Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXIX Bilang 1

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

DECEMBER 2022

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXIX Bilang 1

Copyright © 2022

Malate Literary Folio is the official literary and visual arts publication of De La Salle University, under the Student Media Office (SMO).

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503-Media House, Bro. Connon Hall, De La Salle University - Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila

The layout of this folio is headed by Chloe Julianne F. Mariano, with the help of Elijah Barongan and Maxine Lee. The folio cover is created by Ines Padilla entitled “Dream With Me”.

INTRODUCTION

See through the city’s demure facade. Dissect its vein-like streets and identify each organ of its ephemeral existence. Feel the pulsating heat as you stroll along its alleys. The branches from the trees point to where you must be headed. There, may you find the clarity of one’s body.

Walk through the bridge — the spine to its ever-knowing head; think with it. Open its eyes and see through the hues of humanity; sniff the odorless resentment from afar; hear the echoes and whispers of glee; and taste the sweet sorrows of blind tomorrows. Embrace the diverse sensibilities through its functioning biological structures and anatomize each chunk of hatred blocking the airways. When you have wandered enough, dream with its soul.

Dive deeply into its subconscious and lay open its innermost desires and fantasies. Examine the cells of an idea or a concept laid to rest. Often, you will wonder how much passion will paint its pain. Once in a while, it eludes your attempts to cast its abstractions in concrete and takes the image of a blurred out city where the skyline awaits your destruction.

When you find yourself disintegrating — slowly being dissolved into this whirlwind situation, may you find the strength to close your eyes and remember the journey that brought you here. Afterwards, when enough oxygen has filled your tank, may you find the courage to build your existence anew and bring the city back into focus.

LAUREN ANGELA CHUA Editor-in-Chief

EDITORIAL BOARD

LAUREN ANGELA C. CHUA

Editor-in-chief

Screen/play editor

ALEXANDRA MONIQUE D. MANALO

Associate Editor

Property Manager

SAMANTHA KRISSEL G.

KWAN

Managing Editor

URIEL ANNE T. BUMANLAG

Photo Editor

WILLIAM GEOFFREY T. LINDOG

Prose Editor

RIGEL RUEL E. PORTALES

Poetry Editor

ANA GABRIELA C. MAGNO

Art Editor

MAXINE LUISA C. LEE

Marketing and Events Manager

CHOE JULIANNE F.

MARIANO

Layout Manager

FACULTY ADVISERS

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles

Mr. Vijae Alquisola

FACULTY CONSULTANT

Ms. Ina Abuan

SENIOR EDITORS

Elijah Mahri Barongan

Miguelle Cortez

Faith Lynnwel Dela Vega

Van Rien Jude Espiritu

Matthew Rafael Florendo

Kyle Noel Ibarra

Benedict Lim

Heavenleigh Faye Luzara

Jamie Shekinah Mapa

Ma. Bea Joelline Martinez

Querix Keershyne Rose Recalde

Eloisa Sison

Dana Beatrice Tan

Isabella Tuason

Cielo Marie Vicencio

Vince Gerard Victoria

Therese Diane Villanueva

Dominique Bianca Yap

JUNIOR EDITORS

JOYCE ANN GARCIA

Junior Art Editor

NATHANIEL F. AGUIRRE

Junior Photo Editor Carlo Bautista

JUNIOR PROPERTY MANAGER

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE

Ms. Franz Louise Santos Director

Ms. Jeanne Marie Phyllis tan Coordinator

Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa Secretary

Mary Jenwil Basila

Patrishia Benedicto

Erica Bernardo, Jolani Carla Cartalla

Claire Madison Chua

Juliah Faye Dela Vega

Andrea Nicole Fuentebella

Trisha Marie Matabalan

Moses Isaiah Ojera

Mikaela Ong

Christian Paculanan

Shereen Andrea Padilla

Bai Megawati Putri Tambuang

Pauline Sharry Tiu

Joshua Rich Valentin

Angelina Bien Louise Visaya

POETRY STAFFERS PHOTO

Isabella Alexandra Bernal

Emmanuel Cabangon

Angela De Castro

Rizal Ermin Katalbas

Nigelle Jorgia Louise Lim

Erin Marie Medina

Sean Xavier Nieva

Gabrielle Palmos

Angelito Raphael Reyta

Raymund John Sarmiento II

Denise Alyssa Somera

Jacquiline Alagos

Francesca Therese Baltasar

Pablo Mulawin Casanova

Eliana Angela Fabia

Elijah Nicolas Ferrera

Adair Nevan Holgado, Chayanne Maxine Macalos

Thea Enrica Ongchua

Ines Margarita Padilla

Bea So

Julianna Andrea Villarosa

Mari Samantha Bersaldo

Kristen Abygail Campos

Sophia June Ng

Alliyah Vanessa Provido

ART PROSE MARKETING AND EVENTS

Alcantara, Maridelle

Bayaua, Gwenevie

Magcaling, Jan Aireen

Salvaion, Tricia Ann

Saquilayan, Mary John

CONTRIBUTORS

Carlito “Lito” P. Casaje

1957-2020

Born in Manila City, Carlito P. Casaje was a renowned playwright, professor and film artist. He was also a licensed optometrist after graduating Doctor of Opometry at Centro Escolar University. After earning his MA in Creative Writing in the University of the Philippines Diliman, he taught in De La Salle University Manila, as well as La Consolacion College, where he was the Chair of Communications Department and Director for the Center for Theater. His screenplays and plays from the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.

Together with playwright Bienvenido M. Noriega Jr., Casaje cofounded Dramatis personae, a theatre events-multimedia company which held a number of plays in various universities and venues.

Mario Lagimas Mendez Jr.

1982-2020

Mario “Em” Mendez was a multi-awarded playwright and teacher who received a Palanca Award for his full-length plays “The Son of Ashes” in 2013 and “Ang Huling Mambabatok” in 2019.

After earning his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at De La Salle University, Mendez taught playwriting in different colleges and universities such as De La Salle University Manila, College of St. Benilde, Guang Ming College, Mapua Institute of Technology, and OB Montessori Center, Inc.

Dream With Me digital art

Ines Margarita Padilla

Rizal Ezmin G. Katalbas III

Bright Mind

Portrait Of A Muse

Rizal Ezmin G. Katalbas III

Patrisha M. Benedicto

KABISERA

Nakalatag ang mga plato sa mesa

Sa mga kubyertos ay repleksyon ng ngiti

Hitik ang putahe sa gitna

Inumi’y handang sa uhaw ay pumatid

Nagsimulang gumalaw ang mga silya

Pinulot ang kubyertos ngunit tila’y may iba

Ni hindi umusog ang upuan sa dulo ng mesa

Bakante na ngayon ang kabisera

Nakalatag ang poot sa mesa

Sa mga kubyertos ay repleksyon ng pighati

Hitik ang lumbay sa gitna

Inumi’y handang sa tuwa ay pumatid

Who You Gonna Call?

Normandy Manor

3.9 · 1,201 reviews · Baguio City

Considered to be one of the most inaccessible landmarks in the country, the Normandy Manor has been suggested to have been built before World War II. Through a long period of restoration, guests are now allowed to sleep in the numerous king–sized bed chambers of the manor. Furnished with new wallpapers and artwork from the Futurism movement, guests can have a oncein-a-lifetime experience in the Normandy Manor!

Mari Samantha Bersaldo

(As of now, the Normandy Manor is temporarily closed.)

[UNAIRED FOOTAGE OF A SHOW, DATED TWO MONTHS AGO]

(The shot is coming from a moving vehicle. There is nothing but tall trees and dirt-streaked soil on the road, but they are barely visible. Lampposts poorly light up the streets, and there are no cars passing by. The camera pans up to the skies, showing the full moon.)

(The recording turns black.)

(Static.)

(The recording comes back on. It’s dark and muffled, as if it was thrown aside without being turned off.)

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: “Well — it’s not real. It’s not fucking real, Allen.”

ALLEN: “Do you want to go back there?”

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: “God, no. No. Our heads are probably playing with us. It was something like the wind or whatever.”

ALLEN: “What are you fucking talking about? We both saw it, man. It was inches away from my face!”

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: “Calm down, goddamnit — I’m driving as fast as I can. Why the fuck did—”

ALLEN: “Did you… did you hear that too?”

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: “It’s nothing. We’re hearing and seeing things because we want to hear and see them.”

ALLEN: “Don’t you see it? How the fuck did we end up here?”

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: “Because we wanted to show there’s nothing to this manor. A stupid attraction. And we ended up emptyhanded—”

(A loud thump at the side of the car.)

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: (Unintelligible)

ALLEN: “Oh—fuck. Behind you.”

(End of recording.)

[UNAIRED FOOTAGE OF A SHOW, DATED ONE MONTH AGO]

PIPER: “Test shot. Test shot. Rolling. The camera’s rolling. Take one.”

JANINE: “Would you stop saying that? Anyway, uh, we got a call from the police station, a man named Mark. We have to talk to him before we get inside the Normandy Manor, but that’s okay. Just another obstacle to jump through.”

PIPER: “It’s a good change from the—quote—journalism—end quote—we do, though.”

JANINE: “What the hell does that mean?”

(Recording skips.)

JANINE: “This was supposed to be a Halloween special for our viewers, but Allen and Eddie didn’t want to do it after they finished their initial shooting at the manor. We watched what was filmed, but you know, they don’t really understand what happened, and neither do we.”

(A long pause.)

JANINE: “I don’t want to do this, I’ll let you know. I’d rather be discussing the latest celebrity gossip in the safety of the studio room, even if it’s not what I studied for.”

PIPER: “Well, we’re here now, Janine. What the studio says is what we should do, and we’ve got a lot to film about something that doesn’t exist. Come on!”

(Recording skips.)

