Morpheme Issue 2 May 2018 by La Estrella Verde

MORPHEME ISSUE NO. 2

Through Changing Seasons

MORPHEME ISSUE NO. 2

A.Y. 2017-2018

A BO U T

TH E

COVE R

For all the wrong reasons, you stayed. Not in the sense it hurt, but in the sense that you made it through the sweltering heat of summer, the calm of storms, the sorrows of coldness, and the radiance of beginning. For all the right reasons, you blossomed. cover art by Leerick Bautista

mor∙pheme noun. /’môr fēm/

– a writer’s thorough armor in surviving the war of dying

Literary Editor Elaissa Bautista

Writers

Liana Bongao, Geraldine Rambano, Elli Amado, Katherine del Rosario, Blesilda Mae Padolina, Kim Nicole Toledo, Sofia Clyde Vinuya

Artists

Romeo Christopher Avila, Ayumi Wada

Layout Artists

Leerick Bautista, Wella Jean Mae Abobo, Angel Dionisio, Willem Dimas, Izabelle Siarot

Photographers

Miguel Saligumba, Martha Abesamis, Juvilee Galacgac, Nadine Bautista, Mary Joyce Simon Julian Semilla, Princess Mijares

Contributors

Leigh Dispo, Warren David Saga, Shana Causaren, David Yabis, Christian Guiman

PAU N ANG

SALI TA

Ipagpalagay natin na nasa iyong kamay ang kaluluwa ko ngayon. Taglagas ang panahon noong una ko itong pinagplanuhan kaagapay ang aking mga kasamahan sa literary team ng LEV. Kasabay ng pagbagsak ng mga dahon mula sa puno ng Narra ay ang pagbagsak din ng mga emosyon, ideya, at karanasan na siyang naging inspirasyon namin upang buoin ang konsepto para sa ikalawang isyu ng Morpheme. Taglamig ang panahon noong magsimula kaming magsulat ng mga salitang may bakas ng kalungkutan, katapangan, at matamis na kabataan. Kasabay ng pagpatak ng ulan sa malamig na Disyembre ay ang pagpatak ng mga luha at alaala na siyang naging instrumento namin upang dalhin ang aming mga sarili sa mga kwentong bayan, trahedya, romansa, at pamilya. Tagsibol ang panahon noong magsimulang kumuha ng mga litrato ang aming mga talentadong photographers at gumawa ng mga sining ang aming mga artists. Ang mga makukulay na bulaklak na sumisibol tuwing sumisipol ang mga ibon sa umaga ang kanilang naging motibasyon upang maghatid ng mga kwento sa pamamagitan ng mga biswal at kulay. Tag-init ang panahon noong ipinamigay namin ang Morpheme Issue 2 sa inyo—marahil ay mga taong uhaw sa pagbabago at pananatili, kahapon at kinakabukasan, padalos-dalos at malumanay. Ang init ng araw na tumama sa aming mga balat sa pagtatapos ng semestre ay paalaala na isang buong taon ng pagsusulat ang nakalipas upang makapaghatid sa inyo ng mga kwentong sana’y magligtas sa inyo sa mga hamon ng bawat panahon: tag-init, taglagas, taglamig, at tagsibol. Ang aking kaluluwa ay nasa iyong kamay ngayon—ang mga pahina ng literary folio na ito— gumagala sa iba’t ibang panahon. Patuluyuin mo ang aking kaluluwa sa iyong tahanan.

ELAISSA BAUTISTA Literary Editor

MESSAGE

The nature often displays the natural order of the entire universe. The four seasons–Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter–can behold the metaphor that portrays the life cycle of a human being: from the day that it was born, going through adulthood, into the old age and ending with death. Anyone can find comfort in seeing the seasons change as time passes by. And just like winter that is a time of dormancy, people are afraid of death, of change, and so they begin to resist the natural order of the universe. But if they can see the change as inevitable, that death is part of life, they can find solace in letting go and just going with the flow. Every season acts as small pieces of another, and together they make up the hodgepodge of life. And thinking that all of us may have our favorite seasons for certain reasons, but in the end, we would cease to be so in the absence of the other seasons. And so, in this issue of Morpheme, we give you the poems, short stories, and artworks of LEV’s finest literary writers and artists that speak to the changing of seasons. Brace yourselves up as they will give you the comforting warmth that your heart always longs for. You will be home.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” – William Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

MICAH JULIANA MONTANO Editor in Chief

contents SUM MER

10 12 14 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24 25 26

Anak ng Araw Tattered Blood Born of the Earth Sunog ng Utak (Sweet) Sixteen Panic Attacks For Saenz, B.A. Birthday Boys A Tragedy on Highway No. 26 Last Day birthday present A Series of Sweltering Heats horizon Wonder

SU M M E R

Anak ng Araw Blesilda Mae Padolina art by Izabelle Siarot

Sa wakas at narito na muli ang sinag ng araw na sa aking balat ay dumadampi. Hindi ko alam kung bakit ito’y pilit na iniiwasan ng iba, ngunit sa akin ito’y nagdudulot ng kakaibang saya. Nakakapaso raw ito, sabi nila. Ngunit mas mahapdi ang aking iniinda ‘pag ito’y hindi nadarama. Sinubukang palamigin ng mahahabang gabi ang noo’y pinagbabaga ko pa lamang na mga mithiin. Ilang beses itong muntikang maapula nang dahil sa malalamig nilang titig at salita, ngunit ako’y hindi nagpatinag. Marahil ito’y dahil ako ay itinakda bilang maging isang anak ng araw, isang nag-aapoy na simbolo ng kalayaan. Sa ilalim ng langit, ako ay nagbubunyi dahil panahon na upang anihin ang mga noon ay sumisibol pa lamang.

SU M M E R

Tattered Blood Elli Amado

As a broken arrow fell across my vision, a shed of light I saw from the dark pushed me to lighten up my palm with fire, fusing it with a piece of dried wood I found lying at the back pocket of a dead body without an actual flesh. I sweated when I felt the chills, holding the guy with a missing piece. It made me realize that the land was scary, but I had to stand up and continue to parry. Comrades, friends, and natives, some of them were lying without breaths, in a floor that’s full of unconsidered hope and undesirable love for saving humanity. The elements we have in the supernatural society, ended the lives of people from the hands of a mercilessly cruel force of the devils’ followers. The weapon masters were no match against the grueling power of the shadows, leaving fire, water, ground, and wind a no-brainer against this terrifying power. Then a huge shot of a ball of sharpened dark flame came running into my destined way splashing my left arm five meters away. My soured blood started spilling on the ground, and it was just a matter of time before a troop of unforgiving soldiers come to arrest me— or even bury different parts of my body separately.

I resisted not to look to my left, using my right hand to crawl forcefully in a devastatingly broken land of chaos, but then I suddenly felt the uneasiness: “Who am I even fighting for?” My city’s in the hands of darkness, and my family was taken away as slaves, doubtful if they’re breathing or engraved into the sounds of the suffering mankind. A loss of morale and a piece of pity for myself, staying alive brought more space for redemption, yet the outlying fact in the hidden depths of my heart allowing to kill myself led me closer to the ones I love. Dedication in the nation was real enough, but the knight everyone saw in me is already enough, to the hope they were upholding during the days of calm. I was ready to lay my pride down with a smile; sending the white flag for the country I fought for will never embrace the alteration of the result of the war. “Here they come,” were my last words when I saw soldiers marching up. to a picture of my last breath— I came to say, I’m free…at last.

