About the cover We recklessly vomit out words so that we could shamelessly swallow them back in.
cover art by Leerick Bautista
MORPHEME Issue No. 1 A.Y. 2016-2017
mor • pheme noun. /’môr,fēm/ - a writer’s thorough armor in surviving the war of dying.
Elaissa Bautista, Leigh Anne Darlene Dispo
Literary Editors
Katherine Anne del Rosario, Bea Bacit, Kim Nicole Toledo, Edison Jared Serato Writers
Beatriz Abratique, Alexandria Bernadette Villarente, Glenielle Nanglihan, Maria Andrea Gale Martinez Contributors
Cris Matthew Canada, James Lapera Artists
Leerick Bautista, Carl Jayson Logenio, Jerry Mae Detic Layout Artists
artwork by Leerick Bautista
FOREWORD
Here’s the thing: we are all drafts waiting to be written. Whether you’re a kid wishing to acquire wings, a geek desiring to change the world with newly invented chemical elements, a benched jock hoping to shoot that one winning buzzer-beater shot, a politician’s daughter saving guts to turn in her father’s corruptions, a school’s varsity player working out at dawn for the country’s pride, and even that one golden child in Mindanao praying to God for the wars to stop, you’re still worth writing for. (We) are all stories and poems inked on this one giant book, the world. We are a combination of fantasy and reality, superheroes and villains, and beginnings and endings. In Linguistics, we (are) the meaningful morphological unit of a language that cannot be further divided: Morpheme. At the slightest desire to conquer your fears and reach your dreams, Morpheme is here to untame your heart to be brave and achieve immortality—through literature. We write, we read, we remember, in that we’ll be remembered. There is no excuse to not become (legendary).
Elaissa Bautista
Literary Editor
Something about nakedness is striking—that utter bare and pale from countless bursts of colors. Like sometimes when you place your wrist down and try to write down the right words, you see plush red blooming across the paper. Sometimes it’s black and blue, like the way the ocean recedes across the horizon and you are reminded of warmth in closed spaces. There are rare moments that it’s yellow, like throbbing teeth marks under your jaw that you don’t want to bother touching—but you touch them anyway. You touch them anyway. You place your palm, your fingertips, and cup it. And you know it’s been days, months, years, but you don’t let it slide down your grasp. You don’t because it’s the sunset he’s had with you—because it’s the cup of coffee you had when you had no one else. It’s the story that brought you back. It’s the punctuation to your narrative—the poetry tucked in your tongue. So you rip it apart. Slide it over your shoulders. Strip it down your back. You fold them into twos—or even fours. Sometimes you slid them inside envelopes. Sometimes you leave it at ajar doors or inside a stranger’s locker. But sometimes, it’s stacked along names, placed together in ink and paper, like a bunch of goodies. But this time, it’s a bunch of contradictions—of mouthful absences and yesterdays. It’s morpheme—you weren’t out of nothing—you were bursting in colors, and now you’re nude to /be/, to /become/, and /becoming/.
Leigh Dispo
Literary Editor
MESSAGE
The timespan of the existence of literature is as innumerable as the stars. And its impact is continuously felt and recognized in present times. Its provision ranges from profound knowledge and valuable lessons to sheer entertainment and emotional arousals. It is used by people as a way to transmit and receive information, and has even been used as a weapon. Through literature, people can articulate and communicate different emotions and sentiments, in the form of stories or poems. Its significance is one that will certainly be difficult to disprove, and impossible to forget. In Morpheme’s first issue, we give you the parents of our writings, the souls of our words, and the beginning of our stories: letters A to Z. We unravel stories of great heights, profound depths, inevitable heartaches, and vanishing selves. And this literary folio would not have been possible without the following: - the Senior High School students of De La Salle UniversityDasmariùas, who expressed their thoughts, shared their ideas, and contributed their works for this issue of Morpheme; - the readers of this literary folio for being our muse; - Ms. Jesser Eullo, our publication adviser, for her unwavering support and guidance throughout the whole process, and for sharing her expertise; - the Editorial Board of La Estrella Verde for being diligent towards their work; - and most of all, God almighty, who gave us these talents to use and share to our fellow.
