MEMENTO
MEMENTO
MORI
MEMENTO
Volume 6, July 2022 The Literary Folio of Kapawa Published by the students of University of St. La Salle © All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or any part or form. Please note that the contents of this Folio are works of fiction. Characters, locales, and events that resemble actual people, names, places, and incidents are either coincidental, products of the author’s imagination, or used for fiction. Trigger Warning: Some scenes display subtle references to events that might negatively affect a person’s mental health.
Ryan A.Rodriguez LITERARY EDITOR Ana Dominique G. Manabat COVER AND LAYOUT Kyle Bryan T. Palparan Oona Maria Aquilina C. Oquindo ASSISTANT LITERARY EDITORS Claire Denise S. Chua DESIGN
Stephanie Anne O. Alolon Jewel Irish S. Belascuain Claire Denise S. Chua Timothee Ramon S. Consing Jezaira Z. Constantino Joseph Bryant J. de los Santos Giollan Henry P. Demaulo Kirsten Ann G. Limosnero Ma. Avrille Marquiela C. Loraña Ana Dominique G. Manabat Xiomara Ann B. Mondragon Jason Lee J. Pamati-an Andrea Kirsten D. Ramirez Janna M. Remus Sean Carlo O. Samonte VISUAL CREATIVES
visual by Carlos Miguel C. Valderrama
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C ONTENTS FOREWORD........................................................................8 POETRY wings of agony.....................................................................12 Death After Disco.................................................................14 rendezvous...........................................................................17 Four Corners ......................................................................20 Waking up...........................................................................23 Armageddon ii.....................................................................24 Ballad of a Virtuoso..............................................................27 Dance ‘til Daybreak.............................................................28 Elevator ride........................................................................31 I saw all the apostles............................................................32 Midnight Kids......................................................................35 Panawagon..........................................................................36 Scorpion.............................................................................39 Some Sad Days...................................................................40 the kiss of rue.......................................................................42 the makings of a despot.......................................................44 The Moon’s Response.........................................................47 SHORT STORIES
Conversion..........................................................................50 ashes, ashes, we all fall down................................................54 The Odyssey of a Shipwreck...............................................56 Ashore...............................................................................58 Coda..................................................................................60 Countdown.........................................................................62 How To Say Goodbye .........................................................64 What A Wonderful Word......................................................66 Worm Gods.........................................................................68 DEFINITION OF TERMS....................................................70 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS...................................................75
FORE WORD They will end my life one length of a sentence from now.
Or maybe a three-part Grecian poem longer—if the blazes had coursed through the wood of the courtroom’s ceiling as planned and melted the door with the walls shut.
I believe the little reader in your head living beyond one sentence old can tell you much of how that turned out. And the voices will too, swarms of high-pitched ringing to shatter the glass for escape routes. Seems like even in death I am kept to myself, having only everything burning around me. So take a seat, loitering jury, perhaps you can bear witness and peel your eyes wider than the fur padding on the duke’s burning throne. Indulge in the revelries of the creeping heat and the last words of a widowed man for none here is left but the broken chandeliers, and you, to judge my crimes against humanity.
I’ve always lived my life on edge, bearing the cross of marking my time when I could easily just cast it away. I was waiting for perfection you see, as much as I was waiting for the apocalypse to destroy everything I would have done. My existence was doomed by a paradox I created, and it did me no better than to hide in things that made the world stagnant. But please, don’t be too hard on me, I am only a man with no godly key to the doors he locked himself in.
Still, my fate wouldn’t be something you’d imagine to rust on a pillory, who could begin to foresee that, on a man who had never even felt a bead of sweat in his neck or have the sun reach his back. For I had everything: manors, vineyards, and the finest of steeds, all because I was born. And I acted as if I’d been damned by the Earth with all the gold put on silver platters when many would cross volcanoes for a life I was gifted. I testify still—that by keeping me alive long enough to see the ending is a curse. And such blessings made it all possible. But to have witnessed the beginning is heaven on Earth. Even if I had to fight an apocalypse, even if it meant disturbing a meteor shower to come a thousand years late, I would have rewinded the cosmos and time to have met a stablemaster not too taller than six feet. I would have taken his hand with me and ran breath-takingly to the woods where everything is quiet. Lived in a hut where no gunshots can startle the unbridled horses, and no suffocating suit and wig to chain a nobleman upright—only an endless stream of river we can bask in. But alas, no beginning search for no resolution. And sooner as treasured things begin, sooner do they end.
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So what does one do in the end times? Where everything is torn apart by the things you can see shattering loudly, and more harshly so by things you can’t even touch. Where no human alive can make sense of this inevitable enigma. Or even look at it straight in the eye.
For my case, the revelation is the chaotic collection of my blissful ignorance, so I ignored the signs. Of the off-beat cricket I hear in the dark, of the contorting faces from the distance I hope was not someone I know. Of the whispers that fade into the candle smoke as I enter a room. These were the least of worries for someone having the world handed to him. But I knew only so much of what would not happen to me, that I knew so little of what would happen to him. And for this, I hope that you would look past the chains on my knees and know that the bruises kiss the ground for anyone but you, to forgive me. As I didn’t know so much of the world after all, I didn’t know that some didn’t bat an eye for the gloves that touched, but for the robes I donned. And didn’t know that dozens more called the end times a witch, a discord in the natural order more mortifying than the trees they ashed to the sky or the crimes they buried behind their yard.
Perhaps, I waited too long for our redemption, caved in the comfort of our paradise deep that it blinded me to how much the power of nobles can bend themselves away from harm. I was too ignorant to think a humanly power can easily save the world from the disasters I invited in. So when the pitchforks came and took the only semblance of meaning in my life, they left me in a hell bleaker than they would’ve taken me too. Why forsake me? When my blood bleeds red as much as my world did. I hoped to have controlled our fate in folly. But all my human hands can ever control is the torch sticks beside the barrels, and the mixture to make wine flammable. So I turned myself in as witch—that they treat me with the dignity of what they see me. That I’ll spell the end of this world as they expect of me. So you should know that time waits for no one. No apocalypse safe from any man, but know that there truly was utopia to be found, and the only crime I admit to was not finding it sooner. But truly, I am only a tired soul from yet just another circle of ash. So flutter away passerby witness, and find a new set of broken matchsticks to dread about. I’d imagine they’ll bring you more than enough fire to burn your worries about the dark spots on the ground. Hopefully. Ryan A. Rodriguez
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POETRY
they stole the light from the sea, the bones from the soil, the flare from your existence.
sooner, the last human will have wept. so treasure what’s within your embrace, remember all that has gone, for what remains of the ash might lead the path to resurrection.
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visual by Claire Denise S. Chua Chua
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wings of agony written by Aurora visual by Janna M. Remus
Visuals by Joseph Bryant J. de los Santos
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my body,
squeezes into itself before letting go, hoping that it would propel me further towards cotton-like clouds.
my wings—
but my woes were in vain, as a shadow hovered above the unbridled sky, blocking my scales from reflecting the jewels i carried along my skin.
iridescent scales reaching for home, flapped one last time, grasp slipping from the wind.
our wings.
it did not whisk me to the clouds, but buried me deep within cotton gloves, as if it’s destiny to share the fate of those that bear the same skin to meet their extinction.
the very reason why the world adores us —why we are chased to our demise.
every time it flutters, the air embracing it is able to change the fate of those across the universe’s edge, yet it has failed to change those who bear it.
our bodies.
displayed behind a glass sky clear as blue ceilings i once soared. a metal pin fills the hole our hearts once occupied.
