisco G. Amor

The Studentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Approach Miss, mister, madam, some inquiry may I To remorse or relief, I dare try Question the pandemonium that is the card of fate And as to what fate of my belonging may it bring as of late For the eager tiger of curiosity claws at me, awaiting its answer Despite its unwillingness to accept anything but fancier Than favourable odds and rolls of die by my hand Without acknowledging any effort, flavorful or bland And so these values be of much value to me, even More than silver, gold, or the Fruit of Eden Could you give me the answer I want, oh educator of mine, And let calm stillness come to my mind Oh miss, mister, madam, tell me please And let me rest my case with ease

The Teacher’s Approach Youthful blood, rest your case Drop your papers and know your place Do not be quick to concerning stance When concern shouldn’t be the first concern at first glance Effort to be recognized, bold and hopefully true Free from disguised thoughts and hidden mildew Allow yourself to be further criticized for good And alleviate yourself of this sour-afternoon-like mood Heed none to the tiger, for of a fool’s is his sight There is more to education than numbers in black and white More than the myriad of possible grades attained I implore you to realize the true fruits you shall gain Oh youthful blood, can’t you bare to realize That knowledge will prevail above it all, as time flies

Innocent parchment Called by the wind to flee far Pierced on a thorned rose

Prelude to Marionettes Andrea Kate L. Bantug

oh, how i do wonder how every shining supersedes every treacherous act committed bringing forth layers of self protection outer covering shrouding huddling over that vast enigma—! yes... that’s right, motives towering over the helpless and poor sheep they come lurking at night, hovering over the fields destroying every last bit of humanity left all of which were finished off as the bee prances so as it hunts for more prey a new set of dolls i gave them names, adorned them with dresses that seemed to have changed them for the better as i peered into the looking glass i yearned for more and more until they all became mine with a single shimmer from the dimes of the wishing well all heads turned facing me “aha! caught you! you’re all mine!” it was never for my herd to decide whether they were to be owned they have always been slaves though now belonging to the unknown with nowhere to go but gold and silver picking them up one by one

Youth, Alas!

Christian Anthony T. Ang

Time is of the essence Youth still runs in our blood Take time to enjoy all the things you want Before its taken away in a flood Time is of the essence Cheers and smiles fill up our faces Brighten others’ days if you must Before adulthood comes in a blaze Time is of the essence Our bodies filled with athletic energy Play, play, all day long Before we take jobs and live our lives in misery Time is of the essence Our dependence won’t last very long One day we’ll be out of our houses Before we could even say, “We’re not prepared. They were wrong.” Youth is a pleasure Meeting lots of acquaintances Building relationships and having experiences Hoping one day, you’ll meet them again Youth is a pleasure What stupidity and instinct do Rushing forward, making decisions on a whim Loving these consequences, playing out so true Youth is a pleasure Personal struggles make fine memories To look back to, experiences to learn from and improve on Gaining step stones for future victories Youth was a pleasure Youth was what was in our blood Youth had its time Now, adulthood must make its prime.

Piece of Pi |

Art by Angelina M. Bernadez 39

“Hey, Ambisyoso”

Adrianne Therese P. Tolentino & Johanna Therese C. Ehido

“Hey Ambisyoso! Mata na!” And after a million years, Junjun finally wakes up on the rotten cardboard box that Nanay got when she just started selling balloons outside the Basilica. Those were the good times. Well, those WERE the good times. “Kuya , I’m hungry! Tapsilog, tapsilog!” Junjun groggily bellowed. “Sus, Jun. It’s still 5, and we have to feed our birds. Even Phil’s barking outside.” I said, as the barking of our askal, Phil, gets louder. Jun and I have resorted to selling birds near Gaisano since our parents left us. “Get ready so we can finally eat! Pagdali!” I said with annoyance. After getting ready, JunJun and I finally leave our makeshift house. It’s early in Colon, but the jeepneys have started honking. Junjun and I are acquainted with these sounds, we’ve gotten used to the noise and surroundings here. “Kuya, hurry up! I wanna eat at Silogan ni Jordan already!” Junjun said. “Shut it, Jun! You’re the one who woke up late!” I bickered. I’ve gotten used to this routine already. Junjun and I would always argue while walking to Silogan ni Jordan. After our 15-minute walk, we finally arrive in our favorite carenderia. “Manong Jordan!” we said in unison. “Your daily meal is always ready, mga anak! Tapsilog for Junjun, longsilog for Dodoy.” Since our parents left, Manong Jordan has always provided food for us. As we sat down to eat, Junjun starts blabbering about his stupid pipe dream for the millionth time. “Kuya, I want to be so rich, people would fear me. I want them to gasp when they hear the name Junjun Francisco, then we wouldn’t have to sell any birds here!” His words could go on forever as I rolled my eyes and pretended I didn’t hear anything. As we finished our breakfast, we said our farewells to Manong Jordan. “Bye Manong, thanks for today!” As we left the carenderia, a car sped out. It was a bright red sportscar. The person inside this vehicle seemed like a prominent and rich man. Junjun was awestruck as he watched the car pass by. “Kuya Dodoy, if he can make it, so can I.” My little brother muttered as I 40