Micah Juliana Montano Editor in Chief
Table of Contents
A 10 B 11 C 12 D 14 E 15 pril Rough Drafts
K 23 L 24 M 25 N 26 O 28 U 36 V37 W 38 X 40 Y42
F16 G18 H19 I 21
J22
P30 Q 31 R 33 S 34 T35 Z 44
A
pril Rough Drafts by Elaissa Bautista
There’s a deep blue sea at the end of the city, that I went to, when I couldn’t find words to write. Long drives, crashing waves, a cold night under the stars, set mood for a burning fire, at the center of the shoreline. I laid at the soft gray sand, eyes locked upon the Big Dipper, and wondered if I could ever, feel something out of nothingness. I’d usually find words to write, no matter how beautiful the world gets. But for some reason, I couldn’t. There was no more music in my poems, no more terrors in my horrors, no more sorrows in my tragedies, and no more love in my romances. Then I choked at the thought of them calling me a writer. Even the beach called me a loser, and I undoubtedly believed it. With a hole in my spirit, and smoke covering my heart, the fire in the pit faded into a small flame, and I watched it turn into ashes. That’s when I realized— my soul was paralyzed.
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B
eauty and the Beast
(An excerpt from the story Disney didn’t tell you about) by Elaissa Bautista
artwork by James Lapera
But, plot twist: when Beast kissed Beauty, they reversed roles.
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C
hildhood Friends by Kim Nicole Toledo
“Mommy, look! There’s a playground over there! Can I play there?” I asked Mommy as I yanked her dress. “Please, Mommy! Please!” I ask eagerly. “All right, just don’t go too far, okay? Mommy is busy fixing our things. Do you like our new house?” Mommy asks. “Yes, yes! I like the playground! I’m going to play, Mommy!” I say as I ran to the playground. The playground looks so fun! They had a tower of slides, and four pairs of swings, and a see-saw, and monkey bars, and a sand box. So many colors! I bet Mommy will like this if she sees it. She loves taking pictures. The other side of the playground looks sad, but this side is happy and full of colors. I run to the tower of slides and I see a girl, she looks like the same age as me! Nice, I’ll have a new friend! “Hello! What’s your name?” I ask the girl with a smile on my face. “Uhhh...what is YOUR name?” Now that I can see her face clearly, she looks like a sister to me. I hope we can be friends! She is wearing a dirty white skirt with flowers to her knee. I want those, it’s cute. I’ll tell Mommy later. “My name is Riza! What’s your name? Can we be friends? Me and Mommy just moved here,” I say, trying to be friendly. “I’m Monique. Of course, we can be friends! I’m sad and alone. No one wants to be friends with me.” She frowns. “Don’t be sad! Come on, let’s play!” Monique and I go down the tower of slides and we begin to play with her ball in the sand box. She is fun! Why did no one want to be friends with her? That’s a bummer. “Monique, why are you alone?” I ask Monique, but I hear footsteps so I turn my back to Monique and I see Mommy walking towards Monique and me. “Honey, who are you talking to?” Mommy asks. “Hi, Mommy! This is Monique! She’s my new friend! I met her a while ago. She’s shy but really friendly.” “Baby, don’t scare me. You are alone.”
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artwork by Carl Jayson Logenio
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D
ating Tagpuan
by Katherine Anne del Rosario
Minsan, Nakita kita sa dating tagpuan. Sa ilalim ng malawak na karagatan Ng mga bituing walang kasing liwanag. Doon mo ako iniwan, Doon pa rin kita hinahanap-hanap. Minsan, Bumalik sa akin ang mga salitang iyong binitawan. Ang lahat ng away at alitan, Mga yakap at sumpaan. At sa bawat pagpikit ng aking mga mata, Ngiti mo pa rin ang aking nasisilayan. Minsan, Bumabalik pa rin sa akin, mahal, Kung paano mo ako nilisan. Ipagpatawad mo sana Dahil noon pa man Ikaw na rin ang pinag-alayan Ng mga tulang kahit kailan man Ay hindi rin masisilayan ng iyong mga matang Anumang gawin ko’y hindi ko malimutan. Ipagpatawad mo sana Ang hindi ko pagbitaw Kahit noong una pa man Ay wala rin naman akong pinanghawakan.
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Pasensya ka na, sinta, Kung tila hindi ko magawang Ikaw ay pakawalan. Pero, mahal ko, hindi mo yata naiintindihan. Sa’yo ko lang naramdaman Kung paano magkaroon at biglang mawalan, Kung paano magmahal nang walang kasiguraduhan. Tanging ikaw lamang Ang nakagising sa puso kong pagod nang lumaban. At tanging ikaw lamang At ikaw pa rin Hanggang sa burahin ng panahon Ang mga alaala ng ating nakaraan. At kapag nabaon na kita sa limot, Pupunta ako sa ating dating tagpuan. Sa ilalim ng malawak na karagatan Ng mga bituing walang kasing liwanag. Doon ako makakalaya, Doon kita iiwan.