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Death Af ter Disc o by Frank Ampil
Come, all ye faithful to the last dance on Earth, where we leave the party in twos like the reverse Adam and Eve
to the checkerboard floor— tiles of siren red and blue, cracking under our feet as we collect what memories we can. Of how to move like we’re young, under the shards of the mirror ball. Agleam in a waltz, form erratic and bones immortal, under a night we can’t dance away. Only coming closer to the music of Madonna— a confession in the discotheque.
Only of the grooves of our body come together— until the sun sets one last time, a sliver of the exodus on the disco ball.
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visual by Ana Dominique G. Manabat
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rendezvous by Kasumi visual by Jewel Irish S. Belascuain
11:11
—
lover,
time may surpass the midnight hues, keep me close as you feel the heat ricochet against the concrete.
take me to an interstellar car, retract from the frigid steel barriers, and rescue me from the depths of chaos. forth I go, backwards I dream, think of me as the stars collide, or let me go as we force goodbyes.
seeking for an end to this certainty, as you caress the last of my esse, if it were to cease the moment,
you would come over, right? 12:51
—
lover,
the demiurge may seal our fate, before everything falls into place, meet me at our hideaway, our home.
akin to a trip down memory lane, seascape scenes at the dead of night, coruscated halls with hands intertwined.
sullen reveries, where pity be reckoned with; indwelled oakwoods etched with initials of two— uphill where the havens convened.
i ought to see the least of us all sundry, and though in vain, i lie still; beside austere breeze, mundane thoughts,
i am here waiting . . .
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00:00 —
lover,
as with all passion a soul accords, doubt that the void haunts us seamlessly, transcend in the liberty of what sets it free.
hideaways anew await our advent, albeit atypical, counterfeit deem; afraid that doubt turns to hellish verity.
all may be gone in a blink of an eye, for kinder marks leave heedless bygones, and with you beside, still as i remain.
time has surpassed the risen sun, near and far the sunlit beams, here we are now, in the midst of certainty,
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our eschaton has begun.
Visuals by Joseph Bryant J. de los Santos
visual by Ma. A Avrille vrille19M Marquiela arquiela C. L Loraña oraña
Four C orners by Sam Sabordo
Heaven Above thousands showered by divine light, with my seraphic wings, I soar. Through God’s divine exaltation, I am guided as I glide along the dawns’ first light.
A freedom sworn, gifted through His words upon the book. As long I am detached from mortal sin, my soul is free to take flight amongst all four corners of the Earth.
Limbo It must have been the doing of the four winds of the world that lead my perpetual flight to the realm of sinners.
Within the welkins, I cannot help but descend upon seeing such magnum opus— taking the form of a man.
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Earth With you, I promise to tread soil with my feet, with glass fingers in the warmth of coarse hands. My wings, I shall surrender— a bite from the serpent’s fruit I do not fear to take, just to be with you alone. A promise, of sharing eternity in the warm embrace— of only us two.
Thousand suns have come to set, and your last words has grazed my ears. Our time, was never enough. My wings sacrificed, I fell without grace. A heathen— the price of demanding, romance scorned by the Earth only on our destined conclusion, your lifeless husk, is what remained in my embrace.
Forbidden, was our love story. But we were destiny’s troupe at this tragedy. Where the final spotlight shines upon— my forlorn figure, desperately clutching unto your pale face, staring upon departed eyes. Our foolish oath stained in red; when you promised forever—
why did you only last a lifetime?
In the end, I am not the angel who kissed your cold lips last.
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Hell
visual by Stephanie Anne O. Alolon
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Waking up by Kyle Bryan T. Palparan
ii. “Will you?”—You secretly liked it when I blithely push ice cream sundaes to your face. We used to roam the gardens and you would tell how galaxies form within your stomach whenever our gaze collided. You loved sunshines like stamps, hiding them in that makeshift album that you and I made.
i. You threw away the dirty clothes in the laundry and scattered the sunflower seeds for the ducks to eat. I often wonder if it was enough at all like a parachute that I gave, only to see you clutch a fresh bouquet of roses as the day completely fades—”No”
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Armageddon ii. by Aquilina
People say that your love for someone never goes away, no matter how many letters of theirs you burn or pictures you blacken. That it follows you 6 feet underground until your heart stops beating. Maybe a little after that. And as you can’t control your gaze, your racing heart, or the way your feet lets death take you to ashes, you let it smoke inside your chest until it finds its way out, burning another pile of firewood to match the red glow in your eyes.
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visual by Jewel Irish S. Belascuain
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visual by Joseph Bryant J. de los Santos
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B allad of a Vir tuoso by Axillez
Dal segno, this burning soul. Sometimes, I wonder how life would be without the beauty of your arias. How rhythms would rest silent if trebles reek of ruptured drums and trumpets. Yet, when music havocs— like a creeping demise, your engulfing tunes have kept me adrift in this sea of discordance. Adagio, these withered strings— intertwined with midnight echoes of ballroom duets. Memories of moonlit waltzes longing to be played by your velvet gloves. Anthems remembered by these fragile tips of mine descending down a callous static, grazing every glissando. For you’re the bane of my agony, the impetus, of my last concerto.
Morendo, my final sonata. Before this melodic heart is swallowed up in dissonance, of harmonic pulses turning sharps into flats— my existence dissolves into voidness like how swans cry ballads in the final note. This sequence of symphony was my everlasting ode to that one aria that strummed the beating of my heartstrings. Coda, I, the virtuoso.
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Dance ‘ti’l Daybreak by Kailah May T. Paceno
I took a step, cracks bolted through the ground.
With a wave of his arm, a patch of flowers sprouted from the crevices.
Left foot forward—
soot and gravel were swept by our feet,
fields of green sprung forth. Right foot forward—
we made our way towards each other,
clear, blue waters flowed.
With our palms facing, both worlds teemed with life.
Gripping a handful of soil, I mold my likeness in clay.
He does the same, granting vitality to my creation. The tears we shed became rain to cleanse the remnants of past ruin, and provide nourishment for the future we pinned our hopes on. When the drizzle has passed, we returned to the clouds; a pair of trailblazers leaving behind specks of radiance, to rouse the sun from its slumber—bathing the world in embracing light. A new dawn approaches, and all that has been loved is born anew.
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visual by Stephanie Anne O. Alolon
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visual by Xiomara Ann B. Mondragon
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Elevator ride by Kyle Bryan T. Palparan
The night is a horse; we pirouette around like apparitions beside marble streets, the dark sky—its chandeliers glistening steadily—bow to greet us. The headlights are annoyed when we cross borders and skip through like dandelions.
We arrive at 214. The lot is full of crickets and we enter pristine walls. You said goodbye and kissed my forehead as the box container floated out of view.
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I s aw all the apostles by Miles Guancia
I abandon you with closed lips, seated on clouds and melted host, it is warm here—infinite, the wordless passion to walk through heaven and swim down hell, until you know it all— doors and driveways, secrets and forgiveness at the price of Messiah’s face peering through, the image of you kneeling there, impatient for a taste of destruction.
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visual by Kirsten Ann G. Limosnero
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visual by Timothee Ramon S. Consing
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Midnight Kids by Lou Marcial M. Cuesta
It’s 11:38 P.M. and one way or another I will die tonight. Cradle me into the burning magenta skies, and stitch me a tapestry, woven in fear —it does not matter: I am primed for the night.
I don this flesh like Jesus had worn his thorned crown: I am cursed, to carry the cross of our convoluted humanity, and play savior at the edge of our wreckage,
“I refuse. But why do my palms continue to bleed?”
It’s 11:46 P.M. and my neighbors have turned to dust. I should’ve made the bible dinner instead of playtime; and listened to the weary songs of our elders: I am penitent for not praying enough.