SU M M E R

Born of the Earth

Katherine Anne del Rosario & Elaissa Bautista We are out by the river, the sun peeking through the clouds, me and my boy. Most of our mornings start this way. He is three—the youngest of my children. Too young to understand the cause he was born into, too young to know that the ground he is walking on is a warzone. The same land our ancestors treaded. The same land he must pass on to his children, and theirs, and theirs. This very sun will watch our people fight for this land themselves. But he is too young to worry, so I let him play. He is the son of a Lumad, of a fighter, and fight, he shall, too. He is ten, too young to work with the others, but old enough to recognize something amiss. He sees the teachers in school have been replaced with men in camouflage, carrying guns. He asks me about the slain elders and leaders, what happened to them, why their families were cowering in fear. I want to tell him: we are a people born of the earth. We are mighty, but we are poor. And there are those who want our land so terribly, they let our blood spill. But he is too young to worry. I am his father—I will not let him grow up before he needs to. So I let him play, by the river, like we always do. My son looks like hope in a form of innocence. Like our crops, he’ll grow. He is fifteen, almost a man now—even though sometimes, he does not act like it. He is old enough to offer his hands to help out in the field, but chooses to run away with his friends during the weekends. I barely see him around, and I cannot help but wonder what he does while the sun is still up—does he still walk by the river like we used to? Does he miss having his father around? He only comes home to tell me stories about his teachers at school, and how he wants to be like them. Not the fighter I want him to be, but the kind of fighter that will turn his back against me. He says he wants to fight for the country, to serve the Filipinos. But he is still young, and dreams can still change. So I let him dream his foolish imaginings, but warn him: Those men take, and take, until there is nothing left. They are not like us. He is seventeen. Wearing his uniform. His badge of honor, although I cannot find anything remotely honorable about what he wants to do. His bags at the door. His mother, begging him to stay. He looks at me, waiting for me to say something, but I remain silent. There are tears in his eyes, but I am not swayed. My father was killed by a soldier. My best friend was shot in the street. His wife raped by men, like the one standing at my doorway. He is no son of mine, not anymore. And as the sun sets, he forgets how to fight for the land that made him.

Mary Joyce Simon

SU M M E R

Sunog ng Utak Geraldine Rambano Bakanteng loteng may matabang lupa. Walang nakatayo rito subalit walang karapatan ang ngalan ng may-aring mali ang kasarian sa sedula. Nagtatapon sila dito. Nag-iiwan ng basuraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mga buto na sâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;yang tumutubong halaman at damo na sa ganitong panahoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y madaling sumiklab.

(Sweet) Sixteen Panic Attacks Geraldine Rambano art by Izabelle Siarot

bile climbs up my throat and clings there like the salt and heat on my skin, stinging. i close my eyes and feel the sea trying to lull me as it laps up at the shore. i swallow and sigh. seagullsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; songs reach my ears and cling there like the distant laughs of my family, ringing. i take deep breaths and wait for it to catch a sob as my chest clenches something painful. i dust sand off my feet to distract myself. the setting sun burns my eyes and when i look away, it hangs. my family boards and rocks the boat. itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to go home.

SU M M E R

For Saenz, B. A. Geraldine Rambano

In the foundations of a dream sits a place. For this boy, it is the public pool. It is 7-11 and their bedrooms. For that boy, it is the local park and the street across his house. It is his aunt’s house, now empty except for her partner. It is his cherry red pickup truck and in the arms of his parents. This dream sits, outlined by time. It is when the sun burns hot against the asphalt, searing and intense, nearly cooking the bird the children had shot down. It is the clouds graying with the promise of relief, staying or crashing. It is when the sun is setting slow behind the red of this boy’s truck, framing them in vibrant oranges and pinks. The last layer is them. It is this boy who wanted answers to questions he couldn’t ask. It is that boy who waits for him to see that the question could’ve been answered from the start. As itself, the dream stands, two boys with a love that can fill the universe.

Birthday Boys Katherine Anne del Rosario

This was not how Aaron wanted his morning to go, and yet there he was, stuck in an elevator, with a complete stranger. Of course, most mornings weren’t very nice to him, but today was supposed to be different. It was his twentieth birthday, after all. Didn’t the universe get the memo? No one had even bothered to message him or text, so he supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything new. This short detour was just the icing on the cake—which, he also hadn’t received. At around 6:42 am, he hopped inside his apartment’s elevator from the sixth floor, where he’d been staying ever since he went to college. He had a thing for always knowing the time; he could never stand not knowing. He constantly checked his clocks at home, on his watch, on his phone. This morning, he was running a little early; he didn’t even have class until 8. He usually got on the elevator at 7:32, or 7:27, or even 7:15 if he wanted. But today was special. The doors dinged open on the fifth floor. Another boy—seemingly about his age—stepped in. They nodded hello to each other. Then silence. At around the third or fourth floor, the whole elevator rattled and groaned under their feet. Suddenly, the ground stopped moving. The lights flickered, and lo and behold, they were stuck. Aaron huffed in annoyance. Again? This is the second time this month. Which was true. Their apartment wasn’t exactly five-star, but the maintenance seemed to be exceptionally shoddy. The girl from the room above him told him last week about the time she got stuck, so he knew that it was only a matter of time before help came. “We aren’t moving anymore!” the boy beside him sounded frantic. He rapped his knuckles against the walls. “Should I be alarmed?” “You seem new here,” Aaron chuckled. “This is normal. We just have to wait a bit.” He pressed the alarm button. “Maybe a few minutes.” Then more silence. He studied the boy beside him. He was a little on the tall side, messy hair, popped collar. He looked like the type who’d put earphones in, worries out on his Twitter bio. Or maybe even ETIVAC. Aaron would never even think of being friends with a boy like this if they were at school. No thank you. But elevators were safe spaces. Social norms and high school status quos didn’t apply here. “I’m Aaron, by the way. 612.” He couldn’t stop tapping his feet; it was so awkward. “Macky. 513.” “What time is it?” “6:46, man.” He leaned against the wall, then took a seat on a floor. “Some birthday this is.” Aaron’s eyes widened. “What did you say?” “What?” “It’s your birthday?” “Yeah, turning out to be a pretty crappy one, too. No one’s remembered, even my Mom. And I’m her only child!” He laughed. “No way, me too! No one’s remembered mine, either!” It was no reason to celebrate, but misery loves company, and suddenly the elevator didn’t feel so cold anymore. “Nice,” Macky let out a hearty chuckle. “Well, I cooked myself a burger earlier—” he opened up his bag to get it. “—for my birthday. Have you had breakfast? Come on, have some. My gift to you.” “Don’t mind if I do,” Aaron reached out and took out a piece. “Thanks, man. Happy birthday. What time is it now?” Suddenly, the doors pried open. A man’s voice rang through: “Anyone there?” By 7:01 am, they got out and took the stairs. The day didn’t seem so dull anymore. Aaron waved goodbye as Macky crossed the street, realizing: elevators were unlikely places to make friends. And birthdays were best spent with boys with popped collars.

SU M M E R

A Tragedy on Highway No. 26 Willem Dimas (HMS11) art by Willem Dimas

Your keys in the Caddie, and the engine hums to life, A rose-tinted windshield in your blue El Dorado. The exhaust coughs up smoke, the chassis jolts. Chrome-coated rims shining under the starlit sky, Headlights piercing through the lonely night. No seatbelts to buckle, no roof above our heads, Just you, me, and this endless summer evening. The open road, the dead of night, Illuminating green and blue from the exit signs. We crown ourselves rulers of the freeway, Racing against no competition but time, Only us to tell where the track ends, No going home by daylight. The steady mechanical purr of the engine, The hushed thrum of the tires on the asphalt, You steady the pace, your wrists hang over the wheel, I stand on shotgun and throw my arms overboard. Our laughs broadcast through the midnight streets, Your voice carving through my empty chest, My heart, safe inside yours. You and I knew we could keep this up until dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; But you wanted to go faster. One hand on the shift, another on the steer as you put the car on third gear. The Caddie revs up, the pipe pumps out grey. Stars and galaxies shoot across the windshield, And the yellow and orange flicker reveal your grip on my knee. The midnight chill meets our faces, and the look on yours tells me the obvious.