E
ngkanto by Beatriz Abratique HCO11
As I went back to the forest to tell him the good news that I’m pregnant, I was confused and lost in direction because I couldn’t see his cabin while I was walking. I felt how the wind blew, the chirping of birds; the pure silence in this place made me reminisce how he used to be my comfort zone and how contented we were even if we didn’t go out on fancy dates. He toured me in his place. He gave me endless facts about everything we saw. We reached the top of the mountain, and I thought that it was the most relaxing and satisfying feeling—like watching the whole world. We were like Adam and Eve, the only people in the world loving each other; no discriminations, no judgements, only us. I got myself up to find his cabin again. Hours went by, I saw an old middle aged man and asked him if he knew any cabin houses here. “Dear, there are no houses here, this is an abandoned forest that is used by tourists for hiking and mountaineering,” the old man said. “No, there is a man living here with his old cabin house. He’s a tall man with white skin, he used to live here. How come there isn’t a house here?” I yelled at him. I felt uneasy and tensed. My vision began spinning; I started to close my eyes and strongly held my head like I would have collapsed anytime. The old man said they believed there was an engkanto who used to live in a tree, not in a cabin. It was just in my imagination that there was a house. Instead, there was just a tree. “The engkanto had just found favor in you,” the old man said.
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F
inal and Fading
by Katherine Anne del Rosario
I spent the longest minutes of my life waiting for my grandfather to die. It was dark out, but the bleak white walls and harsh white light of the hospital didn’t do much to help. I remember feeling sickened by the smell of the sick. Nurses were rushing about. I was tired, but not tired enough; the pang of sadness settling in my bones felt sharp as ever. I looked at his gray hair; remembered sniffing it whenever we took our afternoon naps when I was younger. His crinkly smile; heard his booming laughter ringing in my ears. His strong hands; how they held me when he tried to teach me how to ride a bike. It was the first time I looked at him and thought he looked old, lying there with all those tubes going in and out of him. His eyes looked weary―they kept closing from time to time―and his rough, calloused fingers were turning colder by the second. I didn’t understand much, but I understood enough to know that his body was failing him, and that it was only a matter of time. A minute passed. Then two. I stood up and went out of the room; it was too much for me to bear. I stared at the dingy walls and let myself get lost in the constant bustling and moving around. In the room beside my grandfather’s, a family was crying. I passed by the chapel and a woman was tearfully praying the rosary. By the emergency room, a man was moaning in pain. There was nothing poignant or beautiful about it, like some writers would have you believe. Falling apart was all that it was―no rhyme could turn it into poetry, no flowers could make it look pretty. Pain’s an ugly, dirty word. I sat down, awash with grief, and felt myself getting tossed around by the waves and into the rocks. It took me a minute. Then two. I walked back to the room and found my grandfather with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling very slowly. “I love you,” I whispered. And waited some more.
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artwork by Carl Jayson Logenio
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The
G
reat and Lonely Deities by Edison Serato
The stars shone and dawns arrived for half a revolution; A story of two beings, unfolds like kingdoms under demolition. He was just as powerful as her, as they both demonstrated their luminosity; So radiant that they didn’t have space for the solicitude they barely feel and see. Little did they know, the gusts of wind can hear what they were really yearning for; He longs for the strength to let go, as he watches her look at someone who can have her more. As she is a soldier, who constantly guards her heart and saving it for who is it to live; Whilst he is a victor, who secretly fights the urge to give the love she doesn’t even need.
