malate LITERARY FOLIO
MALATE LITERARY FOLIO
HUNYO 2022
MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2 Karapatang-ari © 2022
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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO). Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa: E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Website: issuu.com/malatelitfolio Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio Instagram: @malatelitfolio 503-Media House, Bro. Connon Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila. Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang karapatang-ari ng bawat piyesang ipinalimbag dito. Hindi maaaring ipalathala muli o gamitin sa anumang paraan ang alin man sa mga nilalaman nang walang karampatang pahintulot ng may-akda o may-dibuho ANG TOMONG ITO AY HINDI IPINAGBIBILI. Mangyaring ipagbigay-alam sa mga patnugot ng Malate Literary Folio ang anumang paglabag ukol dito. Ang layout ng folio ay gawa ni Elijah T. Barongan. Ang pabalat ay pinamagatang “The Strongman” — likha ni centimere.
INTRODUKSYON Sa palasyo ng mga payaso, mayroong naghahari-hariang inaari ang buong bayan. Siyasatin ang kanyang puso’t hungkag sa pagmamahal ngunit nag-uumapaw sa kagahamanan sa kapangyariha’t yaman. May nag-uudyok sa kanyang lamukusin o plantsahin, baguhin o burahin ang nakaraang bangungot pa rin sa kasalukuyan ng nakararami. Sa likod ng maskara ng kasinungalingan ay isang aninong walang mukhang maihaharap sa sambayanang nililinlang nang paulitulit. Ikubli man ng milyong salapi, hindi kailanman maitatago ang katotohanang isinasalaysay ng mga api. Sa kanyang balintataw, tanaw ang sambayanang tumatangis at tumitindig para sa kinabukasang ilang ulit ninakaw at sinira ng mga pusong ganid. Walang patak ng awa na nababakas sa kanyang mga matang sinanay sa larawan ng karahasan at kawalan ng katarungan. Sa kaibuturan ng kanyang diwa, umaalingasaw ang naaagnas nang kaluluwa’t isinusuka ng sariling konsensiya ang kamunduhang ugat ng paghihirap ng masang inagawan ng puwang sa bayang mamamayan ang siyang nagpanday. Kung pagmamasdan ang natutuyong aspalto sa makitid na eskinita, pakikinggan ang mga inimpit na hikbi mula sa dingding ng sariling tahanan, at lalanghapin ang usok na nakasusulasok, sisidhi ang damdaming asam-asam ang bagong kulay ng bukangliwayway. Sa sulok nitong mga matang pinaningning ng pagluha, may sumisibol na bagong larawan. Lumiliwanag ang mukha ng pag-asa — nasa atin ang kapangyarihan. LAUREN ANGELA CHUA Punong Patnugot
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Nilalaman Introduksyon Prosa Huling Piging Lauren Angela Chua
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An Open Letter to the Unrequited Pia Ng
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Fractured Lois Day
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Sining xii
The Strongman centimere
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Under Watchful Eyes Dana Beatrice Tan Scopophobia G.M.
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Babangon Si Serapio. Duguan Ang Kaniyang Mukha. Dana Beatrice Tan
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where did it all go wrong G.M.
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Via Crucis: A Journey To Easter Mary Darlene Timbre
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Tula Ang Huling Paghuhukom Christa I. De La Cruz
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Darakda Bóte Adíng Kiko, dps
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Gestation Rigel Ruel Portales
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Agaw-Hininga Christa I. De La Cruz
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Life in Death Junard Duterte
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oct 17 b.t
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It’s raining somewhere else Jolani Carla Cartalla
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Ang Aswang Elvis A. Galasinao Jr.
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Plume faith
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Of Fire and Absence Elvis A. Galasinao Jr.
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Navigating the Distance Elvis A. Galasinao Jr.
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sep 20 b.t
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Onsen bathing Alita Siguenza
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Egyptian Cat Sebastian Delgado, dps
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Untitled Sebastian Delgado, dps
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Firefly Ben Pito
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Retrato Division Sean Xavier Nieva
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Samid Emmanuel Cabangon
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Ilalim Emmanuel Cabangon
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Pity Party Sean Xavier Nieva
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Bantay Sean Xavier Nieva
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Dazed Dreaming Sean Xavier Nieva
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Biglang Naging Usok Kyle Noel Ibarra
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IV line Nathaniel Aguirre
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Back and Forth Angela de Castro
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Lust for Luck Uriel Anne Bumanlag
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New Game Sean Xavier Nieva
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Sunrise at the Red Sea Mary Darlene Timbre
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Silip Lang Muna Uriel Anne Bumanlag
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Slice of Life Lauren Angela Chua
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at the end of the day Uriel Anne Bumanlag
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Pasasalamat
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PATNUGUTAN mga senyor na patnugot
Lauren Angela C. Chua Punong Patnugot
Alexandra Monique D. Manalo Pangalawang Patnugot
Ma. Bea Joelline D. Martinez Tagapamahalang Patnugot
Samantha Krissel G. Kwan Patnugot ng Prosa
Uriel Anne T. Bumanlag Patnugot ng Retrato
Dana Beatrice S. Tan Patnugot ng Sining
Faith Lynnwel P. Dela Vega Patnugot ng Tula
Heavenleigh Faye C. Luzara
Mary Joy Abalos Van Rien Jude Espiritu Matthew Rafael Florendo Maria Gabrielle Galang Kyle Noel Ibarra Adia Pauline Lim Benedict Lim Cathleen Jane Madrid Jamie Shekinah Mapa Paula Bianca Marana Chaunne-Ira Masongsong Querix Keershyne Rose Recalde Isabella Tuason Cielo Marie Vicencio Vince Gerard Victoria Therese Diane Villanueva Dominique Bianca Yap
mga tagapayo
Tagapamahala ng Events
Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola
Elijah Mahri T. Barongan Tagapamahala ng Marketing Tagapamahala ng Layout
student media office
Miguelle P. Cortez
Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari
Ms. Franz Louise Santos
Director
Eloisa O. Sison Tagapamahala ng Dokyumentasyon
Ms. Jeanne Marie Phyllis Tan
Coordinator
Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa Secretary
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Tula C.M.C. J.C. Jacqui Casse Singh Juliah Faye Dela Vega Moses Isaiah Ojera P.S.T. Rigel Ruel Portales Ryelle
Sining
KA SA PI
A.H. B.S. centimere
E.F. F.B. G.M. I.P. J.A. J.V. P.C.
Prosa ahiru
Alliyah Vanessa Provido chava
Derek Masalang Guion Marciano Jennifer Santos Mari Samantha Bersaldo
Retrato Angela de Castro Angelito Raphael Reyta E. M. M. Emmanuel Cabangon Gabrielle Palmos J.I.R. Mayari Merida Querida ( G ) Nathaniel Aguirre Raymund John Sarmiento II Sean Xavier Nieva
Marketing & Events Athena Nicole C. Cardenas Daniela Racaza Jan Aireen Magcaling Maridelle B. Alcantara Mary John Saquilayan Maxine C. Lee Raya Marie Sabandal Tricia Ann N. Salvacion vii
MGA KONTRIBYUTOR Christa I. De La Cruz
Si Christa I. De La Cruz ay kasalukuyang section editor ng Spot.PH at mag-aaral ng MFA in Creative Writing sa Pamantasang De La Salle. Siya ay naging Patnugot ng Tula ng Malate Literary Folio sa pangakademikong taong 2008 hanggang 2009. Nagtapos siya ng Sertipiko sa Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Filipino sa UP Diliman noong 2017 at ng BA Communication Arts sa Philippine Women’s University noong 2021. Ang kanyang koleksiyong “Mula sa Silong” ay nagkamit ng unang gantimpala sa Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature noong 2015.
