M O R P H E M E ISSUE NO. 3
Deconstruction of the Self
mor∙pheme noun. /’môr fēm/
– a writer’s armor in surviving the war of dying ISSUE NO. 3
A.Y. 2018-2019
ABOUT
TH E
COVE R
We are all human, Bombarded by obstacles, fooled by life itself. Crazy pathways lead to perilous detours, Persuading our thoughts, tempting our hearts, Feeding the fire burning inside. Yet, without it all, We are but empty shells in a world of sins. Cover art by Maki Wada
Literary-in-charge Paulene Abarca
Writers Geraldine Rambano, Ciela Andrea Roasa, Psalm Mishael Taruc, Juliana Villanueva
Artists Romeo Christopher Avila, VJ Aniel Barretto, Rachelle Ann Calaustro, Sim Daeun, Jennifer Diola, Courtney Ivannah Gracio, Ailene Joyce Puzon, Danielle Mari Tanael, James Martin Rafols, Jerrika Mikaela Tonio, Maki Wada
Layout Artists
Willem Dominic Dimas, John Benedict Aguirre, Cristelle Corpuz, Sim Daeun, Zacheus Ver Emanuel Gonzales, Monica Albert Montaño, Sean Patrick Serrano
Photographers
Princess Mijares, Kristine Estenilo, Juvilee Galacgac, Aldrin Otagan, Louise Peñaflor, James Zagada
Contributors
Liana Bongao, Mariane Grace Balbio, Clairise Buñales, Graciella Sofia Camaisa, Henry Lorenzo Cruz, Vonne Andrei Ferrer, Rheine Noelle Requilman, Neil Laurence Reyes, John Benedict Silla, Raymond Matthew Tuvilla, David Allain Yabis
FOR E WORD
There is nothing magical about tarot cards. Tarot, despite being larger than usual, is a psychological map to yourself: a 78-point walk through the paths of your life. Not knowing what will happen in the future is something everyone worries about. That’s the reason why horoscopes and tarot cards trend. Everyone wants a hand to hold through the darkness of life. For the third issue of Morpheme, we would like to showcase the synchronicity in every action and event that happens in life. Despite every simultaneous struggle, the writers of the literary team continued to push forward. These events inspired the literary writers to dedicate this folio to the Senior High School community. To present the writers’ experiences, coincidences, and setbacks, we deemed this the time we pay back what we’ve gained. In the making of this issue, a series of coincidences made this journey near impossible. In every setback was a major comeback; in every question and decision being doubted, an answer. In every hard work sown was success to be reaped; behind sadness and happiness, a reason waiting to be unveiled. All these human experiences are essential to our character development and a story, waiting to unfold. As you flip through the pages of this folio, may the stories guide you to the right path, may the words be the stepping stone to your decisions.
PAULENE ABARCA Literary-in-charge
MESSAGE
Life goes on. Whether we like it or not, a majority of our lives and the memories we created will never come back. Some may remain, others may go. Sometimes, we would like to change something in our past. Unfortunately, it is impossible to do so. However, we are fortunate to be given a chance to control what tomorrow might bring us... through the lessons of the past. And the tarot cards will be showing us the path. For the third issue of Morpheme, they will guide us on our own futures. The literary writers, artists, and photographers—creators who contributed to this issue will surely give you a vision on what path you may or may not be taking in the future. Cards will be laid down, and you will have the power to choose them. The stories, artworks, and photos to be shown in this reading material you are holding will give you a vivid representation of every choice you are bestowed upon At the end of the day, the decision lies in your hands. Be careful what you wish for. One single choice will change the entire course of your future.
“Tarot is an instrument that reveals the hidden things of the world and makes sense out of the visible ones” - Wald Amberstone
XANDER LAUREN CIPRIANO Editor in Chief
Wands 9 4/20
by Liana Bongao (HMS21)
10 An Unquenchable Thirst by Juliana Villanueva Art by VJ Aniel Barretto
12 North Star
by Juliana Villanueva
14 The Taste of Defeat by Paulene Abarca Art by Maki Wada
17 The Last Transmission by Psalm Mishael Taruc Photo by Louise Peñaflor
Cups 23 Visitation Area
by Ciela Andrea Roasa
26 Mighty Fall
by Geraldine Rambano
18 Death Gave Me A Reason
28 Untitled
20 Bulalakaw
29 Bahaghari
by Ciela Andrea Roasa
by Geraldine Rambano Photo by James Zagada
by Henry Lorenzo Cruz (ICT11) by David Allain Yabis (STM25)
31 The First Reading
by John Benedict Silla (HMS11) Art by Neil Laurence Reyes (STM22)
32 Edgar’s Love Letters by Paulene Abarca
34 Desolation
by John Benedict Silla (HMS11) Art by Danielle Mari Tanael
37 Lilang Pahina
by Psalm Mishael Taruc Art by Sim Daeun
Swords 39 3AM Mirror Pep Talks by Geraldine Rambano
42 Taya-tayaan
by Clairise Buñales (HMS12) Art by Raymond Matthew Tuvilla (STM11)
44 No Body
by Geraldine Rambano
46 Sukob ng Delubyo
by Paulene Abarca Art by Romeo Christopher Avila
48 Mga Daliring Nakadiin sa Labi by Psalm Mishael Taruc
52 Karapatan
by Geraldine Rambano
54 Pepe
by Mariane Grace Balbio (HMS22)
57 861st World
by Ciela Andrea Roasa Art by Romeo Christopher Avila
58 The Distance Between
by Rheine Noelle Requilman (HMS12) Art by Courtney Ivannah Gracio
Pentacles 61 Dikta ng Pangarap by Paulene Abarca Art by Ailene Joyce Puzon
65 The Day She Turned Ugly by Psalm Mishael Taruc Art by Vonn Andrei Ferrer (STM16)
68 Be There When They Call Me Up by Geraldine Rambano
71 Hugas-kamay
by Geraldine Rambano Art by James Martin Rafols
73 Buwan sa Ilog
by Ciela Andrea Roasa Art by Jerrika Mikaela Tonio
Wands energy, motivation, and passion life purpose, spirituality, and new ideas.
Photo by James Zagada
4/20
Liana Bongao (HMS21) Dark lipstick stains your skin, Lingering, clenching, shaky breaths, Your lulling scent drifts home, Flaming roar caresses my throat. With burning lungs, your oxygen deprives, Lingering tears that sting and cling, Like a gnawing embrace ripping my skin, You look like hope breaking apart. Gentle sparks blind our eyes, A throaty sob coming undone, Our trip to the stars, Drifts endlessly.
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WAND S
An Unquenchable Thirst Juliana Villanueva
in a race against age and time i ran as fast as my feet could carry my body although i had my whole life to finish the race even divine intervention couldn’t stop me from moving in a race against age and time i found myself switching routes like a moth to a flame i lusted over temporary highs in a race against age and time i found myself uttering little lies sweet nothings that fuel the flames keep me burning; keep me alive in a race against age and time i found myself living a permanent lie and i couldn’t help but dream of sweet satisfaction between my teeth
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Dilat tayong maglalakbay sa bukid ng walang umagang kakamit, ‘di alam kung maiuuwi ang ani ng buhay.
Wheel of Fortune VJ Aniel Barretto
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WAND S
North Star Juliana Villanueva
Therese couldn’t remember the last time she and her sister voluntarily got in the same car together. If it weren’t for the bags Kaia had with her last night, she knew she wouldn’t have gotten into this damn car. Beads of sweat trickled from her neck and down her chest, dampening her red polo. Even with the car windows rolled down, the air, even at night, swelters. The suffocating silence looming over them isn’t doing much to help her case either, making the car feel even more cramped as time passed. Confused, she watched helplessly as their car started to make sputtering sounds. Metals clinked against each other and after one abrupt shake, the car’s engine died, leaving them alone in the quiet streets of Bacolod. Just when Therese thought her night couldn’t get any worse. Kaia slammed the door behind her as she hopped out the vehicle, causing Therese to squirm in shock. She followed suit and found her little sister pouring out all her frustration onto the car’s rusty hood. Therese stood still as she watched her sister, finally seeing her for the first time in years. “Did you really think your little rendezvous was going to get you anywhere?” Kaia looked at her and rolled her eyes. With a sigh, she trudged back to her seat, door ajar, cursing about being stupid for forgetting to bring her phone. Coincidentally, Therese also didn’t have her phone with her, remembering she’d flung it at the sofa as she blindly followed her sister out the door. “This was hopeless from the start. You’re not going to find the things you couldn’t find back home. Let’s just head back, Kaia.” “No.” “You have everything back in Manila: friends, family, good grades, good friends. What else could you possibly be looking for?” Kaia was about to say something, but her words disappeared in mid-air. Her eyes were fixated on her sister, eyebrows creased as if deep in thought. She composed herself before speaking again, this time with certainty. “Do you know how many streets exist in Manila?” “What?” “It’s ridiculous isn’t it? Even if I don’t count the bangketa, there’s still too much. I mean, do we even need all those intersections? It’s just one big maze, I swear.” “What? I don’t follow.” “Look. Say you found yourself lost in Manila, what would you do to get out? Would you wait for someone to rescue you, would you make your way out there all by yourself, or would you wait for the perfect opportunity and timing first? I mean, only if you want to escape that is.”