couldn’t help but be pitiful towards him. Junjun and I walked long enough, and we found ourselves on the street in front of Gaisano; finally, we could feed our birds. As we fed the birds, I couldn’t help but wonder about our parents. Were they safe? Were they better without us? My thoughts were interrupted as our first customer of the day asked about our merchandise. So began our daily routine of selling birds and watching the jeepneys and people pass by. “Langgam, langgam! 100 ra!” both of us said as pedestrians passed. It was almost 7 p.m. as we were about to tuck the cages and go home. “Kuya Dodoy, want to get tempura and quek-quek on our way out?” Jun queried. “That’ll be enough to make me full.” I replied with a sigh. With our money in hand, we walked to the stall to get our dinner. We carried our food as we headed to our cardboard home for the night. Before I said a word, Junjun is already lying down on the floor. I couldn’t help but snicker at my annoying brother; as always, he makes me do the rest of the work. As Junjun fell fast asleep, I got our things ready for tomorrow. I was putting the money we’ve made into a small Stik-O container when in the corner of my eye, I spot them. “Nanay? Tatay? What are you doing here?” “You don’t understand. It isn’t safe anymore,” Tatay Rene said. “Is this how you greet me after two years?” I furiously said. “Langga, you’ve grown!” Nanay Beth said as she cupped my cheeks. “Stop it! You know I don’t forgive you. How could you abandon us like this? Did you not have us in mind? We’ve suffered so much since you left and you’re pretending this never happened at all?” I retorted. “Anak, we did this for your own good. You don’t understand....” Nanay said. “Why should I listen to some drug dealers! You were never there for us! Go away! I don’t want to see you ever again!” I said without hesitation. “They’ll come for you, then us! Watch out,” Tatay said with an accusing tone as they walked away. What a way to end this day. I walked back to where Junjun was sleeping and realized all we have left is each other. It’s the start of a new day. I wake Junjun up again. “Hey, ambisyoso!” I said. “I’m awake!” Junjun said. We do our same routine and we end up selling 41

our birds again. Today seemed normal but something was different. Junjun wouldn’t stop blabbering about his dream. He talked about it ever since we left Silogan ni Jordan. As we were sitting on the sidewalk, Jujun saw the same red sports car from yesterday and this made him even more talkative. “Kuya, I think I wanna be a businessman like that man. I want to go all around the world. I want to buy all the food I want. I want all the sports cars...I want to be so rich I’ll never worry about being hungry...” “Enough! How stupid can you be?” “I was just saying my dream...” Jun said. “How long will it take you to realize that it will never happen? How do you expect someone like you to succeed? You don’t have any education. Plus, you’re a lazy bum. We can barely even survive. Our life in Colon is fine—don’t you like hearing the honks of the jeepneys? The sounds we’ve grown used to? We can’t even survive with our parents selling drugs! This is the real world, Jun. You’re just some street kid from Colon, you’d never succeed.” I said in a fit of rage. “Nanay and Tatay sell drugs?” Junjun put his hands on his mouth it looked like he was about to cry. “Took you long enough. I’ll go get more bird food. Don’t follow me, ambisyoso.” As I was scooping some bird food, I heard a gunshot not long from where I stood. I turned around and a few men crowded the cardboard home of Jun and I. This can’t be happening. I ran and I ran until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore, and I looked up to see the red sportscar with the rich man my little brother would always tell me about, and his men were holding guns. “He’s down, we need to find his parents.” He uttered and left. My eyes watered endlessly seeing Jun laying down filled with blood. “JUNJUN! WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU!” I couldn’t help but cry out for my fallen brother; he was innocent. All he ever wanted to be was just like the man who shot him. ----42

It’s been four years since my brother died. Four years since that tragic incident. Four years since I had no family left. Nanay and Tatay died a few days after Jun did, and I was left to strive on my own. Life had never been easy. I had to make my own living, find some work, and most importantly, live out Junjun’s dream of becoming a rich businessman. I may have called it a pipe dream at first, but somehow, I can feel him cheering me on as if he were here. Someday I’ll show him that I’m making his dream come true.

Art by Ma. Alyssa R. Cabaluna

I miss bickering with him. I miss going to Silogan ni Jordan with him. I miss looking at the new cool designs of jeepneys. I miss selling birds with him. I miss Junjun, and I may never get to see him again, but he’s still with me in my heart. Every morning when I wake up, I no longer see my little brother still sleeping, but I would always remember that innocent smile on his face as I would say “Hey, ambisyoso.” a

of constants and variables. Shana Raine L. Burgos

it’s the night before the competition and i’m a mess of emotions— quite like the solutions on my scratch paper. “it’s looking pretty much like a negative slope from here,” congruent to my confidence. to my will. my life. me. before, it took a while to understand that life was just more than ink on my hand— no, it was the sin-cos-tan and amplitudes greater or equal to one. But never less. Never, ever Less. /* see— before, I used to think life were linear equations you can calculate in a blink But then came quadratics then cubics, quartics, quintics... well, you get the idea. life is pretty complex— an undefinable point in parallel universes. */ my equations used to be— to put simply— pretty easy. but then they come along introduce y = mx + b and y = ax^2 + bx + c with variables and coefficients and degrees and constants. they were— are smarter. better. than me. 44