Adíng Kiko, dps
MALIKHAING AWTOR ng literature & law sa pambata at young adults si Adíng Kiko, dps. Unang edukasyon niya sa isang pampublikong paaralan sa Navotas, at University of Manila. Kumuha siya ng kurso sa batas (UE at SSC) at naging editorial staff sa isang law journal. Lumabas ang kaniyang mangá akdâ sa UE Dawn, at literary folio nitong Dimension, at Sinagtala, Heights Ateneo, Malate Literary Folio DLSU, MaMag malayang magasin, Dawn Poets Society literary journals, Takipsilim Kuwentong Pambata, Gawad Alagad Panitikan, LIRA Ovo | Zen, Philippines Graphic, Ani ng Cultural Center of the Philippines Intertextual Division, NBDB Bookwatch, The Maginhawa Street Journal, pati na din sa mangá refereed dyornal ng PSLLF na Kawíng, at Luntian. Nakapaglimbag ng higit tatlumpong aklat-pampanitikan, si Kiko ay isa sa mangá alagad ng panitikang Filipino. Nag-aral siya ng malikhaing pagsusulat sa Ateneo De Manila University, at nang lumaon, sa University of Oxford. Kasalukuyan niyang itinutuloy ang kaniyang myth gamit ang teknik na pabula, ecohumanities bílang janra, at sub-janrang forestry—plants & trees. viii
Junard Duterte
Junard Duterte is currently a graduate student taking up a PhD degree in Education major in Educational Management at DLSUManila. He has been teaching professional education courses to preservice teachers for four years at the Institute of Teacher Education in Davao del Norte State College. He is fond of joining Professional Learning Communities (PLCs) both offline and online particularly the DavNor MOOC Camp, the biggest MOOC learners’ camp in the country. His research interests are Online and Distance E-learning, Curriculum and Instructional Development, 21st-Century Education, and Educational Assessments. He likes studying online courses and is an active webinarian to date.
Elvis A. Galasinao Jr.
Elvis A. Galasinao Jr. was born to Filipino parents in 1996 in Isabela, Philippines. He is currently an MA Language and Literature student in the De La Salle University. He is a researcher and a poet whose works have appeared in various publications including Katitikan: Literary Journal of the Philippine South, Anak Sastra Literary Journal, ALPAS Journal: Arts and Literature E-Journal for Filipino Artists, and Tint Journal, the literary journal for ESL writers.
Patricia Louise Remoquillo
Trish Remoquillo is currently a graduate student in De La Salle University. She is taking up a Master’s Degree in Special Education. She also took up AB-Psychology at De La Salle University for her Undergraduate Studies. She used to be a part of her school paper in high school, and was also a part of the official literature and visual arts publication during her Undergraduate Studies. Currently, she still enjoys writing during her spare time, but has also recently tried exploring other crafts like art, and photography. ix
Alita Siguenza
Alita Siguenza, a college lecturer and graduate student by day and a poet-storyteller at night, lives in two nations - her body rooted in one but her mind and heart belongs to another. In a multiverse, she would be able to love as she pleases. She believes that the human heart, which contains several chambers, can hold so much love for everyone.
Sebastian Delgado, dps
CREATIVE AUTHOR on literature & medicine for children and young adults, Sebastian Delgado had his first formal education at San Sebastian College – Recoletos de Manila. At De La Salle University (DLSU), he completed Writing The Classroom, and the series of Dialogue with NA F. Sionil José. A graduate fellow of Writing The Forest: Online Workshop On Creative Writing And Critical Reading (DLSU), registered author/writer of National Book Development Board (NBDB), and a member of Harvard Museums of Science & Culture. He was invited as one of the speakers for CCP-curated writers’ fair, and one of the panelists of Reading The Regions National Commission for Culture and the Arts - National Committee on Literary Arts (NCLA). His pieces of pathology were chosen in a peerreviewed volume of The Reflective Practitioner (University of the Philippines, Manila), printed on the pages of Mabaya, an anthology about Covid-19, HIV and AIDS. A United States-based first issue of Beatific Magazine included Delgado as the only Filipino Haikuist contributor. Apart from A Thousand Cranes’ anthology collaborated by Sing Lit Station and Asia Pacific Hospice Palliative Care Center in Singapore, Delgado was likewise published in A Journal Of The Plague Year of Arizona State University SHPRS. He is working on myth with the use of fabulation technique, eco-humanities as a genre, and sub-genre forestry—plants & trees. He stepped up to the next level of creative writing course at De La Salle University. Later on, at University of Cambridge. x
Ben Pito
Ben Pito is a graduate student taking up a master’s degree in Teaching Physics at De La Salle University-Manila. In 2017, he received his bachelor’s degree in Secondary Education with a specialization in Physical Science at the University of Southern Mindanao. Ben was a former contributor to Project Thorns - a passion-driven independent literary magazine. He is currently living in Carmen North Cotabato. Growing up close to nature inspired him to write short poems that tackle various aspects of life (e.g., hope, decisions, and despair).
Mary Darlene Timbre
Mary Darlene Timbre was a Malate Literary Folio member in college. After earning her Bachelor of Arts degree Major in Psychology from De La Salle University-Manila, she pursued her masteral studies at the Ateneo De Manila University. She is currently a Doctor of Philosophy in Applied Theology Major in Religious Education student at De La Salle University-Manila. Her heart for service has inspired her to found the Magnificat Healing Through Art Missions which started as a vehicle for evangelization through outreach projects in indigent communities and eventually transitioned to faith-based and art-centered missions for pediatric patients with chronic illnesses as wounded healers by utilizing their God-given artistic gifts as instruments of healing for themselves, as well as for others. She herself is a personal witness to God’s merciful love and healing power as reflected in her artworks.
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centimere
The Strongman
digital collage
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Malate Literary Folio
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TOMO XXXVIII BILANG 2
Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
CHRISTA I. DE LA CRUZ
Ang Huling Paghuhukom (Pagkaraan ni Alfonso Ossorio)
Nakadungaw ang mga kaluluwa sa hapag-kainan. Bumubulyaw sa nagaalab na apoy. Nakaabang sa bukas na palad. Dilat ang mata, buka ang bibig, tabi-tabi ang mga mukha. Nasaan ang impyerno? Basag ang bungo, putol ang kamay, butas ang dibdib. Hindi na marinig ang eroplanong nag-ubos ng bala sa himpapawid. Nasaan ang langit? Bumaha ng asukal sa asukarera, sa bodega, sa mga mansiyon. Halos 200,000 mga kaluluwa ang kumalam ang sikmura. Nasaan ang purgatoryo? Nanunuyot na ang lupa. Nakadungaw pa rin ang mga kaluluwa.