You press your foot on the gas, A grip on the wheel “A Little Death” fills in the silence. No more regard for the road as your eyes clutch mine. Hands on the shift stick, Skin inching closer and closer and closer. Our lips— a sigh. Bliss. In the heat of it all— The gas is floored, Steering wheel swerves left and right and left, The gear shifts fast, then slow, then faster. My fingers grip the door handle. The brakes squeal, Nuts and bolts come loose. Something rattles under the hood. The kiss breaks. You lose control. Tires screech. You grab a hold of the wheel. You slam on the brakes. Lights flash red. I reach for the buckle—

SU M M E R

Last Day

Kim Nicole Toledo Today is humid, as if one can feel the sun rays seep through his skin. Tiny beads of sweat are vivid on the bare necks and foreheads of each student, who survived years of sleepless nights through cups of coffees, mixed with bittersweet tears from the weary eyes of youthful dreamers. Even though we feel the heat, we cannot stop from shifting in our seats as we try to talk to each other, saying our farewells and planning our summer getaways. After all, today is our last day in the university. Tomorrow, at our graduation day, we can finally say that we are graduates. Some of us will be staying. Some of us will move forward. But, one thing’s the same: at some point in our lives, we all just want to reach our dreams of becoming future lawyers, doctors, pilots, writers, chefs—this country’s future. Ma’am Sebastian signals me that it’s my cue to walk up in front to speak. I imagine this as a practice for my valedictory speech but, this time, there’s no need for a well-rehearsed script. “Twelve years. We devoted our lives to the academe. We fought every day. We had battles inside the four walls of the classroom; we cried, we got frustrated, we asked the heavens on why we were going through those. We doubted, we stopped and asked, ‘is it worth it?’ and most of us dropped the one thing we held on to the most: our dreams. But here we are, wearing the white toga that we all yearned to wear. We stopped fighting—not to give up, but to rest and start once again.” I suddenly realize that the next four years of my college life would be harder without my friends: getting drunk and wasted, two-hundred pages of readings, and an entire week of deadly examinations. All sorts of experiences eighteen-year-olds usually conquer. Excitement, happiness, nervousness, and horror are painted on our faces. I can only imagine how our high school reunion would be—mature people carrying the burden of our dreams, yet we will still see the dorky versions of ourselves in our eyes. It must be fun. It was supposed to be fun. Today is supposed to be the last day before graduation. We are supposed to celebrate our hard work and welcome a new chapter in our lives, if it wasn’t for the man by the gates. Crazy look in his eyes. Gun cocked. He fires, and seventeen bodies fall to the floor. “I saw blood and…it was—I was scared. Lucas was supposed to be a lawyer. And Angeline? Angeline is—was, Angeline was good in business. She was the...most likely to get successful among us. And…and he, he just entered suddenly, flinging the door wide open. I saw him, he—he was from another class…and he pointed the gun on Miss Sebastian, then—mister, mister, please turn off the camera, he—he shot them. Miss Sebastian, and Lucas, and, and, Angeline. Lucas and Angeline were my best friends. I—I am supposed to be a doctor, but when he shot my best friends right on their chest...where their hearts were...I screamed, I—I screamed, mister. I—I could not save them. I, we were supposed to graduate together...tomorrow.”

birthday present Leigh Dispo (SOC21) the devil came in the mail yesterdayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; it was on my birthday. he was wrapped in a paper bag, his limbs protruding, his breaths coming in waves. i left him like that on the dining table, but at 3:00 am, he knocked on my door, and asked for cup of coffee. we sat down on the sofa, stared at the static in the TV, and listened to the banters of the neighbors. the next morning, i heard him singing in the bathroom, his voice reaching the living room. he did not sleep. he did not tell me anything. but when he left, it was during summer, and yet i was sure, at around 3:00 am, i can still hear his knocks, urgent for just one cup.

SU M M E R

A Series of Sweltering Heats Liana Bongao

The heated atmosphere did not help anything; their boiling tempers, self-righteous preaching, and loud yelling had been the final straw. She spun on her heel and started packing the very minute they called her out. She was seventeen when she left. The moment she stepped out of the door, the second she felt the warm air hit her face, she knew that the freedom she’s always yearned for was finally within her reach, along with those annoying pests and noisy mosquitoes in her neighborhood. She’d left on a summer day, sometime in March, when the rain fell almost every afternoon. The warm water washed away the dirt that had clung to her shirt and her face. She felt like she discovered herself anew; she felt refreshed, accepted, and energized and she felt like she belonged. But there was always a heavy weight right in her jeans’ pocket. There was something to her phone’s presence that kept gnawing at her fingers, urging her to scroll by until she reached a familiar name or tap across the screen with a familiar number in mind. She always had that thought whispering in her ears. It chose no time to make itself known, either, even if she was happy in the arms of another or when she found herself in a hospital room, head bowed down with grim papers in hand. She was twenty-three when she picked up her phone and called her parents. That day, it was hot outside, too. There weren’t any words, not yet, but she smiled with her teary eyes through the phone and soon, they laughed as well.

horizon

Elaissa bautista art by Izabelle Siarot

lumilipad ang ibon sa ilogâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; nalulunod. nalulunod ang ibon sa ilogâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; lumilipad.

SU M M E R

Wonder

Katherine Anne del Rosario anomaly (n.) The minute he arrives in town, I am intrigued. There is something about his swagger, his strange clothes, his way-too-curly hair that sets him apart. Where I’m from, everyone talks and dresses and acts like everyone else. But not Joseph. He’s a strange boy, impossible to figure out. breaking (v.) He stutters as I bombard him with questions. How did he stop that truck? How does he always seem to know where I am? Why does he smell like the wind all the time? Why did he move around a lot? Why won’t he let me meet his parents? “I can’t tell you,” he whispers. butterflies (n.) “I may not be so ordinary myself, but good Lord, you’ve got to be the most interesting thing about this town,” he tells me. curious (adj.) The first time I notice something amiss is the first time I get into a car accident. We are walking down the sidewalk by the public market when a delivery truck barrels down the mossy ramp, coming right towards us. Tires screech. Time slows down. There is a loud clang—like metal ramming into rock—and then it’s over. The seconds tick by once more. They take me to the nearby hospital afterwards, but I am fine. Not a scrape on me, or Joseph—who, by then, slipped away from the commotion to run an errand, he said. A miracle really, especially considering the dent on the truck. disarm (v.) Joseph stares at me, never missing a beat, waiting for an answer. His eyes fixed on mine. “Sure,” I try to be nonchalant. Like I haven’t been waiting for him to finally ask me out. “A movie sounds great.” “What do you want to watch?” he asks, eager, earnest. “Anything’s fine with me.” Anything but Star Wars. Of course, he suggests Star Wars. I go with him anyway. gypsy (n.) He avoids my questions for the millionth time, and eventually avoids me entirely. He’s already very flighty as is; he’s used to moving around, never staying in one place, never keeping himself rooted, never making a home out of anywhere. I wonder if he does this for people as well.