There is no greater gospel than us in this field, awake among false hummingbirds, never to see the sunrise again.
“And this was always meant to be…”
But is it? Spare me the yarn on discipleship and messiahs: I am in fury. It’s 11:54 P.M. and there’s nothing left to say. When the hands of time wane to face north, those ticks will soar to thunderous applause— and the kids? Martyrs but never saints.
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Midnight.
Panawagon by Miles Guancia
Dali diri sa dalom saging Lapit sa suba, sa kilid sang peligro, Kung diin mapula ang bato Kag piraso sang nagliligad, Dali diri—magasimba kita. Kung sino man na siya, Sa babaw sang langit, sa tunga sang bukid Malip-ot kuno ang iya grasya, Daw duwa lang ka pikit ka mata Kag madula ka na sa ambahanon. Pamatii ang mga ginahambal ko Kay wala man na sing pulos Kung indi ka magabalik sang gahum Kag magpaubus— Dali diri, updan ta ka panaog.
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visual by Ana Dominique G. Manabat Manabat
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visual by Andrea Kirsten D. Ramirez
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Sc orpion by Miles Guancia
Every word leads to you, it doesn’t matter where you are, who you’re with— ascension is just the same.
Like a time when I was young, and in feats found my path, I counted the steps carefully— I found your toes, I watched you dance. There was no grace with you: brown body charted on anger, wildness grew from your ears— the ugliest bush. What could you be, this frantic object, this nerve of fear and wisps yet still you find me.
I found you jostled among crowds, reminded of the painting with sectioned limbs, the blue bolts on a train when it runs near, the whispers of lips I hoped were yours.
If there was a way to hold the universe, and to see it as anything more than yours, I would have left without wanting to come back, and run begging you to kiss me until I am home.
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S ome Sad Days by Shelian visual by Janna M. Remus
For I have days,
therefore I heal.
that plummet down,
and hail me a passenger,
into the vast nothingness.
The clock hours of blue lenses,
and the life I live awaits;
for the souls that care remain,
So I trudge the blizzard in search for the sun, to become my treasured hearth.
and shades of loneliness, fog up my vision,
it freezes the good things, beneath the thick ice.
Each heartbeat a pump of life,
a heart shivers, but hums warmly.
that in the melting ground I tucked away, But then I remember,
[note: from top left to bottom left; from bottom right to top right] Visuals by Sean Carlo O. Samonte
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the kiss of rue. written by Angelle A. visual by Sean Carlo O. Samonte
Visuals by Jason Lee J. Pamati-an
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silhouettes gently ebbing away as the sun sank; chilly air tickling my face, the sight from the balcony becoming darkened blurred hues and colors. dusk flirts in little tints— the city’s nightlife breathing into existence; static ringing in my ears. i look at glass panes, seeing somebody familiar, they look distant, yet their features indistinguishable to the very core— morphed into a different individual.
i heaved in, lungs stinging as if breathing in broken fragments;
shoulders carrying the weight of the world, throat unable to spill, mind bursting with thoughts—
if i had left it all behind, gambled despite the unhinged path of colors, would the feeling of glass shards sinking in every single inch of my skin—fade away? if i had nurtured each brushstroke, each splash of hue, and each painted canvas, deafened my ears to those who planted wasps of doubt—
would i still grit my teeth in frustration, feeling each limb delicately being torn like paper?
if my lips knew to move when it was needed,
would words from their mouths stop shattering into coarse pieces?
woe—in the scenario where i had listened to my howling passion instead of caging it in, feigning that i was enjoying it all— would i have felt liberation? for what it’s worth—possibly.
yet i just nodded, a smile plastered on my face, loathing loving the path that they romanticized for me to take.
putting on a mask; a facade— eyes seeing through a stranger’s life from dusk till dawn—hollow.
if i hadn’t stood idly, would i have eluded the kiss of rue?
but tell me, fate— if i had stepped into the manic path of spilled colors,
would these crumpled, monotonous papers beside me, be replaced with canvases that take my feet into flight, releasing them from the pain of impaling shards?
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At the age of ten, I built a sandcastle.
With fingertips buried in weather-beaten crystals, he fought the blistering heat—sore hands and beads of sweat notwithstanding. From here, a grand design was mapped out from crayon; staking the first claim towards greatness, as patterns were drawn by hand. From here, the road to ruin was paved from the molten yolk of eggshells.
With toes dipped in the aquamarine shore, he watched the hazy skyline—heart swelling in anticipation. Bracing for a billowing surge; for waves that will wash away what’s deemed unclean. “This is mine, and mine alone.” Thoughts echoing as he fought every ebb and flow. From here, where sea meets land, defeat never felt so invigorating. Where he realized, the whirling tides were not of encouragement, but alarm bells ringing.
At thirty, I built a house of cards.
Dealing with the hand he’s been dealt; he bet all his soul and gold to rise through the ranks— from a mere knave to someone whose power came in spades. The reign of kings and queens were overturned, their deck of soldiers shuffled; an ace through and through, years of sharpening shrewdness had diamonds falling on his lap.
At fifty, I built an empire from my own stained hands.
He and his people tilled the soil, only to have every fortress they established return to dust. The pillars that supported them crippled from the obtuse weight; serving as the scales which measured his greed. As he laid down the foundation of his greatest yearning; every calculated move was made with ruthless precision. But as the world would have it, and he not know, a single breeze can topple a castle into cinders.
At eighty, I demolished all that was my pride.
For there he stood—a shadow of what he once was; A king of a crumbling throne, Laid chained to the impermanence that melted his sandcastle, that knocked over his house of cards. Left to laugh at the lad who dreamed to topple the height of the golden sun, he, who, in devouring everything, was left with nothing.
At my deathbed, I leave this to the one who sees my footfalls. Do not attempt to trace the outlines I have laid down—lest you end up forged in the same mold of futility.
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the makings of a despot
written by Kaila May T. Paceno visual by Jason Lee J. Pamati-an 45
visual by Timothee Ramon S. Consing
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The Mo on s Response
’
by Mikko Demaulo
Can you hear me?
As clear as pristine ocean waters, you?
Yes, but the beating press of my anxious heart befalls to worry that the end is nigh.
The end? When eternal rest awaits our aching soul, where the lines of this world and the afterlife are blurred?
Is a being like you, afraid of it?
I have walked the earth for centuries, fear is nothing but a foreign entity to me. Yet, as I have seen it all, I must say I am exhausted.
But as even the largest of mountains would crumble to the sound of thunder and when stone would seem to lose their strength, are you not afraid?
While the prophets have foretold how the end may look to mere mortals, as someone who has merely observed through eons, I am horrified, rather, of what I cannot fathom.
Ah, my friend, you fear not the end, but fear what comes along with it—
Perhaps, perhaps not, what I only understand, is the infesting fear of what
a dead man’s eyes could discover.
I do, as much as what comes after the end, entices me. Does it not do the same to you?
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SHORT STORIES visual by Claire Denise S. Chua
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C onversion
written by Frank Ampil visual by Joseph Bryant J. de los Santos
content warning: includes subtle scenes of abuse that might induce negative reactions.
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The following transcript is a series of statements extracted from the audio diary of Jack Torres, more commonly known by the moniker Di-Bakla Dave from his roles in advertisements by Camp Harromog, the most famous conversion therapy organization in the Philippines of the 2000s. The entry was made June 6, 2006.