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Malate Literary Folio
Adíng Kiko, dps
Darakda Bóte Kagigising lamang ni Balentino Matapos makipaglaplapan Sa bóte at balut; Matapos ibenta, boto At mag-imprenta ng mangá ballot. Wala ng bútil Ng bigás, Tapáyan. Pinulutan, darák, Álak, ipinantúlak. Túlak nang túlak, Wala naman ay útak. Búkas, Kinabukasan niyang si Balentino Ay kawalan ng katinuan Sa isip, sa salitâ, at sa gawâ. Ika-15 ng Pebrero, 2022 Kalakhang Maynila, Filipinas
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Malate Literary Folio
DANA BEATRICE TAN
Under Watchful Eyes digital art
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SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
Division
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INSERT PHOTOGRAPHER’S NAME
Insert Title Here 6
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RIGEL RUEL PORTALES
Gestation It’s the same meal cuddling the same shrinking appetite. Ginataang manok. Viridescent oil. Ladled over the potential plate, atop peeled and portioned papaya pieces. Pales to the boiled moon caught in the stovelight. Do I need seconds to be reheated? Do I need to be your son? Ultimately, yes. You made a delightful meal that I just don’t like. Chili leaves barely constitute temper. Would be better to be crying in your belly. After all, this world. Starting with this life. To undo taste altogether. Starting with the fire. Deep in the stomach swamp where I can’t see the sun flame through your skin. Decades where I deny your blood being spilled. And guilt. Let this be the last. Let this last. Let the coconut milk make chopped-up chicken the same as sugar. Saturate. Reduce. Extinguish and forgiveness. A hunger that I kicked you with. Beginning inside you, I found the world like a meal. My first breath was a mistake. I meant to eat the world. All your hunger with it.
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EMMANUEL CABANGON
Samid
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Malate Literary Folio
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Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
CHRISTA I. DE LA CRUZ
Agaw-Hininga Paano ba kita muling matatanaw? Kaliskis mong kahel, sadyang kumikislap. Sa lalim ng dagat, muntik mapahiyaw. Sapat ba ang hanging inipon sa rabaw? Pílit babalikan ang hásang mong ganap. Paano ba kita muling matatanaw? Isang pagbulusok: Tantyado ang galaw, Biláng ang hininga, mga tenga’y hirap. Sa lalim ng dagat, muntik mapahiyaw. Kulay mo’y hinanap: rosas, bulaw, dilaw. Antipara’y dala upang di kumurap. Paano ba kita muling matatanaw? Kulubot ang kamay, balót na ng ginaw. Nag-aagaw-hingal, hinga: isang iglap. Sa lalim ng dagat, muntik mapahiyaw. Namuting korales ang ngayo’y lumitaw. Tikóm lang ang bibig, libinga’y kaharap. Paano ba kita muling matatanaw? Sa lalim ng dagat, muntik mapahiyaw.
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Malate Literary Folio
JUNARD DUTERTE
Life in Death Out of nothingness I own nothing, I know nothing Nothing is special the way I am. Emptiness! Perhaps, it devours like Vacuum in my limited space. I open Myself and unbutton my identity with Nothing but only – stale, dark, and dull Fractals of shattering puzzles I have Yet to collect. That I exist now Without meaning, like a lone castaway In the realm of uncertainty. I am – Nothing but an empty vessel that cries For a name? I blindly offer my reason, My freedom, my intellect, my existence To the consuming fire that exhausts itself To polish the gems until my identity shines. I do not move, let alone myself be moved To the crosscurrents of time; shifting Sands and changing seasons, to leave A legacy of sacrifices, selflessness. From the one is often sucked and sipped, The joy of making this home much better is Nothing but a sweet sorrow. Time may Someday erase memories but not the print Left on a heart. If emptiness is a cheerful Victim of abuse and helplessness in the age Of youth, then she must, as well, be honored In the face of brokenness and despair, even When in the days of vitality, she marries death.
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G.M.
Scopophobia digital art
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Malate Literary Folio
b.t
oct 17 i glance at the flickering lights, the street, empty; my heartbeat, quiet; my footsteps, muted— it is night time again and the sky decides to light up as it roars. it starts,
but i do not move an inch
i look at the sky with open eyes and listen to its cries i stare, unwavering, unblinking– and marvel at its rage. it grows,
still, i do not move an inch
in this madness, a world of insanity, in this era of unheard screams, muffled wails, and pin-drop shrieks, i envy the way it can howl into the void– angry, furious, explosive, against a backdrop of an all-consuming abyss– yet can still make everybody listen this is power, and i cannot move an inch. 14
Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
JOLANI CARLA CARTALLA
It’s raining somewhere else (A collection of haikus)
These tapping noises: Knocking on my door, Raindrops on the windowsill. No one is outside… What’s this deafening silence? Someone is watching; Mouth open as if to speak. The quiet beckons. Do you hear it too? There is a static– Softly whispering to me, The rain is too loud. It’s raining somewhere else.
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EMMANUEL CABANGON
Ilalim
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Malate Literary Folio
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Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
ELVIS A. GALASINAO JR.
Ang Aswang In that darkness devoid of birdsong, There came a musky scent Tinctured with rancid breath. Awake – as always – as she tries To figure out how to survive Her next day in hiding without Breaking her spine or worse, They trace her scent. The rumors Of the viscera-eating, self-segmenting female monster that braves the Night were rampant in the barrio. The elders tell tales of a beautiful Woman by day and this predator Disjoins its upper body and grows Wings after sunset – And they chased her, and the night Is mad when six furry faces appeared Almost instantly and she screamed. They drove a wooden stake through Her heart as they spit curses on her body – Her skin makes a delicate Binding for a book of common prayer. Their curses are their own kind of Exorcism. When all the women are Damned, their blood will possess Your tongue, it will teach you new words: That you are scared, that you are foul – It will tell you what you’ve done. 21
Malate Literary Folio
LAUREN ANGELA CHUA
Huling Piging
“Dala mo ba?” “Ang alin? Ay, oo naman. Mahirap na, baka may makakita sa ’kin dito! Mamaya pa ako mag-iiba.” “O sige na, magkita tayo sa may kubo malapit sa bahay nila Ida. Balita ko may bagong panganak doon.” Ibinaba ni Eva ang telepono at nagtago muna sa dilim habang inilalabas ang dalawang malalaking buto sa kanyang palikpik na tila nagpupumiglas na makawala. Malaki na ang kanyang dinadala kaya’t nahirapan siyang ilabas ang kanyang mga pakpak. Lumipad si Eva at hinanap ang kubo malapit sa bahay ni Ida at nang matagpuan niya ito ay bumilis ang kanyang paglipad at hinawi ang mga ibon, paniki, at usok.