luck (n.) It’s his first time playing football, and my father is teaching him. He tries to throw—and the ball rockets off. My father gapes. “That’s got to be over 70 yards.” incredulous (adj.) After three weeks of complete, radio silence, he knocks on my door. “Hey there, stranger,” I smile, cautious of this strange boy, who I can’t help but love. He lowers his head. “I have to tell you something.” And then he tells me everything. He used to move around a lot as a kid because people tended to ask questions. People tended to hate what they couldn’t understand. They call themselves People of the Sky, he and his parents and the rest of their people. They are descendants of Camalus, the Celtic god of war and sky, he says, and are faster and stronger than everyone else. It is too much. He is going a hundred miles per hour, pulling me with him, and the whiplash is what’s going to do me in. Interrupting, I ask him if he’s on crack. “This isn’t funny,” I warn him. “I can fly, too,” he mumbles. momentum (n.) “I think I’m falling in love with you.” serendipitous (adj.) I have been torn between cookie dough and rocky road for the past fifteen minutes. “Tough decision, huh?” a voice chuckles behind me. And of all the boys in all the aisles in all the convenience stores in all the town, the strange boy from the next block is here. He speaks softly, almost shyly, but with the sort of smile that lights up the room, “I’m Joseph. Lovely to meet you.” vulnerable (adj.) “I’m a freak,” he whispers. “You are not.” I shake my head. “You’re a miracle, Joe. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here as long as you’ll have me.” zenith (n.) Like all good things, I wasn’t meant to have him. People tend to ask questions. People tend to hate what they couldn’t understand. Joseph moves again and leaves, two years after we meet. We lose each other to the Sky.

contents AUTUM N

30 31 32 34 36 38 39 43

Reds, Yellows, and Browns Tongue-lash Beneath your beautiful Yellow Bruises Liham Papuntang Langit* Câ&#x20AC;&#x2122;est La Vie bonfire secrets Wrong Number

AUT U M N

Reds, Yellows, and Browns Blesilda Mae Padolina

We were ablaze for our dreams, A color we thought would never fade, A fire inside nothing could replace. We were our own type of blood— This flowed to keep our passions alive. Then we slowed down, Unsure of what we thought was certain. Our clear sky was fogged and clouded. I paused and enjoyed the comfort, But you wanted an escape. And you didn’t fail; While I decided to stay, My pause turned into a complete halt, And I didn’t have to wonder, Why I reflected you upside down.

Tongue-lash Elli Amado

art by Willem Dimas

My lips were dried and my tongue was flesh. My teeth were tired, and my sweat was gray. My soul’s being sold to death’s abode. Not the right words or the caution of choices. The heart was a factor to suffer from the amount of judgment men had committed. Words are freedom, they said. But whatever effort I did, Whenever I snuck out of the holes of hate’s disposition, mankind lives, in laxity of decisions.

AUT U M N

Beneath your beautiful Elli Amado

art by Willem Dimas

What’s weird about her? She delivers life to the world, yet she’s death herself. As she fades outside the windows of the antiquated bungalow of my late grandmother’s house, the rocking chair at the terrace she used to sit at starts matching the colors of its background, yet it never tried to sway in the usual manner again every time she sat there every after lunch. The rain that is unexpectedly pouring on the dimming afternoon allows me to caress the nostalgic memories, and cover a blanket to the things I don’t want to remember. That is before I realize that I am alone. The leaves subside from their branches as I tighten the buttons of the thin cardigan I’m wearing, but the mood shatters for a bit when the kettle starts whimpering from the kitchen, and the cup of coffee beside it is calling out for more softness. I grab its teaspoon to add another scoop of creamer, and garnish its known taste by adding a snack of cookies I’ve been keeping for as far as I can remember inside our thirteen-year-old fridge. I walk back to that corner of the house wherein the front porch’s being overviewed together with the ambience of brownish emotions I have no idea exists. Same exact feeling, the window was still being replenished by the rain pouring down on its glass, but then I recall, the terrace was roofed. I run towards the triple-locked door to unlock it moderately fast. I see a leak at the edge of the roof of the porch, bringing sadness on the window I’m staring at, but for some reason, I do not have the urge to fix or cover it with something, even though the wood in the balcony is transmuting its color to a more darkened brown because of the water its suctioning from the leak above. An afternoon rain pouring on a window, toppled with a soothing hot coffee and a good book, isn’t too bad once in a while. The coffee that is about to turn back to its original temperature makes me scratch my head for a few seconds. I want to continue my time alone and read that book from our bedroom shelf, which Anika bought for me for our second year anniversary. “Pumpkins,” I whisper, waiting for my voice to reverberate on this noiseless house. “Pumpkins!” and then right after I yell it, I get a glimpse of grandma’s picture above the fireplace we barely used. “Pumpkins,” I repeat as unknown tears flow right when I end its last syllable. “P-p-pump…kins.” Who’s in the picture is my ten-year-old self, smiling with a Batman costume on and a pumpkin-full of candies in my hand. It’s the Halloween from eighteen years ago, seventeen years before her death. The leaves are dead, and summer has ended, I read the first line of the book. Compared to the heat, the fogging is a treat. The contrast of every night now dims, as it runs across the town’s rims. The one who made the real you, is now giving you blue. Then it’s a tethering blank line, which seems to be some sort of first-liners that the reader was up to solve, so I grab a pen to think about what to write.

“Honey!” then Anika interrupts me when she starts blowing the horn of our mobile asking for help to push the wet browning leaves away. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing her index finger onto the leak at the porch. When she is about to get infuriated, she catches a glimpse of my eyes, knowing what was going on. She wipes it with the same finger. “It’s been a year.” She nods and echoes, “It’s been a year.” The ambience of the environment just gives me more chills when the strong wind blew. I lamented from the start from the way my parents left me when I was an infant, but a certain old lady representing nothing related from my bloodline come to get me, and take care of me for the rest of my life. “I called her grandma,” I tell Anika on what she already knew. She smiles, holding my cheeks. “Yes, you did.” “She did everything for me,” I cry, embracing my wife, soaking her clothes. “Yes, she did.” My love keeps her smile, but comes shedding for tears as well. “She’s representing these leaves, honey,” she says, interrupted by another plow from the wind. Her face is hammered by a couple of dried leaves. “She’s still here with us, giving life in her death.” She removes those leaves from my cheeks and kisses it with her red lips. “Have you read the first page of the book I gave you?” I nod. “Have you found the last line?” I nod again, moving my lips to say, “And even though the leaves of slumber fall on my eyes, I’m ready for an autumn without any cries.”

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Yellow Bruises Leigh Dispo (SOC21)

Picture this: a buzzing room, its white walls and ceilings dancing faintly against your dripping lips. We call this emptiness like the love we refuse to talk aboutâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; we call this history like the bodies we refrain from holding with tenderness and gentle sighs. I imagine you like ripples in the water. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve told you once and a thousand times that I envy the water the way I am angry at the honey you lick from your fingers. I keep bleeding for the wars we never finish. I keep breathing for the life we never dreamed. Here, take my heart (or what was left of it) and turn it to dust. Maybe in another life, it will skip and spin like stars. Maybe in another life, it will be the silence you succumb to.

Miguel Saligumba

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Liham Papuntang Langit* Sofia Vinuya

Mayo 5, 1897 Mahal kong Andoy, Sa lahat ng digmaan na aking nilabanan, alam ng Maykapal, dito ako lubhang nahirapan. Subalit ganoon pa man, nais kong magpasalamat, sa pag-iwan ng mga salitang magpapaalala na pansamantala lamang ang iyong paglisan. Sa bawat pagdaan ng mga araw at paglipas ng mga gabi, hiling ko lamang na ang mga salitang itoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y magsilbing aking sandata. Hayaan mo akong umiyak. Ang mga luhang ito ay ang natitirang paraan ng pakikibaka. Nangungulila, oo. Katulad ng paghangad ng ating bayang maibalik ang kasarinlan sa kanya. Dito ko napagtanto na ang kailanman ay hindi maaari sa mundong ating kinagisnan. Gayunpaman, naniniwala ako, na ang ating sumpaan ay nakataga at hindi na magbabago kahit paglipasan ng panahon. Patuloy kitang papangarapin, Andres. Isasama pa rin kita sa bawat pakikidigma at sa bawat pagsuko. Sa bawat sigaw at dugo. Ikaw ay hahanapin pa rin sa bawat pagwagayway ng ating bandila at sa bawat pagbaba nito. Patuloy ko pa ring gagawing kanlungan ang mga alaala mo. Ang mga bituin ay hindi karapat-dapat tawagin na mga bituin kung hindi ka isa sa kanila. Hanggang sa muli, mahal. Iyong Oryang *Isa sa mga liham ni Oryang nang pumanaw ni Andres.