[CLICKS] I haven’t used one of these in a while, but Father Rodrigo says they’re always here for us to use. I think Father listens to them, though, even when he says no one’s supposed to, and that’s how he knows which one of us needs more help than the others, which one of us really needs the God to be struck into us until it hurts. Brings us to our knees. I think after this, that’ll be me. But I really couldn’t give less of a damn anymore. How could I? The camp… I really did believe in us. In them, I mean. Really devoted my entire body, heart, and soul to what I thought they could do, to wash this ungodly filth of my mind. And for a while, I was convinced it was working, that I was actually being straightened out. Hell, I even joined those damned commercials, became Harromog’s face because I truly was fooled into being a so-called success story. Ten years of life, given to this place. Taken away by this place. Stolen from me. I have not succeeded in anything but lying to my damn self. I used to walk out of Harromog’s doors, see the protesters outside with their redlettered signs, and think to myself, what a pity. But I walk through those doors now still. Every-damn-day. And there’s no one there anymore. They must have… (LAUGHS) Must have found someone else better to care about. Must have moved on to the next issue or worldly problem. I don’t blame them. I… I did this to myself. I’m the one who came here. (SIGHS) But it wasn’t just me, you know? Right? It was… It was Axel Domingo, Drey Raymundo, Bert Alemany and how they’d always call me names and shove me to the ground, then they’d hump each other in the classroom like they weren’t just attacking me for it. It was the priest at my old church, who told me that sex between two men will send us to hell, but if he touches a boy, it’s to make him feel good. (PAUSE) It was my parents. My parents who told me they loved me. That they’d always take care of me, and be there for me, then sent me to this camp in the first place to heal and get better like this thing was a disease. And now, it’s me. Sometimes, people stop to thank me for starring in those damn commercials because they think I’m doing the Lord’s work. They take me by the shoulders, call me Dave, and I can feel myself empty. And I want to tell them I don’t do this for the Lord, I do this because I hate myself and that helps me get to sleep better than being in touch with… you know. I’ve been growing restless lately. I could run into a wall and keep
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bashing myself into it just to release the feeling. Is that normal? I don’t think it is, but I don’t know how to express how hounded I feel every day, every night, every waking moment of my damn life. It was like that for a while. I didn’t know how to go on. The wedding rehearsals for me and Lisa were starting, people went in and out of the church to set up cameras, lights, and all that. And I thought, damn, I’m stuck here forever. But… How do I say this? [PAUSE] I met someone during the rehearsals about a month ago, and we just clicked. He makes me feel like I could get away with anything scot-free. Makes my heart pound when our hands barely graze, who I can feel pin me down with his stare. It’s crazy to feel this way, but I’m actually motivated to act like a normal person around…around Chino. Even saying his name, I get jittery and excited and scared, but no one else makes me feel this way. He always reaches for me. No one does that. And I’d reach for him back if there weren’t so many people. And he steals me away, asks me if I’m doing good, and I only answer yes because that’s how I feel with him. Lisa is… She’s a great girl. She’s trying so hard to do this straight thing, so good for her. But I can’t anymore. I don’t care. About her, Father Rodrigo, the wedding. Everything inside me that I’ve bottled up is breaking as I say this, but Chino makes me feel like I’m not such a waste. I think even as this wedding comes through and the cameras start rolling and everyone in the pews watch me closely, I feel like Chino can take me away. And he invited me to. He snuck into my room, asked me to go and run, and right then and there, I knew I wasn’t hopeless. We’re leaving in the morning. I just needed to get this off my chest, and… Just that. This barely scratches the surfaces, but I’ve done more with this than I have anything else. I get hot and sweaty and tingly, thinking about it. That the next time anybody sees me, I could actually be happy. [CLICKS] The wedding of Jack Torres and Lisa Locsin, as mentioned in the tape, aired on television without interruption to controversy stirred by LGBTQIA+ groups on June 7, 2006, one day after the alleged recording of the tape, one week before the body of camera-man Chino Almodovar was found. Twelve years after the incident, the death of Chino Almodovar remains unsolved. The presentation of these tapes by Locsin, another victim of Camp Harromog, however, may lead them to reopen the case, with Father Rodrigo Chua as the main suspect. Torres filed for annulment from Locsin in 2016. His whereabouts remain unknown.
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visual by Jezaira Z. Constantino
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ashes, ashes, we all fall down by Kailah May T. Paceno
“I pray that you and your brother will grow up well. Take care while I’m gone.”
Father boarded the ship on his star-spangled uniform as he made me wear a bonnet to remember him by. “It’s all for the glory of the country,” they said—I have to admit I still have no idea what that means.
“Are you hungry, my love? I’ll try going to the health-care facility and see if they have any rations.”
Mother went out of the house when our cupboards became empty. But really, I would have been fine with eating cassava leaves every day. “Maybe the facility’s on the next hill,” my brother said—that’s probably why we haven’t seen her since then. “Brother, are you up? It’s snowing outside, let’s go and play!”
I opened the door when I didn’t hear his voice. Still fast asleep, I kept shaking him. No matter how much I do so, he was too caught up in his dreams. Strange how his skin was cold to the touch, leaving no trace of the warmth he always gave.
` Mama reminded me not to go outside without asking brother, but the thought of feathery snow blanketing the land after weeks of rubble made me want to watch something pretty—even for just a peek. Grabbing the trusty bonnet Father gave me, I hopped to our backyard in glee. But as I reached my hand towards the sky, hoping to catch a snowflake, my nose scrunched up. “The snow looks different somehow.”
The clear sky was blotted out by a huge shadow overhead, an ink stain on an otherwise perfect view. I could hear a loud buzzing, almost like bees were coming in droves. “A snowstorm so soon?“I held on to my bonnet tighter. Numerous white flashes went off at once and pitch darkness came. I began to lose strength.
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visual by Kirsten Ann G. Limosnero
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The Odyssey of a Shipwreck by Sophia Nicole C. Dayao
Gunshots, screaming, then frantic footsteps trample the deck above our heads. The cabin’s door flies open to reveal the god responsible for the death of the rest of the world.
He’s found us, and we must be the last ones alive.
A three-word whisper as the metal barrel comes eye to eye with my companion. A deafening bang and he topples over, taking me with him. And then, the Earth falls into darkness.
The Helios is sailing on the Pacific Ocean—or so the planet’s people called it. It’s not so much an ocean now, just a seemingly endless body of dead water with occasional carcasses and shipwrecks to block the way.
Though still heavy with sleep, I trudge my feet across the soggy wooden planks of the Helios. Its sail is tattered, half of the deck is missing its walls, and a gaping hole is in place of the ship’s helm.
In other words, my home is now a shipwreck.
I watch as a silhouette forms north, growing darker and more prominent in front of the pinks and blues of the early sunrise as it slowly hooks my ship on a rope and quietly tugs me toward its shore. I make my way up to the crow’s nest and wait.
And wait, and wait.
The sun is shining high and bright above me by the time the ship gets stuck on the sand of what I now realize is an isle. I disembark, careful to avoid the sharp wooden edges on my way down, and land safely on my feet.
Oh. I’m standing on the corpse of a stingray.
Or a baby whale, or a dolphin—how am I supposed to know when all that’s left of it is a skeleton and some rotten flesh. It isn’t anything new—it would actually be more uncommon to run into something alive now. I look around and take in the first new place I’ve seen since that day.
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It’s quite different than what used to be of the Earth—the sand a bit dull, the palm leaves either freshly withered or long decaying, and if you squint, you’ll see a bloodstained patch of water at least two shipwrecks away.
A particularly heavy gush of wind from the east snaps me out of my trance. I face the direction it’s coming from, let it blow through the greasy, uncombed strands of my sunkissed hair, and I close my eyes. Then, the illusion of sea-mist and sun rays haunt me as apparitions take over every nook and cranny of my head—the common dock the Helios keeps coming back to; the people of the tavern our crew has grown familiar with; and him.