(The shot is in a living room, but the person in front of the camera has a blurred face. There are no decorations on the white wall. When the anonymous person speaks, the voice is two pitches lower than normal.)

ANONYMOUS: “My grandmother has always said that those who died from the war ended up haunting the manor. The truthfulness of it — I can’t really say. The city is full of ghosts and places with supernatural activity. You just have to be careful when you’re here.”

PIPER: “But how about you? Do you have a story like what the others say?”

ANONYMOUS: “No, not really.”

PIPER: “Then, if you don’t have a story, why hide your identity?”

ANONYMOUS: “Well — I… I do have one. But I don’t think it’s that exciting to put on television. I went to Normandy Manor once, when it wasn’t available for the general public yet. It was when not a lot of people knew about it; it had been abandoned for decades. I cut class to go there, but I didn’t get to the second floor. I tripped on something in the foyer of the manor, and I started bleeding. So, I went home. Started having nightmares about it once in a while.”

JANINE: “Do you think there’s a meaning to your dreams?”

ANONYMOUS: “I sleepwalk. One night, I dreamt about going up the staircase of the manor. I woke up on the roof of our house.”

JANINE: “Do you think you were… haunted?”

PIPER: “Did you really have to whisper that?”

ANONYMOUS: “Uh, I don’t know. I just don’t want to think what would have happened if I hadn’t woken up sooner.”

(Recording skips.)

(A backdrop of a nearly empty room, save for a table and a chair. A young man named Mark with short black hair sits in front of the camera, a neutral expression on his face.)

PIPER: “So, what we just showed you are the direct reports of supernatural activity in, or related to, the Normandy Manor. Some of them reported hearing sounds in rooms that are supposed to be empty, and others reported seeing white apparitions in hallways. A select few have even reported getting hurt during or after they go to the manor.”

MARK: “Accidents happen. The Normandy Manor is nothing but a tourist attraction.”

JANINE: “What would you say about the footage we’ve shown you earlier about our co-workers filming at the Normandy Manor?”

MARK: “You’re working on a show. Theatrics are to be expected. I’m not sure I get what conclusion you’re trying to draw here.”

PIPER: “Do you believe in these reports?”

(Mark opens his mouth, then pauses. The silence drags on for seconds until Mark speaks up.)

MARK: “This city is a very superstitious one. It’s easy to believe, but it’s also easy not to believe. All I can do is hope that they don’t hurt themselves while going on a soul-searching journey.”

JANINE: “Would you allow us to film for a night there?”

(Mark is silent for a long time again. He purses his lips, then signals for the camera to stop recording. A lid is placed over the lens, rendering the footage to black. Unbeknownst to him, it keeps recording.)

MARK: “We have closed the Normandy Manor to the public for renovations. I’m sorry, but you can’t come there now.”

JANINE: “It had only been a month before you let Allen film at the manor.”

MARK: “And what happened to him? Look, girls — no one comes to the manor. No, goddamnit. You can’t bribe me into this. Is that camera turned off?”

PIPER: “Allen is okay. He just doesn’t want to come here again for a long time, or ever.”

MARK: “He and his friend came to the station screaming in the middle of the night. Did you know how many calls I’ve gotten from that alone? It’s not good for you or for me. If I let you in there, and you end up finding something you don’t want to find — I won’t be helping you. It’s better if you try to seek the supernatural in another place.”

JANINE: “We’ll sign a waiver if you want to.”

MARK: “No kind of waiver will save you from what you’re planning. God. You get to be here because it’s good for the city. But you don’t get to be in restricted areas for the sake of tourism, entertainment, or whatever. The manor is… different. Maybe from age or history or location — I don’t care. I’m trying to stop you from doing something you’ll regret.”

JANINE: “We’re not asking for advice. We will be filming, whether you like it or not. Piper, come on.”

MARK: “You’re not fucking listening. God’s sake — are you recording this? Stop the—”

(End of recording.)

[UNAIRED FOOTAGE OF A SHOW, DATED TWO WEEKS AGO]

(The silhouette of the Normandy Manor stands still in the background. It is closed by a gate surrounding it, the metal is old and rusted from age. Two women with name tags “Janine” and “Piper” are in front of the shot. The lawn they are on is overgrown with weeds and grass blades reaching their knees. Their chatter fills the air.)

JANINE: “Are we filming? Okay, okay, got it. During the war, the Normandy Manor was used as a hiding place for many Filipino soldiers. Before it closed, the Normandy Manor offered a one-night experience at an unbelievably high price. There came the stories — most reports state that you can see men in decorated military uniforms walking the halls of the second floor. Others say a white lady appears on the windowpane. Sometimes, there are wailing cries in rooms where no one else is inside.”

(Piper raises an eyebrow at the camera, shaking her head.)

JANINE: “Today, the manor is temporarily closed due to the traffic it received last summer, where it was featured in an international show. The reason given by the city’s officials was to preserve the integrity of the manor, and keep the state of its architecture and furniture as close as to the original.”

PIPER: “That’s how you know, our dear viewer, we’re not actually allowed to film here. But the question begs, are the stores true or not? Tonight, we’ll be finding out whether the stories about the Normandy Manor are make-believe, or as real as it seems.”

(The camera slowly zooms in on the dark outline of the manor, and the faces of Janine and Piper disappear from the shot until the recording turns black.)

(The camera shakes as the person holding it walks close to the manor’s doors. At the top, there is a phrase engraved, but it is nearly unintelligible.)

(There are no lights on the first floor, and the light switches are not working. Janine holds a flashlight to light the way, and there is silence as they walk down the foyer of the manor.)

(Six family pictures line up the wall leading to the staircase. Their faces don’t seem to be comprehensible. Nonetheless, their eyes feel like they’re tracking the camera's movements.)

(The guest bedroom. There is nothing but a bed, drawers, and a closet on the other side of the room. Piper, the one holding the camera, opens a drawer on the bedside table. It reveals a sole bracelet. It shines golden, the moon from the stained window barely illuminating the room, revealing a refraction of light.)

PIPER: “It’s a bracelet. If I put this in my pocket, is it called theft or can I claim finder’s keepers?”

JANINE: “It’s thievery, caught on camera.”

PIPER: “If I take it home and sell it, I’ll give you half. Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. Fine. I’ll wear it when we’re here, and… I’ll put it back where I found it.”

JANINE: “You can’t wear that thing. You’re basically begging to be haunted.”

PIPER: “Nothing is ever real, isn’t it?”

(A loud wail. It sounds like it belongs to a woman. There is no other person in the manor besides the two.)

(The flashlight turns off, leaving the room incredibly dark, to the point nothing can be seen at all.)

JANINE: “What the fuck was that?”

PIPER: “Maybe someone else snuck in. We have to find her — she must be on the first floor.”

JANINE: “Are you insane?”

(The crying becomes louder.)

JANINE: “Take off the fucking bracelet, oh my god.”

PIPER: “There! God. I’m putting it back in the stupid drawer. Give me a second.”

(The recording skips.)

(The camera is aimed at an old door, leading to the kitchen.)

PIPER: “Okay, Janine. I’ll be going in. Stay behind the door for me, okay? Wait for me.”

(The recording skips.)

(The camera is weirdly tilted. It shows a disheveled room with broken plates scattered on the floor. A chair is turned over. There is little light coming to the room from the stained glass. It is unclear what time of day the footage was taken.)

PIPER: “I’m not alone. No, I… I’m not alone. I called for help. Janine — Janine, I don’t think she’s here. She’s supposed to be waiting for me behind… behind the door. But there was no one there.”

(The distant sound of a door slamming closed makes Piper look up.)

PIPER: “I get it now — why Allen suddenly went crazy. Why Mark didn’t want us to get here. This place, it’s a — it’s a living thing. I don’t know how. I don’t want to know how.”

(Piper coughs, adjusting herself on the ground. She’s bleeding on her left side, and she’s lying down on broken glass. She winces at the pain.)

PIPER: “There’s nothing here for miles. I can’t break the window; it’s too tough. I’m not sure how long this camera’s battery will last. I’ve — I think I’ve been recording for hours, I think.”

(She turns the camera around, and the new view is the yellow paper of the manor. It looks rotten and dirty, as if it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.)

PIPER: “What if it hasn’t been recording? What if it’s all a dream? Maybe I’ll wake up soon.”

(The recording turns black.)

(The recording comes back on, and you can see Piper backing to the dirty wallpaper, looking around.)

PIPER: “I’ve heard a wailing cry upstairs. Footsteps on every corner. I can’t get up. Goddamnit.”

(The recording turns black.)

(The recording comes back on, and Piper is holding it as she walks. She is limping upstairs. She lets go of the camera and it hits the floor.)

(The recording turns black.)

(The recording comes back on, and Piper is huddled in the closet. It is silent for a few minutes, save for her quiet breathing.)

(There is a tap on the closet door.)

(Piper looks at the camera, then turns it off.)

(End of recording.)

[LOCAL NEWS FOOTAGE, DATED YESTERDAY]

ALLEN: “Thanks for speaking with us, sir.”

MARK: “No problem. Uh, the Normandy Manor. It was a good attraction back then, bringing a lot of people to the city. Unfortunately, the flooring is too delicate and the architecture is very outdated. We tried our best to stop trespassing events, but they don’t always work.”

ALLEN: “Will you ever open up the manor again?”

MARK: “No comment.”

ALLEN: “Alright… I’ll take it. Do you have anything to say about the recent disappearance of our show’s interns in your city? They planned to come to the manor a few weeks ago.”

MARK: “We’ve never met, and if we did — I doubt it’s related to us. All I can say is, don’t go where you’re not supposed to go. You won’t like what you find. And if you find yourself in that situation, who are you going to call?”