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Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
Nang makita ni Eva ang sanggol mula sa bubong ng kubo ay hindi na siya nakapaghintay sa pagdating ng kanyang pinakamatalik na kaibigan. Ramdam na niya ang pagkalam ng kanyang tiyan na nagsasabing gutom na ang nasa sinapupunan. Agad niyang kinuha ang sanggol na nakapagitan sa mga magulang nito. Gamit ang kanyang napakahabang dila, pinulupot, dinilaan, sinunggaban ang kawawang sanggol. Kinalaskalas ang kanyang mga buto. Maging ang dugo nito sa bawat maliit na ugat ay sinimot niya hanggang sa huling patak. Ang sariwang mga laman loob ay inilatag niya sa bubong na wari’y isang piging na para sa kanya lamang. Naubos niya agad ito hanggang sa maliliit na buto na lang ang natira. Pagkatapos niyang kumain ay sumakit ang kanyang balakang at tiyan. Hudyat na ito ng pinakahihintay niya — ang masilayan ang kanyang unica hija. Sa bubong kung saan nagkalat ang mga buto ng kanyang pinagkainan ay isinilang niya ang tagapagmana ng kanilang lahi. Ang dugo na mula sa kanyang panganganak ay tumulo pababa sa papag ng kubo. Tumulo ito hanggang sa magising ang mag-asawa dahil sa tunog ng pagpatak at pag-alingasaw ng nagkalat na dugo. Nang maalimpungatan ang mag-asawa, kinapa agad nila ang kanilang anak. Wala. Kasabay ng pagpalahaw ng iyak ng bagong panganak na sanggol ni Ida ay ang pag-iyak ng mag-asawang nangungulila sa kanilang kaisa-isang anak. Nagkalas ang kanilang yakap para kapain ang bawat sulok ng kama at sahig, nagbabaka-sakaling mali ang kanilang nararamdaman na pangil sa dibdib. Nadatnan ni Sally ang nangyayari. Nakita niya ang mag-asawang bulag. Ni hindi na nga nila nasilayan o naaninag man lang ang anak, ngayo’y hindi na rin mayayakap. Ramdam nila ang nangyayari, tumatangis silang magkayakap muli. Lalong dumilim ang kanilang madilim nang paningin. Parang iwinawasiwas ng tsubibo sa perya ang bawat nilang laman loob. Naduduwal sa karumal-dumal na pag-iisip sa kung ano ang sinapit ng kanilang anak. 23
Malate Literary Folio
Agad na lumipad sa bubong si Sally kung saan niya nakita si Eva na nanghihina, at ang anak nito na nababalot ng dugo. Kinuha niya ang sanggol. Sa harapan ni Eva, kinain niya ito tulad ng pagpangas ni Eva sa supling ng mag-asawa. Ngunit itinira ang mga mata ng sangol. Pagkatapos, lumipad si Sally papunta sa mag-asawa at garalgal na sinabing “naipaghiganti ko na kayo. Pasensya na. Ito na ang huli.” sabay abot ng mga mata ng sanggol, tig-isa ang mag-asawa. Nakita na nila ang isa’t isa, pati na rin ang gutay-gutay na pag-asa. Luha ang unang tumulo mula sa mga bagong kabit na mata. Sa pagitan ng lumbay at galit, sigurado silang wala nang ibang kulay o saysay ang kanilang paglalakbay hanggang sa kamatayan. Ang pagpalahaw ng isang ama at dalawang ina ang bumalot sa mundo sa buong magdamag.
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DANA BEATRICE TAN
Babangon Si Serapio. Duguan Ang Kaniyang Mukha. digital art
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Malate Literary Folio
SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
Pity Party
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Malate Literary Folio
G.M.
where did it all go wrong digital art
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Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
PIA NG
An Open Letter to the Unrequited
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Malate Literary Folio
I hate cherry blossoms. One of them haunts the hill that overlooks the city’s park, head bowed and back arched like a gnarled old witch hunting for their next victim. Its dark tendrils shift and flex in the warm summer wind, casting its pink spell over the surrounding grass. There are mounds of petals past fallen there already, rotting under the combined weight of the new and old. Odd, it is, how it blooms all year round; cherry blossoms used to ruin my day by clogging my nose with their pollen in spring, but this one… perhaps it’s cursed. Perhaps it despises its nature so much that it stands against it out of spite, blooming out of season to prove something to itself. Perhaps, despite my vitriol against its kind and my desire to burn and chop every single one of them until their extinction… I find myself inexplicably drawn. I am, was, like that too. My parents were a stricter sort, and believed that the only way to live a fulfilling life is to earn as much cash as humanly possible, even if you had to sell your soul to the devil to get it. My brother was like that, swept up in the buzz of Wall Street that he forgot that he was tricking people like him into buying penny stock. My sister was like that, taking bribes under the table to tilt the scales of justice to where she saw fit. And I… wasn’t like that. It went against my family’s nature, and they made their great displeasure known when I picked a career based not only in the arts, but in literature. Suffice to say, though my memory is hazy beyond this tree, I have my theories that they were the ones who cursed me here in the first place, to live this limbo between life and death. They were rich enough to do it, and despised my blacksheepedness enough that I wouldn’t put it past them. But I digress. Everyday, I find myself up on that grassy knoll, tracing my hand down its weathered trunk. There are writings, here, hearts and crosses and letters, that might stand for the past lovers who have roosted their devotions here. But, unlike the everblooming tree, they have flown the
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roost, as the wounds they leave scab over and heal. All that remains is the faintest of marks, perceptible only by touch, only if you knew where to look. I wish they carved harder, deeper, left a bigger mark. Or maybe that is my own soul crying out to me; the marks I’d leave on this tree, would they stay? Or will they fade, like the rest? When I die, what will stay? The wood beneath my hand is pulsing, warm, and malleable, more like coarse skin than any other bark. The wind rustles, tugging petals along with it, as a pale, bloodless eye peers through the hollow within. Waxen skin follows, with a jaw slack with rot. A putrid black liquid dribbles out of the corner of its mouth, swollen cheeks dotted with pockmarks and chitinous shells. A maggot crawls out of the body’s other eye socket, the contents long gone in the bellies of countless fly generations. The hollow stares with that body as a pupil, and I… I am subjected to the sensation of looking at the shell of my old self. It isn’t a mirror, not quite, but more as if settling into the skin of a stranger and seeing what they thought of me. I try to reach out and touch it, but the hollow closes up, like an eye poked. Damn tree won’t even let me touch it, even if I can’t drag it out. I’m sick of it, sick of always seeing it, but it reflects me with an accuracy that curdles my stomach. I’m just like it, resisting my nature and still moving, despite my expiration. When I died, my body stayed, and so did my spirit. Perhaps not forever, but long enough to long for someone else to talk to. It makes the voice hoarse, when your conversational partner doesn’t have a mouth to reply with. Terribly tragic. The tree remains in its silent watch, my body obscured in shadow unless you knew where to look. I stand to attention when I hear the soft squelch of footsteps trudging through the detritus of the hill’s floor, pushing through rotting petals and ankle-high grass. I turn to check who’s climbing up, in a brief moment of curiosity, and— I couldn’t stop staring. The heavens must
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have sent you down, because I have never bore witness to such ethereal grace. Like an angel— no, a force of nature, beautiful in the way that cracking icebergs are, in the way volcanoes blow and plants unfurl from the undergrowth. The sunlight, sparkling and spotted, splattered streaks of gold and pink against your charcoal hair. Your eyes glimmer with it, like cherry wood, or freshly turned dirt, holding such life and the potential of it. It must be providence, then, that someone so in tune with their nature would meet one striving against it. You wandered around the tree, examining its every branch and imperfection, before summarizing your search with the blossoms above. I kept my distance, staying opposite you as you circled it. I could hear you muttering things, something about “summer blossoms” and a “natural wonder”, and I am lost in the dulcet tones of your voice. You speak of biology and seasons, but your tone conveys something else entirely; something far more exciting. Your words were gospel and I, your most fervent prophet, hung onto your every remark and approving hum. But then, soon, far too soon, you simply left. I had to find you again. I had to hear that voice. I have realized that life without you, is like man without fire; dark, cold, and deadly. But the thing is, I’m rather… limited in what I could do. I could have followed you. But to where? To your home? To your school? Oh God, no, I may have preferred the temptous dance of fictional personas to the courts of human interaction, but even I can tell that would only lead to disaster. I could have kept wandering until I saw you again. But what if you didn’t even live in this city, this country? What if you only visited to see the tree? The chances of just happening upon you were close to none, and I can’t stray too far from home, either, lest I become lost for good. The chances of seeing you after that, well, I’d be better off trying to come back to life and declaring myself the second Jesus.