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This time, Therese was finally able to see the direction this conversation was heading to. After a few seconds of silence, she finally came up with an answer. “I’ll rescue myself since it was me who got myself in that position in the first place.” “Nice point, but how are you going to do it?” “I’ll trace back the steps I took.” “Why even bother?” “What do you mean ‘why even bother’? Obviously if I’m feeling stuck, I didn’t wind up in the place I wanted to be in. I mean, I got to have a goal in mind if I’m making that many turns right? And I didn’t even know they were wrong turns at first, all I know is that I’m making them to get where I wan to be.” “Nice point, but if that doesn’t work?” This was more complicated than Therese thought. “I’ll probably just wait for night to come. There’s this thing called the North Star which explorers used to help them navigate back in the days. It’s situated directly above the north pole, so it always heads south—forward. I’ll use that to find my way back. I mean, forward’s the only way to go, right? I can’t go wrong with that.” Kaia nodded, before looking up. Thousands of stars adorned the sky above them, making their problems seem insignificant. “Which one is the North Star?” “That one. Do you see the brightest one? No, not that one. The one that doesn’t seem to twinkle. That’s the North Star.” Kaia nodded, now completely laying down on the car’s hood, seeming to be deep in thought. For a fragment of a second Therese felt slightly disappointed she didn’t answer back, their discussion finally wasn’t comprised of yelling for the first time in years and it sucked to watch it evaporate right before her eyes. “We should head home. Mom must be worried. You were right, this was stupid.” “Told you so. Hate to break it to you, but we actually have no idea how to go back. We don’t even have any way to get directions.” Kaia jumped from the hood of their car without another word, heading to the back of the vehicle to grab their bags from the trunk. Tossing one towards Therese’s direction, she began walking, eyes still fixated on the sky. “It’s okay. I know how to get out of this maze now.”
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WAND S
The Taste of Defeat Paulene Abarca
the delicacy of defeat is tasteful, tang as bitter as spinach, stings like a flaming jalapeĂąo, yet, we muster the courage to devour it. sometimes, the tang differs, could be sweet as bland soup, or atrocious like cough medicine, yet, our stomachs never fail to consume it. no matter its putrid existence, we savor it on exhausted tongues, quenching parched throats, until pain fills empty stomachs. everyone wonders this peculiarity: the ability of devouring a horrendous delicacy, unaware of the glory it brings, sweeter than the cake of an easy victory.
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Sins encircled his limbs Betrayal sinking into flesh He who took a forbidden path Must pay the debt of his wrongs— Punishment beyond death
The Hanged Man Maki Wada
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WAND S
Walang lamig na makakamit sa alab ng kamay mo, piliin mo man, Poon. 16
The Emperor Louise PeĂąaflor
The Last Transmission Psalm Mishael Taruc
your wheels charge ahead, gears turning as you tread, on vast landscapes of ruby, to quench man’s Curiosity, on Sojourner’s steps you trail, towards the answers you’ll unveil brimming with Spirit, you strode, from your jarring abode, you boast of an Insight— a discovery brought to light but the breeze turned dusty, and soon you grew weary for days, the sun refused to show, as your chest heaved slow, you whispered, this must be goodbye, and we sang a remorseful lullaby, for the Opportunity to defeat time, who’s worth more than thousands of dimes, today you rest on perseverance valley, and upon it, we swear to keep up the rally
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WAND S
Death Gave Me A Reason Ciela Andrea Roasa
“Fuck you.” Sam spat at the woman before him. She wore pure white, but the fact that he knew she wanted blue instead hurt. Another bottle crashed against the tiles, the scent of spilled beer overpowering the room again. He expected her to frown at him with disgust and discontent. Yet she stood there, with clear eyes never judging, merely observing. His knuckles itched as he peeked over at her. Dark hazel irises, creamy skin, and pale lips parted every time she breathed. Mia breathed. The hairs on his skin raised. She was too real to be a hallucination. Sam, in the end, couldn’t do anything about her. How powerless was he under her supervision? She shouldn’t have this effect on him. She should have gone and walked away years ago. How fucking stubborn, he muses. He lost hope in himself, yet this woman wouldn’t stop giving it. “Why won’t you leave me alone?! I’m trash, you know that!” She sat, motionlessly staring at him as he slumped down the couch. The weight of her sight on him was unnerving. He grabbed another cigarette. As he lit the stick, his hands froze in mid-air. The cigarette fell from his fingers and he yelled. She stayed. “Go away.” Another burn formed at the soles of his bare feet as he stomped on the ashes. “You know I won’t.” A wisp of nicotine swayed in the atmosphere. He wondered how she could stand the smell for so fucking long. Of the alcohol and of him. “Bullshit,” he grunted, avoiding her gaze. “You know what I want.” Her voice rang out loud and clear. Sam remembered the crystal necklace he gave her on her birthday last year. His eyes gravitated to her collarbone. There it was. Untouched. Unblemished. Not how it was supposed to be. None of this ever was. “I’m not going outside!” “Why?” She was meek and curious. He was angry and lost. He picked up the largest piece of the broken bottle and stood, wobbly and with trembling hands, to point the jagged points at her. Still, she wasn’t scared of him. Maybe that’s why he found it hard to let go. “Because it’s going to be real. Once I go, you’d be in blue clothes with tulips.” Sam gritted his teeth, too weak to look her straight in the eye. “None of this was ever real, Sam.” At those words, he broke down. The bottle crashed into even smaller pieces. He thrashed, gashes bleeding underfoot. The madness wouldn’t stop. Please, I just want to end all of this. Sam glanced at his opened closet. A black suit and tie hung neatly, waiting to be worn.
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*** Renz knocked the bastard’s door down. How dare he not show up to her burial? To think that stupid jerk called himself his sister’s lover. Renz was seething, tuxedo-clad, as he observed the mess of a man his sister left in this world. The stench of nicotine and beer, far too familiar, hit his nostrils as he stepped into the apartment. Everything was a mess. Renz looked at the shattered glass on the floor. In that moment, Renz was torn between helping Sam live or die. “What an ass.” Renz took the packet of cigarettes on the table and slipped one between his lips. “She won’t go away,” Sam muttered. “She’s haunting you because you wouldn’t even visit her grave.” “She’s not—!” “Idiot! Yes, she is. My sister is dead, and you didn’t even have the guts to watch her go.” Renz breathed out, smoke engulfed the air. “Why is she here? Why is she here?” Sam pointed out in an empty space. After a few sticks and some cans, Renz stood, removing his necktie. “Mia gave me a reason to live. She lighted the path for me, even only her presence. I’m not going to help you live, I’m also not going to help you die either. I just don’t want her crying in Heaven.” “Blue...blue tulips,” Sam murmured, the words together with Sam’s next movements astonishing Renz. His poor friend continued staring at the wall, hand outstretched as if trying to hold onto something that was never there. “What are you even do—?” A tear slid from Sam’s left eye. “Mia,” Sam addressed, “You always loved blue tulips, right?” *** There was a tree in front of Mia’s grave. Up in the branch, a girl wearing an aquamarine dress sat, watching as two men in suits laid bouquets on her resting place. “Live on and I promise I won’t trouble you anymore,” she whispered. Sam tilted his head up to the tree. He saw nothing but he could feel the strong gust of wind encircling him like a last embrace.
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WAND S
Bulalakaw
Geraldine Rambano Sinusukat ang oras sa mga walang hanggan Sa pagitan ng susunod nating pagkikita. Hindi sapat ang bilis ng ilaw Kapag hinahanap kita. Mawala ka man, kakalmutin ng kilabot ang likod ko, Manginginig sa lamig ang ubod ng daigdig natin. Walang apoy, bulkan, o araw ang kukumpara Sa dinadalang init ng pag-asa’t pag-ibig mo. Diksyunaryo man ang nagbibigay-halaga sa mga salita ko, Damdamin ang tagapamagitan ng totoong halaga, Pagsinta, ikaw pa rin ang dahilan Kung bakit sumusulat ako. Hihintayin kitang Bumalik muli.
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Bare trees and dead leaves bowed before her toes With all her runs and riffs into the dusk autumn goes
Temperance James Zagada Temperance James Zagada21
Cups feelings, emotions, intuition, and creativity relationships. emotional connection
High Priestess Kristine Estenilo
Visitation Area Ciela Andrea Roasa
“Wala na ba talaga tayong magagawa?” Pinisil ko ang malalamig mong kamay. “Ginagawa namin lahat, Paul, please, kumapit ka lang.” Halos matabunan ng mga usap-usapan sa paligid ang aking pagmamakaawa. “Nami-miss ko na sila, Ate Dianne. Wala akong kalaro dito eh.” Nilunok ko ang init na namumuo sa lalamunan ko, kasabay ang katotohanan ng mga pangyayari. “Miss ka na din nila.” Binitawan kita saglit. “Heto dala ko ‘yung Rubik’s cube na nilalaro mo.” Kinuha ko sa bag ko ang laruang ‘di mo mabitawan dati. Pagkaabot ko ng Rubik’s cube sa’yo, sabay din ang dating nila. “Miss, tapos na po ang oras.” Kinuha ka ng mamang pulis, pinosasan ang maliliit na kamay na hawak ko kanina lamang. “Ate, pakisabi maglalaro pa kami, ha?” Nginitian mo ako, pilit, at tumalikod pabalik sa seldang walang pwedeng kalaro. Bunso, patawarin mo iyong ateng sinungaling.