Tawag ng Langit David Yabis 37 STM15

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C’est La Vie Geraldine Rambano art by Willem Dimas

in a forest of tall trees, i am the first branch to break from the smallest. though the descent is fast and the impact is painful it is nothing compared to the initial snap, not even the tumble that comes after. the first leaf i meet drifts down, red and weeping, she has no grip against the winds, she sobs. i catch her and say, “you can’t fall from rock bottom”

bonfire secrets Sofia Vinuya art by Willem Dimas

i. the weather does not become cold because the earth is tilting. i am not saying do not believe them, but my grandma once told me that it is because of the ghosts hustling to where they used to be, in hopes of a prayer. ii. people always sleep early because the night brings back heartbreaks. all kinds. the nostalgic, the unrequited, and the silent ones. sometimes, even, when the night is at its darkest, they return all at once. iii. neutral things are sometimes the most dangerous ones. it causes a lot of confusion; wear a jacket or not, take your coffee cold or hot, dive into the risk or drown in regrets. remember that being in between is not a safe place; it never was. iv. don’t need her as much as halloween does. you may think that happy belongs to occasions like birthdays or valentine’s day, but she doesn’t. she is and will always be remarkable with halloween. the other occasions don’t need her much as halloween does. v. the leaves wither because they want to. they are a firm believer of “bad things can give good things in return”. and as promised, they always come back, together with the flowers.

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where there is growth, there is pain. first, a cataclysm of sortsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;there is bleeding and aching and longing and overwhelming nothingness. you will hurt and hurt until you no longer do. then comes the healing. seconds come and go and carry with them the truth of your suffering. you will forget. you will forgive. then beautiful, glorious redemption. you, but bolder. brighter. you, never looking back. words by Katherine Anne del Rosario 41 art by Leerick Bautista

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42Julian Semilla

Wrong Number Katherine Anne del Rosario

The phone rings at around one in the morning. An agitated young woman picks up. She hears a man on the other end, embarrassingly drunk, his words slurring together. : Yes, who is this? : Hello? Julia? : Hello? I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number. : Julia, I’m so sorry. : Hello, sir? I don’t know a Julia, and it’s terribly late— : I’m out, in the pub, with Don and the guys, and— : That must be why you sound so drunk, then, but unfortunately— : Hear me out, first, please, then I promise you, you’re never going to hear from me again. : Sir, I— : I’m sick, Jules. Terribly. The doctors told me I only have a few months left. And I feel like it might be sooner. :… : Julia? : I’m listening. : Good. And, erm, the thing is… Hell, I’m just going to say it. I’m so sorry, Jules, for everything I

put you and the kids through. I’m sorry I ever laid a finger on you, called you a bitch in front of your parents, for drinking too much… : ... : I’m sorry for lying so much, too. And for being overall just a bad person. You…the kids…you’re my family. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the love of my life, Jules. : Now, sir, there’s no need to cry… : …I’m crying because I lost you. I’m not asking you to take me back, because you all deserve better… but… : But? : I just figured that maybe, dying would be easier if I knew you could forgive me. : I— : Can you, Julia? :… :… : Of course, I can. I already have. : Thank God. The line goes dead. Later that night, the woman goes to sleep, wondering about the strange, dying man, and Julia, and their kids, and what could have happened had he gotten the number right.

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bagyo sa disyembre The Voice of the Kinder Soul The Somber December Lamigin Lady by the Lighthouse Haikus to Santa John Doe Amoy Kape sa Kalye Santa Fe I Watch the Sky Fall

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bagyo sa disyembre Elaissa Bautista 1. dumadampi ang peligrosong hangin sa balat ng api. 2. naghahanap ng paglikas sa malamig na kasalanan. 3. ang natatanging maliligtas sa baha ay ang pinalad.

All you need is love Shana Gale Causaren STM15

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The Voice of the Kinder Soul Elli Amado

He hated it, why didn’t they teach anyone in school how to raise a child? Vince was clueless—and at the same time, miserably lonely—when he lost his wife six years ago, after childbirth took her away from him. She had a kind heart, the one she couldn’t express too often, as he would usually describe her in that way. She was too precious to be called an angel at the age of twenty-three. It took him a while before he stopped hating the heavens for his wife’s unfortunate death. But, he never stopped hating the person who didn’t do anything wrong at all—the one who just stayed inside her mother’s tummy for nine months without demanding to be born. He knew he shouldn’t blame the six-year-old Ema for her Mama’s death, but Vince did anyways. Even though he tried to stay away from her as much as he could, he wasn’t able to run away from her completely due to his persistent in-laws. They made sure Vince was there for Ema to consider as his father. But, she never called him Papa. She never called him anything, not because she did not want to, but because she simply couldn’t. Ema was deaf… …and was like mute, couldn’t speak too well. On a sturdy day in February, Vince’s mother-in-law, Erika, brought Ema to Vince’s small apartment downtown after fetching her from daycare. Ema was adorably wearing a red winter coat, and her Polly Pocket bag was wrapped around her shoulders, dropping it once she entered the chaotic living room full of beer bottles. She removed her black shoes and greeted Vince by bowing. “I’ll be going now,” Erika said while wiping her wooden sandals at the front door. “Take care.” Vince watched her fade out of his vision as she walked away from the street, and went back to the house to see Ema playing with a toy car and Barbie dolls at the vinyl floor of his apartment’s living room. He watched his healthy daughter play with the toys he kept for unwanted visits like this. Ema’s already six—she’s a very energetic and healthy girl with the right height and weight for her age; the grandparents surely did a great job raising her. And as Vince stared closer to her child, he started thinking about how she got his eyes, the years Ema’s not on his care, the years of his depression and hate for the child, hate for the unforgiving world, and hate for himself. The days he spent on work were only to supply his night time in a casino or in a bar, drinking, and drugs.

Ema tapped his knee. “Ngud,” she said, which Vince didn’t quite get. “You gonna pee?” he said slothfully. But when his eyes caught a glimpse of the wall clock pasted before the entrance to the kitchen, he seemed to know what the child was demanding. So without the proper knowledge that she’s grown, he went to the kitchen and offered her milk. She shook her head and pushed the bottle away. He gestured his hands, do you eat rice? She nodded. Vince wasn’t really a good cook, but he managed to prepare greasy fried rice, hotdogs, and eggs. He brought it to the table for Ema, and once her lips collided with the spoonful of rice, she looked definitely disgusted. Vince tried to bring her plate back to the frying pan to add more flavor, but Ema refused, and kept eating it until she finished everything. After that odd lunch, Ema went back to playing and Vince came back to the couch and watched her again. The only difference was he opened the television and watched a documentary about a forgotten land in the south of the country. Ema seemed to dislike the program even though she couldn’t hear it. She went to the front of the apartment before the exit door, and as Vince followed her with his eyes, she slipped and fell on the floor. Surprisingly, her eyes didn’t break down. She was always a strong kid. Vince stood up from his sit and went to pick her up, but Ema was more worried about breaking her doll’s hand. Vince borrowed it from Ema and told her that he’d give it a good fix. He glued the doll’s hand back with Mighty Bond, and brought it back to Ema. “It’s fixed, just let it dry for a little,” he said together with some basic sign languages. But just from the thought of it, he might not hate Ema after all. Aside from working, playing casino, and drinking, Vince also spent that last six years learning sign languages— because even though he was not showing Ema some real care, at the back of his mind, he wanted to understand her even at the slightest bit. He wanted her to understand him at the slightest bit. She tugged onto his shirt and said, “P-pa…papa?” The way she said it straightly, Vince might’ve just heard the most joyous word he heard from somebody in six years. He broke down and grabbed Ema to give her that longing hug she waited for six long years.