So I ran. I ran the infinite road that they, too, were running. Running for something. Up and down the slopes and curves life was throwing. And those years, I’ve only seen Their backs, ahead by 2 feet. and then three. and fifteen. But I ran, until I can run no more. Letting people pass by Me. We’re currently on a break, Prep for another run. they’re both worried— I can see. But I believe they don’t need to be. they prayed, I whispered silently, “Go, you’re both the constants of the team.” There’s the sound of the gun, They’re on position And everyone runs. I run too, But I slowly fall back. And when everyone’s ahead, I slowly stop. Switched to the intersecting road, And prepared for a new run. a new lesson. Whilst wishing them luck. /*functions don’t function unless there’re constants and variables. but the fates of variables— you see we can be substituted, quite easily and there’ll be more to come after me. I just hope the road i’m in Will intersect theirs again one day. And I hope if it does, they’ll still know me, my name.*/

(Dis)Connection |

Art by Tyler D. Deitchmeister

1- - 1

Jasmine Natalie S. Go

et’s take a look at each other—where we are now. Is this what you planned? Is this what you wanted? We’ll stare, your soul trying to reach out into the depths of whatever is left of mine, looking for an answer that isn’t there. You and I, and the string we call fate falling in between us, labelling ourselves as soulmates. Soulmates, not lovers. Fate brought us together, but we cannot dare to even call this love. You say I am the half that completes your whole, but is that all it takes? We leave this up to chance to claim that what we have between us comes from our hearts—but does it, really? Does it not come from our brains— what we expect, how we treat one another, and how we benefit from one another? Sentiment cannot rule over who we choose to spend our lives with. Love, you throw the word around so carelessly. It’s given away by the heart you chose to wear on your sleeve. It’s love, you claim, so when I ask you why the others you have labelled as such never lasted, can you give me an answer? Can you give me such reassurance? “This.” You reply, gesturing to the string that bridges the gap between you and I. “This?” And the words I leave unsaid settle into the atmosphere. This red string we have never even seen before can suddenly change and decide who we choose to love. You were willing to drop everything you once knew for this? Does love not take time to plant, to care for, and to blossom? Does fate act as the fertilizer to speed up the process? Are we, mere strangers, meant to believe that we are to fall in love and live the rest of our lives together? You’ve balanced it all on this string but I won’t. You call this love, but this is nothing but fate. I want to fall in love. I want to live out my own definition of it. I want to be able to gaze after someone and have the earth shatter around me at the revelation that they are the most beautiful thing to exist in my life. If the heart is what I should follow, then I would like to follow my own. I’d like to love a person and know deep down that I care about them because they seem to be the moon, the sun, the stars and the universe rolled into one. I know fully well that love is not a choice—it is of my own volition that I choose to call it such. Yet you still stare at me, like your whole life had built up to this moment. 48

I call you “love” just this once, but at this point we both know the truth. Love, how naïve you are that you chose to brand yourself as something you are not. No, you know who you are—because love is anything but naïve. I raise my finger and the string dances in the breeze; it still connects me to you. I tug it gently and the red fiber falls into the wind like dust. You and I, we were never really bound together. Our souls are souls together, that’s why it’s called soulmates just as how classmates are people who have class together. You could say we share a soul, but in truth, we share the fact that we have souls. This is where it comes to. Fate only shows us the cards set before us, but love makes us want to play the game. We are free to decide for ourselves. That is why we were given strings that we could cut if we ever needed to. In another life, maybe we could have been and maybe we can just stay as friends in this one. Now, you are free because I know you loved someone before you dropped everything for me. “And what of you?” You ask. “I’ve already found what I needed to and so have you.” You still tried to stare into the wells of my soul, but the answer is not for you to know. This is where we part ways. It did not go as you planned, this was not what you wanted but you shall leave here free, going back to what you already had. We are soulmates, not lovers. We did not have to be. This, it may not have been love—but it could be something else. You were merely Fate and you’ve already drawn the lines to what you were looking for. So go back to it, and never give up on it because you’ve found the love I never will. Let’s have a look at each other, one last time, on grounds we wish we could call love. You leave deciding your own fate and I, I leave here to face the reality I have come to accept. a

Universe revolves around her |

Angelina M. Bernadez

hue-man

Kellyn Claire C. Lim

Monsters breed monsters We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always rise from cocoons We come out like how people do And we talk like people too You see, monsters arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always monsters They can have two feet, a pair of eyes, and ears to hear A face, so familiar like me and you But why do we point fingers And the paint on their backs linger A permanent mark, forever a stain Forever walking the Earth as a monster A monster, lonely in the rain Monsters would always be monsters We live in a world resistant to change Where every condition hindered by men People who wished to preserve that day Nature is nature, so they say Where monsters are merely painting colors Colors of dung, clay, and blood on their face Teeth made of alabaster tusks, trying to grin through the pain Are what defined monsters today Monsters arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always insane Monsters can be so mundane They have two hands giving They have a heart beating- talking They have a mind ticking They are waiting for you to let them stay

Makinang Sira-sira Carlo G. Gonzaga

Nang una kong minulat ang aking mga mata, Ako ay nagulat sa aking nakita. Bakal na kamay, makintab na paa May smoke-smoke effect pa akong binubuga

Ako’y unang nagsaya at naglibut-libot Ngunit biglang nangilabot. Muntik na akong makalimot Na ako pala’y isang makinang bagong kinulikot.