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H
alloween Meets Valentine by Elaissa Bautista
Valentine gets out of her bicycle and walks to the nearest wooden bench by the river, where she and her friend usually meet and talk every Saturday. Today is different from all the Saturdays, today is the day she plans to tell him that she loves him. Wearing her newly bought floral pink dress, white sneakers, and perfectly braided hair, Valentine holds the freshly baked cupcakes she single-handedly made for him. She glances at her silver wristwatch, realizing that her lover is already five minutes late to their supposed six o’clock meeting. He has never been late on their hangouts until now, which makes Valentine a little worried. Approximately twenty meters away, Valentine sees her friend in his usual all-black attire, walking towards her direction. Her doubts suddenly fade as she flashes a hopeful smile in her lips, saying to herself, “This is it. This is it. You can do it, Valentine.” The faster he takes a step, the faster her heart beats. The moment he reaches his destination, he stares at her with his confusing trademark look. He has always given her that look—the kind of look that makes her want to hope for something more surreal that friendship. He sits closely beside her with his thigh slightly touching hers. As they stay quiet for minutes, small raindrops suddenly fall, yet none of them move. That has always been their some kind of super power: nothing can break the silence between the two of them. “There’s something I want you to know,” Valentine cracks the stillness between them and looks straightly into his big brown eyes. “I l—” “This is the last time I’ll meet with you,” he interrupts her with words she never expects to hear from him. “I…I can’t meet with you anymore.” “Wh—what? But…why?” Valentine tries her best to keep all tears from streaming down her face. It’s a good thing that the rain is cooperating with her as she hides her pain. The raindrops falling onto her skin seem like an ice killing her with coldness. Even the cupcakes are soaking wet, just like the both of them; just like her heart; just like her hope. “I don’t think I’m the one for you.” “That’s…cliché,” she says as she stares at the flowing river, hoping that she gets to flow away like the water. How she wants to escape from this moment. “You’re cliché.” “You’re the one who’s cliché,” he tells her at his most anxious voice she ever heard from him, “What are these?!” He takes the box of cupcakes from her little hands. “…heart shaped cupcakes? You think I’d like them? You think I’d like you because of these?” “That’s stupid! I just want to—” “You will tell me you love me today, right?” Valentine looks down and tries to ignore what he says. He’s right. He’s always right. He’s no fortune-teller but he always gets her right, even at times when she can’t understand herself. That’s one of the reasons why she loves him.
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As he looks at her, he realizes how much he hurt her. Trying to change his uneasy voice to a more calming one, he says, “The moment I first laid my eyes on you, I got scared. I got scared of messing my own life just because of that one damn smile. I got scared for the very first time in my life. I was always the one who scares people away… but at that moment, I got scared. Not because of devils, demons and stupid wandering ghosts… I got scared because of an angel.” He holds her hand, hoping that she would stop from crying as he continues speaking the words his mouth dreads to express, “But I went along with it. I went along with destiny fucking my life. I’d walk from work to home, almost getting myself killed by fast bus driving the roads just because my mind was occupied by your beauty. I’d wake up every morning, hoping that it’s already Saturday, when it’s not and it’s intoxicating! You were becoming my life…” Removing her hands under his, Valentine wipes her tears. “So, what’s the problem with it? We can become each other’s lives.” “The problem is…I’m still, until now, scared. You will never remove the terrors in me. You will never make me feel not scared.” “I can try.” “Don’t.” He stands up, indicating his cue to leave. “I’m taking off. Please… don’t chase me. Don’t hang your heart on me. I don’t accept hearts, Valentine. I stab them. I destroy them. I don’t know why but I always end up destroying everything I touch.” “Don’t leave yet! I can risk my heart breaking—” “You’re not Valentine if your heart gets broken.” Unspoken, just looking through his lover’s eyes that speak a thousand, there’s only one thing that’s not blurry in Valentine’s vision: her love for Halloween. “Goodbye, Valentine.” Halloween turns around, about to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to him. She desperately grabs his hands which are both too cold to break her touch. In three words, she hopes he’ll stay…. “I love you.” “Let’s not scare each other with these words anymore,” …But he still walks away.
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I
n the waiting room by Leigh Dispo
In the waiting room, there is sheer emptiness in the form of crimson light. On one corner, the tender leaves violet carcasses on hollowed chests. The blue-skinned moon and its pale, black heart make holes on the transparent and transitory and lightweight universe. These black holes and still planets blend and strike relentlessly. In the waiting room, in this second epilogue, the barefooted and empty-handed burn together—a storm within lukewarm lungs.
But in the waiting room, when the stranger staggers into the room—still, silent— the earth will hum and the crevices will overwhelm: the strangers are staggering, still; for in the waiting room, when the acknowledgements are said and done, the hurricane in these veins and the ache in these verses will drown the homes and seas and you will be in the blinding red once more.
The narrator spells out the men in red coats— a crooked punctuation, a hasty abduction. This is when the lady in yellow starts to shriek. This is when the curtains fall, but not entirely, and the heart on guard seeps into the floorboards.
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J
eopardy on Canvas
by Glenielle Nanglihan SOC11
I want to paint you in a grand Pollock manner To drip across the canvas with reckless abandon, Traversing the space with divine purpose I was never good at painting, But I want to paint you For if I could suddenly paint: A portrait of you, nailed to the walls of my soul Your profile bathed in sunlight, cheeks the color of rouge Right before you tell me “You’re unpredictable.” Freeze! Freeze this moment in time To hell with cameras and snapshots! I want to labor over every inch of your body Craft every watt of your smile One problem, though. FUCK. I still don’t know how. In my mind: Fresco on the ceiling, rival of Da Vinci Reality: Belly dancing technicolor splashed on walls but my quivering, talentless hands still dream of saturating you in endless hues, of forming your body in astonishing ways as you did my smile I’ll tenderly place my story on your skin with every brushstroke The hopeful writer, fucking hopeless in painting, So in love with you, That I’ll paint you with words instead
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K
iss and Virginity by Bea Bacit
artwork by Carl Jayson Logenio
Behind the kisses of her mascara Is a doubtful heart That never crosses neither Mountains nor valleys Behind the virginity of his soul Is a heart full of risks That always drifts either Rivers or oceans
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L
ust by Bea Bacit
artwork by Carl Jayson Logenio
Fragmented skin; beneath these ocean-crossing palms. Miles and miles, I swivel; with the grip of your lips.