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I could have just waited by the tree for you to return. But what assurance do I have of that? It could have been a one-off thing, a break of habit. People do so love adventuring, but they rarely return to the places they’ve been to. It isn’t fun, after all, to see the same things, over and over again. Ultimately, I decided to wait. I believed you would come back, and I held onto that with white knuckles and popping veins. You would come back, I repeated to myself, like if I said it enough times, you would manifest before me, speaking of springs and summers and irregularities and nature. You made cherry blossoms tolerable. Time passes. You return, make your observations, and leave, despite my best attempts to get you to notice me. You stay for longer, though talk about things beyond what results you got from me, which I count as a win. It means that I have a better chance of catching your attention. A snapped branch here, a falling petal there, but… to no avail. Those ones are easy, because they are light and disconnected, but I fear I need something bigger to catch your attention. I’ve tried reaching for you, God knows I have, but my cold hands dissipate in your boundless warmth. I’ve tried larger branches, tripping blossoms right into your mouth, but none of this screams me. None of this ever catches your attention. You simply take the petals that fall into your mouth and stash them neatly into bags, or peel off small samples of bark and leaf while pressing your hand to the wood. I can taste your curiosity, your anticipation, with how closed you pressed yourself to me, muttering something about “the warmth of being alive”... but I could think of nothing else but wishing that I could be closer, wrap myself around you, become so inexplicably intertwined that no one could tell where I end and you begin. I want– My thoughts halt when you spy the hollow.
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No. No no no, I can’t allow you to look at that, to look at me. It is unsightly and gaunt, a half-rotted thing, well on its way to mummification. You would think of me a monster. You would think of me evil. You would run away, and I would be left by myself, all over again. I can’t let that happen, even if I have to lie, hide, and cheat you, I do not want you gone. Not like this. Incrementally, I begin to close it up, begging and pleading with the figure I so hate to stop its vigil for once and close its eye. Indifferent to my words, as it always is. Your hands are already pressed against each side of it, peering through into the dark as if your bright gaze can pierce through it. I’m afraid that it’s more than enough. You reach in. (God, help me please.) Further. (I don’t want her to go.) And further. (She’s the only one I have left.) And further. But salvation comes by way of a shrill voice. Your name carries in the air, a holy presence, and you whisk yourself away. The vice grip of anxiety eases its iron hold on my incorporeal ribs, and I press a hand against my chest. I expected it to thud, to thrum, only to find nothing but the cool mist my entire being had become. Right. I forget, sometimes, that the damn tree had stolen that too. On other occasions, once you came back, I would stick my hand in the hollow so it would snap shut, hiding the monster within. I don’t think it bothered you, not seeing it anymore, as you’ve never mentioned it again. You do, however, start talking about different things, beyond the observations of the tree. I like to think that I’m getting through to you, even though you can’t see me. You tell me about your day, about
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the folly of your classmates and the latest research paper you’ve been writing for your chemistry class. You tell me of your favorite cafe just down the hill and across the street, with the dragon-shaped croissants and cat-paw coffee cups. You like eating there because it’s different, and it isn’t as crowded as Starbucks or Seattle’s, so it’s easier to settle down and study, or just to enjoy the homey atmosphere. You go there so frequently that the staff know you by the way the bell jingles as you open the door— a short clink, then a full one, because you always forget whether the door is push or pull. You talk about friends, about family, about people who have stayed and people who have come and gone. Some willingly, some not, and some… you weren’t certain. And I listen. I listen to every word you say, because I want to know everything about you. I want to know what you like, where you stay, what makes your eyes shine like stars and your heart thump like the hoofbeats of a racing horse. I want to keep them all in a little notebook close to my heart, so that I will always remember. And one day, when you finally notice me… we could be together. Why else would you stay here, near this tree? It holds nothing for you. I do. I will. I must. “You know,” you tell me one day, after a tirade about a professor who assigned you a term paper due the same week you take the finals, “people find it super weird that I talk to a tree all day. I know, it’s irrational, but… I feel like you’re listening. You’re more than just an irregularity to me. You’ve become a friend. Oh, God, what am I saying… opening up to a cherry blossom because I’m too scared to say any of this to a real person… How brave of me, right?” You cover your face with your hands, and I can’t stand it. Your shoulders shake and quiver, chest jolting with quiet sobs… and I just want to hold you close and make you forget about it all. Forget your classmates, your cursed professors, everyone who dares to hurt you. You only need me, as I only need you.
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I reach for you with words unsaid hanging heavily against the cusp of my throat. It’s okay. I’m here. I hear you. Don’t be sad, I try to say, it’s hard now, but it will get easier with time. But my hand passes through your shoulder, trailing a cold dew down to the hem of your sleeve… No, this won’t do at all. I need— I need— I need to reach you, hold you close. And for once, the tree agrees. There will be a price to pay, I know, and I hope you understand why I did what I did. I reach out shaky, bony hands, the hollow breaking open to where you rested your back, clasping your shoulders and pulling you towards me, towards the monstrous shell of myself that I once hid. I used to think that I had to hide it, but now I see clearly. It doesn’t matter, not if we spend the rest of eternity with each other. Relationships should not be built on lies, and I intend to show you the whole truth. You do something expected, but not; you scream. (And I imagine, like any sane, uninformed fellow, you scream.) Come now. No need for that. It’s terrifying now but you will understand. I promise. But you squirm and fight and make far too much noise, so much that someone is bound to hear us– so I reach out again and snap. You fall still. A blissful, loving silence falls over the both of us, as the tree, the beloved cherry tree, grants us shelter. Finally, an eternity with you. I could not be happier. Days and days pass, lingering in the trunk, bodies pressed as close as they can be, intertwined beyond separation. You are mine. You are mine, as the cherry petals fall red.
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SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
Bantay 39
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SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
Dazed Dreaming
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faith
Plume I used to care about how many sticks you would consume in a day. Throw them, water ‘em down, hide them somewhere I think you can’t reach, reminders of your own father’s demise. Lung cancer or emphysema? I’m not sure. I think I still would’ve loved you if you had a robot voice. Then one day I stopped caring if you were to die like he did. I don’t mind, I think, it’s the death of me— not you. My first pack of cigarettes were a gift from a friend, sweet Indonesian tobacco I hid in my drawer. I take another puff and think: I’m the biggest hypocrite of them all.