His ocean eyes that reflect the blue of the waters, his brown hair that was made crisp by sitting for hours under the sun, and his pirate hands, calloused and scarred, from years of holding on to the Helios’ helm. But now he’s all an apparition of the heatwaves, dock and tavern reduced to planks and screws, and I’m left all alone.
All alone on what used to be the Earth. So, what happens now?
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Ashore
written by Shelian visual by Ma. Avrille Marquiela C. Loraña
Visuals by Xiomara Ann B. Mondragon
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The sky roared and the clouds parted as they gave way for my freefall.
When I emerged from the deep sea that tried to hug me in death, I saw the beauty of the aftermath. Down under it was darker, and the permanent filter of water and sea salt filled my vision, feeding me with false illusions of a moon at arm’s length. But above, the moon was a far speck of dust in the littered sky. I had spent the night rocking, flowing with the lullaby of the sea creatures. There was no raft, no ship for me to sail. I was simply hailed from the heavens, and thrown into the sea. Like a rocket ship they say—I plummeted with that same force, hurling with no breaks as the wind cut through me. When I broke the tension of the ocean surface, the water harshly hissed at me, the intruder who ruined its peace. Then, slowly but surely, the waves returned to their patterned movement— this time with me in its cold grasps.
Just like that, the tides carried me along its crowd as I hoped to find shelter at any bay, if there was one. I fought with my traveler when it tried to call me underneath to join the corals who danced in beauty, but with barely any light. The night blew a chilly breath, and the water hugged me in its coldness, as I warmed myself with the light of the moon. By daybreak I felt like a driftwood of limbs so weary it cannot grasp anything, the weight of the water holding me down. I was a traveler lost at sea without a compass. At this point I hear it, the smashing of waves no longer are incoherent—it sings a melody of sirens in each flow of the current. The sky turned pink, and the colors change and mix in a puddle, until I finally see it rising. A ball of hope came, a phoenix reborn in the sky that lit ablaze. It flashes, and the little crystal light it sent blinds my glassy eyes. It touched my skin ablaze to contrast the liquid blue that gave me cold. Finally, the sun rose in all its glory, no longer shying away behind the fortress of greenery and stone. Where there stands a mountain is an island. The shore awaits me, and is near. As I mindlessly floated into the blue oblivion, I felt that speck of earth grow farther and farther away. My vision was blurred and pained from the saltwater as I watched the tiny isle of hope sail as if it was a ship.
But hope, it will not leave you behind. It stays, as it did in the beginning of time. I regained my strength, fighting against the tides and pushing towards the rocky shores. Then I hear it—the song of the sirens, the melody of the sea. It urges me to return. The sweet humming of the ocean felt like a dream, a promise of rest and comfort. As the sea prepares to swallow me on my escape, I antagonized it. My ears plugged with water, and it only seemed to give the song a stronger voice as it entered my earlobes. The rhythm rocked me to slumber; it tried to take me back to the water. However, this charade of comfort will soon be lost, its voices tiring, its melody dimming as the instruments are worn. This music is for a time, and will never be eternal. I left the sea and its sirens.
With my newfound strength, I carry myself out of the water and let myself touch sand. It was rough and coarse, but it was warm. The small particles gave feeling to my skin, a contrast to the numbness of the water. Then, there I was. After the grueling fight with the sea, I saw the aftermath. An island so empty, but felt so alive as it stretched its blue, green, and brown treasures. There was much to explore.
The island shimmered in its beauty, welcoming me home.
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The first note echoes in my ear, piano keys dancing in my stomach, trumpets tingling my skin, and the guitar plucking my heartstrings, conducting an orchestra of my heart.
My feet are aching. And your back is pretty tired.
Its tune tunes out the talk in the record store. I thumb my way through each dust sleeve and think if you were with me, it’d be your fingertips rummaging through it. I pick up a record I know you’d love, anxious to learn and play it for you. Stepping out, the pre-chorus begins and I feel the overcast of the clouds bouncing off the moods of the passersby. They nod their heads and wave, holding eye contact a second too long.
Oh, girl, it’s you that I lie with.
I start the trek home with the song in my earphones, surrounding the backdrop of trees, thinking of the way you’d dance to the beautiful noise I’d play on the piano, swaying until your feet begin to ache and your back tires out. Our laughter drowned out the sound of the keys as you stumble your way to me, wrapping your arms around my neck. Tucking a fly away behind your ear, your eyes sparkled against the moonlight, our lips beaming with it.
And as the Earth burns to the ground.
Our track continues, but your words wear away the lyrics of the music. The piano strings stretch out, the pitch rising, and the glass sitting on its cover shakes. “I’m sorry,” your eyes reflect the wilted flowers; no feeling of warmth when it meets mine, “it’s better this way.” The ceiling cracks and so does my heart–attached to a memory.
I’m still turning the key’s lock when the door bursts open and your hands reach my body to tug me in to be together again. You drag me toward the couch in front of the television and we lie next to each other.
As the song melts away, so does the image I hope would have happened. But it hasn’t, because as the melody dies out, so does our love built from ashes of a church. And in the caving of our world, my ribcage hugs my heart into the pieces that formed our memory.
The atom bomb locks in.
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Coda
written by Aquilina visual by Xiomara Ann B. Mondragon
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C ountdown
written by Mikaela Tormon visual by Jason Lee J. Pamati-an
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Ten.
The trembling began to grow as beads of sweat slowly dripped from my shaky hands. As I gawk at the clock, the thoughts in my mind race faster and faster, as if they’re horses galloping at a stadium. What will the hours make me face?
Nine.
The clock’s ticking arm continues to mock me and my slowly decaying body. Maniacal laughter comes from each clack, reminding my soul of wasted seconds, wasted opportunities, and wasted breaths.
Eight.
Body. This cycle is inevitable, right? By the time the long black streaks that crown my head fade to gray and my porcelain skin forms loose wrinkles, will I still be able to run towards freedom, or will my legs wobble as I try to outrun the ticking clock?
Seven.
The races have not yet stopped—and this time they have picked up their pace. These worries run off into the farthest corners my mind possesses. As they bolt, lighting courses through them, surging new anxieties to be unlocked. The shell of comfort that embraces me cracks.
Six.
Then there was a sudden ring. The shrilling noise drills through my ears, its piercing sound gets louder and louder every millisecond. Boom! goes the rapid beating of my eardrums, each bang building towards a crescendo. The noises never stopped as I awaited what was to come.
Five.
Only five more counts, only five more breaths. Can my fickle body bear this crushing pain—or will the pillar of ivory bones collapse as I bear the weight of the unknown on my shoulders?
Four.
I try to brace myself for what is to come. New shoes my swollen feet have to fill. At that thought, hot liquid pools in my swelling eyes. These tears threaten to spill, yet I never permit them. This is what I’m supposed to do, right?
Three.
It’s getting closer, and I can feel every organ, every muscle, every bone aging gradually. The little tea party is over, it’s time to leave my raggedy dolls behind. Yet I find myself stuck, fearing to kiss my life goodbye.
Two.
Quicksand. It feels like quicksand. I find myself slowly drowning at the thought of the horrors time is about to bring. This is it. Two more counts, two more breaths. One more, I am closer to death.
One.
“Happy Birthday!”
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How To Say Go o dbye Step one: You don’t.
by Lou Marcial M. Cuesta
As much as we’ve learned the language of farewells, we simply cannot let go. Of tarnished epitaphs. Of interrupted time.
Of the persistence in two, interlocked pinky fingers.
In all of its tangency, nothing was built for departures, only arrivals. Because even when the ground breaks in planes and shards, I will be your genesis. I shall plant brand-new seeds, and plow shiny fields in the aftermath of an exit.