Sa una,ako’y hinangaan. Sa iba,ako’y tinuring na huwaran Halos lahat ng aking galaw ay perpekto. Kahit ang mumunting mga gawain ay kalkulado.

Ang mga gumawa sa akin ay madaling nawili. Sino naman ang hindi? Halos wala pa ngang pagkakamali Maganda rin daw ang pag-uugali.

Ngunit habang tumatagal ang panahon, Unti-unti akong umabot sa aking limitasyon. Biglaan nalang dumami ang utos na itinapon Sa punto na nahihirapan na akong tumugon.

Ako ay palaging nagigipi. Sa mga expektasyon, ako’y iniipit. Ako pa rin ay inaasahang maging perpekto Kahit punong-puno na ang aking ulo.

Sinubukan kong magreklamo. Ngunit mga mura lang ang aking natamo. Isa lang pala talaga akong makina. Ano pa nga ang aking magagawa

Mula noon, ginawa ko ang lahat. Para ipakita sa kanila na ako pa rin a karapat-dapat. Walang pahinga, palaging dilat ang mga mata. Ako’y unti-unti nang nasisira.

Ayoko ko na, tama na Ito ang sinabi ko sa kanila Ako nama’y kanilang pinahinga Upang panatilihing ako’y hindi mawala.

Ngunit huli na ang lahat Ako’y tuluyang nasira na Sinira ng mismong mga taong sa akin ay humanga Oo nga pala, ako’y isang makina…

Bakit nga ba sila mangangamba?

A Mind-Numbing Poem Talitha Millicent N. Chua

In life, a thought’s provoked Gives off a sensation— One that’s relieving, reviving. Sometimes, it gives hope Those other rare times No one wants to remember Leave an abyss darker than pitch And a feeling that will persist It will dig deeper and deeper Turning it darker and darker To the point where nothing Even light would suffer The emptiness so hollow Where even the light cannot follow “As I am here in present tense When did I ever have happiness?” I could see only glimpses so small Sorrow’s nearly consumed it all Tiny lights faded and dull But, at least, they’re not gone Sorrow had paralyzed me Trapped me within this body At first, it made things clearer But soon, stripped them of their wonder I remember those…choices Inaudible noises “What a mess I made of it all Had I only known how it would end” Then something overcame me “My guilt! It’s pierced me! The sensation, it’s overpowering! Finally, to feel something again!”

Pieces

Art by Kellyn Claire C. Lim

Sirang Pakpak Satsuki I. Baring

Ako’y unang gumagapang lang sa dahunan Inosente sa lahat ng mga pangyayari Sa nakaraan, kasalukuyan at kinabukasan Malalaking pangarap ay napag-isipan Sabik na sabik akong lumaki Maging isang nilalang na matagumpay At pinapahalagahan ng iba Ito’y tumuloy habang sarili’y lumipat ng dahon Sinabi nila sa’kin “Magaganda ang iyong mga pangarap, bata. Matutupad at ika’y aming susuportahan.” Hay, napakaakit-akit na kasinungalingan. Sa muling paglabas, Iba na ang aking nakita Iba na ang mundong natanaw Punong-puno ng gunting at kulungan Maraming pumupuri sa akin Sa aking kagandahan Sa aking nakamit na pangarap: Makalipad at dadalaw-dalaw ng mga bulaklak Masaya ngunit ang pait Nasaan ang gustong sumusuporta? Sila nga pala ay nasa aking likod Hindi sa pagsuporta kundi kritika Ang sakit ng salita Nakuha ko na ang aking gusto Masaya at lumilipad ako Ano pa ba? Ano naman ang sasabihin? “‘Yan lang ba ang kaya?” “Mababa naman pangarap mo!” “Ang hina mo!” 56

Ang sakit Napakasakit Tinanong kung ano ang inyong gusto “Tumingin ka sa langit.” Ibon Ako lamang ay isang paruparo Hindi ko kaya ang taas Sana’y inyong maintindihan Sumobra ang kanilang boses Mabigat na ang aking balikat Binulag ang paningin Wala na kayong nakitang pag-asa sa’kin Pinutol niyo Iniwan ako Iniwang umiiyak Kasama sa aking sirang pakpak.

Untitled | Art by Tyler D. Deitchmeister 58

alimpuyo

Roma Jane A. Hechanova

isang ipu-ipo ang aking damdamin – marahas na marupok; maigi na mapusok; at sa bawat pag-ikot, ikot, ikot, ikot ng dalubyong pumupuno sa aking puso, sa bawat takot na hatid – tahanan na wasak, kabiguan at paglagpak sa pinakailalim – ako ay aangat, hanggang muling maging hangin at alikabok – magaan, mayumi, mayamaya’y mawa wala, nakatakas na mga bula– ito ang aking pagpupunyagi !