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The Somber December Blesilda Mae Padolina

How are you?

I’m fine, thanks.

Well, you are not welcome. Now spill it. The real deal? Taylor Swift? Is that you?

What? Uhm. Don’t you just want to go back to December?

Sorry, but everybody wants to go back to December. I mean, at some point maybe— Christmas presents, cold weather, sweaters, Hot coffee, oh and did I mention presents?

Ha, ha, ha. Why’d you think one would want to go back?

That’s a good point. I do want presents, but I believe there’s more. More to it than that. Why don’t you enlighten me then? December’s like our own happy ending, A reminder that we’ve made it through the past eleven months. With a cup of coffee, you can snuggle easily in your bed and no one will question you. It’s cold but there are many sources of warmth, from your grandparents coming to visit to school coming to a break. December is your comfort zone; an assurance that you did good, a reminder that you have lesser chances of making mistakes, and if you do, then you’ll just have to make up for it next year. December’s a feeling of nostalgia, a time to remember memories you have made and the past Decembers you had. I, personally, love Decembers. I do love Decembers too! Can I be honest with you? Go on. You, ? ?? You are my December. You’re always here to remind me that I can make it through. You never questioned me or my decisions. Your hug gives a hundred times more warmth than my blanket can ever give. Your smile is my daily dose of coffee, wakes my heart up, and keeps it beating. You give me the same joy when you walk through the door my grandparents walked in. You are my comforter, my comfort zone; you gave me unlimited chances whenever I ask for forgiveness. You are my nostalgic December, a memory I want to repeat forever. I’m sorry. Because you were my December.

Not anymore.

? Because I am not your December? Would you like to go back to December?

Lamigin Elli Amado art by Ayumi Wada

Ang lamig ay parang ihip ng hangin na tumutugtog sa mga tinig na hindi ko marinig dito sa madilim na estero na inaagusan ng mga tao. Ang aking mukhaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nanlalamig, naaalibadbaran, at nanginginig. Gusto ko mang maramdaman ang himig ng taglamig, ngunit gaano pa kong lumuhod sa harap ng poon ng Maykapal, hindi makakaila na akoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y hindi makapagsalita, at hindi makarinig. Bingiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pipi pa rin ang kahahantungan sa paggunita ng kasiyahang ipinagkait.

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Lady by the Lighthouse Katherine Anne del Rosario art by Angel Dionisio

My father was a fickle man, hard to please, impossible to keep. To add to this, he was a sailor, which meant he almost never docked home. He wanted to travel the world, see the sights, meet new ladies, drink more liquor. Always searching, thirsting, never fulfilled. Even his daughter wasn’t a good enough anchor to hold him down. My mother is a strict, indifferent lady. She hardly ever smiles, or at least as far as I remember. She is a writer, and a very good one at that, and together, we live in a house by the sea, where we’ve been all our lives. My father met her by the shore, she’d told me, and things went on from there. He swept her off her feet, and they soon had me. My father called me his little marina. His harbor. Home. They didn’t even last a year. He wanted to leave a few months later, said he couldn’t be tied down. My mother begged and begged, but she couldn’t make him stay—so she raised me alone, in our house by the sea, just the two of us. She had a lighthouse built on top of it soon after. It was small, but its light shone on for miles. No ship would miss it. And every night since, she’d light it up, hoping he’d come back home. Always waiting, wanting, never happy. We are both old now, spending our days in our house by the sea, just the two of us. As it had always been, all our lives. Under the lighthouse for the man who never came home. My mother forgets a lot these days, but she never forgets to shine a light for him, not even once. Tonight, I want it to be different. So, I ask her, “Momma, how about we turn off the light?” as she sits on the couch, watching the sun set. She closes her eyes, and I watch a tear slip down her cheek. “I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?” 52

Haikus to Santa Sofia Vinuya art by Angel Dionisio

(1) where are you santa, i still believe you are true, never growing old (2) the stockings are full, of my letters and wishes for cures and answers

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54Princess Mijares

John Doe Liana Bongao

It was dark when an old Chevy pickup truck swerved through the icy road and ended up crashing into a ditch of frozen water. The driver, a balding man nearing sixty years of age, had ended up with hypothermia before the cold water had filled his lungs—a shard of glass had pierced through his neck. The paramedics arrived at the scene after a few hours due to the snowstorm, but they were too late. They failed to revive the old man and, instead of going to where he was driving towards, he ended up in a morgue. Since his fingerprints were frozen off and considering that his dental records didn’t help much, he was given the endearing name of “John Doe”. A few days after the snowstorm had passed, when the telephone lines and the signal were returned, the very first thing the hospital did was transfer the body to the police for a family member to come claim it. But no one came, so the name stuck on. The old man kept the name for a few more days until a nurse from a local nursing home came forward, trying to get the police department to open a missing person’s case or at least have an APB on a patient, an old man with Alzheimer’s disease, who was on suicide watch and had escaped the home-for-the-aged sometime around Christmas because he was upset that his children didn’t come to visit. John Doe of the 5-2 precinct ceased to be the unknown. He ceased to be to be the drunken grandpa who ended up in a ditch with a shard of glass that pierced through his neck. He became a father of two, a grandfather of six, and a widow of a woman who long since has succumbed to breast cancer. But it was painful to remember him that way. The children never came. So, in the end, he assumed one name. He was John Doe, he had Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. His jugular vein was ruptured by a six-centimeter shard of glass. Hypothermia caused restriction of breath and became an eventual cause for the lack of oxygen intake and which prompted tachycardia and lead to a myocardial infarction. His fingers were swollen and had signs of frostbite. He was alone. He was cold. He’s John Doe.

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Amoy Kape sa Kalye Santa Fe Sofia Vinuya

Katulad nga nang madalas na sinasabi ng karamihan, nakakaadik daw ang kape. Kaya naman tuwing alas-onse ng gabi, lumalabas si Kean sa kanilang bahay para bumili ng limang pisong kape sa coffee machine ng sari-sari store ni Ate Maring. Ang hindi ko maintindihan ay kung bakit hindi siya bumibili ng sarili niyang mga pakete ng kape na pwedeng timplahin sa kanyang bahay para hindi na siya paulit-ulit na lumalabas sa kalagitnaan ng gabi. “Uy, Kean, gabi na ah?” “Oh, Julie! Nagulat naman ako sayo.” Tumunog ang bakal na hinulugan niya ng dalawang barya, “Nilamig kasi ako bigla, kaya heto at napabili ako ng aking special coffee.” Kinuha niya ang baso mula sa coffee machine at ngumiti, “Ikaw? Gabi na rin, ah! Bakit inuutusan ka pa ni Tita Alice? Delikado na sa panahon ngayon, marami ng loko-loko.” “Loko-lokong tulad mo?” Tinawanan niya lang ang biro ko, “‘De joke lang. Ano kasi, magluluto kasi bukas si Mama para sa birthday ni Ate, eh kulang ‘yung nabili niya kanina sa palengke...” “Teka, teka nga, maiba nga ako...” Napatingin siya sa akin at napakunot-noo, “Napapansin ko lang...tuwing ganitong oras ng gabi ay lumalabas ka para lang diyan sa kape. Ano bang meron sa kape nila Ate Maring?” Isang mahinang tawa at kibit-balikat lamang ang sinagot ni Kean sa tanong ko. “Siguro gabi-gabi mo akong inaabangan ‘no?” Sabay siko ng pabiro sa aking braso. “Halika na nga, baka hinahanap na tayo ng mga nanay natin.” Wala akong kamalay-malay na pagkatapos ng gabing iyon ay hindi ko na kailanman malalaman ang sagot. Alas-onse ng umaga, isang araw makalipas ang aming pag-uusap, natagpuan si Kean na nakahandusay sa eskinita, hindi malayo sa tindahan ni Ate Maring. Hawak-hawak niya ang isang supot ng tingi-tinging creamer at kape.