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M
oons Underground*
by Leigh Dispo
She was last seen riding a black pickup. She was in her early twenties—21, maybe. Her windows were down and she was singing along to a pop song over the radio. A bystander says she was wearing a pale dress, her hair in a ponytail. He cannot remember anything else. It was only after a week, at exactly three in the afternoon, when the investigators confirmed that the truck by the local coffee shop was stolen from a family of five. They filed the case under Missing Persons. Her friends say she was immensely fond of light—of the perturbing existence of something that passes through anything. Her father still comes out of their backyard and tends the garden. Her mother was devastated, but was not seen crying. For a week, the neighbors did not hear anything. They did not hear the hushed tones the couple used to talk to each other. They did not hear the deliberate clicks and snaps of door locks. They did not hear the scribbles of pen on paper and the lullabies that her mother continued to hum. Three months later, they found a body submerged in a river. It was naked and not in proper shape. They did not recognize her. The people said the riverbank was slippery. Some said she must have come a long way and the water had washed her from ashore. Like a driftwood. Like a string stuck between pages. Perhaps that was why, when the news reached the entire town, they decided it was a Missing case. That she must have been one of those who disappeared a long time ago. They did not think, even for a second, what could have gotten her there—with her hair floating above her shoulder, her collarbone shattered, and her candy-colored fingernails. They did not think that she was no more as lost as fishes amidst the ripples of the sea. *for the girl found underwater
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N
arrated Tragedy by Bea Bacit
The first time I saw you, I knew it will be something that I can never endure; I took the risk. We held hands, kissed under the stars, surrounded one another with warmth, felt the air of benevolence. With no awareness, destiny changed its game. You started to see germs on your hands; you’ve seen the wounds of my lips, felt the roughness of my skin. The last time I saw you, I found what it was. Misery. When I chose to take risk; when you never took bliss.
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artwork by Carl Jayson Logenio
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O
plan Tokhang
by Katherine Anne del Rosario
It was the sort of night that would haunt you for years. Chilly, but quiet, it went on and on for young Agnes. In their quaint little town in Marikina, stars seldom showed up at night, but when they did, she and her little brother Carl would peer out the window in wonder and wasting away, counting them all. The night started out like that—chilly, but quiet—until all hell broke loose. Suddenly, there were screams. “Put your hands up!” said the men outside, and their mother started telling them to go to bed. Be still, be calm, it’s just the police, just go to your room. Carl was afraid, and went for their father. He had always been Carl’s favorite, though the boy may never admit it—and even now, at three years old, Carl still clutches his hand before falling asleep. Agnes barely had enough time to react, to reach for her father one last time, because in an instant, the door burst open. There were two loud gunshots, and his body immediately dropped to the floor. She thought it was just a raid; she’d been through many of those before. But no one ever died in one. Agnes’s mother started screaming. Blood was all over Carl, and Agnes thought she saw a little bit of brains by his feet. She felt sick. Her mother started begging. Please, have mercy. What about the children? Don’t, please. “We’re just following orders,” one of them said. “We’re the President’s men.” But it was too dark to find the remorse in his eyes. One more gunshot—her mother went silent. Suddenly, her feet took her to her brother’s side, her arms around his shoulders. “Please,” she sobbed. “Leave my brother and I alone. We didn’t do anything wrong. Please, please.” Her voice was weak, but she was anything but. She was going to do anything to keep her brother alive. She didn’t know how long it took—minutes? Hours?—but the men soon filed out of their house, leaving them with their lifeless parents. It was almost cruel, how bright the stars shined that night.