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CUPS
ART - Diola
with tongues made of silver they’ve come to preach, bringing all to their knees to pray
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Strength Jennifer Diola
From the soil bloomed a glimpse of light The daughter of lands and galaxies With skin of silk and heart of steel A woman—the beginning of all earth
The Empress Rachelle Ann Calaustro
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CUPS
Mighty Fall
Geraldine Rambano Mino couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to his uncle’s penthouse suite. He thought it was maybe when he ran away as a teen, fed up with his father’s wives and all his other half-siblings. Maybe it was when Mino had been part-timing at the building in high school, fooling around with Kaliya, his uncle’s personal security guard. Maybe it was on an errand, not unlike why he was here now. Kora, one of his half-siblings, had been missing for months. Demi, her mother, had been beside herself with worry, causing possibly long-lasting damage to her business. Father, then, told him to come to his uncle’s. It didn’t take a lot for Mino to figure out that he’d found Kora for Demi. Exiting the elevator, Mino stepped into the hallway before knocking on the door. Shuffling, a few thuds. The door creaked open. When Mino found no one holding it open, he looked down and found his half-sibling glaring up at him with beady black eyes. He opened his mouth to speak. Then, the door clicked back shut, as did Mino’s mouth. Brat. Voices muffled behind the door. Then, silence. Annoyed, Mino huffed before knocking again, louder this time. When the door opened again, it wasn’t Kora. Uncle Aiden was a tall man, a head taller than Mino, which was notable because Mino was taller than most at six feet. He was dressed in a black robe, a gray shirt, gray pin-striped pajama pants, and white slippers. He looked drained, with a five o’clock shadow, wrinkles, and visible and heavy eyebags, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled. “Ermino,” Aiden grunted, “What can I do for you?” Mino didn’t know where to start with that. He was only here to get Kora. “Shut the door, Uncle,” the little tyke spoke up from behind Aiden. “It’s no one important.” “It’s a nephew of mine,” Aiden replied over his shoulder. “I’m going to talk to him, go to bed. And don’t open the door without my permission next time! It could have been dangerous.” Kora grumbled, something about being able to handle herself. When his uncle opened the door to let him in, Kora was nowhere in sight, either upstairs or hiding behind the couch with a fork, waiting to stab Mino when his back was turned. Stepping into the suite was as nostalgic as it was jarring. The last few times he’d been here, the suite was as remarkable as a wall. The furniture and interior matched his grayscale tastes, making everything look as lifeless as its tenant. It was no surprise that Mino forgot ever stepping into the suite every time he left it, though he’d boarded here himself. What was jarring was the state it was in. In the months Kora had presumably been here, Aiden’s suite looked… well, lived in, so to speak. The couch was littered with mismatching blankets and pillows, knick-knacks from other half-siblings—even Mino’s—were on shelves and walls. The couch, once pushed up against the wall, was now in the middle of the room, facing a flat-screen TV. Currently, it was paused on Mulan.
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Aiden walked to the couch, folding some of the blankets, his movements stiff. “I trust my brother sent you to take Kora then,” he said, setting one blanket over the other. Curious, his word choice. Take, not bring home, as if Mino was child services and Aiden was a single dad struggling to keep custody. “Aunt Demi’s been looking for her for months,” Mino stated in lieu of a response. Aiden grimaced. Wryly, he asked, “She‘s been counting?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mino rebutted. There was no inflection in his tone. He didn’t like Demi either, but he had to live with Father playing favorites with his wives every now and then. “It means if she didn’t care about me before, why care about me now?” Both men looked towards the source of the response, Aiden faster than Mino. Kora stood over them by the balcony over the living area, looking as intimidating as any of Father’s children could. Or Aiden’s, for that matter. “I don’t know, Kora,” Mino rebuked. “I’m just here to take you back and grab my paycheck.” “I thought I told you to go to bed,” Aiden… whined? Mino stifled a snort. Oh, how the mighty fall. Kora ignored him. “Paycheck? You’re not even babysitting me! I’m not going home, Ermino. Tell her if she wants me home, she can wait or come get me herself. I’m just giving her a taste of her own medicine.” Mino wanted to argue that giving her mother nothing to take care of was the opposite of a ‘taste of her own medicine’. As it was, he didn’t want to prolong this conversation. He looked at his uncle. Aiden sighed, looking a little too mollified with how Kora was making her own decisions and compromising his reputation. Mino didn’t think his uncle could be more out of character. But then, Aiden said, “I’ll send you twice what Zeus is sending you if you just tell my sister to wait a little longer. And if you take home some of Kora’s clothes with you. She’ll be back in a few days.” Mino studied his uncle, spotting crow’s feet where there were once none, a little color in his cheeks. Oh, how the mighty fell, indeed. Who would’ve thought a little girl like Kora could bring a man like Aiden to his knees? Then again, Uncle Aiden was a bachelor in his mid-forties. Must be a crisis. Mino stood. “Don’t bother, Demi owes me anyway. Where’re her clothes?” Unceremoniously, a bag dropped from the balcony, inches away from Mino’s head. Aiden glared up at Kora. “What the hell did I say about throwing things from my balcony!” Tuning them out, Mino grabbed the bag and left the suite.
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CUPS
Untitled
Henry Lorenzo Cruz (ICT11) Endless battle Set in a melancholy night He dwells in the absence of light Drowning in his ocean of thoughts No one knew that he had been caught Before everyone could know His smile can make it briefly go Behind every grin that he shows Lies beneath desolation that slowly grows Moment came when no one is around He let his emotions out Hoping that he will eventually find the light In this endless battle that no one dare to fight
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Bahaghari
David Allain Yabis (STM25) Sa pag-ugoy ng hangin sa bawat hibla ng iyong maalong buhok, ay siya ring paghawi nito sa aking damdamin padako sa’yo Na tuwing dadampi ang sinag ng araw sa iyong matatamis na labi ako’y hindi nasisilaw, bagkus lalong nahuhumaling Dumating ang Disyembre tila lumamig ata ang paligid hindi ininda ang ginaw dahil sa ‘yong mainit na yapos Ang nagbabadyang alinsangan ng ulan ng Mayo, siyang naging init ng yakap mo na kailanma’y hindi ko masusugpo Tanging sa bahaghari, titingala magbabakasakali na ang uwak ay pumuti, at sa piling ko’y ika’y manatili
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Art by Neil Laurence Reyes STM22
The First Reading John Benedict Silla (HMS11) Look, and you’ll lose the divine A whim next to the pedestal Your father has yet to come So cry and plead for forgiveness, to bring back what has become Kneel, Be little before the supreme No feathers nor such wings, no dreams of being like him So close your eyes and see through darkness reign under and be not like the rest Pray, for the kingdom and paradise of holy, despise upon the flames of sins Bow your head for salvation will come, after the vanish of the shadows Feel Your heart sinking in A pawn was created, to listen like a slave for a king So raise your hands and sing Hallelujah be blessed by the words of eternity and beyond
31
CUPS
Edgar’s Love Letters Paulene Abarca
I stared at the white-haired woman kneeling at my grandmother’s tombstone, a passive look on her old, ethereal features. Then, she turned and gave me a look. “Wait… are you Edgar?” I sputtered, shocked. My expectations were brutally crushed. “Who?” she barked, placing a hand on her chest, offended. I took a step back. Her face relaxed a little, laughing at my reaction. “I’m kidding. I’m used to it,” she assured me. “W-well, I just thought you were a man, I mean, the name, the flowers, the… stuff. Like you were a past lover or something,” I mumbled, sweating a little. Silence filled the graveyard. “Why did you sign Edgar in your letters?” I asked, little more than a whisper. She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes closed, praying to the Heavens above. As I watched her pray, I remembered the first letter sent to our house. I was 15. “Eila! There’s a letter at the gate,” Mom called from the kitchen. Running to our front gate, I claimed the letter, trying not to provoke my mother. “Who sent it?” I flipped the letter and saw a single name on the envelope. “Someone named Edgar.” A look of horror washed over her features. “Who is it addressed to?” Mom asked me as if the letter was some bad omen who came to us. I ripped it open, fingers slipping as I pinched the letter out of it. My blood ran cold when I saw. “To Grandma. H-how? I mean, she’s dead, isn’t she?” Mom squinted at the letter, suspicious. “Mom, do you… know anything about this?” I asked. Then suspicion turned into disgust. “Give me the letter, Eila. Never read it,” she demanded, a sharp edge adorning her tone. When I didn’t hand it over, she snatched it from my loose hold. That was the last I’d seen of it. After that, letters from the same sender started coming in everyday, Mom stowing away each and every one. Now that I knew who the sender actually was, I felt an ounce of pity for Edgar.