An excerpt from

Ang Huling Mambabatok

Panunulat ni Em Mendez

Ikalawang Gantimpala, Dulang Ganap ang Haba, Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, 2019

Mga Tauhan

Apo Wang-Od (C); Bata (A); at Dalaga (B)

Harold Davis

Ludgab

Wag-ay

Fatek

Laccay Baccoy

Ogay

Uwak

Butiki

George

Rogelio

Aya

Elyang

Grace

Koro

Act 1

Unit 1 Scene 1

Prologue

(Madilim ang entablado. Maririnig ang kanta ng BATANG WHANG-OD ng Salidummay. Unti-unting magliliwanag. Maririnig ang kanta ng DALAGANG WHANG-OD. Matapos niya ay maririnig naman ang pagkanta ni APO WHANG-OD)

HAROLD: Good day, Whang-Od. My name is Harold Davis I’ve traveled all the way from Iowa just to get to visit you. It will be an honor for you to tattoo me.

HAROLD: Apo, what’s the meaning of that tattoo?

(A) WHANG-OD: Ang batok na ito ay kayaman. Nagsisilbing anting-anting na pang-proteksyon at espiritwal na patnbay.

(Maririnig ang tunog ng pateteg. Mayroong lumalabas na tao sumasayaw bilang isang kayaman)

B) WHANG-OD: Ang batok na ito ay ang ahas - mailap at matalino. Sumisimbolo ng tapang laban sa iyong mga kaaway.

(Lalabas ang taong sumasayaw na parang ahas)

C) WHANG-OD: Ang batok na ito ay ang agila, malaya at simbolo ng lakas, paggabay, at kalayaan.

(Lalabas ang taong sumasayaw na parang agila)

C) WHANG-OD: Gusto mo bang malaman ang kwento sa likod ng mga batok sa aking balat?

HAROLD: I’d love to!’

c) WHANG-OD: Magsimula tayo sa pinagugutan ng mga batok na ito – ang aming tribung Butbut, panahon ng pakikidigma ng mga mengor

(Panahon ni Apo Whang-Od nang siya’y dalaga at bata pa)

Unit 2 Scene 2

Kaming mga Butbut

(Maliliwanag ang entablado sa butbut village. Papasok ang mga Bubut, na may dala-dalang iba’t-ibang kagamitan para sa mga gawaing pangaraw)

KORO: (SONG 1:Kaming mga Butbut)

Dito sa aming ili(village)

Lupa ang aming yaman

Agimat namin ang aming balat

Pamana ng aming yaman

MGA BABAE: Payak na pamumuhay

Ang sa amin ay gumagabay

Sapat na bigas sa sisidlan

Mahimbing na tulog sa higaan

KORO:

Dito sa aming ili

Lupa ang aming yaman

Agimat namin ang aming balat

Pamana ng aming yaman

MGA LALAKI:

Ngunit kung may nagbabanta

Sa buhay naming payapa?

naang magbuwis ng buhay

Maduguan man ang mga kamay

KORO:

Dito sa aming ili

Lupa ang aming yaman

Agimat namin ang aming balat

Pamana ng aming yaman

C) WHANG-OD:

Pamana ng aming yaman

Agimat sa aming balat

Dito sa aming ili

Kami ang aming yaman

(Aalis ang taumbayan at matitira sa entablado ang dalawang bata, BATANG LUGJAB at BATANG WHANG-OD)

(Papanoorin nina BATANG LUGJAB ang mga dalagang nagpapaganda gamit ang asut habang si BATANG WHANG-OD ay abalang nagmamasid kay WHANG-AY)

(C) WHANG-OD: Bata pa lamang kami nina Lugjab, pinangarap na naming lahat na magkabatok. Madalas nila akong mahuli na nagmamasid kay Whag-ay sa tuwing bumibisita siya sa aming ili.

BABAE 1: Bukod sa mga batok, magugustuhan ka rin ni Fangig kapag naglagay ka ng asut (red powder from annatto seeds/ achuete) sa iyong mukha.

BABAE 2: Whayyu! Ang ganda! Ikaw naman para kay Puchay.

BATA 1 (INUH): Ikaw ba ang mangwhatok mamaya sa tumo (tuhmuh)?

A) WHANG-OD: Malalaman mo rin.

LUGJAB: Bakit kailanganmagpabatok?

A) WHANG-OD: Lugjab maraming dahilan. Para sa mga babae, ang batok ang mas lalong nagpapaganda sa atin.

LUGJAB: Eh bakit si ama may mga batok, Nagpapaganda rin ba siya?

A) WHANG-OD: Isang matapang na mandirigma ang iyong ama. Sa tuwing umuuwi siya sa labanan, dala niya ang dangal ng ating lahi. Kaya nga tayo ay namumuhay ng masagana at matiwasay.

BATA 1: Gusto ko rin ng batok!

LUGJAB: Ako rin!

A) WHANG-OD: O sige, handa na si Apo Whag-Ay sa inyo mamaya.

LALAKE 2: Mansikab! Masakit!

LUGJAB: Bukas na lang.

BATA 1 (INUH): Tawag na ko ni ina.

(A): WHANG-OD: Sa una lang yon masakit!

(Hahabulin ng BATANG WHANG-OD ang dalawang kalaro palabas ng entablado. Papasok si FATEK)

(C): WHANG-OD: Fatek?

HAROLD: Is he your first love?

(C): Nung dalaga ako, mayroon akong Fatek. Nanligaw siya sa akin, niyaya niya akong magpakasal. Pero... masalimuot!

(Ibibigay niAPO WHANG-OD ang mga gamit ng pambabatok kay DALAGANG WHANG-OD)

(C): WHANG-OD: Galingan mo ah!

FATEK: Magsisimula na. (Kay dalagang Whang-Od)

(B) WHANG-OD: Alam ko naman, hindi mo kailangang sabihin.

FATEK: Dumaan ako sa bahay ninyo, wala ka.

(B): WHANG-OD: Ahh... Maaga akong nagising.

FATEK: Alam mo namang dinaraanan kita sa umaga.

(B): Simula bukas ay huwag na.

FATEK: May problema ba?

(B) WHANG-OD: Alam mo na naman ang ibig kong sabihin, di ba?

FATEK: Pabayaan mo na ang sinasabi ng iba.

(B): Hindi sila iba, ama at ina mo sila.

FATEK: Pero ikaw lang ang laman nito (hahawak sa dibdib)

(B) WHANG-OD: Whang-Od! (Kikiligin)

(Susutsutan ni Dalaga si APO)

(B) WHANG-OD: Sa kanila ka nagmula. Kailangan mo sundan ang nais nila.

FATEK: Paano kung umalis tayo dito. Pwede tayong bumaba sa bontok. May kakilala ako sa Baguio, sabi niya may asenso ang buhay doon.

(B) WHANG-OD: Naririnig mo ba ang sarili mo?

FATEK: Hindi lamang ang sarili kundi ang tayo.

(Maririnig ang tunog NG mga gong)

(B) WHANG-OD: Halina na, magsisimula na.

(Kukunin ni WHANG-OD ang gamit pambatok. Titingin kay FATEK, sa gamit)

(B) WHANG-OD: Intaud aschi. Punta na tayo dun.

(Lalabas ng entablado ang dalagang WHANG-OD at FATEK. Papasok ng entablado ang mga babae)

BABAE 1: Mabuti naman at ligtas ang iyong asawa.

BABAE 2: Hindi nga ako nakatulog sa magdamag.

(Lalabas ng entablado ang mga babae. Papasok ang dalawang lalaki)

LALAKI 1 (LA-AWA): Balang araw ay makakasama rin ako sa digma.

LALAKI 2: Matagal mo nang sinasabi iyan.

(Lalabas ng entablado ang mga lalaki. Papasok ang mga babae)

BABAE 3: At mamaya madadagdagan naman ang batok niya sa dibdib

BABAE 4: Ay, kailan naman kaya magkakabatok ang aking asawa?

BABAE 3: Narinig mo ba kung paano nila ginapi ang mga kaaway?

BABAE 4: Ang sabi nila, may mga umatras daw, natakot sa kanila.

(Maririnig ang tunog ng gangsa.Lalabas ng entablado ang mga babae.

Papasok si LACCAY BACCOY kasama siWHAG-AY)

LACCAY BACCOY: Naririto tayo ngayon upang ipagdiwang ang tagumpay ng ating mga mandirigma. Kasama natin ngayon si Whag-Ay. Hindi man siya Butbut, at hindi man siya kaili, isa siyang kilalang mangwhawhatok sa Kalinga. Wala mula sa atin ang siyang namatay. Narito na ang matatapang nating mga Mengor!

Papasok ang mga mandirigma, magsisimula na ang pagsasayaw. Susunod pumasok ang taumbayan.

KORO:

(SONG 2: Awit ng Matatapang)

Kami ang mga mandirigma

Anung naming ipaglaban

Chazaw (chajaw) ng aming lahi

Hinding-hindi kami magpapagapi

Para sa aming Kailian (kailyan)

Ipapamalas buong tuyod

Walang damang whain (hwaine)

Sa wha-ug sa ayan-ayan

Kami ang mga mandirigma

Tungkulin naming ipaglaban

Dangal ng aming lahi

Hinding-hindi kami magpapagapi

Aming ayasag sa lagwig

Tuhway namin sa aaw

Ontog na pananampalataya

Kay Ahunjan tagapaglikha

Kami ang mga mandirigma

Tungkulin naming ipaglaban

Dangal ng aming lahi

Hinding-hindi kami magpapagapi

(Tutugtugin ni LAKAY ang gangsa. Maririnig ang pagsabay ng pateteg sa gangsa. Makikitang tinatatooan ni WHAG-AY ang mga mandirigma)

LACCAY BACCOY: Noong unang panahon, noong wala pang budong, noong mga taku ay wala pang tino, dumanak ang dugo, umagos ang lupa galing sa mga bundok. Umabot sa kalangitan ang masangsang na amoy ng dugo mula sa mga napaslang na ng mandirigma. Nagalit ang dakilang si Ahunjan panginoon nang lahat na nilikha.Bilang kaparusahan, sa bawat buhay na kinuha, kailangan sugatan ang balat, markahan ang sarili. Upang sa pagtawid sa kabilang buhay ay makilala ang dangal ng mandirigma.