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artwork by Cris Matthew Canada
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P
art of Me
by Kim Nicole Toledo
I could hear it—clearly, and in every drip of your blood, a liquid from my eyes dripped as well. It hurt so much. I lost you—forever. I saw you there, in the tub full of red liquid; you were bathing in your own blood. I saw how your blood gently dripped from our marble-tiled restroom, how a pool of crimson liquid was spread out on the floor. I saw how helpless you looked, how pale you were and how the tears on the side of your eyes dried. It hurt; it hurt that I couldn’t do anything. I was too late. Our past flowed in front of my eyes. I asked you what’s wrong, you looked at me in the eye and said “Nothing!” with a smile on your face; but I could see the sparkle in your eyes. I knew that something was wrong. But I was a coward—I closed my eyes and convinced myself that everything’s fine; they were not. But then, it happened. You talked to me through a phone call, in the sweetest voice you had, and told me that you love me no matter what happens, and that I am the reason why you lived longer. I could feel a million knives pierced into me, and they are slowly being pulled out one by one, in and out—again, and again, and again—until I can’t feel anymore. I knew I didn’t have the right to ask you why. I couldn’t be so selfish. I couldn’t ask you to come back, because I know you couldn’t. You won’t. I can’t even imagine how to live without you now. It hurts so much. I wanted to bid you farewell one last time because I knew that we were both hurt. We needed to comfort each other. I wanted to see you one last time. As I entered the cemetery, I could already hear the sobs of your mom; I walked in slowly. Your dad’s back always looked cool to me, but not that time. They looked...lonely. Slowly, I could feel the sky shed a tear, figuratively. Then I too, shed a tear—no. Rather, I cried hard, literally. That day. That week. That month. That year. All my life. And every time I’d cry, I would realize that you—still, no matter what—will be a part of me.
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Q
uagmire by Alexandria Bernadette Villarente HCO11
Four. They tell you, sweetheart, that the world is too big for little you. You nod anyway, with the red crayon tightly held between your fingers. Eight. You count all the faces you see, one, two, three— who are they again? There’s no need to know, to remember; they all will be gone at the end. So there’s no need— no need for a poem to be written. Twelve. You’ve discovered that, oh, I think I like him. But you’ve also discovered that, oh, he’ll never like me back. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Sometimes a sheet from your notebook is better next to nothing else. So you spill your heart out, and watch your tears ruin it anyway. Sixteen. You’re clutching something between your fingers that never seems to grow longer for sixteen years.
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It’s a pen with ink like a muddled ocean at night. So here comes a thought that shows what’s been going on for sixteen years. “Ah,” you say as you realize. “I’m a writer, and I’ve been hurting myself with ink and lines for sixteen years.” And some time in the future, you’ll wish you have taken paintings and visual arts. You envy those who create worlds and universes by just a couple of brushstrokes. But no. You took the hard way and settled for black and white. “It’s better this way,” you affirm to no one but you, “I need not to waste paint— pen inks have been drained enough, and I have all the papers to write on to.” Better yet, “Even so, I don’t want to hold this weapon anymore, I’ve been fighting no one but me, but my head for so long, and I’m ready to put the last period.” You declare it, loud, in your head, as the pungent smell of black ink will finally suffocate you.
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R
ain by Edison Serato
I have never seen the sun set too early to call it a day; As the stubborn clouds who used to be vivid started turning to gray. I thought it was when the sun and moon were still finding each other, So, the sky would weep as the day continued to be darker. I also felt the undecided stars whether or not to show up; Time above the ground ran faster, every bounce of a single drop. I looked closely at the ponderous clouds and the free-falling rain; A lucid painting at the heavens; the art of waiting in vain.
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S
ilhouettes by Leigh Dispo
You have a kingdom, chasing wars. Plush red, you breathe and dig and knead. The lioness on your back shifts its weight and lifts the time. There is a stillness in your heart, in your sins, in your madness; you scream and cry and plead into the gasping oblivion that is this meandering black hole. Perhaps this was the dream your muse had— the future you have always belonged to: the ocean in your lungs and the corpses beneath your pounding chest. And you are pulling up your sleeves and hoisting the flag after the sunset— say, ‘Call it horizon.’ Say, ‘Name it forever.’ It’s just a dream with your heart battered and your pleas lost in the frozen air. You are the damned and this is your fury. And you refuse to call it enough.
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T
o my fourteen-year-old self by Katherine Ann del Rosario
You’ll find out soon that time turns everything into a memory; even the sturdiest stone, the mightiest mountain, the greatest troubles. so lay down your weapons, and take a breath. You’ll find out soon that not everyone who speaks, you need to listen to. People throw words around like stones, and you need to pick the gems from the coal. So keep your chin up, dear; you are not made of what people say you are. You’ll find out soon that there will be good days and bad— and if there’s anything I know, it’s that everything changes, and even the bad days run out. So look towards the sky, and wait for that sun. You’ll find out soon you are so much braver than you give yourself credit for. You have lived through all your days the happy the heartbreak the lonely and like the fighter you are, you made it. Better days are coming, you have my word.