Maruqua’s Quest Jaienne Braveree F. Suralta

elieved to be located at the very core of the earth, there lies the unknown world called The Land of Quest—this is ruled by a beautiful goddess named Ahcha. This world is where the seekers of truth, known as the quabouter creatures, live. Quabouters are the littlest of people; they have the features of leprechauns, but have a more distinct appearance due to their long, shiny hair that changes colors. It is believed that each color is earned when a quabouter learns something new. One day, the goddess Ahcha called a young quabouter named Maruqua. “Goddess Ahcha,” Maruqua bowed politely, “How may I serve thee?” The goddess smiled. “Maruqua, it’s time for you to learn something new.” “What shall I seek, dear goddess?” Maruqua asked eagerly. Ahcha noticed the perseverance in the young quabouter’s voice and smiled. “I have heard that there is an old disease on Earth that rips through the hearts of the people. This disease gets stronger now, and we need to find out what this is—and seek a cure—before it gets planted too deep in the core and affects us all.” “Let me handle this quest, dear goddess,” Maruqua said, determined. After saying those words, Maruqua was suddenly engulfed by a strong wind that looked like a tornado. Not a minute after, she found herself in a strange land, not so unlike her world. In that land, most creatures are big and everyone busy is with their own lives. In that land, everyone acts and speaks like they are learned—but deep inside them, there are so many questions unasked, unanswered. Maruqua then understood that she was transported to the surface of the Earth. This is the place where quabouters are sent if they need to experience and understand something they cannot in their world. She noticed that she blended in—her appearance is now like the other beings of this world—not anymore a quabouter, but a regular earth-being. She stood from the ground and walked straight, not knowing where to go. She knew her time is limited. Quabouters couldn’t stay longer than three hours on the surface of the Earth, else they will die. After about a mile of walking, she saw two girls at a corner, talking. She discreetly went near 60

them, trying not to get as much attention as possible. “She is mean. Be careful of her. If I were you, I will not hang out with her,” she heard the girl with chin-length hair saying to another girl with waist-length hair. The girl with long hair looked unconvinced. “She is actually very nice to me,” she said silently. Maruqua wondered what and whom they were talking about. So she slowly went nearer to hear more. Why was she led to these girls, she wondered. Perhaps they were a key to her quest. She needs to hurry and find out what they were discussing. “She is not nice! She is mean!” the girl shrieked impatiently. “Don’t make friends with her!” Maruqua couldn’t take it anymore. She realized she needed to ask if she is to find out what they are talking about. “Hi!” she greeted, a little bit enthusiastically. “May I know who is mean?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “Liza, our other friend. She is mean,” the girl with the short hair said. “Ari, she is not. She is actually very nice to me and to others,” retorted the other girl. “Why do you think she is mean?” Maruqua asked Ari. “Because…” Ari started, “because she always gets attention for herself. It’s always her! She doesn’t share the spotlight with others… She is always at the top of the class! Many boys like her! She wears nice dresses that get too much attention! She… she…” The girl with long hair rolled her eyes. “Just because she is good at what she is doing doesn’t make her a cruel person. Just because she is better than most of us doesn’t make her mean!” she said matter-of-factly. “You are just envious of her!”

Envious. Maruqua noted the word. Could it be possible, that the disease Ahcha wants her to find out—the one that rips through the hearts of the people—is actually envy? Ari’s face turned suddenly red. “I am, not! Sasha! You know I am not envious of her!” “Then why would you spread rumors about her? Why would you tell people who want to make friends with her to back off, because she is mean and 61

Art by Summer Thea B. Menchavez

a bully? I don’t see her bullying anybody! In fact, you are the one bullying her,” Sasha said. After a few seconds of silence, she added, “Open your eyes, Ari! People who are better than you are are not mean people. Instead of ranting about other people and spreading bad rumors about them, why don’t you just use that effort to work on yourself so you will better, too? If you’re too lazy to do that, just be contented and don’t compare yourself with others!” Maruqua just watched and listened to them in silence, learning the ways of human behavior. Envy is an old disease that tears an individual’s heart. It makes people do things to hurt the persons being envied. The cure? Sasha mentioned them, she knew. She mentioned three: one, use the effort of envying others instead to better one’s self; two, stop comparing yourself with others; and three, be contented. After she made these realizations, Maruqua felt her head began to spin. She closed her eyes and had a sudden vision of her quabouter appearance. A streak of hair turned silvery gold—a shade of color she didn’t have before. This only means one thing: she had succeeded in her quest. As soon as she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in front of the goddess Ahcha. The goddess gave her a warm smile. “What information do you have for us?” she inquired. Maruqua narrated everything that had happened to her, from the moment she landed on the surface of the earth, to seeing the two girls talking about another, and to learning that envy is a disease that can rip through a person’s heart, making that person capable of doing ugly and evil things— such as spreading bad rumors against another. Ahcha listened intently, her face grim and solemn upon learning what envy can do. She sighed and closed her eyes. “Spreading of rumors is actually a small thing, in this case. What’s more alarming is, envy can even compel an individual to steal, or even commit murder,” she said, worried. Maruqua saw the concern in their goddess’ expression. “But there are cures!” she added, a trace of hope in her voice. “I heard the other girl mentioned three different cures.” And she told Ahcha the possible cures. Ahcha listened patiently. “Hmmm… contentment,” she murmured, in deep thoughts. “It’s not a readily available cure.” She looked at Maruqua and gave her another warm yet sad smile. “Thank you for your courage, Maruqua. You succeeded in this quest,” she told her sincerely. “Yet, I’m afraid, we have another quest to make. To find where contentment lies. Our world and theirs would need lots of it.” a 63