(Lalabas ang mga Butbut, maiiwan lamang si Oggay sa entablado.)

Francesca Therese Baltasar

As the Sky Parted

Dana Beatrice S. Tan

digital art

Daniela B. Racaza

Kahit Lumuha Pa Ng Dugo digital art

An excerpt from Juan Dela Cruz, New York City

Panunulat ni Lito Casaje

Ikalawang Gantimpala, Tatlong Yugtong Dula, Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, 1986

Ikalawang Yugto

UNANG TAGPO

Sumunod na lingo, Martes, alas-siyete ng umaga, sa apartment ni JOEL. Maririnig ang yapak ng mga sapatos sa labas ng pinto at mga susing magbubukas nito. Bubukas ito at papasok sina JOEL at LOUIE na may dalang tig-isang maleta. Si JOEL ay may isang lugage at si LOUIE naman ay isang shoulder bag.

VOICEOVER NG NANAY NI JOEL: Natatandaan mo pa ba yung pinapirma ko sa’yo? ‘Yung pinadala ko sa ‘yong affidavit nung isangbuwan? Naihulog mo na ba? Wala na kasing kredibilidad ang gobyerno. Lalung-lalo na sa mga foreign investor. Ay naku anak, excited na excited na palang pumunta si Larry r’yan. Gusto niya kasing makasama kat mag-ipon. Oo, bibili daw siya ng kotse, alam mo naman, puro kotse nasa isip no’n.

JOEL: Here we are!

LOUIE: Wow!

JOEL: Welcome to New York!

LOUIE: U S of A, I am here!

JOEL: Ano?

LOUIE: Joel, miss na miss na kita!

JOEL: Pasensya na sa apartment ko a.

LOUIE: Ikaw dapat ang magpasensiya. May papalamunin ka na e.

JOEL: Okey lang’yan. Wala ka pa namang trabaho e.

LOUIE: Tignan mo ito.Kailangan kumuha agad akong trabaho para makapag- share sa’yo, ‘no?

JOEL: Hindi, mag-enjoy ka muna. Tinawagan ko yung kaibigan ko para samahan ka kumuha ng SS. Pagkatapos, mamasyal kayo a.

LOUIE: Sana pumunta kami sa NYU.

JOEL: Bakit?

LOUIE: Wala, titingnan ko lang ‘yung mga theater at film course nila.

JOEL: Para ka palang ako nung dumating dito.

LOUIE: Nag-enroll ka ba?

JOEL: Oo seminars, workshops. Alam mo ba ang mahal ng mga course nila rito, mga $120 per three-unit subject.

LOUIE: Kakayod pa pala ako dito.

JOEL: Sumama ka na lang sa rehearsal namin sa La Mama. Ipapakilala ko siyo si Cecile, ’yung dating head ng PETA.

LOUIE: Oo, sige kelan?

JOEL: Bukas. Mamaya mo na ayusin ’yan. You have the whole day to fix chat “Yung dalawang drwawer na ‘yan, sayo’yan a. Lagay mo nalang ’yung mga gamit mo ryan.Tinanggal ko na nga mga gamit ko eh. Pasensya ka na sa apartment ko. Studio type lang to e.

LOUIE: Okey nga e.

JOEL: Alam mo dati, sa maliit lang na kuwarto ako nakatira.Pero ninakawan ako noon kaya lumipat nalang ako rito.

LOUIE: Really? Furnished ba ito nung nakuha mo?

JOEL: Not even semi-furnished.It was really bare when I got here.‘Yang mga ’yan, napag-ipunan ko after 18 months of hardwork.

LOUIE: Talaga?

JOEL: Oo!

LOUIE: Wow! Alam mo Joel, ito ’yung dream bachelor pad ko e!

JOEL: Wala ngang laman e. I don’t want to be spending too much. Halos lahat nga ng kinikita ko, ’binabangko ko nalang, Afterall, yun naman ang reason kung bakit tayo nandito, diba?

LOUIE: Marami ka na bang naipon?

JOEL: Ummm ..alam mo rito sa New York, malaki nga’ng kikitain mo

pero ang laki rin ng gagastusin mo, kaya gano’n din.

LOUIE: Oo, anong oras darating ‘yang kaibigan mo? I suppose he’s on his way.

JOEL: Sinabi ko sa kanyang dumiretso nalang dito.Ano, ok ba sayo kung tabi tayong matutulog d’yan?

LOUIE: Mukhang maliit. Kakasya ba tayo rito?

JOEL: Mahal ang kama rito, Pare, $900!

LOUIE: Nine hundred dollars? Magkano ‘yun sa peso? Wow, pucha!

JOEL: Hoy ‘wag ka nang mag-compute d’yan. Nasa New York na tayo. Wala na tayo sa Pilipinas. Dollars na ang kikitain natin ngayon, hindi na peso. Masanay ka na. Nag-break kayo ni Lanie kaya nag decide kang umalis?

LOUIE: A, hindi. Aktibista rin siya tulad ko, kaya lang mas militant siya kaysa sa’kin. ‘Muntik na nga s’yang ma- salvage kaya pinapunta siya ng parents niya rito.

JOEL: Ah. May address ka?

LOUIE: Oo, Pare. (Kukunin ang isang papel sa kanyang bulsa) Malapit daw sa Bloomingdale’s.

JOEL: (Babasahin ito) 16 East 63rd corner 3rd...Midtown Manhattan‘to, Pare! Mayaman ‘to.Siguradong sa condominium nakatira ‘to.

LOUIE: O?

JOEL: Malapit sa pinagtatrabahuhan ko ‘to. Sa Madison.

LOUIE: Talaga? Puntahan natin siya?

JOEL: Magpasama ka na lang kay Gary. Day-off niya naman eh. At saka mabuti nang ikaw muna makita niya. ‘Yung mga rally sa Pilipinas, tuloy pa ba?

LOUIE: Hindi matatapos ang mga demo hanggang hindi bumagsak si Macoy. Dito ba wala?

JOEL: Alam mo bang dumating si Cardinal Sin sa St. Patrick? Nagkaroon kasi ng rally ro’n. Ang daming tao! Umabot nga sa Philippine Consulate pero pinasara ang Fifth Avenue para di umabot d’on. May nakilala pa nga akong chicks e.

LOUIE: Sa rally?

JOEL: Sa St.Patrick, pagkatapos ang misa. Naging syota ko nga e.

LOUIE: Aktibista rin?

JOEL: Hindi. Sosyalera na numero uno pa kamo. Creative artist and designer ng Socks & Dalton’s pero nurse siya.

LOUIE: Nurse? Naks naman

JOEL: Former nurse turned designer. ‘Yung syota mo, kelan ba siya umalis?

LOUIE: Mga three months na.

JOEL: Matagal na pala.

LOUIE: Ngayon ko lang nakita ang address nya e. At saka dati, nasa LA siya, Wala naman akong matitirhan do’n.

JOEL: Pare-parehong mga problema natin. Tangina, ang tagal ni Gary A!

LOUIE: Why don’t you go ahead? ‘Ako nang bahala rito, Baka ma-late ka pa.

JOEL: Sigurado ka?

LOUIE: Oo. pumasok ka na.

JOEL: Una na ako ha, initin mo na lang ‘yung siocpaocd’yan sa freezer.

LOUIE: Ano? Siopao?

JOEL: Binili ko’yan sa Chinatown last week. Paano kasi, nagpaparttime ako dyan tuwing Linggo. From time to time, bumibili ako.

LOUIE: Bulok na yata ’yan e.

JOEL: Mas masarap nga pag medyo tumagal e.

LOUIE: Ang sipag mo naman. Tuwing Linggo, nagtatrabaho ka pa?

JOEL: It’s a sure way of getting rid of depression. Work, work and work.

LOUIE: Baka lalo kang ma-depressed n’yan.

JOEL: Don’t worry, kapag naka ipon na ako, uuwi na ako sa Pilipinas. Magnenegosyo ako ro’n. Itong apartment na to, baka ipamana ko na lang sa ‘yo.

LOUIE: Ha?

JOEL: (Kukunin ang susi at calling card sa bulsa/wallet)

Heto’ng susi. Here’s my card if you need anything. Pag-alis n’yno ni Gary, ilagay n’yo sa ilalim ng doormat ang susi, okey?

LOUIE: Okey! Teka, ano oras ka nga uuwi?

JOEL: Mag go-grocery pa ’ko.Wala nga tayong pagkain e. Don’t mind the time kung gabihin man kayo. Mabait na kasama si

Gary. Alam mo, nung una akong dumating dito, sya ang umalalay sa’kin. Inikut-ikot n’ya ako. O, ano?

LOUIE: Sige, sige.

JOEL: Tumawag nalang kayo sa opisina kung gagabihin kayo ha.

LOUIE: O sige, sige.

JOEL: Kita tayo mamaya ha! bye!

LOUIE: Bye!

Sasamahan niya si JOEL patungong pinto. Lalabas si JOEL. Ila-lock niya ang pinto, Sisimulan niyang ayusin ang kanyang gamit

LOUIE: (Kakanta siya.) Born in the USA! Iwas born in East LA!

Maya-maya ay may kakatok sa pinto.

LOUIE: Who’s there?

GARY: Gary. Gary Geronimo.

LOUIE: Oh, okay.

Bubuksan niya ang pinto.