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U
haw sa ulan
by Elaissa Bautista
huwag sana muling umulan ng karahasan at kalungkutan sa ating bansang minsan nang dinelubyo ng mga engkanto at halimaw na nangakong tayo raw ay sasagipin mula sa kulog at kidlat.
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V
erses for Polar Bears by Leigh Dispo
There is a storm inside your swelling heart. I am sorry; don’t worry—the ache will be long gone. You will remember the time when the universe spilled and dripped from his tongue, the song of a silver girl echoing from the radio, and your chest was in barricades. You will call it mornings so you will have a reason to never reach it, to never want nor need it. See, I feel your growing familiarity. Here is the bang, and here is the bullet in your mouth. You grip the cold metal, the nerves on your fingertips like crumpled paper. It makes a cracking sound— a hymn or two—for the bawling monster, like muffled moans or shuffling mouths. It continues like a Hollywood scene in the ‘90s. The light creeps in, dancing with the curtains. Later that night, it will turn into shadows, into silhouettes, into cupped sins and silver tongues. Somewhere there is a sound of a body hitting the shore. They think of love as if it means sprawling flowers across the beach or draping prayers on a boy whose chest carries an ocean that gapes at every turn, at every word, at every hole. And you think you’re good enough. You think you’re meant for what you’ve weaved and burned and hurled. You think the poison is too good to ignore. But this is a gospel you do not mean to occupy. This is not the blessing you are empty for. You already know this, of course. After all, when your blood hit the ground, when the sound knocked the cup off the table, you knew: the brave can be gentle— your heart can be tough and still be tender. You can still love when the war is over.
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W
hen a Metaphor Falls in Love
by Elaissa Bautista
I am Filipina and I lost my virginity to a boy named Jose Rizal. It was a night under the stars in my great grandfather’s asotea. The wind was whistling a sweet melody as it gradually touched our bare skins, making us shiver in uncertainty and madness. I knew it was wrong and unusual since it was the Philippines’ national hero that I was standing with, yet I still kept walking towards his direction and started talking. “Good evening, si—” I didn’t even know what to call him. “…sir.” “Good evening, young lady.” He stopped reading the book in his hands and placed a dried narra leaf between the pages. “What are you doing here late at night? Are you here to watch the stars?” “No, sir. I was just out for some fresh air,” I said as I finally reached his destination. “Would you mind it if I stand here?” “Oh please, keep me company. And don’t call me sir. You can just address me as Pepe.” As I looked through the glorious view of my ancestors’ garden, I secretly stole glances to take a peek of Rizal. His face was a mixed vision of Spain and Philippines, but his eyes told everything about his obvious love for the latter. By that time, I suddenly realized that he looked and sounded smarter than what my history books taught me. “What should I call this beautiful lady standing next to me?” he asked. “Filipina,” I answered in an instant. “Huh? Filipina?” He was shocked to hear my name, but I was more than shocked when his hands touched mine. “Is that your name?” “Yes, I got that nickname in my earlier years in high school. But my real name is Josephine. My family calls me Pinay.” “Your name is absolutely, undoubtedly, unquestionably beautiful. I have never heard of anyone with names like yours.” Blushing like a kid under the bright sun, I felt the heat coming onto my face. It was not because I was feeling blissful that I was with a great guy like Rizal, but I felt stranger than that. It was like something was wrong with my body, that I was actually placed on the wrong time and wrong place. My body systems felt like they were at war, struggling to find a place at that moment. “Are you okay, Filipina? You look like you’re in a state of shock.” “I’m fine, Pepe,” I answered as I managed to calm myself out. Fading back in from a blurred vision, I regained my sight only to find out that Pepe’s face was just inches away from mine. “Are you sure? I could help you overcome—” “I’m really fine, Pepe.” He stared at me like I was the only one he wanted to protect. Blue. Peace…you make me at peace. He inched closer until I could feel his breathing. Red. Bravery…you make me braver. He cupped my face and caressed my cheeks through his addicting thumbs.