Pagpikit

Louis Arvin C. Gio

Gaya ng isang ulap, Kami’y pinaulanan ng pag-ibig. Sa bawat ngiti, salita, kislap, Kami’y napapatitig. Gaya ng bituin, Ika’y napakaganda. Tumatawa, nagniningning. Sapagkat ika’y malayo, ika’y mahalaga. Ngunit sa oras mo riyan sa taas Hanggang kailan kita pagtitingalaan? Kahit iyong ningning ay walang kupas, Siguro paubos na ang iyong ilaw. Pagod ka na. Dahil sa mga diwa mo araw-araw, Mabubuhay iyong alaala. 64

Art by Dominic Craig L. Carpio

Untitled |

Art by Kristine Anne J . Subaan

The Worker

Sophia Nicole N. Nacua

Built many houses But never owned a home Been to a thousand places But never got to roam Raised a little princess But treated like a slave Defended hearts of innocence But imprisonment they gave Taught the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future But nothing lay ahead Gave up limb for country But always came back dead Worked unceasingly to live But never got the pay That even on his final leave On open ground he lay

Full Circle Seungjae Yoo

We wake up in the morning, Prepare for school almost every day. Some of us think it’s useless, And the some of us got nothing to say. And it repeats again, Yet there is always something new: New lesson, new homework, new project. Never with nothing to do And so we’re trapped in the full circle Of stress, pressure, and grades. But school is also another place, Where future success awaits So, don’t push yourself into the loop Make your day different! Fly like an eagle, rise up And let your spirits be “lifted” 68

Photograph by Darren James T. Maglasang

Embrace of feathers Comes restless tranquility Hidden in mountains

Afloat

Art by Camila Kim N. Lopez

A School of Fish Kyla Monique A. Esterioso

Grayscale, The sky is unhappy The greenery is still and warm But behind the louvre window The sad day’s a mural One, Two, Three, Forty-one fish Caught in one net Help us, help us Eight more hours Tick, Tock…. The colossus in the room Pulls sweat from his epigones’ pores Impatient taps and clucks Of shoes and tongues Ding dong, Skedaddling chickens Chatters, chuckles, and chin music Foes turn to friends Until the hour’s end Scandal, Her eyes are frosted glass Hiding a storm Alas, broken loose Poor soul; brave soul Grapple, Necks craning. Backs straining Eyes nerving Temples aching Bloodshot, Sleepless nights worth four golds But my handiwork is gashed Wounded by the trenchant sword My maven’s ballpoint Again, Day brings night, and so on Rewind to the first hour Of yesterday Of the same sad day

My mind, A honed, yet aimless arrow I’ve devoured the thickest of my books But my mind is unquenched Hollow and dry 71

Rebel With a Cause Marianne G. Suezo

We’re sorry for playing the music too loud We’re sorry for all the opinions And all the politics But our lives are gambled on And our voices are stomped on It’s the sweat on our drums And the blood on our trumpets That paint the canvas of this ugly Facade the world tries to stamps us on Our bravery is called reckless Our intellect is called pretentions Our fight is called pointless But once the dust settles, the ashes Of this old traditional vulture will Wither away, leaving lions behind. We don’t fight because we’re bored We don’t resist because we’re petty We fight because we’re tired of dying. We fight because we’re tired of conforming. This isn’t a James Dean movie; We don’t smoke to look cool and fight dead-beat cops for the thrill of it. We don’t inhale the fumes of your ignorance’s pullution; We call out blue soldiers whose guns make white kids cry, and black kids bleed. This isn’t a James Dean movie. We have a reason to fight. We have a reason to resist. We’re rebels with a cause.

fly me to the moon |

Art by Angelina M. Bernadez

the wall between them Ea Ffion C. Wing

i tell the story of a mother who watched the daughter she cared for grow smaller and then moving so far away from the happy girl she used to know her baby was a ray of sunshine whose light went on for miles she’d hold mom’s finger with her one lone tooth and a smile but as she grew older, that smile went away and mom had no clue as to why it did that day her baby’s portions grew smaller and unsurprisingly, so did she and with sadness, mom stood watching weeping about the child she couldn’t feed her baby grew angry, grew weak and grew tired mom wondered if it was her fault, losing the daughter she’d admired she asked and she begged, for her daughter to explain why it’s been almost days since the last time that she ate a wall was put up, and mom couldn’t break the secrets of a locked bathroom door and what went away, the hiding from meals, and “going out with friends.” she was mom’s bear cub whose hibernation couldn’t end but one day, it seemed her baby had had enough her wall went down, she ran crying to mom in a hug she begged for help because she just wanted to be happy and not feel like she lost control whenever she’d eat mom hugged her baby, hushed that it’d be alright she patted her head, promised that she would be fine her baby’s tiny fingers curled around hers and thanked her mom for taking care of her baby daughter again

silence

Nathan Cole A. Retardo

she comes along and does her best to make you feel at home she was always there for you when you wanted to be alone she knew you needed company; she stayed right by your side she loved you no matter what and never left you behind but when the time decided that all the noise would disturb the silence that’s been crying out a voice that can’t be heard and when she realized that there was nothing left to show she simply closed her eyes and let herself go 75

Art by Julia Brooks M. Lao

Lana

Roma Jane A. Hechanova

Lana soul sister queen i wear your pain royal yellow and blue Lana soul, sister, artist i sway my hips to jazz crying from your radio Lana soulsister dreamer i walk the tight rope head held high i kiss tangerine skies Lana soul sister, woman i drink your woes blueberry wine i want more Lana soul. sister. divine. i pulverize your tears turn them to magic d u s t . Lana soul sister sinner, [co-]sufferer to Mary i pray God save you, [God save me.] 77

adsum

Venise Alexandria B. Taboada

n the space before the sun arrives, I look up at the sky and I wonder: “Why do you come?”