Your exit.
But the next step in saying a proper goodbye is an irony, unraveling at the seams of this piece. Perhaps it does not make sense now, but I pray that it will soon. Should the road divide in-between the living and the dead,
the missed chances and the replayed ecstasy, of you and me.
I have no choice but to continue to step two. We often ask how one says goodbye, but the better wonder is when.
Step two: You do. (Long after your knuckles bruise from the grip, the blood dries out by the tip of your fingernails, and the tears lose their salt and alkaline).
Eventually.
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visual by Andrea Kirsten D. Ramirez
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What A Wonderful World written by Mikaela Tormon visual by Jezaira Z. Constantino
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I look into my window.
Its glaring multicolored lights flash before my eyes as I stare at them with awe. Their movement is filled with much fluidity as if they are waltzing into a sweet symphony. The dynamics of their actions keep me enthralled and I cannot tear my eyes away from its magnificent light. Each of its maneuvers paint a picture, a movement, a message. The green that merges with brown shows me an orchard of evergreen trees. Sometimes these colors also form white boxes with black lines and curves bonding to create figures for me to read. Perhaps the most marvelous of all is the transition of colors from one shade to another, all the while maintaining this singular flow. I cannot pry my eyes off these opened windows—despite their aching and trembling. I continue to stare and stare.
The clock’s clacking has now mixed with the faint buzzing of the computer as the scene playing on screen keeps my eyes too preoccupied to notice anything. Too many hours have passed that I begin to feel boredom creeping into my skin. This is enough. With a swift motion, I close the window shut— only to be greeted with another, which is then followed by another. Too many open windows, yet my lungs feel tight, trying its best to catch up with my flickering eyes. I try to escape this suffocating feeling by slamming my laptop shut, yet it seems I could not escape these glass panes. I look outside of my window.
It was no glass box filled with multicolored pixels. Instead, it paints a picture of the truth. As I stare at what lies in front of me, I begin to daydream about the orchard trees and the deep blue sea. They were once trees that I could touch, feeling its rough woody trunk and its soft emerald leaves. The ocean was once home to a fiesta of vibrant corals and fishes. The water was cool to the touch as the waves would gently brush your sun-kissed skin. From there on, I slip into a tangent of reveries about what the world outside my window used to be. Rose gardens, flocks in the sky, the cool breeze, the smell of lavenders, and the buzzing of a working bee—these were some of the world’s finest. Yet when I look up at the sky, I am suddenly catapulted out of this hazy state as the scent of rust hits my nose. There is hell up above as the skies are now shades of sullen gray from the burning coal. In these times rarely do the birds sing as well. All there is left is the furnace’s ballad as the heaps of steel slowly decay each time the wind blows. That, and the technicolor windows inside boxes you can soak your eyes in.
Perhaps this was bound to happen. The children simply sit and stare at Mother Nature who has tried her best. Of course, she has gone through enough after these men cut and pierced through her skin. A world like this used to be a cautionary tale, but now it is the reality most have to face. Could we have stopped this madness and crumbling of the natural world? Perhaps we could have, perhaps it could’ve been better. Yet here we are, all left to say perhaps as the world burns in front us.
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Worm Go d’s The end.
by Ryan A. Rodriguez
We begin where the world opens itself gray and torn, like the hellish landscapes that haunted those who walked the ground of what was before. In the back of those skulls, the abyss was but a whisper. Only a little pest that echoes behind the loud music they jeer to their whole lives, swimming through the noise as it polluted the Earth. For such was hell’s paradise. Such was the Earth, not long before the trumpets erupted and the blare that had long been buried in Antarctic ice doomed all the air that sought to breathe. The before is a distant memory, a thing inexistent, a stark contrast to you—here—blinking and breathing in the graveyard of a sleeping city.
Amidst the wreckage of the debris, you crawl your way through its weeds, forcing numb limbs to peer through the dark shades from the clouds you know have already turned to mud. As despite the blindness, the pungent musk exudes the rust in the sky, a metallic substance, like that of which has spored through your calves. You would have mourned for your toned artillery, had the sight before you not erupted the after-image of a comical mushroom you’ve only seen in your favorite games and comic books. Now, all you can do is mourn—for the death of a planet. Although, you would have never imagined yourself to be the type of person to stare blankly into the skeletons of the concrete mammoths you’ve once loathed. For you are witness to an event that’s earth-shattering.
But enough about you, you’re only here to say goodbye after all. Soon enough, your lungs will know how your kind no longer belongs in this world.
For as the buzzing creatures wailed for the lost souls that laid their bony statues onto the dirt, they too will soon plant its new specie of tree— white and made of chitin. We now end, in the beginning.
As the ball of fire breaks, the soil is dead and fertile for another teeming.
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visual by Sean Carlo O. Samonte
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DEFINITION OF TERMS
prepared by Ryan A. Rodriguez inspired by the poetry, stories, and themes found in this folio apocalypse, n. - Here lies the bones of the universe—wrapped in its coffin of endless nothing underneath a graveyard of dead suns. No lungs to breathe the murderous air nor stomach to be filled with charred remains. All that’s allowed to devour is the void, a spherical spinning shape protruding against the dark space. The resulting magnum opus of eons of science, mathematics, and hubris, writes all the universe’s answers on the black ocean, where everything sinks. The bottomless pit remains stagnant—until something once dead claws through the silence. ash, n. - “From ashes, we come, to ashes, we return.” You don’t know if that’s something you’d wholeheartedly believe in for you didn’t bother with things outside your fists and the punching sack in front of it. All you knew is how to break every bone of your body, clench the pickaxe till your grip showed nerves to strike the gold of the Earth, all the while carrying each boulder of dynamite that no passing bug accidentally explodes on your feet. You’re quite charming really, but it’s as if you lived no life for yourself at all, and that this spherical world isn’t this biomass of scattered Jurassic fossils, stretches of blue ocean, and filters of tectonic plates. But this outline of a Roman-chiseled nose, stubbly chin, and a set of handsome white teeth that likes to call you “dear”. Certainly, you’re not the brightest, and you’d sooner learn that even that didn’t prevent you from knowing. Knowing that even in your godly arms of Atlas, the world has gone to a pile of ash. awake, v. - Eyes melt open on some flare of dandelions up in the sky. The split second before our consciousness settles in the real world is a painting so beautiful—a rose gown floating down a wedding aisle, and sunshine sparkling in my lungs, all bouncing in falsettos and melodies till the petals drip, down to the ashtray. I would have given more than miniature parachutes out of my beating heart then. I would’ve stitched makeshift locks around the words, “Will you be my beloved?” Because it doesn’t hurt to eternalize a dream, but staying awake all night, staring at everything you could’ve done differently, does. black, adj. - Would it be so weird to say my parents like a color? I theorize they have a thing for formality, like how they like to look dignified in three layers of button-up shirts, sweat sticking against flesh, and polyester all for someone they don’t even know. Or some kind of tradition, with how adults form lines of black suits and sounds of wailing on green cemeteries. Or how their eyes sink to an empty bleakness when they look at me. I’ve known this blankness for as long as I was born, for as long as I’ve known—them—that it became all too familiar for me. Like a home that I really want to scrape out of, but the dry paint is too thick to escape away from. wreckage, n. - The smell of dried flowers sings along the rocky coastline, and the grainy foam tugs my legs to reach for the remains. Whatever remnants live and scream for the shore, the dead weight muffles me tighter with the sand. And here is my messiah, the bearer of truth—the cold grasp on my limping limbs. Yet I’d