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“Edgar’s just a nickname,” she answered, tone gloomy. I snapped out of my thoughts, blinking. “Then what’s your real name?” “Edelyn Garcia.” A wistful smile lifted the corners of her lips. “I was her past lover. But her family was so against us, we had to make codenames, hence.” She gestured in front of her. “Did they ever find out?” I asked her. Edelyn laughed. “‘Course they did. Secrets don’t last forever, kid,” she quipped, but the break in her voice betrayed her facade. “I’m sorry about that. Mom hates your letters.” She shook her head. “Don’t apologize, kid. The whole clan already hates me because I tainted their precious daughter,” she scoffed. There was that awkward silence again. I didn’t know there was more to the letters. It must’ve been sad for her and Grandma, but then I wouldn’t have existed if they did end up together. I turned to her as she stood to lean on the tree in front of Grandma’s grave. “Can I ask you something, before you leave?” She turned to me, brow raised. “Haven’t stopped you yet.” I took a shaky breath. Unease crept in my chest. “Why’d you send letters to her after she died?” She rubbed at her chin as she wheezed lightly. “I wanted to talk to her again. But I… was too late. She went to Heaven a bit earlier. Guess, I’ll just have to follow,” she sighed, regret in her eyes. She started to step away from the grave but stopped again and faced me. “Did you hate me?” A hardness filled her face, bracing for something. I smiled. “I don’t have the right to hate you. You loved her. I should be grateful for that,” I answered honestly. I don’t think I should judge her—her and Grandma, just like how my family did. They deserve to be at peace. “Thanks for letting me be with her one last time. You’re a good kid.” Then, she left the graveyard, a cluster of forget-me-nots placed neatly on top of Grandma’s tomb. I hope they meet again in the afterlife, to have their long-awaited reunion.
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CUPS
Desolation
John Benedict Silla (HMS11) Hollow and pitch-dark This abyss, this feeling came Singing a song without a sound of rhythm Shouting without a voice and kept me in hidden vain Bright yowl in unison, a ricochet Mute and all shattered and made in dim Dark and full of terror In heaven, I asked to whim A drop, a fall, a canopy crawling But even I could not hear my own woe Tried opening my mouth so I could redeem Everything lost in the process of the mind show A howl travels, so as a light Silence knows but to talk is too much To cry is nothing but not to show Costing to pay with my voice of a hawk But during the night, I cover my own Now, do I get to have a say, do I get to say no You can hear me, but you can’t listen I wither and faint in a sudden
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lost in his truth; a world filled with madness built out of his fragile foundations of gladness hoarse is the voice of those who have screamed can’t warn a deaf man of his own royal scheme
The Hierophant Danielle Mari Tanael
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CUPS
Ang paghahanap sa ngiti ng hustisya.
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Justice Sim Daeun
Lilang Pahina Psalm Mishael Taruc
Nilimot na ako ng sariling bayan, Pati ang karayom na sumiid sa ‘king kalamnan, Mga katreng naburdahan ng puti’t pula, At ang haplos ng pananamantala. Sabay sa agos ng luhang naghihinagpis, Mga hikbi ng gabing hanggang dulo tiniis, Upang kwento’y mabatid pa ng labi, Ngunit pinili niyong magpakabingi. Nilipon ang mga salaysay sa paglipas ng taon, Ang mantsa ng kahapong dala ng mga Hapon. Mga salitang mula sa bibig dumaloy, Sa laban ng henerasyong dapat magtutuloy. Ngunit nilimot ng inyong mga dila ang aking ngalan, Iniwan kaming nagdusa, umanib sa kalaban, Naging bulag nang ang bantayog ko’y nakawin, At ang pag-asa ng hustisya’y tuluyang kitilin. Nilimot na ako ng sariling bayan, Ang sagisag ng kupas na kasaysayan, Mga boses na napipi ng panahon, At paninindigang matagal nang lumaon. Subalit ‘di ito hahayaang maglaho, Kaya’t dito sa lilang pahina ko ipapako.
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Swords thoughts, words, and actions communicating ideas, making decisions, asserting power.
The World Princess Mijares
3AM Mirror Pep Talks Geraldine Rambano
It is a scientific fact that cold does not exist, But the lack of warmth—a theory practiced In the smooth skin around your eyes And in the timid way you are. It is a scientific fact that darkness does not exist, But the lack of light—a theory practiced In the recesses of your own space And in the things you tell yourself. It is a scientific fact that love does not exist, But the lack of logic—a theory practiced In the way you are alive but do not live, And your insistence that I do not have to love you.
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A pair of tangled strings and heartbeats Thriving into the breeze—flawed but fearless Told by the waves and written on the stars A story lingering on the moon’s silent whispers
The Lovers Aldrin Otagan 41
SWORD S
Taya-tayaan
Clairise BuĂąales (HMS12) Naalala ko noong naglalaro kami Ng taya-tayaan sa madilim na eskinita nang makarinig ako ng Bang Jerico! Bang Angel! Bang Karl! Bang Kian! Teka, bangkay na ‘yan. Naabutan nila ako. Gusto ko pang mabuhay at mangarap. Ano bang kasalanan doon? Ang mabuhay? O ang mangarap? Madilim at malamig ang paligid. Nakahiga ako sa kalsada, nakatikom ang bibig. ‘Wag daw ako tularan, sabi nila. Ngunit wala akong kasalanan, Hindi ba dapat nasa paaralan ako? O kaya nasa loob ng tahanan? Bakit nandito ako sa madilim na daan? Mga nasa itaas, kayo pa rin ba ang taya?
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King of Swords Raymond Matthew Tuvilla STM11
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SWORD S
No Body
Geraldine Rambano Bago mamatay si Leo, naisip niya na pupunta siya sa langit. Kasalanan ito. Sabi nga nila, masamang pangunahan ang mga plano ng Diyos. Subalit, pinalaki si Leo na maging palahangad, na magbigay-daan para sa potensyal at iba pang magagandang pangyayaring nahihiyang lumapit sa presensya niya. Ngayon, mukhang tama nga ang hinala ng iba: isa ngang malaking kasalanan ang pangunguna sa Kanya at sa mga plano Niya. Dahil kung langit ang libing ng kabaong ni Leo, dapat siguro impyerno na lamang ang bagsak niya imbes na rito. Sacred Heart Memorial. Dinala rito ang kabaong niya dahil napagdesisyunan na ng mga kapatid niya na mahaba na ang isang buwan para maghintay at maghanap sa nawawalang bunso. Isinagawa ang lamay ng isang araw lamang, sarado ang kabaong para masabing naroon siya. Naroon naman talaga si Leo. Katawan lamang niya ang wala. At pamilya’t kaibigan. Sa kasalukuyan, nakabara ang katawan niya sa isang kanal papuntang Pasig, nangingitim dahil sa dumi at kawalan ng dugo. Dalawang linggo nang walang dugo ang katawan niya dahil sa butas ng bala sa may leeg niya at sa malaking butas sa bituka niya. Limang taon pa bago maging kalansay na lamang ito. Limang buwan pa bago siya mahanap pagdating ng habagat. Pero tulad ni Leo, patay na ang pandama niya. Sa gayon, ang mga patay at ang mga panaginip ay magkakambal: wala siyang pandama, mabilis ang daloy ng oras, at hindi niya alam kung ang lahat ng tao sa paligid ay buhay o patay. Tulad ng lahat ng mga panaginip ni Leo bago man siya mabaril pauwi ng eskwelahan, gusto na niyang magising. Sabi nga nila, kasalanan ang pangunguna sa Kanya. At ang pagbangon ng mga patay ay pangunguna sa Kanya. Kaya narito si Leo, naghihintay na lamang, nakaupo sa ibabaw ng kabaong na walang laman sa may lapidang nagsasaad ng kanyang pangalan at petsa ng pagkapanganak, ngunit walang petsa ng pagkamatay. Dala ng hanging humahampas sa damong tumutubo sa paanan ng kabaong ang mga yabag ng kung sino o ano man ang papalapit. Lumingon si Leo at, sa nakita, napasimangot. “Ano, duduraan mo kabaong ko?” Ang mapait na tanong ni Leo. Dahil wala nang makaririnig sa kanya, pinipiga niya ang karanasan nang pagi-insulto ng walang sumasabat. “Walang laman ‘yan, so aksaya lang din laway mo.” Pagluhod lamang ang sagot ni Jonah, kababata ni Leo na naging kaaway sa paglaki. Hindi kumplikado ang kwento nila: pagdating ng sekondarya, napadpad si Jonah sa mga protesta’t rally. “Wala kang mako-contribute sa lipunan kundi trapik,” ani Leo. “‘Di niyo naman din mababalik mga buhay ng mga adik na ‘yon. Itigil mo na bago ka pa maabutan.” At siyang naging bungad ng pagkawatak ng pagkakaibigan nila. Hindi sikreto sa pamilya ni Leo ang kalungkutan ng bunso nang matigil ang pagkikita nila ni Jonah, pero wala dito ang pamilya ni Leo, kaya galit pa rin siya.