LOUIE: Come in!

GARY: (Papasok siya.) Hi!

LOUIE: Hi!

GARY: You’re LOUIE?

LOUIE: Yeah!

GARY: Sorry for the delay. Napuyat kasi ako kagabi. I had a hot date last night. Sabihin mo nga pala kay Joel na sira ang front door sa bahay niyo kaya mag-ingat kayo. So, how’s your trip?

LOUIE: Okey lang. Can I offer you anything?

GARY: Naku ‘wag na. Kung may pagkain man d’yan, I’m sure i’ a frozen siopao

LOUIE: Papa’no mo nalaman?

GARY: Kilala ko si Joel. Siopao freak ang taong’yan. He makes sure he buys a dozen when in Chinatown. O, sa’n mo gustong pumunta?

Central Park, Studio 54? Kaya lang, masyado pang maaga e. ’Yun kasi’ng tambayan ng mga top celebrity tulad nina Brook, Liza at marami pa. ’Diba aktibista ka?

LOUIE: Oo, dati.

GARY: Magiging interesting sa’yong lugar na to. Meron dito, pag-aari ni Macoy: the very notoriously famous Crown Building. Mind you, that is the only building in the whole of Manhattan that is completely lighted through the evening, At alam mo kung sino’ng nagma-manage no’n?

LOUIE: Hindi.

GARY: Ang mga Tantoco ng Rustans, Sila ang naniningil sa mga tenant do’n. Okay, is there any place you want to go to?

LOUIE: Ikaw. Youknowbetter. Sabi ni Joel,sasamahan mo raw ako sa SS.

GARY: So, magtatrabaho ka rito? And you’re applying for SS number.

LOUIE: Kung makakalusot.

GARY: Ano ba’ng visa mo?

Hindi iimik si LOUIE

GARY: C’mon! Hindi kita bibistuhin. Tourist?

LOUIE: B1, B2. Tourist and Business.

GARY: Pareho na rin ‘yan, ke B1ke B2 makakakuha ka parin ng SS number. Hayaan mo, ako ang turulong sa ‘yo sa immigration. Ako ang magpapa- extend ng visa mo, pero huwag mong sasabihin kahit kanino rito kung ano’ng status mo. Kasi sabi nga ni Joel, plastik daw ang mga tao rito. Untrustworthy lalo na ang mga Pilipino, kasi umiiral ang inggit.

LOUIE: Kain ka muna. Iinit ko’yung siopao.

GARY: Ililibre na lang kita ng bagel at hot choco na favorite ko. Siya nga pala, ‘matagal na ba kayong magkakilala ni Joel?

LOUIE: A, oo...seminary days pa kami

GARY: Hahahaha! You mean, seminarian kayong dalawa? C’mon, you’re pulling my leg.

LOUIE: Totoo. Sa Ateneo de Davao kami nag-highschool, tapos tumuloy naman ako sa Ateneo de Manila. Siya lumabas. Ako sa seminaryo pa rin.

GARY: Bakit sya umalis? Baka nanggagapan ng seminarian. Hahaha!

LOUIE: Hindi. Ikaw talaga. May syota sya no’n, taga-Assumption. Magpapakamatay daw kung itutuloy ang pagpapari n’ya.

GARY: Ano’ng nangyari?

LOUIE: ‘Ayon. Nabuntis din. Nagpakasal sa iba.

GARY: Haha Gagoh! Lagot ka kay Joel!

LOUIE: Hoy! Hindi ako tsismoso ha.

GARY: ’Yan talagang si Joel o. Masyadong intense ma-inlove. Sobrang magmahal. Ang sabi ko nga sa kanya, huwag s’yang basta ma-inlove dito sa New York. Lalo na sa mga Pilipina. They’re worse than American women, more vain and more decadent. Kaya ikaw— wag kang basta mai-in love sa mga taga rito a ‘Yan ang makaka sira sa trabaho mo.

LOUIE: Matagal mo na ba siyang kilala?

GARY: Matagal na rin, pero rito na kami nagkakilala.I was introduced to him by, friend of a friend of his friend who is also my friend.

LOUIE: Ano?

GARY: Pasahan,‘no?Tapos nagkita uli kami sa LaMama Theater Group. Grupo ‘yun ng mga Pinoy malapit d’yan sa NYU. Pareho kaming mahilig sateatro pero si Joel talaga ang die-hard. Ikaw, mahilig ka rin ba sa teatro?

LOUIE: Oo. Kelan ba ang next production niyo?

GARY: May rehearsal yata bukas e. I’ll find out.Pwede ka? Gwapo ka, mataas, ‘yun nga lang may konting accent pero magagawan ‘yan ng paraan. Ano, shall we go?

LOUIE: O sige.

GARY: O, baka gusto mo magpalit ng pants?

LOUIE: Hindi, okey na ‘to ‘diba? Hihipuin niya ang hita ni LOUIE. liwasan siya ni LOUIE.

GARY: Hindi Pare, gusot yata e?

LOUIE: Pwede na ‘to. Teka, dadalhin ko ba’ng passport ko?

GARY: Oo, ‘yung passport mo. Okay let’s go. O, don’t forget to lock the door ha?

LOUIE: Ha? Gusto mo bang patayin ni Joel?

GARY: Hindi si Joel ang papatay sayo, mga junkie. Baka ma-rape ka pa nga e.

BLACKOUT.

IKALAWANG TAGPO

Kinagabihan, alas-siyete y medya, kuwarto sa apartment ni CINDY Nagsisigarilyo si JOEL habang nakatitig sa kisame ng kuwarto, Nakayakay naman si CINDY sa kanya na pawang nakapikit lamang. Parehysilang nakahiga. May mahinang mellow music na maririnig sa radyo.

VOICEOVER NG NANAY NI JOEL: Hay naku, anak...

Alexandra Monique D. Manalo

A/void

Mind restless – knowing you’re hurting. Body’s bruised from needles, poking, and sucking life out of you.

Eyes closing slowly, losing you in the strong breeze killing the luminous candle, leaving me alone in a dark room.

Lips trembling, seeing you in that beautiful white dress. Telling you stories of how tears clouded our eyes — looking at you in peace.

Heart racing – as if entering an abandoned home full of memories, yours to tell.

Feet hurting: running away, afraid of facing today – fighting heaven, surrendering earth.

Dominique Bianca U. Yap

Gutom

Sa dami ng mga taong inibig ko, lagi kong natatagpuan ang sarili sa pinakadulo ng kuwento nang mag-isa.

Sa parking lot ng isang mall, walang humpay na pagluha ang natira mula sa lahat ng magagandang alaalang tila sumingaw sa isang mainit na hapon ng Mayo. Iniwan ako, at doon nabuhay ang dimakamit na pangarap na matanggap, mapili— maibig.

Ngunit kung tutuusin, natanim ang buto ng pagnanais na ito mula pa sa pagkamulat sa mundo. Sa araw ng ikaanim kong kaarawan ang kauna-unahang pagkakataong niregaluhan ako ng cake. Ang pagmamay-ari ay akin lamang— isang palatandaan ng tunay na pagmamahal ng aking ninong. Laking gulat at saya ko sa pagtanggap ng magarbong regalo mula sa isang taong bihira kong makita.

Sa pagtanda at pagbuka ng isip, lumalim ang pagunawa ko sa nangyari. Sa pagmumuni tungkol sa lumang alaalang kinulayan ng masidhing damdamin, napagtanto kong iyon ang kauna-unahang sandaling naramdaman ko ang dalisay na pagmamahal— hindi inasahan, hindi hinilingan ng kapalit.

Hindi sinuyo, hindi minakaawa. Hinipan ko ang mga kandilang nasa ibabaw ng icing at agarang nabasag ang aking kaligayahan. Hindi pa lumalamig ang mitsa ng kandila ay hiniwa na ng nanay ang malaking cake. Kinuha, binalot, at dinala palabas ng bahay ang karamihan nito. Nagtira lamang siya ng kapirangot para matikman ko at ng anim pang ibang kamag-anak sa bahay. Binigay ang cake sa mga kapitbahay at ibang kamag-anak, at nagtira ng napakakaunti para sa may-ari— sa nagdidiwang ng kaawarawan.

Binawi ang maikling sandali ng unang tikim ng pagmamahal. Sa kamusmusan unang naranasan ang pagtaboy at pagsantabi.

Simula noon, mula sa mga kaibigang hindi nakakaintindi ng matinding depresyong lumalamon sa akin, mga kasintahang lumisan at nagkuhit ng malalalim na sugat, at pamilyang paulit-ulit na nananakit ng damdamin, nagbunga ang dilim na pumapaligid sa akin na nilulunod akong palalim sa bawat bigong kaugnayan. Para bang sinasabi ng mundo na hindi maaaaring mamahay ang pagmamahal at kasiyahan sa pagkatao ng isang tulad ko.

Sa pinakahuling pakikipaghiwalay ko sa aking kasintahan, maraming barkadang nagyayang uminom. Ayaw ko sa lasa ng Red Horse ngunit umoo ako dahil gusto kong makalasa ng mapait, at makaramdam ng sakit ng ulo mula sa pagkalango.

Napunta kami sa usapang kalungkutan.

“Paano ka malungkot, Dom?”

Ani ko, “Minsan, ginugutom ko ang sarili.”

Noong araw na iyon, halos dalawampu’t dalawang oras na yata ang pinalipas kong kumakalam ang sikmura, bingi sa mga hiyaw at pagmamakaawa ng aking tiyan. Ganito ako malungkot— sinisira ang sarili. Sa pamamagitan ng pagkait ng pagkain sa sarili, namamanipula ko kung kailan masasapawan ng pisikal na pangagailangan ang gutom ng aking damdamin. Sa pamamagitan ng kirot ng penitensya sa tiyan, nawawala ang hapdi ng mga sugat sa aking puso.