I Watch the Sky Fall Katherine Anne del Rosario art by Angel Dionisio

It rolls and it tolls, And takes its woes out on me, Breathless in its wake.

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After Winter Ika-unang araw ng Abril steps to remember T(h)orn Identity Rebirth in honor of the sun VIBGYOR Hitchhikes in a dress Two years later Acknowledgements

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After Winter Liana Bongao

The cold winter was almost too much for him, even with a cup of steaming hot chocolate to combat the weather, and not to mention that it was dark. Night time was unusually longer than day, and, sometimes, the shadows failed to disappear when golden beams of sunlight would envelop the earth. Even with long movie marathons, winter was somewhat a time to just sulk because everything is just hard to forget and, at times, it was just plain unbearable, like watching the White Queen rule over Narnia with a cold and iron fist over the magical kingdom, and, like Susan Pevensie, he’d wonder why he had to spend Christmas feeling so alone, despite the glamorous lights and the twinkle of snowflakes sparkling in the air, despite the promise of gifts and money. But, come spring, the Pevensie family was resurrected. The Pevensie siblings were alive, and while he couldn’t exactly raise the dead—he did try, his efforts ranging from a wide array of cursing, crying, praying, begging, falling to pieces, and threats to someone he didn’t even know—he did see the snow thaw and, with it, the budding flowers on a patterned rough dirt patch with a little but significant stone marker at the edge. For the first time since winter, he smiled and left some flowers on the rough dirt patch. “Happy new year,” he whispered to the stone. And this time, his voice didn’t break and his eyes didn’t water.

Martha Abesamis 61

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Ika-unang araw ng Abril Elli Amado

Ika-unang araw ng Abril noong tumugtog ang busilak ng hardin. Kinalabit ang mga pisi ng gitara at tinugtog ang mga himig ng kuwerdas. Ika’y kumanta sa gilid ng instrumentong aking hawak-hawak; nakapatong sa aking mga hita. Ang mala-anghel na boses ang nagpahubog sa damdaming sumosobra sa tunog, at sa pag-ngiti mo’y ako’y napasugod, sa isang gerang hindi nabubukod, sa hangarin ng iba na ibig ding mapasaiyo, pero narito ka ngayon—nasa tabi ko. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, ngunit ako’y naiiba noon, mula sa mga madlang humahanga, sa ganda’t busilak ng iyong mukha’t himig, sa iyong tinig na nagpahulas sa akin, na para bang ako’y nakainom ng siyam na bote ng alak, dahil sa nakalalasing mong tala. Hindi inaakalang ako’y mabibigyan ng pagkakataong tugtugin ang iyong awitin, na hindi kayang pantayan ng ninumang nasa paligid, dahil pagbusilak lamang ng iyong mga ngiti, alam kong parehas na ang ating damdamin. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, noong tayo’y nagkaparehas na may saloobin, kaya’t nagdesisyong tugtugin ang pisi. Ang ritmo ng ating tingina’y walang katumbas, sa kilig na nadarama tuwing nakikita ang iyong mga mata.

At ang bukid na binabakuran ng hangin, ay sinimulan nang itaboy ang lungkot sa paligid. Isang milagro nga bang matatawag, na ika’y nasa tabi ko na? Na sa tuwing hawak ko ang iyong mga kamay, ay nararamdaman ko ang damdamin ng aking sinta, walang kapantay ang sibol ng himig na ito— magpakailanman. Ika-unang araw ng Abril, ngayong tinutugtog ko ang mga damdaming, iniwan mong mapanglaw sa akin. Ako’y may sapat na kamalayan, na wala ka na sa aking piling, pero kahit ganoon ang nangyari sa atin, ninanais ko pa ring sumulyap sa mga punong pumapagaspas sa maligamgam na hangin, iniisip ang boses mong umaawit sa akin. Sinta, gusto kong muling marinig ang iyong himig, at payagang manalamin sa nalulumbay na saloobin, ang mga oras na ating iniwan sa dilim. Handa na ‘kong kumaway at sabihin, kasama ang pananalamat sa pagsibol ng Abril, “Paalam na sa ating mga tugtugin.”

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steps to remember Leigh Dispo (SOC21) first, listen. when the war is over, when you’re in your bedroom the morning after, you will roll up your sleeves, let the storm that is your heart dangle across your elbow, and you will heave a sigh. here, sit down. it is already spring here. you will make notes for all the time the silence throbbed and drummed in your ears. and then you will look in the window pane— you will find new mornings again. please breathe. the ocean doesn’t stop for the onslaught of desire. the void will get bigger, the silence will be heavier— but you will celebrate and feast on your loneliness. and ache. carry that howling hurricane like a heavy stomach. put down your feet on steady soil. you’ve carried that weight for far too long— you deserve to burn, you owe it to fall to ashes. but, be gentle. some things aren’t meant for ruined hands, not even for relentless lightning that is you—across the sky like the memory of light.

Christian Guiman 65 SAR23/ICT22

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“T(h)orn Identity” Kim Nicole Toledo

Heaven knows how many sighs he has released for the past twenty minutes. It feels like a ritual to him because he’s been doing this for almost sixteen years of his life: faking, lying, being a coward—he has to, otherwise he’ll probably get beaten to death and get expelled from that place he calls home. After all, he’s from a family of soldiers—he can’t afford to be gay. He’ll be called a disgrace, and he’ll be treated like sand on shoes: infuriating and bothersome. He goes out of his room. Today is extra special: he will meet all of them in a grand reunion. He immediately gets caught up by the fragrance of the turkey; the boisterous laughter of his relatives which can be heard all over the house, the pops of different champagne corks—they all make him more nervous. And all he can think is how many lies he is going to gibber today. He greets them with white pearls of sweat slowly forming on the temple of his forehead. He lifts his right hand to bestow a salute to all of them. The room roars, signalling that they have been waiting for him. His mother greets him with a hug while his father, Sergeant Mackgomery, follows him and whispers to his ears, “Son, you better not do anything reckless today. Your grandfather is here, the whole family is here. I cannot afford to be humiliated in front of these people. I cannot let them know that I raised a son with a disease.”