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Sa posisyon ni Leo sa ibabaw ng kabaong, ‘di niya makita ang mukha ng kaibigan. Sa lakas ng hangin, ‘di rin niya marinig kung ito’y nagdarasal o nagsasalita. Sa tatlong linggo niyang pagiging multo, napagtanto niya na kung gustong marinig ng mga buhay ang mga sentimyento nila, lakasan naman ang boses. Isang malakas na singhot at hikbi ang pumutol sa pag-iisip ni Leo. Maaasar sana siya kung hindi muna siya nagulat. “Sorry, beh,” ang pahagulgol na wika ni Jonah, klaro’t malakas sa nakabibinging katahimikan ng sementeryo. “Sorry talaga. Hindi ako nakapunta kahapon kasi—” isa pang singhot, “—kasi takot ako.” “Suminga ka nga,” ang padepensang sagot ni Leo, kahit alam niyang ‘di siya maririnig. Bago siya mamatay madaling magkamali’t itulak papalayo ang mga bagay na maaring makasakit. ‘Di alam ni Leo kung bakit, kasi galit pa rin siya, pero masakit marinig na umiiyak si Jonah. “Natakot ako...Parang—parang naging kasalanan ko din kasi kung bakit namatay ka, beh. Sorry talaga,” tuloy ni Jonah. Sa katotohanan, alam ni Leo na walang kinalaman si Jonah sa pagkamatay niya. Parang lindol, walang makakahula kung saan-saan susulpot ang mga taong may baril sa mga piling eskenita malapit sa paaralan nila. “Tama ka nga,” bulong ni Jonah. “Walang mapapala pagpoprotesta ko. ‘Di ka naman mabubuhay ulit. Ano pang silbi ng ginagawa ko kung—‘di dapat tayo nahahawakan ng ganoong...” Kahit putol-putol, dinig ito ni Leo dahil, kahit wala sa pansin niya, napalipat siya sa tabi ng kaibigan upang magbigay ng...paramdam na naroon siya? Ng panangga sa lakas ng hangin? Ng balikat na maiiyakan tulad ng dati? Suminga si Jonah at sinabing, “Ayun actually… Parang nakarma ko ‘yung pagkamatay mo? Alam ko at alam ng pamilya mo na ‘di ka adik, Leo. Pero ‘yun ‘yung binigay na storya ng pulis. Sorry talaga, beh. Kahit ‘di dahil sa pag-aaway natin o sa ‘di ko pagpunta sa lamay mo. Sorry na lang na naniwala pamilya mo. Hindi ka adik. Bata ka lang. Kaya sana...mabuti kalagayan mo sa langit.” “’Di mo kasalanan ‘yon,” sagot ni Leo. Tapos, pabiro at may kasamang tawa, “At ‘di mo dapat sinasabi ‘yan. Pinangunahan mo naman ang Diyos.” Sa paanan ng kabaong na walang laman, hinawakan ni Leo ang kamay ng kaibigan. Hindi ito nadarama ni Jonah. Sa ilalim ng Pasig, unti-unting napalilibutan ng lumot at iba pang halaman ang katawan niya. Hindi ito nadarama ni Leo. “Sorry.” “Ako dapat nagso-sorry sayo,” ani Leo sa kaibigang ‘di nakaririnig. “Kasi ako ang nagkamali.”
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SWORD S
Sukob ng Delubyo Paulene Abarca
tayo’y nasa gitna ng mga problemang mistulang ulan kung rumagasa. tayo’y nilalamig at nanginginig, sa bawat patak sa ‘ting balat. sumisigaw at nagmamakaawa sa mga bahay na nadaraanan. kumakalampag at nananawagan, sa mga pinto at bintana, basang-basa’t nanghihina. nang pumalahaw at nanaghoy, upang marinig ating hinaing, lalong lumakas ang malamig na ulan, nalunod ang mga tinig. tuluyang nabingi ang mga may bahay, at nanatiling sarado mga bintana’t pintuan. at tuluyan tayong naiwan sa rumaragasang ulan.
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At night he comes, as swift as a river, To claim the borrowed lives, and return mankind to dust.
Death Romeo Christopher Avila
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SWORD S
Mga Daliring Nakadiin sa Labi Psalm Mishael Taruc
Nag-uumapaw ang sigawan sa bulwagan. Mga hiyaw ng pagsang-ayon at pag-angil. Mga mamamahayag at mga taga-suporta. Nagsisilakihang titik na nakasabit—iisang pangalan sa magkaibang kulay. Muling napalunok si Andrea nang marinig ang lagitik ng mga kamerang nakatutuok sa kanya. “‘Di dapat na sa krimen lang pino-proteksyonan ang mga kababaihan,” mariing sagot niya sa huling tanong ng debate. “Misogynistic leaders are the deadliest to women.” Napako ang tingin ni Andrea sa kanyang katunggali at ang ngisi niyang minsan kinatakutan. Natahimik ang lahat nang ihabol ang tanong na pinakainaabangan, “Ang pagtakbo ninyong mag-ama ‘di umano’y para lamang mapanatili ang pangalang Malaya sa posisyong gobernador.” Lumawak lalo ang ngiti ng katapat niya. “Ano hong masasabi niyo rito?” Kinuha ni Andrea ang mikropono, ngunit naunahan ni Miguel. “Sino ba naman ang gugustuhing kalabanin ang sariling niyang anak?” tanong nitong may kasabay na pag-iling. “Kababaeng tao pero napakatigas ng ulo,” bulong ng isang manonood sa tabi. Agad na siyang nagpaalam sa mga manonood saka bumaba ng entablado. Paglapat ng paa ni Andrea sa sahig, bumuhos ang mga mamamahayag, pumalibot sa kanya. Namawis ang kanyang mga daliri at nanigas sa kinatatayuan; nakakabingi ang kalatis ng mga kamera. Kinasa ni Miguel ang baril, itinutok sa asawang nanginginig sa takot. “Ipipilit mo ba talaga ‘yang gusto mo?!” Dali-daling pumikit si Andrea sa utos ng kanyang ina, utos na umuulit sa utak niya sa pagkarinig niya sa lagitik ng baril. Itinaas ni Miguel ang kanyang kamay, baril nakatuto ka sa aranya. Isang putok. Mga bubog na nagsisiliparan. Napapikit si Andrea sa liwanag ng mga flash na bumubulag sa kanya. Bahagya siyang napangiwi sa mga sigawang sinasabayan ng tunog ng kamerang sumusuot sa mga pinakamadilim na memorya niya.
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“Anong nagtulak sayo na tumakbo laban sa ama mo? May naging alitan ba kayo?” Dumumog ang mga mikropono sa kanyang mga labi, na bumukas kahit hindi makabuo ng salita sa sikip ng dibdib. “Miguel.” Kita ni Andrea ang nagingilid na luha ng ina sa maliit na awang sa aparador na pinagtataguan. “Huminahon ka.” “Huminahon?” natatawang tanong ng ama. “Nalingat lang ako saglit, lumandi ka na!” Napahiyaw ang nanay niya nang hilahin siya sa kuwelyo. Kinasa muli ni Miguel ang baril saka inilapat ang dulong metal sa ulo ng asawa. “Totoo bang nagkaroon ng gulo sa dating partido mo at ikaw ang may gawa nito?” Nanuyo ang lalamunan ni Andrea at tila ninanakaw ng mga matang mapanghusga ang kanyang boses. Napakislot siya sa lakas ng lagitik ng mga kamera. Animo’y ito na lamang ang tangi niyang naririnig sa gitna ng dagat ng humihinang mga tanong. Isang putok muli tungo sa kawalan ng kisame. “Alamin mo lugar mo sa pamamahay ko!” Maririnig ang mga hikbi ng kanyang ina mula sa mga daliri ng amang umikid sa pisngi nito. “Dapat sayo tinuturuan ng leksyon!” “Ms. Malaya? Ms. Malaya, ayos lang po ba kayo?” Marahan niyang binuklat ang mga mata at nilingon ang kandidatong kumakaway sa entablado, bakas ang ligaya sa mga mata nito. Ang baril ay kanyang kinasa’t tinutok sa tuhod ng asawa niyang lumuluha’t nagmamakaawa. “Para ‘di ka na makalabas pa.” Nagtagpo ang tingin nilang mag-ama. Isang nangungutyang ngiti ang gumuhit sa mukha ni Andrea nang masilayan ang pangamba sa mukha ng ama. Sa wakas, pagbabayaran mo na din ang mga kasalanan mo.