It’s a dark yet a bright sort of blue, lined with ebony trees and bereaved of a blanket of stars. There is no hope in it; there is no promise. It is only the color of sadness and the hue of my soul. When the sun peeks through the mountains, I think: “Please, don’t look at me.” It’s a reflection of the quiet city, pale and dull and without much vibrance despite the enormous star that inhibits it. It’s a solemn occurence—silent and passing by unawares. In the moments of the day, I glance up and I murmur: “Are you there, God?” It’s a brilliant blue—a miracle in itself. It envelops the world like the sea to the shore, vast and seemingly unending. It’s one of those phenomena that either catch you off-guard or escape your notice altogether—for in a busy world, there is no time to see the divinity in its simplicity. And in the seconds of the sunset, I say: “Thank you.” There is a magnificence in the kaleidoscope that is the firmament, a grace in the way it falls from blue to red to orange. The colors are smooth, running like cream, thick and concentrated and everywhere...Each color is a moment of the day—good or bad or angry or sad—it is the monumental mix of what makes life so unexpectedly meaningful. It is the end of the day and the beginning of an eternal cycle. And as I watch the sky turn from gold to obsidian, I wonder: “Why do you come?” a

Photograph by Darren James T. Maglasang

Wikang Wala

Darlene Jean L. Ranoco

Art by Kristine Jean L . Subaan

Wala na, finish na Dalawang pariralang aking naaalala Tumingin ako sa kanan at sa kaliwa Totoo nga talaga, wala ka na Nasaan ang hustisya Nahihirapan ako ngunit sapat bang wala ka na? Mga alaala’y nakabakas sa aking kaluluwa Bakas din sa nakaraan kong dala-dala Sapat bang kalimutan ka’t magbago Tama bang maghanap ng iba’t matuto Matutong sumugal sa bagay na hindi nakasanayan Sa bagay na hindi naman masyadong kinakailangan Mahal, bawat salita mo ay aking inaalala Binibigkas, sinasapuso, sinasalita Mahirap tanggapin na ako’y nilisan mo na Filipino, ano ba ang iyong halaga? 80

Day In and Day Out Tristan Lasola

Day in and day out It’s the same pair of eyes The same tired mood Of someone that really tries Shaking their head Saying “I feel like I’m dying” Manifesting destiny When it’s only in their mind Always getting ready For the struggles of the morn Readying themselves For the coming storm Pain settles in And it seems to last forever The endless cycle The terrible weather Day in and day out It’s a constant attack But just hang in there We’ve all got your back

Glass

by Nicholas Francisco G. Amor

The truth is, it’s all glass Glass, glass is confusing Glass it-it’s either an invisible barrier holding you back or it imitates all the nooks and crannies that make up the beautifully imperfect you Glass, it’s either as clear as day or as dark as the thoughts that well up inside you I know Glass is confusing, but it talks in a way, it whispers to each one of us. Can you hear it? Can you hear yourself? Your thoughts manifesting themselves in a conversation between yourself and glass? Glass gives you the unique ability to see. See yourself, see others, see what’s ahead and what’s behind, but most of all, see that it’s there, that it exists, that glass is tangible and you can feel it, feel yourself, your flaws and faults in color, size, shape, and all that is quantifiable and qualitative under the heavens It’s all glass, it’s all you, you’re all glass, you’re fragile, you’re elegant, you’re beautiful. You, you are a barrier to break you are a limit to overcome, you are a challenge Take on that challenge, break the glass and move forward and break the next one you see Because the truth is, it’s all glass! It’s all glass. And it is precisely because it is all glass that we, the lonely inhabitants of this universe strive to be better than who we are, who we were and ask ourselves, what can we become? Who can we become? And it is up to you, you stupidly brilliant unexplainably beautiful creature, to give that question, the answer it deserves, Because the truth is, it’s all glass And glass is confusing, yet it gives us meaning, it gives us a chance, it lets us see, lets us touch and challenges us. But what of all this? Why do i even bother to talk about glass breaking when it’s so easy to shatter? Oh, because when it breaks, when it breaks, we see shards, shards of glass that pierce us, that hurt us, and thanks to this phenomenon, we are afraid We are afraid to break our glass, to break ourselves and be reborn as the brightest phoenixes in the world. We possess fear, but we should use that fear, use it to strengthen us, to temper us, to push ourselves to break our glass and move forward. Haven’t you noticed? Glass is confusing but you can’t deny the truth, and the truth is, It’s all glass 82

The fat lazy cat in its ridiculous dreams understands living.