Sa pagkontrol sa aking lumbay, binabalik ko ang kapangyarihan sa sarili na mamahala sa mga emosyon ko. Kung hindi

ko man naprotektahan ang sarili mula sa pananakit ng iba at naiwasan ang trahedyang pinala noon, ngayo’y mapatutunayan ko na walang ibang kayang manakit sa akin kundi ako lamang.

Sa mga panahong ito, naisasauli ko sa sarilii ang kontrol sa aking katotohanan. Sa bawat inibig na nagdulot ng pait, bawat walang-hiyang pagmamakaawa para sa kakiting na pagtingin, bawat pagsusumamo ng pagsukli ng kahit kakaunting pagmamahal, tila sumisilip mula sa dilim ang hindi ko kayang harapin na tanong na, “Kung hindi ito pag-ibig, ano ang tawag sa pinadarama sa akin?”

Sa pag-angat ko ng Red Horse papapalit sa mga labi, kumatok ang boses ng kamalayan sa sarili: sa pagsira ba ng katawan mapapawi ang gutom ng damdamin? Saan ang paghihilom sa panandaliang ginhawa ng pagbabagong-anyo ng hinagpis?

Para sa akin, may katuwiran ang pananakit sa sarili.

Ngunit may bumabagabag sa aking isipan— bakit parang hindi tama ang ginagawa ko?

Hindi ko pa alam ang sagot.

Faith P. Dela Vega

Tell me why I’m about to cry

in my dentist’s waiting room thinking about how you used to hold my hand when I was a kid–ten and scared of being bereft, of anyone pulling these teeth I’ve tried so hard to grow on my own.

I am twenty now, a widow of my adolescence. In the hall, everyone’s close-lipped waiting with bated breaths. The dentist seats me and it’s wisdom they’re wrenching out of my mouth, three crown tooths erupted without thought.

Loss arrives through a phantomed tooth; tongue brushing over the gaps left by something I’m supposed to lose anyway– soon as I was old enough to hold my own hand.

Vhianca Arisha P. Flores

End Meeting For All

Who are they truly outside the screen?

“It still happens. They didn’t only lose their freedom during the pandemic but also their—”

Voice, I thought to myself. As usual, her eyes drifted away from the screen as her attention shifted somewhere else.

“Please excuse me for a while, class.”

Her half smile appeared frozen on the thumbnail labeled Esperanza San Juan as she turned off her camera. The laptop stared back at me, revealing the neighboring boxes engraved with mediumfont names of fellow schoolmates. Some of them immediately disabled their videos as soon as the professor walked away; while the others, whose cameras remained open, either scrolled through their gadgets or let their minds float out of the online setting.

None of these students seemed to care about the disruption within their screen. In fact, the majority of them even wished that the professor would end the meeting earlier than the dismissal—like she frequently did. I was certain of that ‘cause I had similar sentiments about these online classes. What truly mattered in this setting was logging in class on time either for knowledge or attendance or simply for the sake of fulfilling the requirements to complete the degree.

Beyond that, however, these people behind the screen were reduced to mere labeled boxes: insignificant, forgettable, unreal. And they probably thought the same of the rest of the meeting’s participants.

No wonder I was the only one who saw Professor Esperanza San Juan,

I thought to myself as murmurs and footsteps pulled me back to the present.

The once solitary chapel was filled with strangers and familiar faces, those whom I encountered in the hallways and Zoom meetings, leaving only narrow spaces that barely let the humid air pass through. My skin moistened because of this, along with the heat produced by the evenly distributed candles across the room.

I didn’t dwell on it, however, as I reciprocated the brief eye contacts and single nods that people who I personally knew, or at least interacted with once or twice, gave me. They shifted their vision afterwards in front—either to the crucified Christ erected monumentally in the holy sanctuary’s wall or to her who was situated before the crucifix.

Eventually doing the same, her familiar expression met mine. It reflected the image she presented behind the screen—eyes that did

not echo the wide smile painted on her countenance. Only this time, there was an absence of the warm ‘how are you today, class?’ which always encouraged her students to communicate with her comfortably.

Even though some students branded her as the ‘early dismissal’ type of professor, majority also knew her as:

“Oh you should pick Ms. San Juan if you ever have a chance! She has that motherly, English teacher kind of vibe.”

“She’s really good at teaching, I swear. Her sessions encouraged me to recite.”

“She’s that one professor who moves deadlines whenever her students are stressed. One time, she even canceled our quiz ‘cause she didn’t wanna add to the stress of the COVID surge.”

Her consideration as an educator was indeed one of the multiple positive qualities she possessed. I could attest to her patience as well, being one of the learners she taught. As a colleague, however, I wasn’t in the position to speak, but seeing the puffy red eyes of the faculty present in the chapel spoke volumes.

Computerized texts no longer identified these attendees. They stopped from being mere black tiles and display pictures ever since face-to-face classes resumed this trimester. They now appeared human before my eyes as their mien revealed a trace of respect, sympathy, or the combination of both.

The only person whose face was left confined in a limited rectangular space was Professor Esperanza San Juan’s. The only difference was that her name was not anymore inscripted in the bottom of a Zoom frame but written in the white ribbons across the flower arrangements and found in the whispers along the university’s corridors, online and televised news headlines, and the minds, if not the hearts, of the individuals whom she has somehow touched— including mine.

Most especially, mine.

Almost like a reflex, my head faced the floor as quickly as the tears landed on it. The memories that I tried tucking in the deepest corners of my mind, for the sake of appearing decent on this occasion, began to gush out from their chambers—even the ones that were unwelcomed.

A heavy weight suddenly burdened itself on my chest, causing short breaths and cold beads of sweat to conquer my body. At first, I attempted to divert my attention to the priest speaking on the podium; but the harder I forced myself to follow his voice, the more it became a background noise.

Only one thing caught my regard: her amicable brown eyes that reminded me of home.

At this moment, however, the emotions that were attached to its memory failed to soothe my burden. Rather, it ferried my consciousness back to the sole place that encouraged me to pray:

I beg you, if you really exist out there, please take back the existence that I never wanted nor asked for,

I thought to myself after hearing the roar of rage from the drunken mid-aged man that I refused to claim as my patriarch. He did not deserve the respect for a role that he ceased to fulfill.

“ESPERANZA!” He called out once more. The louder his voice reverberated, the more desperate my silent invocation conquered the dormant abhorrence that had been awakened by his near presence. Only whenever he was out of my sight could I dwell on the

negativities that were associated with him; but when he was in close proximity, even my desire of him vanishing in thin air was pushed aside by the leaping heartbeats, trembling limbs, sweaty palms, and the incoherence—or at times, the blankness—of my thoughts.

“Please excuse me for a while, class,” she addressed them with a smile as calmly as she could. Her attempt may be successful with her voice, as it sounded like any other professor excusing themself to attend to a quick class interruption, but her expressive eyes couldn’t conceal her uneasiness.

Our eye contact got severed by one nod—a gesture of hers that only the two of us could understand. As if it was a reflex, my body rose from the couch and replaced hers on the office chair to check if the video and audio of the Zoom meeting were turned off. Indeed, they were. And as if it were a daily routine, my senses were alert to press the red button that would end the class if ever the tension inside the house would escalate.

“You son of a bitch! What the fuck were you saying in your meeting? In case you forgot, I can hear you on the security camera!”

“I was just discussing a topic in class, Lorbriggs!”

“No! You were trying to prove something!”

Indeed, it did.

Blood flushed his face from the combination of alcohol and anger. He inched forward to close the distance, and his body that reeked of beer became more accessible to my sense of smell. The object of his outrage, on the other hand, still tried to defend herself from the senseless accusation despite having no hope for a drunk person to think rationally. Well, even though he was sober, he was still illogical

about little things as if he was merely looking for justifications in making his own family an emotional and physical punching bag.

Suddenly, a forceful slap brought a few seconds of silence in the house.

My entire body tensed at the sight of a huge hand marked on the cheek of the woman who raised me; the same woman who the academic community held in high regard. The act immediately made my eyes shut. She still hasn’t recovered from the initial pain brought by his palm, but the image of her caressing her cheek didn’t stop him from attacking her with his words.

Screams continued to be exchanged—

More vicious and forbidding than earlier, I could only recount these profanities under the guise of poetry.

Inside my head was the only safe space I had within this house. At least there, I had the power to filter and omit the memories that tormented me, especially those that I had no choice but to hear ‘cause my ears didn’t have the same ability to reject them as my eyes could to the smacks and punches. Inside my head, I had the courage to face the wife beater in front of me, yelling on top of my lungs to unload all the hell he has caused me and hitting him back with any nearby object that could knock him unconscious.

In real life, however, these thoughts of retaliation remained as mere ideas. All that my inferior existence did in this household was to cower in the corner of the room in the hopes of not attracting his attention. To protect my own safety, I had to pay the price of guilt for being a mere bystander. That feeling always served as a reminder of the one request that was ever asked of me: to preserve the respectable image of Professor Esperanza San Juan.

And so, I opened my eyes to do exactly that, despite the fear of witnessing the horrid visions I imagined from the sounds of yelps and thumps.

I faced the laptop with as little movement as possible to avoid being noticed. With trembling fingers, I gently guided the cursor on top of the red button; but instead of clicking on it, I let my attention be caught by the Zoom’s participants.

It irked me that not a single one of them was able to look through the fake smiles of their professor. Nobody gave a second glance nor a long pause to observe who or how she was beyond being the person who determined their academic standing in the term.

But then again, even I could not infer what happened to them on the other side of the monitor. Did their side glances mean that they were anxious about something… or someone? Each time they disabled their audio, were they also forced to listen to a never-ending battle of screams? Or perhaps whenever their video was turned off, were they also in the same position as I, or worse, their professor?