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SWORD S
Four of Swords Graciella Sofia Camaisa HMS11
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WRATH Willem Dimas
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SWORD S
Karapatan
Geraldine Rambano ‘online ka? tatawag ako.’ Wala pang tatlong segundo nang mabasa ni Layla ang text, tumawag na si Alex. Halos marinig sa buong bahay ang kalampag ng bote ng gamot na hawak niya sa sahig. “‘Lo, Lay?” “Alex, bakit?” Hindi agad nakasagot si Alex. Pinulot ni Layla ang bote at inayos ang upo sa kama para makasandal sa dingding. Iningatan niyang hindi malukot ang kobre-kama. Kapag binaba na ni Alex, babalik siya sa plano niya, at kailangan malinis ang buong silid, na parang walang tumira sa loob nito. “Kung…magagalit ka ba sa ‘kin kung—Teka, bakit ba kita tinawagan?” Dinig ni Layla ang buntong-hininga sa kabilang linya, halos madama ito ng balikat niya sa bigat. “Alex, simulan mo sa umpisa bago ka magpaliwanag.” Inisip ni Layla ng mabuti kung paano niya sasabihin ang mga sumusunod na salita. Kapag sinabi niyang nasasayang ang oras nila pareho, baka mag-sorry si Alex ng paulit-ulit at wala silang marating. “Sayang load kung tahimik lang tayo pareho.” Isang mabilis na buga ng hangin ang sagot ni Alex. Kung tawa ito o paglalabas ng kaba, hindi alam ni Layla. Ang alam lang niya, kailangan nang bilisan ni Alex dahil nangangati na naman ang pulso niya. “Ganito kasi nangyari eh…nagparamdam sa akin ‘tong kaklase ko noong grade four at… Sabihin ko na lang na ‘di kami tropa noon.” “Kaaway ka?” “Hindi,” natatawang sabi ni Alex kahit walang tuwa sa tono niya. “Ako lang umaaway.” Napatawa na lang si Layla. “Wait, bully ka noon? Sa liit mong ‘yan?” Hindi niya maisip na si Alex, wala pa sa balikat niya ang tangkad, mas matinis pa ang boses kaysa sa kanya, at sobrang bata ng mukha, ay magiging bully. “Basta, bully ako noon. Palag ka?” “Alex, kapag pumalag ako sayo, mas malaki magiging pahamak sa ‘kin. Sasabihin pumapatol ako sa mas maliit.” Natawa doon si Alex. Napangiti si Layla. Hindi naman sa hindi pa nangyayari ‘yon dati. May pumalag na kay Alex, hindi si Layla, na sa disciplinary office ang bagsak at naparusahan dahil pumatol daw umano sa mas mahina. “Nasaan na ba ‘ko, bastos ka.” “Bully ka noong grade four.” “Oo...Ayan, so itong si Manny nag-chat, sabi pinatawad na daw niya ‘ko sa ginawa ko.” “Ha?” “Sinabihan daw siya ng therapist niya ata na kausapin ako.” “For closure?”
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“Yeah, tapos hindi ko na daw kailangan mag-sorry kasi alam niyang kapag binalik ko, nakonsesiya lang daw ako.” “Pero nakonsensiya ka.” “Siyempre!” May boses na sumigaw sa kabilang linya, boses ng nanay ni Alex. Nilayo ni Alex ang phone niya sa mukha niya bago sumagot ng, “Kausap ko kaibigan ko! Sa’n na ‘ko ulit?” “Nakonsensiya ka.” “Oo, ayun. Kasi, uh…Noong grade four ako…” May ilang saglit bago pa makapagsalita ulit si Alex. “Lay, kaya mo bang mangako na magkaibigan pa rin tayo ‘pag sinabi ko sayo ano nangyari?” Sa lahat ng duming pinakita ni Layla sa kanya, hindi niya alam kung bakit sa tingin ni Alex tatalikuran pa siya ni Layla. “Oo, siyempre.” “Sinabi ko sa kanya magpakamatay siya.” Mabuti na lang na nasa kama si Layla, dahil nabitawan niya ulit ‘yung bote ng gamot sa kamay niya. Pinanood niya ‘tong gumulong, takbo ng utak mas mabilis pa sa daloy nito papunta sa paanan ng kama. “Lay…?” “Ginusto mo ba?” “Huh?” Kinurot ni Layla ang braso niya, mga mata nakatutok sa liwanag sa labas ng bintana ng kwarto niya. “Noong sinabi mo ba sa kanya ‘yun, ginusto mo ba talagang mamatay siya?” “... Hindi. Grade four ako noon. Nagmamagaling lang ako.” “So, anong sinabi mo noong sinabi niyang pinatawad ka na?” “‘Di pa ‘ko sumasagot. ‘Di ko alam kung… kung may karapatan pa ‘kong patawarin niya.” Humiga na siya ng tuluyan. “Hindi mo naman choice ‘yun. Pinatawad ka na niya eh. Ang problema mo ngayon is kung papatawarin mo sarili mo.” Tahimik ulit si Alex sa kabilang linya. Pinatong ni Layla ‘yung phone sa unan sa tabi ng ulo niya at pinindot ang loud speaker para hindi na niya kailangan itapat sa tainga niya. Ang patuloy na pagbilang ng mga segundo sa tawag nila ang tanging patunay na hindi pa siya binababaan ni Alex. ‘Di nagtagal, narinig ni Layla ang mga hikbi. Tahimik, pero naririnig sa linaw ng mic sa phone ni Alex. “Paano ko patatawarin sarili ko ng ganoon lang?” iyak ni Alex. Tinitigan ni Layla ang bote ng gamot sa dulo ng kama niya. Paano rin ba niya patatawarin ang sarili niya nang ganoon lang? “Hindi ko rin alam, beh,” sagot niya. “Try na lang nating alamin?” Halos marinig sa buong bahay ang mga hagulgol ni Alex sa phone ni Layla. Mga isang oras pa bago makatulog si Layla at Alex, pagod. Pagkagising nila pareho, nakalimang oras ang tawag nila bago mamatay ang phone ni Alex. Naiwan sa paanan ng kama ni Layla ang bote ng gamot.
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SWORD S
Pepe
Mariane Grace Balbio (HMS22) One morning, on his way to school, a boy named Alex sat waiting with a dying man named Pepe. He still didn’t know whether he had been joking or not. The problem with old men, Alex decided earlier that morning, is that they never stopped talking, nor did they care if the conversation had been welcomed in the first place. They talked too much, and half of the time you didn’t understand what they were on about. The other half, you simply didn’t care. He remained standing by the side of the road. “What are you doing up so early?” The old man asked Alex, who stared pointedly at the concrete pavement under his feet. Alex shrugged. “I wanted to see the sunrise one last time.” Pepe squinted at the rays peeking through dull concrete, frowning. “Pity.” One last time. Again, he didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He chanced a look at his companion, who took this opportunity to launch another invasive question. Pepe smiled. “Where are you off to?” “School,” Alex said shortly. Was the old man messing with him? Pepe eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t seem happy about it.” Alex shrugged. “What are you doing in school right now?” His companion pressed, the paper-thin skin by his eyes pinching as he scrutinized the schoolboy. “I’m not sure.” Alex shifted uncomfortably under the intense gaze. “That would not do,” Pepe tutted disapprovingly. “With that attitude, you will never get into a good school. What are you going to study in college?” Again, Alex shrugged. “I wanted to be a teacher,” Pepe said, a nostalgic look in his eye. Another answer to a question that he never asked. “When I was a kid, it was all I ever really wanted to do,” Pepe said. “That, or to become a writer, it would have been a better use of my time.” He waved his hand. “You should appreciate the teachers you have now, you know. It’s not easy to be a teacher.” “I know,” Alex said under his breath. “How would you know that?” Pepe raised his eyebrows. Alex sighed. “My dad is one.” “Good for him,” his older companion replied, nodding approvingly. “It’s a noble profession, teaching.” “I guess.”
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“You guess?” Pepe scoffed. “What would your father think?” “He would be proud that I’m agreeing with him,” Alex replied dryly. “Teaching is a dying profession. He wants me to become a lawyer or, better yet, run for office.” “Politics?” “Politicians help more people than teachers,” Alex said defensively upon seeing Pepe’s expression. “All I ever get from mine are headaches.” “Haven’t you seen the news last night?” “It’s the same thing every night.” Alex rolled his eyes. “Someone is murdered. Something is stolen. Someone in the government disagreed with what someone else in the government said–” “This is exactly why you need teachers,” Pepe scoffed. “The youth is the hope of the nation, but the youth does not care for the nation. All you do is blame what’s past, point to the future and ask who’s present to deal with it. Politicians? All they do is deal with the world today. Teachers? They deal with tomorrow.” Alex was silent. He opened his mouth and wisely closed it again. A jeepney rolled up the street. “Your ride is here,” Pepe pointed out. Alex looked back once again at his companion, unable to forget the reason why the old man was at the stop today. “How about you?” Alex asked. “Do you have no one to wait with you?” “My sons and daughters have forgotten me,” Pepe said wistfully. His face held the martyred smile of a father. “Oh, don’t pity me.” He scoffed upon seeing Alex’s apologetic expression. Pepe waved his hand carelessly. “They’ve moved on to more worldly things. The past would be forgotten at some point. I had hoped that–oh, well.” Pepe broke off with a sigh. A shrill horn made Alex look away for a split second. The jeepney driver scowled, impatient. “Young boy,” said Pepe, smiling. “It’s time for you to go where you must.” He laughed. “I just hope you remember where you came from,” the old man crooned. Alex smiled uncertainly. He opened his mouth to say something when the horn screeched for a second time. Pepe waved off his young companion. Alex reluctantly turned his back on the old man and boarded the vehicle. Every morning after, on his way to school, a young boy named Alex looked back at the bench where he had sat with a dying man named Pepe and saw nothing but air.
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SWORD S
Dumilat, kapatid. Bumangon at singhutin ang simoy ng bagong hangin nang may ngiti ng bagong araw. 56
The Fool Romeo Christopher Avila
861st World Ciela Andrea Roasa
Entry # 239. Daraga, Bicol Note: It doesn’t matter what we’re doing. You and I are strolling by Trying spicy foods Then suddenly, You cough, wet, loud. I wasn’t able to Prevent it this time. Entry # 441. Metro Manila Note: It doesn’t matter where we are. I kissed your forehead as you lay On a plywood bed I taste defeat in my tears Salty liquid hot as your skin Humid in this dirty air Entry # 575. Note: Does it matter what I write here? How many times do we have to live, Brother, do tell How many times do you have to die? You don’t answer, nor understand Not when it’s mountain cold, Not when your throat is sore Entry # 861. Note: This is the final entry. Soon enough, you’re healed. The only pain you’ll feel Is a pinprick.