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KYLE NOEL IBARRA
Biglang Naging Usok 44
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NATHANIEL AGUIRRE
IV line 45
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ELVIS A. GALASINAO JR.
Of Fire and Absence After an absence that no one is to blame, the room feels much bigger now, and our tongue seems twisted at a loss for words. The dirty dishes piling up in the kitchen sink, a bowl of cold mushroom soup, and an empty bottle of red wine: a vessel of our lost utterance. Warmth crawled up my neck like a grapevine when you lit up a candle, the heat of the small flame melting my spine slowly like it melts the wax. The white wax mimics the lighthouse tonight standing so tall it casts long shadows while our bodies wash ashore. As we breathe the evening air, our features brighten by the flickering light, the only witness on our use of space. Once, I ran through fire for you. And now, what’s left of me are ashes, which the proverbial east wind catches every day, a macabre confetti. And you, for your brown eyes that bring deep nostalgia like an old photo, and your lips folded like a love note, I’ll watch more of you burn away like bits of burnt paper in the sky, cinders that should have been petals in softest white.
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ELVIS A. GALASINAO JR.
Navigating the Distance You, it seems, are a manifestation of several miles of distance: neither and otherwise in flesh. Most days, your hug feels like a valley formed by erosion over the years. You are deemed expert on shelving unread books on the shelf, on packing and unpacking luggage, on finding the perfect spot to sit on warm concrete. How long have you been sitting on the front door? In this doorway, the sun doesn’t shine as if the crevice is not wide enough. And birdsong can’t pass as if every melody fails to glide through the air as it once did before. Too wide and too narrow all at once. You are my first love until you are not. Last night, I have dreamed of our bed floating on the Pacific, and I watch your body disappear over the orange horizon while I inhale the tidal waves.
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I am invisible until you ask me where I put the shoes I gave you. There is a superstition that giving someone shoes is bad luck, and who receives it will walk away. And you will leave too, One way or another. Like a newborn turtle cracking open the egg shell that once kept him safe and warm, carrying his small house on his back towards the water feeling the full pain of changed terrain. I had almost forgotten that what we have is already a message. What we have is a stretch of distance from an unexplored landscape where I stop to survey never knowing if I’m stepping on gold or landmine.
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b.t
sep 20 but it’s dancing near the flame, isn’t it? the swing at the edge of the world, the tightrope at a cliff, the drunken stupor at a highway. it’s the highest highs of living— we live in a paradox, and the only time your heart soars is when it’s just about to stop.
(oh you, adrenaline junkie, you— hanging on to the fleeting, the temporary bursts of euphoria. happiness—a ticking time bomb; one second it’s there, in another it’s gone. tick, tock. tick, tock. when it wears off, what becomes of you, then?)
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ANGELA DE CASTRO
Back and Forth
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URIEL ANNE BUMANLAG
Lust for Luck 53
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LOIS DAY
Fractured
She was awakened by a heavy, overwhelming weight on her chest. Great fear had once again disrupted her peaceful slumber as it had almost every other night. Her hand grasped her chest as she sat up, flimsily trying to steady her own breathing. She could hear the humming of the air conditioner in the background. The walls were white as she had left them when she had gone to sleep, yet the color seemed unusually brighter that afternoon. Next to her laid a stranger, his silhouette seemingly flat and lackluster. Marcus. She had recognized him from the memories that they shared over the course of two years, yet as comforting as those memories should have become, she watched him, feeling nothing. In fact, she looked at everything around her and felt nothing. She ran her fingers through his hair, and gently brushed her fingertips across his warm cheek, his eyes, his lips, hoping with each stroke that she would spark some sense of familiarity, but found herself falling short. For not even he could change the sudden outlandish environment that enveloped her.
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Her eyes scanned the room, trying to make sense of what was happening. Recognition slowly seemed to fill in some of the gaps, however, as she forced herself to remember something, or to feel anything, the world around her only seemed fuzzier. Sleep had left her, yet she felt trapped in a dream she could not seem to stir herself awake from. As her eyes glanced around and finally lingered on Marcus lying unconsciously beside her, she willed herself to wake up. Her nails dug into the tips of her fingers, but her fingers did not feel like her fingers. Her hands did not feel like her hands. And she did not feel like herself. Failing to wake herself up from what felt like an awful dream, she willed herself to remember what she could about who she was despite only remembering and feeling in what seemed to be glimpses.
Jessica was in her early twenties. She usually liked to keep to herself, often just scribbling words or ideas into her journal to distract herself from the fact that she was lonely. She also just started pursuing her master’s degree after graduating from university a year ago. It was in university that she met Marcus. They met through their love of the arts, and soon grew fonder of each other as they learned about each other’s lives, and their dreams. Soon, they graduated from university together. He moved out of his old apartment, and on his last day there, they decided to cook some truffle pasta, opened a cheap bottle of white wine, and dined on his bedroom floor. As their relationship progressed, they visited nearly every museum in the city more than once, because they enjoyed the calmness of observing every detail of the paintings that they found there. It did not matter if they spent entire days in those museums. There was something about the silence of walking together, only speaking every once in a while to discuss the art that stood before them, that filled her with wonder and comfort all at once. They took long walks in the parks, or wherever their feet led them. And on the days that they did not spend exploring the world around them, they stayed home.
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Staying home often meant they would watch movies, or would share a homecooked meal. However, as they often chose to keep to themselves, most of the time, they only really had each other. So they talked. And talked. And talked. And talked. They spoke to each other in hushed tones while talking about their past, and talked about their shared dreams for the future with such innocence and hope, because they had no knowledge of what would happen next. With each conversation, they learned more about each other, and learned more about themselves. Despite how often they talked, each conversation— each experience—they had together seemed to resonate with her differently, sometimes lingering on her mind for days at a time.