I pressed the End Meeting For All, and all that was left was a single question:

Who are they truly outside the screen?

The priest vocalized my thoughts which lured my consciousness back to the present: the vigil of Esperanza San Juan. The rest of his speech became an ambient sound, as I turned my head to the rows and columns of guests inside the chapel.

Aunt Nita was here, wiping her puffy eyes and silencing her sobs, grieving for the only sister she had. They had their fair share of sibling fights and disagreements, but she always turned to her older sister, Espi, to share her problems with. Beside her were her three children, all younger than me, who wouldn’t have been able to study in private high schools if it wasn’t for the financial support of their Aunty Espi. My cousins wept too, probably realizing that our family day every Sunday was over now.

Of course, my godmother Josephine was among the crowd. No tears were evident in her face, but her eyes were an ardent red that it could be assumed that she cried long behind closed doors. She came home from the States to say her last farewell to her college best friend in person, a goodbye that she never thought she’d say outside of hourlong video chats and voice calls. I’ve always heard the story of how the two of them understood how it was like to find comfort in silence. It was the moments they sat beside each other in libraries, corridors, and

random spaces while doing their own thing when their connection mostly felt strong.

And unexpectedly, my grandparents were present at the vigil when they should have been busy with their son’s case. They appeared to be listening intently to the priest’s words, almost teary-eyed but not shedding tears. I haven’t spoken to them since they expressed their condolences to me:

“We’re very sorry. We had no idea what was happening in your household.”

“We would never tolerate your father despite him being our son. I assure you. We’ll make sure he faces the law.”

Their daughter-in-law treated them with respect every time they visited. She’d cook their favorite dishes and make their favorite dessert. There was no trace that such violence occurred in our house, away from the eyes of the people, as she concealed her suffering with a warm smile and greeting—and that caused me to be distant to my grandparents as well.

Out of all people, they should have noticed the random bursts of emotion of their son throughout the years, especially during the lockdown when it reached its peak. Hell, it shouldn’t have been at that point if they didn’t tolerate his toxic sense of masculinity when his career began plummeting.

Because of that, his family had to take the blow of his selfloathing and dissatisfaction.

When I couldn’t bear the thought of my grandparents being the subject of my hatred anymore, I just faced the medium-sized portrait to divert my thoughts. Once again, her familiar set of brown

eyes captured my entirety; it provided me a place of serenity and comfort through the little moments we shared:

“Darling, what’s the problem? You seem to be extra quiet today.”

“Here are your favorite cinnamon rolls! Let’s have this while talking, shall we? It looks like you need a companion.”

“No matter what you see nor hear, just sit still until it’s over. I could take him doing all sorts of things to me, but I’d be shattered just with the idea of you being harmed.”

Those little things were what I would carry with me whenever her name would be brought up. After all, it was her wish to just be seen as Esperanza—Espi to her close friends and family, Professor San Juan to her colleagues and students, and mom to her only child. Not as a battered wife and definitely never as a victim.

And so, I engraved her last memory in my mind and heart as my life-bearer—the hearth to our cold home.

That was who she truly was outside the screen… and six feet below the ground.

Revelations 16:21

Uriel Anne T. Bumanlag & Rigel Ruel E. Portales

Titanomachy

Uriel Anne T. Bumanlag & Rigel Ruel E. Portales

Fill in the Blanks

Chloe Julianne F. Mariano

digital art

Miguelle P. Cortez

Kampo Station

The wheels screeched as the train went to a halt. “Manong!”

A passenger banged his fist onto the conductor’s door. “Manong?”

A veil of smoke was heading towards where we sat as others put their handkerchief to their mouths. The shock wave accompanied by encompassing rumbling crashed into me, skin marred with freckles of red, shattered glass shooting from different directions. Tatay was pressed against my body, my knuckles turning white, gripping my brother. “Run. Run!” He pushed the two of us away before the clanging of an overhead railing reverberated through the train walls, a familiar-sounding grunt disappearing the farther we ran. Drowning longing chants and anguished visions surrounding us, I closed Junjun’s eyes as his wails echoed in my ears.

“Ate!” The faint tugging on my shirt pulled me back, my eyes regaining control. “Are you listening? I said, when do you think ‘tay will come back?” Right in front of me was the kid ordered by Itay to head to the counter and pay for our single journey tickets just over

three months ago. His limbs were lankier than ever, his hollow cheeks restraining me from clearing my constricted throat. “Ahem, I got you this earlier.” He caught the lemon square I found in the garbage, sighing at my tactics. Last night, he had complained about a sharp pain in his side, so I looked for scraps left in ransacked marts to distract him from discomfort. Like the few structures left standing, its ceiling was about to cave in, while the damaged walls allowed scorching heat or heavy rain to come in. A bustling refuge from the city’s lingering tang, now defiled with the scent of vermin and aging remains. Breeze gathered underneath the lone tree on the sidewalk, my brother’s munches interrupted by whistling exhales. Junjun’s gaze drooped before muttering a soft “I miss him, ‘te. I hope he comes back to get us soon.” something in me bubbled, making my lips quiver. The moment grew somber when Jun dropped the half-bitten pastry to the ground, his fragile stature soon following suit.

“Uy,” his hand was cool to the touch, stark and lifeless, “Trying to scare me, Jun? Not funny.” With the increasing pounding of my heart, my hand extended to his nose, craving a gust of air to brush my fingertips. “Junjun!” After his chest failed to thump against my palm, it came out as a breathy whisper. His left wrist was wholly still and devoid of rhythm. “Can you hear me, Jun? It’s me. It’s Ate…” My strong clutch on him was not enough to wake him up. “You can’t leave me alone, Junjun!” Tears glossed my eyes, my shoulders heaving while I rocked him back and forth. “I’ll find Itay, Jun... for you,” The clinging image of red warmth seeping into my shoes, knicked by stray shards, took hold of my vision, and I tried to blink everything away. “I’ll find him… Don’t you worry,” My arms slicked with sweat from holding his body close, my brother’s hair messed from endless caresses. After crouching down to plant a kiss on his forehead, my fists wound tightly, I walked away from the shade.

Feeling angered gazes burning through my back, I put my dagger on display as I stepped on a “Ang Bagong Maynila!” tarpaulin. Silhouettes appeared from the corner of my eye, with glistening steel

staring back at me. Drifting from street to street, tightly knit groups sought lone prey, a diversion from ribs rubbing against the material of their clothing. My stride never halted, despite the pounding of wooden sticks increasing in volume. I cut through an eskinita littered with barbecue sticks and crushed cans –– remnants of forgotten faces and smoke clinging onto the skin. The absence of looping hits and drama skits from crisp stereos only heightened its barren state. Peeking at the very end was the flight of stairs covered by a shabby blue connected to a train station. The exact place I last heard my father’s request to escape, my world erupting into endless nightmares not long after. The entrance’s signage was crooked, most of its original text scratched out except for two O’s and two B’s at its sides. ‘Itay would have found this funny, noh?’ Snickering to myself, picturing Jun agreeing with me, I headed up the stairs.

With each step, a harsh voice grew louder, “Arriving at Kampo station...” Before I knew it, I was pulled to the side, hidden from view by a thick pillar. “You shouldn’t be here.” A girl, looking as rough as I am, grabbed my shirt while issuing the warning. “And you can’t tell me what to do.” I pulled out my dagger, aiming for her neck before she released her grip. “Look, you really can’t go in here. You should leave,” Her gaze poured out urgency once we both heard footsteps approaching.

“Cely, who is this?” the girl instantly laced her arms around mine. She was shaking ever so slightly, contrasting her now confident posture. “This is… my cousin. She’s been looking for me,” Cely nudged me, and I introduced myself in a drawl, “I’m Reena. Her cousin.” The man stared deadpan at both of us before he switched to a warmer tone. “Hello, Reena… Welcome to Kampo. You must be hungry, iha. You’ll show her the way, hm?” he tapped Cely’s shoulder, tilted his head, and smiled. “You could have given me a heads up before claiming we’re related.” Shooting her a glare while looking around the place, I matched her pace and headed straight through

the electronic gates, or at least what was left of them. The station, which once looked over thousands of people daily, housed pillars with cracking paint and vulgar drawings covering safety advisories. We were stared at by people eating bowls of lugaw, their eyes conveying some urgent message. Several men perched on the metro railing handed me a portion, stating, “You look like you need food.” One of them broke into a lengthy introduction I blocked out – something about them being leaders – in favor of my scarfing down the porridge. Those around me were sitting on woven mats, old newspapers, or upcycled tarps, doing precisely the same thing as I, only their eyes were completely out of focus.

“So, could you explain what exactly in God’s name is happening here?” Upon Cely seeing that I was feeling for my dagger under my clothes, she ran her hand through her hair with intense strength. “Welcome to Kampo station, Reena,” she began, “the guy who approached us earlier was Abe. He banded together with those who gave you your meal. You… you shouldn’t let what they say get to you.” She whispers the last bit, eyes constantly scoping people who might hear what she’s saying. Clearing her throat, “this station was long abandoned since then. From there, Abe and the other leaders started luring nearby people with shelter and food.” It was as if he sensed someone was speaking about him because Abe appeared shortly after, chatting up clumps of people with a toothy grin. “Each person is assigned to a specific group. You could join me in guarding areas for intruders.”

Cely was now the one staring into the depths of my soul. “Why would you come here? Especially when you’re all alone.” My breath hitched at her last word as images of my family appeared inside my head.