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The Distance Between Rheine Noelle Requilman (HMS12)
I hear the whistle of the runaway train, huffing and puffing while coughing up steam. The wheels screech, the engine roars; Its beaming light approaches the shed. I feel the midnight chill as the trails fall silent, the train blowing a full stop at when the clock stroke two. Cherry-tinted cars await beside the platform, varnished wood and leather covered seats fill within. Sitting by the third window on the left, sight wandering across the chandeliers on the ceiling— Then I felt a pair of eyes on me. My eyes met a man dressed in cream and burgundy, flushed nose and hands clutching his coat. I noticed the sparkle in his eyes, and the smile across his face while waving his hand. But the sparkle slowly fell off his eyes, and the smile turned upside down. His hand now placed on the glass window, lips mouthing out the words— The train whistles once again. The doors are being shut; Cars beginning to move. Our eyes lose contact, drifting away. It was only then that I realized, The train tracks we took were different. Tracks that parallel—bound to separate.
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Vibrant hues bursting through the earth As blankets of light hover over fields Crowns of color reaching for the glare Beaming at the origin of breaths and ashes
The Sun Courtney Ivannah Gracio
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Pentacles finances, work, and material possessions career and financial wealth
Photo by James Zagada
Dikta ng Pangarap Paulene Abarca
“Nako, sigurado ka ba sa Nursing, Carlos?” Napatigil ako sa paghinga. Tila nabiyak ang puso ko bigla. Mabuti na lang at napigilan ko pa ang mga luhang nagbabadyang tumulo mula sa mga mata ko. “Ano pong ibig sabihin ninyo?” tanong ko sa guidance counselor, si Ma’am Nina. Napabuntong-hininga siya at nginitian ako, malungkot. “Carlos, naiintindihan ko na para sayo, magandang propesyon ang pagiging nars. Kaya lang, alam mo bang mababa lang ang sahod ng mga nars? Siguro mas maganda kung magabogado ka na lang o mag-engineer, malalaki ang sahod doon. Matataas naman grades mo, sayang naman kung doon ka lang mapupunta,” paliwanag niya sa akin. Nanginginig kong kinuha ang bag ko sa sahig. “Sige po, pag-iisipan ko po ng mabuti.” Lumabas ako ng silid. Agad kong pinunasan ang mga luhang tumutulo. Nanlulumo akong naglalakad patungo sa sakayan ng dyip. Kada hakbang ay mabibigat at walang gana. Hindi ko mapigilang mapaisip sa payo ni Ma’am Nina. Masasayang lang ba talaga ako sa Nursing? Hindi ba talaga para sa akin ‘yon? Hindi ko na namalayan ang pagdami ng tao sa harap ko malapit sa kalsada. “Uy, uy, anong nangyari?” malakas na bulong ng isang ale sa kasama niyang babae. “May nagbanggaang motor daw, Diyos ko, paniguradong trapik na naman,” sagot pabalik ng kasama niya. Nanlaki ang mga mata ko. May nabangga? Dali-dali akong lumapit sa kaguluhan at nanlamig nang masilayan ko ang dalawang motoristang nakahandusay sa kalsada at mga motorsiklo nilang nakahiga sa kalsada na para bang tinaboy ng higante. Parehong sugatan at nangangailangan ng tulong. “‘Wag niyong siksikin, tumawag kayo ng ambulansya!” Sumugod ako sa dalawang motorista upang mabigyan ng paunang-lunas habang wala pang dumarating na ambulansya. Dali-daling inasikaso ng mga traffic enforcer ang buong sitwasyon sa paligid ko. Itinabi nila ang mga motorsiklo at tinulungan ang mga motorista. Hindi naman malala ang mga sugat, napuruhan lang ng galos dahil sa banggaan. Pagdating ng ambulansya, sumabay ako sa paghahatid sa kanila patungong ospital. Nang mailagay na sila sa emergency room, nilapitan ako ng isa sa mga mediko nakasabay namin. “Oh, iho, ikaw pala ‘yung tumulong kanina. Salamat, ha?” puri sa akin ng mediko. Agad akong napangiti sa sinabi niya. “Ah, wala po iyon. Sa totoo lang, pangarap ko po kasing mag-nars, tsaka sumasali po kasi ako sa mga volunteer programs, nasanay lang po akong tumulong,” nahihiya kong sagot sa kanya.
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Malungkot niya akong nginitan at nagpatuloy sa pag-ayos sa loob ng ambulansya. Humarap siya sa akin at nagbuntung-hininga. “Maganda iyan, iho. Kaya lang, mababa lang sahod dito. Kung gusto mo talaga ‘tong propesyon, ituloy mo lang ‘yan. Pero kung gusto mong yumaman, hindi ito para sayo,” matapat na paliwanag ng nars sa akin. Isinarado niya ang van at nagsimulang magtungo sa emergency room. “Te-teka lang po, may tanong pa po ako. Kung, ayos lang naman po.” Agad naman siyang lumingon sa akin. “Ano iyon, iho?” Binigyan ko siya ng kabadong ngiti. “Pinagsisihan niyo po bang naging nars kayo?” Napatigil siya bigla at muling nagbuntung-hininga. “Alam mo, iho, noong unang sabak ko dito, pareho lang tayo. Pangarap kong tumulong kaya ginusto ko. Pero hindi madali kasi kahit anong pagpupursigi mo, hindi mababayaran ng sahod ‘yung paghihirap mo. Kaya, napag-isipan kong umalis noong una. Tsaka mahirap din kasi kung ikaw lang bumubuhay sa pamilya mo tapos maliit lang sahod mo,” sagot niya sa akin. Nanghina ako bigla. Kung ganito lang din ba ang sasapitin ko, gagawin ko pa rin ba ‘to? Mukhang napansin ng nars ang mabigat na ekpresyon ko kaya’t dali-dali siyang lumapit sa akin at tinapik ako sa balikat. “Pasensya ka na, iho, hindi naman sa tinatakot kita, pero ito talaga ang nangyari sa akin.” Tiningnan ko ulit siya ng mabuti at nagtanong muli. “Pero, bakit po narito pa rin kayo?” Binigyan niya ‘ko ng maliit na ngiti. “Inalala ko lang talaga kung anong gusto ko at kung saan ako masaya. Kaya heto, kahit pagod, nagtatrabaho pa rin. Tapos, ‘yung mga itsura ng mga pasyenteng natutulungan ko? Ang sarap sa pakiramdam na nagagamot sila at nakakatulong ako. Kung gusto mo talaga mag-Nursing, iho, dapat gusto mo talaga siya,” sagot niya sa akin. Sa mga salitang binitawan niya, unti-unting napukaw ang puso ko at tila naliwanagan ang aking isip. “Maraming salamat po talaga. Sige, mauuna na po ako.” Kumaway siya bago magtungo na sa loob ng emergency room. Nagtungo ako sa sakayan ng dyip. Ewan ko ba, sa tuwing nakikita ko ‘yung masasaya’t ligtas ang mga natutulungan ko sa volunteer program ko, tuwang-tuwa ang buong diwa ko. Kahit katiting lang sweldo ko, ayos na sa akin. Basta makatulong lang, sapat na, hindi na ako magpapadikta sa kanila.
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Ngiting may pagpikit sa pilit habang buhat ang bigat na matagal nang gumaan. Tumigil muna’t makiramdam.
The Star Ailene Joyce Puzon
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“Edna” Knight of Swords Vonn Andrei Ferrer STM16
The Day She Turned Ugly Psalm Mishael Taruc
November 26th I hopped down the chair, beaming at the wreath I neatly placed on the door. Ali, our class president, gave a quick thumbs up before hurrying to the Christmas tree my classmates were struggling to assemble. Skipping over the scattered ornaments on the floor, I made my way across the room where Ms. Rachel stood, leaning on the table. On it, sat a tower of papers. “Do you like white or yellow better?” she asked, raising two tangled Christmas lights. Squeals of “white” and “yellow” filled the room that would’ve annoyed other teachers, but Ms. Rachel was different—low chuckles turned her lips into a pretty smile. I knew she always doted on us. “Let’s just use both,” she announced, gaining cheers from everyone. We were about to get back to our assigned decors when a firm knock was heard. “Ms. Rachel, the principal demands you to report to the office,” her colleague, Mrs. Gomez, ordered without batting an eye. Ms. Rachel obeyed after reminding us to behave, but I didn’t miss the way her jaw tensed as she swallowed. Soon, Ms. Rachel came back and went straight to the Christmas lights. “I can help you,” I offered, approaching in light steps. “Sure,” she agreed with her usual smile except, it was strained unlike before. December 14th A loud thud that seemed like books being slammed down disturbed the empty hallways. I jumped in surprise at the screams that followed, “You had one simple job!” The screeching pitch made it almost impossible to decipher, but I was pretty sure it was something about deadlines and paperwork. My shoes glued itself to the floor when Ms. Rachel slipped through the door. Like a thief caught red-handed, knots of discomfort swirled my throat but before I could think of an excuse, she asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I stood, baffled, when her gaze traced to my hand and then, I remembered. “The discipline’s office is on the end of the hallway,” she stated, staring at the late slip I was holding as she refused to meet my eyes. Ms. Rachel usually matched the vibrancy of her favorite red dress. Male seniors would even pass by our classroom when she does. But today, the grim look on her face made it totally out of place. She muttered a goodbye before heading the other way, her crimson pleats floating.