As she sat on the bed, feeling a slight disconnection with herself, she forced herself to remember as many memories they shared as possible in great detail, but they started to no longer feel like her own. They felt fragmented, and as if they were coming from somebody else’s lenses, or from a fuzzy movie. Some details remained, but the emotions that came along with them could not be retrieved. Frustrated, she decided to slowly slip out of bed, and get some air. As she inched away from him, crawling gently so he would not notice that she had left, he started to stir. He gripped her hand. “Stay”, he mumbled. His eyes were closed, and his words were still thick with sleep, so she sat closer to him until she heard him lightly snoring again and felt his grasp loosen. Once she felt that he was finally asleep, and that it was safe for her to move without waking him, she made her way out of the bedroom and into the balcony. Outside, the world seemed even brighter, almost white. She looked ahead of her, seeing nothing. The wind blew heavily on her face, and on her entire body, while she just stood there, unmoving. She tried to grasp at the truths that she knew to be certain, desperately hoping
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that something would make sense, but the silence and the chaos laced together in her mind so loudly that she no longer knew which to listen to. She felt intoxicated and confused, overwhelmed by a great urge to feel any kind of emotion, or to feel any kind of sensation within her body, but failing. It started to seem as if the more she pushed her bounds, the further things became. The more difficult it was for her to make sense of this distorted reality, the more determined she became to leave it. She let out a deep sigh, uttering, “My name is Jessica. I am twenty-one years old, and I just graduated from university. I have brown hair, and brown eyes. That stranger sleeping on the bed is Marcus. We’ve been together for two years. He seems foreign to me now, like a word that suddenly felt strange in my mouth from being said too often, but he is not. Despite feeling a disconnection in my brain, I know that he is still supposed to be important to me.” Something did not feel quite right with the words that she believed to be true. She tried again, “My name is Jessica. I am twenty-one years old, and I just graduated from university. I have brown hair. That stranger sleeping on the bed is Marcus. We’ve been together for two years. He seems foreign to me now, but I know that he is not, because he is still supposed to be important to me.” Those words did not sit well with her either. “My name is Jessica. I am twenty-one years old, and I just graduated from university. I have brown hair.” Or was it black? “That stranger on the bed is Marcus. He seems foreign to me, but a voice that does not seem like my own tells me that he is not. He is important to me, I think,” she muttered, deeply confused. Her eyebrows started to furrow. Her nails started to dig into her palms. She could feel her heart start to race the same way it did when she had first woken up—confused and afraid because she did not know what was happening to her. Worried that Marcus would notice that something was not right—that she was not quite right—she decided to look over, from where she stood, to check if he was still asleep. As she glanced at him, he shifted a little then stopped moving again. He was. 57
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Again. “My name is Jessica. Twenty-one. That stranger on the bed is Marcus.” Her fingernails dug deeper into her skin, leaving red lines on her palms and on her wrists. Nothing was making sense. She could feel the disconnection in her brain grow wider. She tried to concentrate harder, but her vision suddenly felt fuzzier, dreamlike. The outline of the balcony where she stood started to blur. From the thirtieth floor of the building where she was, everything below seemed surreal. The buildings that surrounded her, as well as the bay that sat beyond them, looked more like a painting. The cars resembled colorful smudges of paint. The sound of the wind, and the honking of the cars felt like they were coming from somewhere else. She could no longer decipher if any of what was happening was true. She no longer knew if she, herself, was real. She started to wonder if she would fall if she tried to make her way beyond the balcony. “My name is Jessica. Twenty-one. There is a stranger on the bed.” The sound of the wind grew louder until that was all that she could hear. This time, it blew more heavily on her face and on her entire body as if it were trying to wake her up from a trance she fell so deeply into. “My name is Jessica. There is a stranger on the bed.” Nothing seemed to be working. The harder she tried to pull herself out of the state that she was in, the deeper she sank. It seemed as if she were getting sucked into the back of her mind. Her vision grew cloudy and distorted. The little voice in her head that tried to coax her to come back became weak from fighting a sensation she could not understand, and her mind and body fell exhausted from trying to make sense of what was going on around her. With all her might and a weak breath, she whispered “Am I Jess?” one last time before she let her mind bury her deeply within itself. She surrendered.
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“Jess?” Marcus wondered as he stood by the door, waiting for her to respond. Instead, she remained where she was, frozen and unmoving. She wondered how long he had been standing there, calling her. She could no longer tell if she had been outside for only a few minutes, or if an hour had already passed. Time did not seem to exist in this new world she found herself floating in. “Jess, come inside,” he told her, gently taking her by the hand and walking her to the bedroom. Like a child, she followed him. Her eyes watched their hands, not feeling like herself. Her head slightly cocked to the side. She stood in front of him, feeling both confusion and curiosity all at once, as their fingers intertwined, looking flat. He watched her, wondering why she was outside, and wondering how long she had been there. He had just woken up from his slumber, but even he could feel that something was not right. Finally, she looked up at him, into his eyes, and all she could see was concern. She withdrew her hand and fumbled with her fingers, trying to come up with an explanation for something not even she understood. However, no words came, so she looked at him with a blank expression on her face. Without saying a word, he pulled her close and held her tight. She barely moved. She did not speak. None of the words that he uttered seemed to penetrate whatever clouded her mind and consumed her. He started to feel like he was talking to a wall. Thoughts started to fill his mind as they started to leave hers. He pondered on what could have possibly happened to cause her to respond to him that way. Did she get triggered by something that she saw? Was she stirred awake by her anxiety again, or was it because she received unpleasant news while he slept? He looked at her again, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening, and conjuring up a way to help her, uncertain if she even wanted help in the first place. But the look on her face did not change. Her expression remained flat and empty
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as if she were in deep thought, but he knew that she was not there. He started to wonder how long it would last before he could finally get her to speak again. Helpless, he held her tighter, but she remained indifferent. His lips started to press together. His eyes narrowed. “How long was she going to keep this up? Anything I do doesn’t seem to be working. She’s still unresponsive no matter what I do,” he thought, letting out a sigh. “Why can’t she just say something? Or do something? Any reaction was better than talking to a wall.” Eventually, he pulled away. He cupped her face in his hand. She looked up at him, but her eyes felt empty, lifeless. It started to feel like the wall that she was earlier was only a part of a whole house, and he was standing outside this structure, which had no opening. There were no windows. There were no doors. As he had seen earlier, the walls that stood in front of him were thick enough for him to realize that knocking would not be enough for him to be heard. But Jessica remained important to him, so he was determined to stand by her even when there was nothing else he could do at that moment except wait until she was ready to let him in. Despite the loneliness that he started to feel and the uncertainty of not knowing how long it would take for her to escape that trance she seemed to be in, he decided to stay with her, so that when she came back, he would be there. “Listen. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I want you to know that I’m here. You’re safe,” he promised, gently touching her face. Suddenly, she felt a wave of comfort from hearing the words that he uttered. The way that his hand touched her skin sparked a feeble sense of familiarity inside of her. As faint as the feeling was, it was there, slowly stirring something within her that she could not explain. Muffled memories seemed to cautiously flood back along with glimmers of emotions that once came along with them. She felt herself slowly waking up from what seemed like a new reality she could not seem to escape from. She watched him as tears rolled down her cheeks. Not understanding where they were coming from, she stood there, confused. He grabbed her again, and enveloped her in his arms, relieved that she was there. 60
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She could hear the sincerity in his voice, and slowly, she felt her mind let her go. She urged the little voice at the back of her head to speak, “Come back.” Slowly, she felt every fiber of her being start to regain some strength, and whatever it was that shoved her into the back of her mind gradually released her. “Try to remember. Come back.” The more she concentrated, the more she was able to gain familiarity with the world around her. Her vision gradually grew less bright. Her surroundings started to look less flat. Soon, she felt herself regain feelings that came along with memory. She found herself remembering how exhausted she felt coming back to Marcus’ new apartment after having classes at university earlier that day. As her eyes darted across the room, she recalled how exhausted she had once felt from fighting with him on that corner, because he no longer knew how to help her when her thoughts had gotten too loud, and the weight of her sadness finally had taken a toll on him too. But she also thought of how that was the same spot they would sometimes dance barefoot in, and how dancing with him often made her feel the warmth she did not know of before him. She glanced at the ceiling, and reminisced on how he would set up fairy lights there each time he would surprise her after she came home from her classes, especially at the beginning of their relationship. Then her eyes looked around even more and lingered on his bed, and she slowly remembered how comforting it felt to just be held by him when the world had gotten too cruel—when the pent-up trauma she pushed down so deeply through the years finally resurfaced all at once–and she could no longer bear it. Ironically, that bed was also where they shared their first kiss. The longer she looked at the bed, the more she found herself recalling the innocence and elation that she felt from that day, as she felt in that moment that her heart was going to leap out of her chest. Then she thought about how beautiful and how tender it was to know that the memory of her first kiss was so deeply engraved within her, it was sealed in a place that time could
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never touch again. Yet with each memory that slowly flooded back, she lingered towards the most familiar one—one where she lay in bed next to him, their bodies intertwined into one, in a world where time remained suspended, and in a memory that was now frozen and fleeting all at once. The more memories that she conjured up, the more vividly everything became. One memory after another, she found herself getting closer to coming back to her body, and to remembering who she was. Slowly, she started to feel like herself, and things started to gradually make sense to her again. She started to slowly feel her emotions again, feeling connected to the memories she had of herself, or to the memories she shared with Marcus, who had seemed so far away just moments ago. As her surroundings regained their form, and she regained her sense of feeling, she felt as if she were waking up from a long, and disorienting nap. Suddenly, her fingers and her arms felt like they were supposed to once more, and she found herself holding on to him tightly and whispering, “Marcus?” “Yeah?” he murmured. “Am I really here again?” Jess replied under her breath, slowly pulling away to look up at him. A smile of relief formed across his face, as a small smile formed on hers. “Don’t worry. You’re here. You’re safe.”