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sooner remember how easy it is to twist the will of weak and creaking wind sails. Something far from what I am, I was who breathed through the wind and tamed it with my bare hands. But I am even farther from those things, for I lay here, a corpse with little life. But in my breathing, I am met with two fates. To be drifted like log into blue deserts or create a firepit of broken planks to spite the messiahs. dawn, n. - They say that after every rain is a new beginning. That something beautiful begins anew from the rubble of an empty disaster. Yet sometimes the broken ground is just so difficult to appease, no life tries to crawl out of the wasteland that’s been hurt by things you can’t ever hope to control. It’s difficult, being that grain of seed growing itself through the cement, not until you fall from the sky. A pair of trailblazers burning through the teardrops of the gray rain. The catalyst that sweeps all the soot and cement off my feet, carrying me along as the flowers sprout from the deathbed flooded with the sky’s tears. The storms I once cried fall into a drizzle, and the skies open a new light; a new type of warmth submerges the solid flood. deathbed, n. - The castles I built spoke to me in my sleep, towering their golden and obsidian heads across the heavens. An ornament to the gods’ palace in the dusting clouds, that they caressed their divine touch among the walls. I would know, as it pleased them enough to grant it to me, a creation of the earth that they chose for perfection. Deservedly so, for nothing stood against me, may it be the sifting sands, paper cards, or the breadth of oceans, all were mine to grasp and shape. And so I dug through the soil, fists through steel, and fingers through glass, and all that there was till my glory became erected upon the Earth. Glory at the expense of something borrowed. And for playing god, I’ve been abandoned. On this bed, truly did the crumbling castles speak to me—of my ignorance, of my greed, of my mortality. destruction, n. - On frigid nights, the wallpaper peels out the walls. The observers of our rapture blink their eyes to our burning clothes. Do you think that our nakedness is our absolution? Where we are made empty of fear, and all that is left is our sweet ending extinction. The apostles await our answers. And for this, we choose to spit on the graves they’ll bury us in. For there is no sweeter destruction than flaring the eyes that watch over our every kiss. eschaton, n. - We play hide-and-seek behind the shadows of the grand curtain. Prancing about the slippery glass floor where the dark cosmos is visible below, and in this hollow void, I thank the demiurge that the brightest stars are somewhere easier to see. Located in your sullen eyes where I press closer. And so here we lay, quiet behind red curtains, searching for the final unfolding—our big bang— in waiting. extinction, n. - They say that beauty is a curse as much as long life in this world is a blessing. But in the pupils of a human to a fly who lived five seconds longer than an ant neither vanity nor longevity matters. For all that is true is that they dissipated into nothingness. Even you, bipedal monarch of the world, all silver pearls and steel machinery to think you’re gods of the world—are nothing but bugs floating on a hunter’s net. Look at your cows, chickens, and goats, do you not smell the stench hidden beneath your perfume? The toxic cloud of skeleton bugs you breathe? How long do you think that will last? fear, v. - “To fear is to survive,” would chant those who erected monuments out of their pride. Yet as full of words are their statues, their wisdom will sooner crumble and unearth a human truth. That fear exists out of our incapacity—to stare into the eyes of what dead men see. flashes, n. - The ceiling begins its peeling, my dear, the ground crumbling like how our lips part after every bitter goodbye. So take my hand that no thing in this dying world shall ever be bitter. That for every crumble of the Earth, I’ll have your
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arms carry me across the bruising crevices of the crust. That for every spewage of lava, I’ll have your soft kiss bring chills down my spine and up my neck. That for every crack of human bone, let us make them instruments of dance to accompany our buggy waltz. For the apocalypse is something we can’t dance away, but it is something we can rock together with. Shall we give them our farewell dance, my dear? goodbye, n. - Where we end, and I begin. green, n. - Is the color of death, of smooth vegetables that sustain life through pirouetting on markets like a fountain of plucked flowers. And like trimmed trees that line across the yards of every housing unit—all made of plastic fiber and styrofoam. A texture that feels so familiar and so suffocating, much like the air that slides through our lungs like solid objects. All hail man’s new Eden these creations have professed. And all hail humanity’s progress towards their depletion. All hail the papers we tinted green to consume taste like rust. grief, n. - Every cup of coffee in the morning burns your throat; every Saturday night of DVD tapes sting your ears like static; every crystalline memory is your nightly dose of insomnia. You feel the sun rays, bolts of crossbows ready to plunge so you don’t walk outside. You don’t tug the blanket closer to warm yourself to sleep nor switch the record off the buzzing sound. You don’t do all these things to let the sun through the curtains again because doing will hurt. More than you’re already squirming through. And because doing something about it will truly mean you will let go of your pain. Of her. healing, n - They say the plummeting is all that there is in these cliffs. That in this dark frozen crater, all that I can see is everything that I once was, all buried and forgotten in the depths. Perhaps descension is punishment for those fallen from grace, those who thought they could soar and beat their wings to the sky indefinitely—not until their feathers burn from the flare. But I know I’ve never been an angel, I have no wings to beat the mountain’s height. All that ever beats with all my being is my heart that scales the rocks through my limbs. And these same hands know that if ever I shall fall, my blood surges no way else, but up towards the heights. heaven, n. - Your eyes. hell, n. - What becomes of us, those cast by our breathing of air—thrown stones for an existence we didn’t wish for? We, in the ignorance and innocence of hoping for a kinder world, have it fall apart with every step we take. They’ve branded the clouds unclean, wind, and ground, defiled in our wake. They say that we should turn to the sun, and leap into the air below the pit of darkness so we can fly and become human. But they’ve clipped our wings, and castrated our voices to reach for help. Then, we have nowhere left to run but our own grave. And with everything abandoned, we dig deeper. kiss, n. - A scar left by someone you still hope returns. life, n. - I’ve loathed and loved this existence as many times as there are people among the walking crowd, perhaps an unending wheel of irony is my life’s goal. Like a wildness of jigsaw pieces scattered across renaissance paintings, I try to piece the universe into what I can and make sense of what comes before me, but there’s no hope in trying when you’ve already got me figured out. And the answer lies close in your hands trailing in my cheeks like tears. For this sheltered, quiet thing that I am will come bursting with words and things I’d rather anyone not hear. But until the train tracks end at our destination, it’s a mystery. midnight, n. - The hour where the ceiling thunders through the chandeliers and the rusting bolts quake against the wooden planks tethered on the windows. Here,
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veiled mothers glance their welling eyes to crying cradles, for as much as the blazing fireplace prickles their skin, outside their doors is a world drowning in flames. So, they crawl into their fur coats and venture outside the crumbling house—it’s better to be destroyed by things you think you didn’t create—and lock the door to their homes. In their folly, the children are left to dust, but the fireplace only rages brighter. panaog, v. - Sa kung diin gahulat siya para sa imo, kung sino man na. Kay ara siya sa babaw gatiid saimo. Waay may nakahibalo saiya ngalan kay ang kinahanglan ta lang makilala nga ang pasensiya ya lip ot pa sa duha ka pikit sang mata. Amo na nga hindi ka gid maglumpat sa punta ka bundok nga daw kabalo ka gid maglupad, o kung magsalom sa itom nga buho sa dalom ka suba, o magsilinggit sang bulig sa sulod sang mahipos nga gubat. Kay ikaw nga tinuga, hindi na da imo lugar. Panaog ka dira, indi ka Diyos. perfect, adj. - What does it take to be the most impeccable thing in this world? You would know the answer. You, in your polished violin and shining bow. Oh, how you would echo your seamless melodies in the way your fingers struck every note of the string to sing. You would go on for minutes and hours and whole orchestras, all in perfect harmony and astounding applause. But eventually, your human hands will go discordant. A golden child is still a stumbling little child after all. Your heartstrings will stop, and you will fall—hard on some passerby who won’t even bat an eye to all this grandeur. When it comes to love, you’re not so perfect, aren’t you? rebirth, n. - But what if what comes after the end is a home? That as you fall beneath the depths, with your last aspirations and dreams escaping to a tiny bubble, hands numbing of coral particles and regrets, will come in touch with soft sandy ground. Where in your failing senses, wakes the bioluminescent creatures alive. They then dance in their soft bodies, and warm lights on the void’s dead ground, to whisk your bruised body above ground again. And give life in yet another time, and a warmer place. What if the sun doesn’t fade into the mountains forever? But rises again? smoke, n. - Black. The dust forms across the air. And I breathe its bold tint through the mouth, throat flaring and nose scrunched up for the particles. In the sky, no picturesque horizon comes to keep our sunset reveries warm. The cold kiss of rain on my cheeks stings it all away. But perhaps, there is consolation in the empty space beside me, that you’re not here to see me, struggling to cough you out of my system. time, n. - She comes, a god perched on her shoulders, with no power to be vanquished and no power to wield. For as though you could defeat and live through every tick of the clock, the battlefield you claim victory over is her hands, the gears of every motion you force comes from her mouth, and her eyes see a million steps ahead, to your slow inevitable decay. Yet all the while she is not your ally, she is not your enemy. For your victories are her doing, and your resurrections, her wish. It would seem a farce, but the laws of our existence have it that our small human hands follow the trail the universe is carved upon. So we tread her maze and rejoice whenever we can, for our unending struggle against destruction is simply their homeostasis.