Rebirth Elaissa Bautista

art by Wella Jean Mae Abobo

Mas masakit pa sa tinik ng rosas ang itinurok nila sa amin. Ang sinabi nila sa amin kanina, huwag daw kaming mag-alala dahil pagkatapos daw ng ilang mga oras, makakaramdam na raw kami ng ginhawa. Ngunit, malayo sa ginhawa ang nararamdaman ko ngayon. Umiikot ang mga mata ko na para bang gusto ng mga itong saksihan ang buong mundo. Iba’t ibang kulay ang naghahalo sa aking paningin habang nanlalamig ang aking katawan na para bang gusto ko na lang yakapin ang araw upang makatanggap ng init na hinahanap-hanap ng aking balat. Pakiramdam ko ay sumasayaw ang aking kaluluwa; hindi ako mapakali sa aking pwesto. Kating-kati na ang mga paa ko na tumakbo palayo—ngunit hindi nila alam kung saan ako dapat tumungo. Hindi ko makontrol ang sarili kong katawan. Nakarinig na lamang ako ng isang hindi pangkaraniwang boses, “Magsimula na kayo.” Hindi ko mapigilan ang aking mga kamay nang ang mga ito’y kumuha ng baril mula sa kloseta. Para bang may mga pising nakatli sa aking mga daliri at mayroong isang higante sa kalawakan na pinaglalaruan ako na parang ako’y isang puppet. Tumingin ako sa puting kisame, wala akong nakitang kahit na anong kakaiba. Ito ang unang beses na nakahawak ako ng isang baril. Mabigat sa pakiramdam na para bang nangangati akong kalasin ang bala at paputukin ito sa ulo ng kaharap kong estranghero— isang mapayat na morena na marahil ay nasa kalagitnaan ng kanyang kabataan. Tulad ko, tila ba hindi niya rin alam ang kanyang ginagawa. Ang mga mata namin ay nagtagpo na para bang parehas kaming humihingi ng tulong mula sa isa’t isa. Ngunit, nagulat ako nang biglang nagiba ang kulay ng kanyang mga mata mula sa isang malamig na kayumanggi patungo sa isang maningas na pula. Lumingon ako sa buong bulwagan. Pinagmasdan ang ilan sa mga taong naglalakad, hawakhawak din ang kanilang mga dekalibreng baril. Walang kahit isa sa mahigit kumulang dalawang daang tao rito ang nakakalam ng kanilang ginagawa. Pare-parehas lang kaming naghihintay kung sino ang unang magpuputok ng baril. “Ano pang hinihintay niyo?!” Isang putok mula sa kanan. “Kayo...ang pag-asa natin. Sige lang, ituloy niyo ‘yan! Sige lang, ‘wag kayong matakot!” Isang putok mula sa kaliwa. “Matira matibay.”

SP R IN G

in honor of the sun Warren David Saga (ABM26) art by Wella Jean Mae Abobo

let this mark the end of your clandestine tearsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; reign let this serve as your greatest lesson let this deterrent go; show him your resilience your entitlement calls upon you your confederates demand your presence your hero will be watching; make him proud the moon and the stars long to put you to slumber the agonizing pain leaves you broken the void in your heart vexes you; it pines for his guidance but, the war is not yet won but, the villain remains almighty and glorious but, you are yet to avenge the death of your sun; now, go save the world

VIBGYOR Sofia Vinuya

Lila, pagkamuhi ay ipinatong sa balat, sinisigaw na dito kayo ay hindi nararapat Anyil, makulimlim ang langit, dilim ang kumukubli sa mga saloobing, kinikimkim Asul, ang mga boses ay nahati sa dalawa ang humihila pabalik at isang nagsasabing tumingin sa alapaap, sundin ang ninanais Berde, mga paang handang magmartsa sa landas na takot at kaba ang tinatahak, saludoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y karapat-dapat hindi pa man tapos ang giyera. Dilaw, talang nagniningning sa gabing bumabalot, hindi akalain, na ang liwanag ay lumalabas mula sa dilim. Kahel, sa takipsilim inilahad, ang pagkatao, liwayway, ang tumanggap ng buo. Pula, mga labing nakakurba, mga pisngi, kung saan ang pag-ibig ay makikita dito, sa wakas pawang ligaya 69

SP R IN G

Hitchhikes in a Dress Geraldine Rambano She had one night to live her life. Short-lived as it sounded, one night was a hot bath after the frigid February chill. One night not spent in wrong-fitting clothes, being called by the wrong name, and serving her family. Her mother, her real mother, had always been tall, stocky. A few adjustments and Ella could fit the dress to her thin form, corset unneeded and brassiere secured. She was ready. She hitchhiked as soon as her family left, heading towards the party. In the swarm of skirts and coattails as the music played around them, she met with the first boy whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ever seen her as she is, as she had done the year before. The music sears into her bones and stays, warming her â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til she gets home. She hummed as she inspected her shoes, which were now worn at the soles. She smiled and felt the ghosting brushes of her skirt against her legs like waves over her body when she spends too long in the thawing lake behind the house. Undressed for the night, she lied about catching fireflies after chopping up firewood when her stepmother came back. Over breakfast the next morning, her sisters giggled amongst themselves. The town crier announced that the royal family was looking for the princeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dance partner. They were asking for all the women in every household to answer the call. When the guards came, Ella opened the door and introduced herself as Elliot.

Nadine Bautista 71

SP R IN G

Two Years Later Sofia Vinuya

February 2016 You’d probably think that my favorite memory of you was when you had my heart beating three hundred times a second when you appeared at the elevator wearing red. I dreamt of you wearing that beforehand since you told me you couldn’t come to our prom. I liked that…but my heart hurt like hell afterwards, and because of that I still chose to love the absence of extravagance. The mundane. Of you going with me to get groceries and handing me the pack of salt on the top shelf which I couldn’t reach, teasing me about my height in the process... Or that time when I couldn’t stop whining how hot it was, so you bought me a bottle of water. Or even that night before Chinese New Year, when you tried to compose rap verses because you said that it was how you will wish for me. I know you couldn’t give me everything under the sun, I mean, who could? Right? But the thing is: you tried. And I’m more than thankful for that.

Acknowledgements Katherine Anne del Rosario

Let this be the day your flowers bloom once more. The rain will keep pouring—the earth never stopped moving—the sun goes on, beaming—and never let it stop shining on you. What we forget to remember is this: we are all but patchwork, made up of moments, big and small. A choice we made years, days, minutes ago does not define us; rather, what makes us is the summary of all these moments leading up to right now. You are the coming and going of the light as dawn breaks, always changing, never in the same place twice. You are scar on skin, a testimony of pain and survival. You are warm afternoons with family, glowing with love. Seasons have come and go, and yet here you are still. Thank you for staying. Thank you for making it through all these winters, and for giving back love despite of the cold. People like you are the reason for poetry, and song, and art—and I will remember you when the new morning comes, and let your rays linger; let this be the day you shine.

W R I T E R S’

P RO F I LE

Elaissa Bautista Literary Editor

i’ve written too much honesty—they’ve become lies. remember my cause.

Sofia Vinuya Para sa pananatili

Katherine Anne Del Rosario

Blesilda Mae Padolina

hindi na takot, hindi na bulag

a book once frozen in ice, found its way and melted through their eyes

Elli Isaiah Amado

Kim Nicole Toledo

As they turn from green to brown, I realized that falling down isn’t that bad from time-to-time.

Like the leaves on trees, I fall; but falling isn’t dreadful, it is both wonderful and a symbol of rebirth.

Liana Bongao

Geraldine Rambano

arduus ad solem (reach for the sun)

tired, 18, they/them “In the morning, when I opened my eyes, the world was the same.” -Benjamin Alire Sáenz, 2012

G R A P H I C

A N D

Leerick Bautista Layout Editor

L AYO U T

A RT I STS

Wella Jean Mae Abobo

Angel Dionisio

Izabelle Siarot

Willem Dominic Dimas

A RT I STS

Romeo Christopher Avila Art-in-charge

Ayumi Wada

P H OTO G R A P H E R S

Miguel Saligumba

Martha Abesamis

Photo Editor

Juvilee Galacgac

Nadine Bautista

Julian Semilla

Princess Mijares

Mary Joyce Simon

La Estrella Verde The Official Senior High School Publication of De La Salle University – Dasmariñas

EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2017–2018

Micah Juliana Montano, Editor in Chief Nathan Kristoffer Manikan, Associate Editor Jean Geibrielle Romero, Managing Editor Warren David Saga, Copy Editor Lance Angelo Mejico, News-in-charge Jelo Ritzhie Mantaring, Features Editor Wynona Raechel Magnaye, Sports Editor Elaissa Bautista, Literary Editor Romeo Christopher Avila, Art-in-charge Leerick Bautista, Layout Editor Miguel Martin Saligumba, Photo Editor Maeca Louisse Camus, Web Editor Robbie Ann Jesser Eullo, Adviser

La Estrella Verde has its editorial office at Room 311B 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: www.facebook.com/DLSUDLaEstrellaVerde

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/photgrapher’s full name and section. Anonymous contributors will not be recognized..

All contributions 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.