For the first time that entire afternoon, she started to feel like herself again. Her vision no longer felt fuzzy. The man that stood in front of her was finally somebody she could recognize not only in memory, but in emotions that came along with those memories. The room where she stood looked more familiar now than it did when she
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had woken up. The walls were no longer a bright white, but a paler, cream color, and everything was no longer flat, and strange looking. She decided to check the time. It was four o’clock. She thought about what had just happened, and wondered how long it had occurred. She wondered what it was, or if there was a possibility that it would happen again. There were so many things that she did not understand from the sensation that she had just felt, but she knew that the answers to her questions would not be given to her that afternoon. In fact, she was too exhausted to try to understand it anyway. Accepting that for now, she took Marcus by the hand, walked with him to the bed, and asked him to hold her. For the first time that afternoon, she felt whole—safe.
She was finally home.
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SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
New Game
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Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2
ALITA SIGUENZA
Onsen Bathing Over a bottle of beer in an izakaya I told a friend about my first time Bathing in the nude at a community onsen In Iiyama City, Japan’s beloved furusato Into the farthest north of Nagano Prefecture, Jaded city folks escape routine and pressure To play and relish the unhurried rural life Offered by the eternal hometown of Iiyama I felt his intent gaze at my face Under the dimly-lit tavern And I wished that he didn’t see My cheeks burn with shame After consuming our hot bowls of ramen There is something about the beer We have been drinking that night That loosened my usually guarded tongue I told him about how fair-skinned elderly women Stared at my exposed body Whispering amongst themselves: “Chairoi desu ne.” His eyes twinkled and I wondered What naughty thought could have crossed Hiroshi’s mind? Was it the idea that I was willing to bathe naked? My brown skin? Or that I finally spoke to him in Japanese?
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So I went on to tell him that I pretended Not to hear nor understand them even if I felt hurt Then I slid into the steamy waters until it reached my neck Feeling my skin prickle with their stares As I was made to feel like an alien body Invading their natural habitat I sunk deeper into 39 degrees of hot spring water Hoping that the rising steam vapors hide My embarrassment for my brown body Standing out among the pale-skinned bathers “Demo kaminoke ga nagakute, kirei desu ne,” another female bather quipped. This time, I smiled, despite the smell of sulfur wafting in the air Reminding me of rotten eggs.
Translation of Japanese terms and sentences: izakaya – Japanese tavern onsen - Japanese hot spring furusato – hometown ramen -Japanese noodle “Chairoi desu ne.” - It’s brown, isn’t it? “Demo kaminoke ga nagakute, kirei desu ne.” - But she has a long and beautiful hair.
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MARY DARLENE TIMBRE
Sunrise at the Red Sea 71
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Sebastian Delgado, dps
Egyptian Cat A can-opener Is the only stainless steel In a room. According to a house cat’s meows, We cats admire Our own mythology As we all are. A cat owner’s name printed on a book Published by Harvard University Press. Next to the book Is a trophy From a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature. 27th of September, 2021 Manila, Philippines
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URIEL ANNE BUMANLAG
Silip Lang Muna 74
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Sebastian Delgado, dps
Untitled
Here is a poem of a boat quickly sinking From a distance is grandpa skunk who is just watching Wet white sand is cooling my tiny paws that are itching From my mind, a boat that is quickly sinking is not syncing in A boat together with grandpa skunk is stinking and quickly sinking Whilst both of them boat and grandpa skunk are quickly syncing in 30th of November, 2020
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MARY DARLENE TIMBRE
Via Crucis: A Journey To Easter Acryllic on Canvas
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LAUREN ANGELA CHUA
Slice of Life 77
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BEN PITO
Firefly A burst of joy, I jump to catch the firefly. A hand unfolds, the insect lifeless on my palm.
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URIEL ANNE BUMANLAG SEAN XAVIER NIEVA
at the end of the day Dazed Dreaming
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Pasasalamat Nais pasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod para sa kanilang ibinahaging suporta sa publikasyon at sa mga miyembro nito: Mga Tagapayo, Dr. Mesandel Arguelles and Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Student Media Office personnel, Ms. Franz Louise Santos, Ms. Jeanne Marie Phyllis Tan, Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa, at ang buong Student Media Office (SMO); Department of Literature, Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center (BSCWC), Office of Student Affairs, Health Services Office (Taft), DLSU Bookstore, Council of Student Organizations (CSO), Office of the Legal Counsel, Finance and Accounting Office, Security Office, at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian, at ang buong Student Media Council; Sining ng Pagbabago 2022 Workshop panelists, Ms. Ina Abuan, Ms. Bebang Siy, Mr. Arli Atienza, Mr. Jonel Revistual, Mr. Joselito Delos Reyes, Mr. Jun Cruz Reyes, Ms. Maine Lasar, Ms. Kimberly dela Cruz, Ms. Eunice Sanchez, Mr. Mikki Luistro, Mr. Toni Panagu, Ms. Jessel Duque at Mr. Antonio Pastoriza; Mga nagbahagi sa Malate History Talk, Ms. Clarissa Militante, Mr. Crisanto Regadio Jr., Mr. Jose Victor Torres; Mga kontribyutor para sa Tomo XXXVIII Bilang 2, Ms. Yellowbelle Duaqui, Ms. Christa I. De La Cruz, Mr. Ben Pito, Mr. Elvis A. Galasinao Jr., Mr. Sebastian Delgado, Mr. Junard Duterte, Ms. Lois Day at Ms. Mary Darlene Timbre. Higit sa lahat, pinasasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga kasalukuyan at mga naging kasapi ng organisasyon, na naging daan upang hubugin at linangin ang Malate Literary Folio sa kung ano ito ngayon at kung ano pa ang mga tatahakin nito sa hinaharap.
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Gawa lang nang gawa, sining alay sa madla.
HUNYO 2022