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January 28th “That’s a cute sweater, Ms. Rachel,” Ali said as she munched on a cookie. Looking up from her computer, Ms. Rachel merely smiled. “It looks too warm, though. The sun’s really harsh, recently,” a classmate whined, and the class agreed in unison. She laughed nervously, fidgeting with her sweater’s cuff, pulling it forward. “Is it? I’m feeling cold easily, nowadays, I think.” My eyebrows knitted as I notice the fan in a corner; It’s the only one in the room, dusty and forgotten, long been broken. I turned to Ali, still focused on her cookie; she didn’t seem to wonder like I did. February 4th I rushed to class; my footsteps silent as I approached my homeroom period. On my way, I overheard two older students gossiping in the corridor. “You know that pretty teacher everyone fawns over?” “Yeah?” “She resigned today. Apparently, she accused the principal of— My heart stopped as I saw heard the gossip. Ms. Rachel resigned? I dashed towards the classroom to confirm everything. As I opened the door, I stopped in my tracks. There’s someone in red teaching the class. Just not Ms. Rachel.
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In darkness, the master strives, Waiting for frail men, Their hearts bursting with temptation.
The Devil Juvilee Galacgac 67
P E NTAC LES
Be There When They Call Me Up Geraldine Rambano
The last time Luke’s lips touched alcohol was during the mass Uncle Luther insisted on, an hour before they buried his mom. The wine had no effect, and Luke was only given a sip. It was barely enough liquid courage to face the six feet hole about to swallow the only other blood relative he has that wasn’t a murderer or exiled to Germany or Jesus fanatic. And yet somehow, it was enough. To this day, Luke could never remember the blurry events that happened after he was told, over the phone, that his newly-minted, license-less brother had been in an accident with his drunk mother, that only one of them had been pulled out breathing, and would it be okay to ask if they had any relatives or godparents so that they can send social services that way within the next few hours? Now, well, it’s a Saturday night. The floor is exchanging his up-from-bed body heat for the cruel cold of the tile of the kitchen floor. He’s gripping the doorway, smoothing over the peeling wallpaper there, staring blankly at the way Nikolas was balancing his head on his hand, elbow laying over the old notebook he was writing on. The pen on Nikolas’s right hand laid flat on the surface of the notebook, only inches away from the uncapped bottle of beer on the dining table. Luke took a deep breath and tried not to sneer at the smell of cheap alcohol. He shuffled his way in. The notebook his cousin was napping on had their expenses scrawled on it. There were dates underlined, new ink crossing out old ink, dates moving closer and closer to the current. The water bill was done, and so was the electricity. That was apart from credit card payments and the mortgage and their allowances and food. Nikolas was paying it all with his part-time jobs, probably dealing here or there, maybe getting some help from his white boyfriend, Erik. Luke wasn’t new to the concept, having paid for his textbooks by pawning off some stuff, selling a few pills. They’d all be lucky to get a couple hundred for extra keeping, but they were not fortunate people, the Reyeses. God, okay, the smell was bringing him back way further than he asked for. He reached out and poked at Nikolas’s shoulder, taking a few steps back. Nothing. Huh. He was used to more violent reactions to even the slightest touches. “Nikolas,” he called out, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be heard upstairs. He stepped back into Nikolas’s space and shook him some more. “Hey, get rid of this and shower. You’ll reek worse in the morning.”
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Nikolas stirred, his hand dropping his head at Luke’s pushing. He grumbled, then blinked blearily up at Luke. “Wha—huh?” “It’s two in the morning, sleep on the bed or don’t sleep at all.” Nikolas swallowed, then made a face, stretching. Exactly, Luke thought. “If it’s two in the morning, why are you up?” Nikolas grumbled. His voice made him sound two degrees away from a fever and sore throat. Luke tried not to think about whether or not they could afford having their only legal financial source be sick. To reassure himself, Luke feigned for support and reached out to touch Nikolas by the shoulder, helping him stand and started the slow journey to Nikolas’s room on the first floor. “Nightmare,” was his answer. He tried not to sigh in relief when he felt normal temperature under his hands. Nikolas grew silent. Luke could hear his teetering-on-drunk-or-hungover brain try to come up with an appropriate response to his cousin’s overt PTSD. There never really was, but Nikolas was trying. They reached Nikolas’s bedroom before he could form a response. “It’s alright,” Luke said, when Nikolas started looking like he was regretting not saying anything. “I can handle it, I’m a big boy.” Proving he was still drunk, Nikolas gave him a toothy smile. “Yeah, you’re such a big boy.” Luke rolled his eyes at the obvious jab at his height and left Nikolas to clean himself up. He grunted his leave when Nikolas sang good night at him. He slid over the floor back to the kitchen, planning on tidying up before going back to bed. He grabbed a cup and placed it on top of the bottle to store in the fridge. The action, the smell, the sight of Nikolas sleeping on the dining room table. It brought back unpleasant memories of a past that was swept under him like a rug. But this wasn’t unpleasant. Nikolas wasn’t his mother. He hadn’t hit Luke when Luke tried to help, and he hadn’t cursed Luke out at the mere sight of his cousin. The beer wasn’t rum, and the table wasn’t covered in powder, it was covered in bills. He calculated his savings from his allowance for the week on another part of the page, then ticked it off the total on the end of Nikolas’s notes. He closed it and dragged a chair towards the fridge, stowed the notebook away where Nikolas usually kept it, thinking his cousins wouldn’t know about it from that height. When he got back to bed that night, he didn’t dream again.
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He hails from the heaven, trumpet to his lips, he delivers the verdict, To the earth and its sins. 70
Judgment James Martin Rafols
Hugas-kamay Geraldine Rambano
The Palace, insane, stands By the murky waters of the estero, Ruled by clean hands and filthy wealth, Blind-eared and deaf-eyed. If our ears catch laughter, And wallets remain burdensome, Their throats never strained for another plea of “Pang-meryenda lang po, ‘te.” If the bills, freshly printed, Caress our palms like a forlorn lover’s sigh; No matter the ink smearing, Nothing is happening. If we feel soft bed and clear skin, Hits never landed, bullet holes never bled. Their names nothing but The evening news. The Palace, insane, stands By the estero, festering like a coral grave, Growing ever fertile on The rib cages of our people.
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Sa kadiliman ng daan, alalahanin ang kalawakan ng mundo at ang ilaw na dala nila Mayari’t Tala. 72
The Moon Jerrika Mikaela Tonio
Buwan sa Ilog Ciela Andrea Roasa Mga daliring nakababad Sa malamig na tubig Para masabing hawak kita Nasisilayan ang iyong liwanag Dito sa tahimik na pagpagaspas Ng mga alon sa tabing ilog Sa ilalim ng itim na kalawakan At mga bituin, namumuti Mga kamay na basang-basa Sa pagtangkang paghuli sa Buwan Sa ilog na matutuyo din kinabukasan
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Paulene Abarca Literary-in-charge
Destroyer of Expectations. Catalyst of change. W R I T E R S’
P RO F I LE
Psalm Mishael Taruc incepto ne desistam (may i not shrink from my purpose)
Geraldine Rambano 18 - they/them “There is no one who has been or will ever be exactly the same as either you or me.� - Wachowski, L. (2018) Sense8
Ciela Andrea Roasa La Lune / ENFP / 18 Darkness, my sorrow, I will be ruling you all.
Juliana Villanueva 17/ chasing down temporary highs
GR A P H IC
AND
L AYO U T
ART I STS
Willem Dimas
Monica Montaño
Zacheus Gonzales
Sim Daeun
Joben Benedict Aguirre
Cristelle Corpuz
Layout Editor
Sean Patrick Serrano
PHOTOGR APHERS
Princess Mijares
James Zagada
Aldrin Otagan
Juvilee Galacgac
Louise Peñaflor
Kristine Estenilo
Photo Editor
ARTISTS
Romeo Christopher Avila
Jennifer Diola
Maki Wada
Ailene Joyce Puzon
James Martin Rafols
Rachelle Ann Calaustro
Sim Daeun
Danielle Mari Tanael
Courtney Ivannah Gracio
Art Editor
Jerrika Mikaela Tonio
VJ Aniel Baretto
La Estrella Verde The Official Senior High School Publication of De La Salle University – Dasmariñas
EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2018–2019
Xander Lauren Cipriano, Editor in Chief Blesilda Mae Padolina, Associate Editor Ciela Andrea Roasa, Managing Editor Geraldine Rambano, Copy Editor Lexi France Angeles, News Editor Kristine Mae Evangelista, Features Editor Gian Eldrich Sandoval, Sports Editor Paulene Abarca, Literary-in-charge Romeo Christopher Avila, Art Editor Willem Dominic Dimas, Layout Editor Princess Korrinne Mijares, Photo Editor Izabelle Mari Siarot, Web Editor Venetia Bruza, Adviser Robbie Ann Jesser Eullo, Coordinator, HUMSS/ABM
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 Twitter: @LeviofLEV
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.