“I’m looking for... my dad. Whatever’s left of him. This place was where I saw him last.” I started, “My brother, Junjun... he... I promised him I’d find Itay.” From my brother’s last breath, he

still believed he could have one of my father’s tight embraces once he returned. I couldn’t bear to break his death to Jun. Cely’s lips protruded, lowering her gaze to her twiddling thumbs. “Now that Abe saw you, there isn’t a chance that you could leave unscathed. This isn’t a loving home, Reena. Not for me, my friends, and certainly not for you,” her tone became more hurried while I shook my head. “Kampo’s true colors will be revealed within a matter of weeks.” Behind us were the metro’s gray walls, lined with thin cracks webbing into one another.

The short chiming ring appeared before the words “Paparating na sa Kampo station...” resounded throughout the station. Makoy, a friend of Cely’s, has accompanied me on patrols for a few weeks now. We would scour the entirety of the station, from the north to south gates, but haven’t encountered any external attackers. These excursions were often paired with his sharing of his knowledge of the leaders. “When the people started pouring in, that was when they found it hard to manage everyone’s needs,” he began, “at first, the rules were tolerable. Not many complained because the food supply was dwindling by the day. Some time went on, and, well, this is what we’re working with now.” On the other side of the platform were four girls at the butt of Abe’s monstrous squawking, people nearby watching in terror as he occasionally stomped his wooden stick down their feet.

“I was given a single muffin I had to bite once daily to make it last for the whole week.” Cely rubbed her stomach, her chest heaving and brows furrowing. “All because I forgot to show up to patrol one time.” Makoy turned, their heads meeting one another, before speaking up, “The worst was when Abe displayed Susan’s rotting corpse on the floor for everyone to see.” Cely drew a long breath. “She died when the vagrants outside were becoming violent. The leaders told everyone not to leave the grounds, or else they would become the attacker’s next target.” Our conversation was interrupted by the

girls’ screams of agony across us, my attention being split in two. “A friend of mine was with her before she died. They were both planning to escape Kampo, but Susan got caught by Abe. He heard metal puncturing, the squelching of blood...”

Later that night, I was snapped out of a nightmare where I saw Susan’s corpse by shrilling screams that crawled from my fingers to the rest of my body. About to turn to my side to check if Cely’s awake, she faced me, jaw clenching as she tried not to let screams escape her lips. Others around me were also startled awake, sitting on their mats towards the scene before everyone. A young boy was on his knees, whimpering uncontrollably as tears flowed down his cheeks. His hair fell in the same upward swoop as Junjun’s and had a similar body structure. “Cely, he reminds me so much of Junjun,” I whispered. She looked my way, shaking her head like she knew what I was about to do next. One of the leaders constricted his neck, causing loud spluttering to echo throughout the station. His free hand began to inch downwards, tracing the boy’s skin. Clenching my mat until it wrinkled and bunched into my palm, I started to stand up, contradicting my thoughts to freeze on the spot. Cely got a hold of my wrist and pinned me back down, her teeth chattering, head bobbing sideways. The leader, noticing the attention of the once sleeping people, shouted, “All of you, go back to sleep, or I swear you’ll be next!” Cely and the other girls around her shut their eyes, hands clasped, with no intention of being let go of. I laid back down, doing the same until I could feel the lids overlap a little. Within the vast emptiness, I was reminded of Junjun’s first birthday. The smile grew on his face the instant Tatay came home with his favorite sans rival cake. And Tatay, seeing how tired he was after working double shifts to afford it. A considerable weight fell over my entire body, forcing me to fall asleep.

Since that night, the sun had risen and set four times, the

young boy’s screams never once leaving my head. Noticing how distraught I was, Cely and Makoy started bringing me to a station wing only frequented by the cleaning team. Since no one usually went there, we were free to speak our minds. The humid breeze in this wing hit my face while I looked down the street beneath the station. Hairy crawlers were partying on Rroadkill. Breaking the silence, Makoy asked, “Do you ever think of how it was like before Kampo? Before all this mess happened.” He imitated a shock wave using his hands. Desperately trying to conjure memories of my life before this debacle was no use, as whatever popped up were blurry and distant fragments. “I miss my mom’s cooking, especially dishes she would make during fiestas,” Cely smiled, stretching her hand out to the vast sky. Incomprehensible words Jun and I heard on a nearly busted radio blaring when we barely escaped the chaos inside the station came to the surface. “Papa God, I wish I could go back in time to play my computer games!” Makoy shouted outside, earning sad giggles from us as we lifted our praying hands as outstretched as we could.

“What if there was a way to stop this ugly, unwarranted power trip?” Words started spilling out of my mouth, curling in wiggled directions as I tried to flesh out a plan to rid us from these shackles of unyielding violence. “Do you know what you’re putting at stake if we decide to do this?” Cely whispered, looking behind me. Her erratic gaze housed a glimmer of hope brewing in the pit of my stomach. “I could try to rope in my friends on this, Ree. But there would also be many people who wouldn’t agree,” Makoy looked out the station, way beyond its rusting metal infrastructure and chipped tiles.

The following day, at least ten of us were grouped in the station wing. Someone mimicked Abe’s brisk tone and said, “Arriving at your deathbeds... paparating na sa inyong kamatayan...” before following up with a wry arm wave. Others joined in poking fun, contributing to the mantra. When the uproar subsided, I laid out the main foundations of the strike we were going to hold, while others

pitched in ideas to solidify the plan further. “This will only work if everyone puts in their part. Makoy will oversee this spread to people who might be willing to help.” I nodded at him, encouraging him to speak. “Some of you will be tasked to keep the word going. But remember, calculate and be discreet.” Upon hearing this, some looked at each other, already forming their groups. “And some will be tasked to gather materials and create weapons from them. If you have any questions on that, I’m your girl,” Cely described the possibilities: train doors as shields, glass shards as daggers, poles, and metal as spears. Beside her, Makoy crossed his thumb to his chest, urging others to do the same. If the leaders found out, the things they could do to us, even those not involved, seemed limitless.

As time passed by, the scale of the plan expanded as more and more people were willing to be in on it. The leaders were on increasing alert as one of them found us gathered in a secluded stairwell in the middle of the night. He was headed our way to ask what we were doing, but we dispersed immediately, and everyone returned to their mats. Abe held a small talk in front of everybody the following day, telling us that it was not forbidden to talk in groups during the evening. This roused some of our allies to reconsider carrying out the plan. “What if Abe can read our minds? Or the other leaders somehow fix the broken CCTVs and look at our every move? What if they planted bugs and hear everything?” They spiraled, asking hypothetical questions relentlessly. I wanted to retract into a ball and give in to these thoughts, but I had to remain composure and assure them that it would turn out fine.

The leaders continued to escalate their brusque and harsh rule. During mealtime, an ally realized that someone in on the plan had their fingers bleeding. “Ree, he told me that Abe swooped him during cleaning time. The leaders helped remove every nail while asking him if he saw people behaving out of the ordinary.” The number of people given fewer rations increased by the day, as others

barely had a sip of liquid for days. “He didn’t say anything about the plan. Instead, he said he saw a guy wandering outside, holding a gun. That was when they let him go.” He detailed that the leaders were looking into some man roaming by the piles of trash at the end of the road. Thinking it was the guy with the gun, they left him alone.

Despite the increasing tension, Makoy continued to help spread the idea around, with the help of other allies, contributing to the buzz washing over more like-minded groups of people in the station. Partners helped gather materials left in offices, trains, and abandoned station wings, while others collected knives and weapons from the people’s collections. Cely molded these materials into weapons and shields, storing them with the cleaning team’s help. Throughout the preparation process, countless people have approached me, saying, “I don’t think I want to be part anymore. At the state of how rations are being given, our friends could drop dead on the spot from hunger.” Whenever I heard those words, I must have gulped around five times at least. It brought me back to the initial shock wave, forcing me to relive the clanging of the pole cheating my father of another breath, even up to Jun’s lifeless body wrapped in my arms as I tried to shake him awake. There were times when I tried to conjure positive memories, but they ended up chopped and blurred, missing details like the sound of Junjun’s laughter and Itay’s playful strides when watching prime time. The allies who decided to step down still carried the same mix of absolute fright and fervor, watching over us from the sidelines. Our hearts were beating at the same recordbreaking speed as we all tried to keep ourselves in line, sticking to the idea that we were fighting for something bigger than ourselves.

Finally, the fruits of our rigorous planning and decisionmaking were about to be accomplished. The council of leaders was seated in the abandoned train left on the rails a few meters away from the platform, having some urgent meeting. The same train I was on when my world completely caved in on itself. The sky was tainted

with remnants of orange hues, illuminating the desecrated station nameplate split in half. With makeshift shivs created from gathered shards in one hand and the hand of an ally in the other, we shouted the liberating words of dissent. “Mga diktador! Mga pasista!” We headed down the tracks and stormed towards Abe and the rest of the council. The clump of people was enough to fill the entire stretch from the station to the stalled train. The clangs of metal and grunts of stark passion versus fear swirled in the atmosphere. Some allies pushed with giant smiles and dripping tears on their faces. From the corner of my eye, I saw a lone scrap of the beige jacket Itay was wearing that day, a silver button he sowed himself still attached. The disembodied voice made to alert passengers that they were nearing their destination, repeated in the background.

“Arriving at Kampo station...”

“Paparating na sa Kampo station.”

Elijah T. Barongan

dEvElOpMeNt ZoNe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Malate Literary Folio expresses its sincere gratitude to the following people for their support and encouragement:

Faculty advisers, Dr. Mesandel Arguelles and Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Faculty Consultant, Ms. Ina Abuan; Student Media Office personnel, Ms. Franz Louise Santos, Ms. Jeanne Marie Phyllis Tan, Ms. Ma. Manuela Agdeppa, and the 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, and the Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian, and the Student Media Council; Harlequinn Theatre Guild, Ms. Nenette Chua and Mr. Johndel Semilla.

Most of all, Malate Literary Folio staffers and alumni who are all part of what it is today, and what awaits the organization in the future.