Facebook

Art by Tyler D. Deitchmeister

Shana Raine L. Burgos

“Facebook, Facebook, ang sweet na sweet mo,” Nasabi ng matandang nasaktan sa loob. “Buong araw akong naghihintay sa telepono, Ngunit walang bumati sa akin maliban sa iyo.” “Facebook, Facebook, ang chismosa mo kaya. Sa newsfeed ko, ang daming balita! Yung anak pala ng kumare ko, nakagraduate na. Mga ‘di ko malaman, sapagka’t mga paa’y nanghihina.” “Facebook, Facebook, ang dami mo palang alaala. Noon, mga album mula nang ako’y bata, Sa bagyo’t unos, ngayo’y basang-basa na. Ngunit araw-araw, may memories kang naka-HD pa.” “Facebook, Facebook, ang bilis ng panahon. Parang kahapon ako’y bata pang naglalaro. Ang mundo na palaging lumalaki’t bumabago, Maalala pa kaya’t nila, ang tamis ng sikulate’t puto?”

Sunshine

Kathlyn Ann C. Estrella

Looking at the night sky, Thinking of you, You are my sunshine. Staring at an open window Waiting for you as the wind blows, You are my sunshine. As I wait for you in the crossroads, I watch with a sad tone. Seeing you there, Going away like the air. 85

purpose

Ea Ffion C. Wing

in a time where everyone is being someone big it can make us feel afraid that we wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever fit what change can we make in this world? weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re overwhelmed when everyone is doing something so big as well this need to perform, to create and to be terrifies so many people, and it still terrifies me this crushing anxiety that our purpose is gone this fear in our hearts that we might never belong we are too young to have to feel this way but so many people our age are doing something great and suddenly, it seems we are just an empty vessel left with only our anxieties that we will have to wrestle but our purpose will never truly be lost because purpose is something that comes from within us defeating our fears and creating something new is enough to create something special, understood by just you us youth are so creative yet we can barely see that the things that we create are the things theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re meant to be

Tiny but Mighty | Art by Dominic Craig L. Carpio

TO THE NEST [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS] Youngbloods rose from the cocoon where they were born, facing the blinding light of the moon and sun. With their eyes wide open, they witnessed the travels of their past lives. Their feet endured the shaky terrain. The sky became their summit. Every step is a word, every mile is a poem, every mountain is a story and every landscape, an illustration. In this endless odyssey, they achieved different feats all because of one call: the call to greatness. This is one of those feats. This is all thanks to you, YOUngbloods. Your path to self-actualization has led you here. Our endless thanks and gratitude... To all the contributors for being with us in this long journey. This “firstborn child” is as much your own as it is ours. To Maria Nynia C. Lumbay, who so patiently designed this first edition’s cover; and to Venise Alexndria B. Taboada and Kellyn Claire C. Lim for the haikus in this collection—thank you for all your hard work! To the writers, photographers, and artists whose works made it into this literary folio for being the embodiment of this anthology’s theme. To Ms. Roma Jane Hechanova for this inception. If this child had a surrogate mother, it would be you. This is a thought, a wish, a dream you’ve conceived and nourished for three years. Now, this has been delivered but only with so much pain, blood, and hard work. To Ms. Hazel Toring for the unrivalled patience and support; you are a source of optimism and determination! Thank you for your loving effort that usually goes unnoticed! Remember that we do even if others don’t. To the SEEDS Editorial Staff 2018-2019 for helping this take shape. To the SEEDS Editorial Staff 2019-2020 for following their own paths toward greatness and thriving in their own ‘nests’. To all the people who believe in the power of youngbloods for their constant encouragement.

Keep your souls growing, and your horizons expanding.

THE SEEDS PUBLICATION SCHOOL YEAR 2019-2020

TRUTH. TRANSPARENCY. TRADITION. a

EDITORIAL BOARD d

STAFF

LIAHONA FE H. ABEJAR REIGN YSABEL S. ALBORES MIKAELA ANGELINE G. ALOBA EVE BIANCA C. BARRAMEDA ANGELIKA M. BERNADEZ SHEENA DIANNE K. BERNARDO MA. ALYSSA R. CABALUNA SHUNSUKE C. CAMOMOT SEOLAH CHOI KATRINA MAE K. CHUA NOELA MAE A. CHUA FARRAH YVETTE M. CLAVERIA MONTY MAXIMILIAN L. CO ANDREA KRISTINA L. CORTEZ XIOMARAH YSABELLE M. DOSDOS QUEEN HERMANNIE ANGELY B. DY KATHLYN ANN C. ESTRELLA 90

DANIELLE JONN M. GEROSO JASMINE NATALIE S. GO CHAMUEL ANGEL M. GORDON JULIA BROOKS M. LAO NINA D. LATONIO CHAE A LEE CHARMAINE S. LIBRE ANDREA ZOIE CHIA MIN S. LIM GA EUN NAM MUGUIH JAZZRHYE C. NEREZ EUAN GABRIEL B. ORBISO PAUL BENEDICT L. SENO ROSELAND APRIL H. SENO STELLA MARIZ S. VILLACAMPA STEPHANIE MERCIA D. YGNACIO SEUNGJAE M. YOO MARY JULIANNE P. VILLORDON

Youngblood (Literary Folio of The SEEDS Publication-JHS)

Articles inside

Youngblood (Literary Folio of The SEEDS Publication-JHS)