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He was about to kiss me when I stopped him. “What’s the matter, my lady?” he asked. “You’re a hero,” I told him as he replied to me with a look of confusion, “…if I kiss a hero, would I become a hero, too?” He looked away from me as he placed his sight onto the dancing flowers at my great grandfather’s garden. “Everyone can be a savior, Filipina. But, not everyone needs saving. In your case, you can become both. You can become a savior, and at the same time, you can be saved.” “What do you mean?” “You’ll understand everything soon once you wake up from your tragic dream.” I didn’t even understand a thing he was saying but I was sure of one thing: he was the first boy who ever made me feel like blue and red. The next few moments felt like a scene in all the books I ever read. Our heated kisses brought me heaven—or let me say that it was the first time I welcomed the feeling of euphoric paradise in my life. It was everything I never experienced from anyone. As he touched me, he left traces of wisdom, courage and passion. His dedication was contagious, so much that after kissing him, I wanted to become just as legendary as him. I let him undress my fears and insecurities. I suddenly forgot all the places I’ve been and focused on the feelings he left me. “Filipina?” “Hmmm?” I asked as I was catching my heavy breaths. “…I’m going now. Tonight is my death.” He tossed my hands away, causing a look of a thousand questions. “Why—why are you suddenly leaving?” was all I could say as I was slowly realizing and accepting the fact that we were from two different times. “The worst way to die is to let the person you love die with you. That’s why I’m leaving you, Filipina. I’m leaving you because I don’t want you to die with me.” “…you love me?” I asked him as I felt the same burnout I felt a little earlier. Numb legs, burdened souls and blurry eyes… “I love my country, Filipina. You’re my country.”
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X
anax #86 in technicolor pill wonderland by Maria Andrea Gale Martinez SOC11
i understand, but i can’t explain. the drawn out symphony of loneliness deafening under my pillow; i’d run away but i’m never moving. it reaches my fingers, crawling down to my small, vulnerable feet, catching my breath shaking, trembling– clenching. i understand, but i can’t explain. engulfed in the path of darkness and loathing, i trace the footsteps i’ve made before, towards the place i’ve almost forgotten but hadn’t burned; alone, i was not, no. i held hands with sorrow. i understand, but i can’t explain. his touch– it lingered, trickling bright, but consuming unhurriedly with him. company is tiring and tragic, so i asked for how long. “as long as you may let it.”
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and he stayed days, months, years; unmoving. i understand, but i can’t explain. ashes remain settled on the dirty ground. and in my grey memory, lies fell out of his tongue smoothly. he’d fill the void
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Y
owling, Howling
by Leigh Dispo
I’ve called this war a thousand names. For instance: on my mother’s birthday, when she spent it hunched over the dining table, sipping coffee, I was in my room, huddled in black and blue, the ink smearing my notched collar. Every child screams for help. I stayed put. And did not call nor listen to her. By the time I got up and went out for dinner, there were flesh and flies on my plate. An apology, she said, for the nightmares you tucked in. And so, the rest of my nights went on like that. Just like last night, when honey was dripping from his fingers, and the room was buzzing and humming—this time I was out in the open. This time I showed the red and white.
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This time I danced in silence. But emptiness is no lover. And some names are buried and flustered with memories of a graveyard reeking of fairy tales and poetry. And I do not wish to be your safe house. I do not wish to be your war zone. I’ve called this death a thousand names, and you will never be my savior.
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Z
est by Leigh Dispo
You bleed a poignant and abundant trance—a mouth full of absences.
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artwork by Leerick Bautista
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For the next issue of Morpheme, La Estrella Verde will be accepting submissions of photographs, graphics, artworks, and literary works (flash fictions, short stories, and poems) from the student body of DLSU-D Senior High School. Contributions should be sent as an attachment in an email to laestrellaverde.dlsud@gmail.com with the author’s/artist’s/ photographer’s full name and section. Anonymous contributors won’t be recognized.
All contents in this folio are originally produced and created by their respective owners. No part of this publication may be reprinted without written permission from the author and La Estrella Verde.
The Official Senior High School Student Publication of De La Salle University - Dasmariñas
EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2016-2017
Micah Juliana Montano, Editor in Chief Nathan Kristoffer Manikan, Associate Editor Jean Geibrielle Romero, Managing Editor Warren David Saga, Copy Editor Jason Ybariita, News Editor Ri-Anne Dielle Servidad, Features Editor Wynona Raechel Magnaye, Sports Editor Leigh Anne Darlene Dispo, Elaissa Bautista, Literary Editors Cris Matthew Canada, Art Editor Leerick Bautista, Layout Editor Maeca Louise Camus, Photo Editor Ms. Robbie Ann Jesser Eullo, Adviser
La Estrella Verde has its editorial office at Room 312 Hotel de Oriente (College of Tourism and Hospitality Management) De La Salle University - Dasmariñas DBB-B City of Dasmariñas, Cavite 4115 Telephone: +63-46-4811900 to 1930 local 3402 Email: laestrellaverde.dlsud@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/DLSUDLaEstrellaVerde