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visual by Claire Denise S. Chua Chua 74
ACKNOW LEDGMENTS To the contributors, for being the mysterious forces that guided our hands to every movement. Alone, we are only specks of dust in this great dark universe, but through the crumbs of light you shed, one stroke painted a masterpiece, one word wrote a grand adventure, and one man became a whole island. To the Kapawers, for rowing the boat towards the end of the river crossing no matter how stagnant or how beastly the tides had been. You braved through the storms, hand in hand as we neared the water’s edge. And through each embraced shoulder, it had made every disaster split to reveal the way to paradise. As hope is called to all that are washed by sea, may we drift to new dirt roads, leave only mud behind, and the footprints to trace back home. For without all of you, there would’ve been no warm shelter built to keep us away from the storm. To Ms. Rhiznan Faith D. Fernandez, for being the seer of our novice passions. We wouldn’t have survived all the catastrophies that weighed us down and turned every hurdle into something brighter had it not been for your hand on our shoulders. We thank you for guiding our shots in the dark to land outside perilous thunders but on destinations where it mattered. To Kyle Bryan T. Palparan and Oona Maria Aquilina C. Oquindo, for being the sign post for every crossroad, unraveling new directions where this collected scrambling might go. I admired how you came to the call as soon as the need arose and you remained vigilant through the disasters. Through your talents, passion, and inquisitiveness, the bleakness of the sky and the steepness of cliffs were made clearer towards a utopia I didn’t know could even exist. To Ana Dominique G. Manabat for defying all known conventions of slumber and tearing each stroke of brush a dimension of mysticism. You’ve brought more than color into something incomprehensible but a glimpse of reason. Every translation of your art made little words or big to a reality that I only saw in my dreams. The world might be an unending tragedy filled with questions but you’re certainly one of those mysterious hooded figures in black that tells us how to make sense of things outside our mortality. To the creatives, for welling the endless vial of “the uncertain” with your brilliant minds. As any parchment had once been dark, you’ve patiently filled each corner of the paper with your passion and magic. Truly each page of light torn from your heart will scratch its mark into the veins of these collected remnants and paint us one footprint closer to the answer of our greatest questions. To friends and family, for bearing our cross in this rocky march. For as the great unknowable has cradled us into your arms, it is as known that you have loved and molded us into what we are today. And for this, you are a part of this creation more than the catastrophes that had sundered through each of our hardships. To Sabrina Ysabelle C. Ledesma, for clearing the dust off the sandstorms and pulling me out to somewhere I can see the stars. I treasure how you taught not only me but the entire literary team how to navigate the constellations, that we can chart a path on our own through the wilderness and out of a path of ruin. But you not only did so with passion, but with patience and regard for things that mattered—us. You told us how there are mysteries as vast as the universe and each unexpected catastrophe they bring happens to the best of us. Now, we can easily chain these apocalypses into something that can enlighten us. And to be the bearer of these artifacts you’ve left—I am grateful.
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KAPAWA S.Y. 2021—2022
THE OFFICIAL ENGLISH STUDENT PUBLICATION OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. LA SALLE - SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL
LOU MARCIAL M. CUESTA | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF JEWEL IRISH S. BELASCUAIN | ASSOCIATE EDITOR NICOLE FRANCES H. SAZON | MANAGING EDITOR ANGELI M. GEROSO | NEWS EDITOR FRANCIS EXEQUIEL P. AMPIL | FEATURE EDITOR GIOLLAN HENRY P. DEMAULO | SPORTS EDITOR RYAN A. RODRIGUEZ | LITERARY EDITOR JOSEPH BRYANT J. DE LOS SANTOS | LAYOUT, GRAPHICS, AND PHOTOS EDITOR ANA DOMINIQUE G. MANABAT | CREATIVE LAYOUT EDITOR LEON EMANUEL E. ADVINCULA | ASST. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KYLE LENARD A. MANGUBAT | ASST. ASSOCIATE EDITOR THERESE MARIETTE P. ROSOS | ASST. MANAGING EDITOR SOPHIA NICOLE C. DAYAO | ASST. NEWS EDITOR PRIMA YSABELA S. ARCIAGA | ASST. FEATURE EDITOR JULLIANA RENEE S. OGAPONG | ASST. SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY EDITOR SEAN CARLO O. SAMONTE | ASST. SPORTS EDITOR OONA MARIA AQUILINA C. OQUINDO | ASST. LITERARY EDITOR MA. AVRILLE MARQUIELA C. LORAÑA | ASST. LAYOUT, GRAPHICS, AND PHOTOS EDITOR CLAIRE DENISE S. CHUA | ASST. CREATIVE LAYOUT EDITOR
VINZ ANDREW S. CORESIS ANNA SOPHIA C. GALZOTE MELISSA E. GEQUILLANA SAM HERVEY T. SABORDO NEWS WRITERS ASHGAN AL RAYEH MOH’D IDREES B. BKHEET RYBA ANGELA N. MODERACION SPORTS WRITERS PAUL GABRIELLE T. CORRAL ZAMANTHA ZAYNN J. CHIEFE RISHIANA CLAIRE D. DADIVAS MILES U. GUANCIA KIRSTEN ANN G. LIMOSNERO MARIA MIKAELA H. TORMON FEATURE WRITERS
ANGELA MARIE N. AMODIA AIKKA HEART L. DAVID GEORGE MARGAUX M. GITANO ALTHEA D. MARIJANA KAILAH MAY T. PACENO KYLE BRYAN T. PALPARAN JOSE PAOLO P. PARROCO MARIE SHELLA ANN G. PATIGAS LITERARY WRITERS JEZAIRA Z. CONSTANTINO JASON LEE J. PAMATI-AN JANNA M. REMUS ILLUSTRATORS STEPHANIE ANNE O. ALOLON TIMOTHEE RAMON S. CONSING XIOMARA ANN B. MONDRAGON PHOTOJOURNALISTS
JEWELYN L. LIBERATO SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY WRITER
ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ LAYOUT ARTIST
RHIZNAN FAITH D. FERNANDEZ, LPT MODERATOR
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