Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXV Bilang 3

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXV BILANG 2

HULY0 2019

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXV BILANG 3

NOBYEMBRE 2019

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXV Bilang 3 Karapatang-ari © 2019

A

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 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 karapatangari 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. Ang pabalat ay pinamagatang “Pag-iisa” — kuha ni Adia Pauline Lim Ang layout ng folio ay gawa ni Armando Miguel Valdes

INTRODUKSYON

Suppose you begin in medias res... ...upon a sandy shore, your footprints mark where you’ve come from. You continue your walk toward the sea with the ebb and flow of waves setting your rhythm. And once your toes reach the saltwater, your feet easily sink into the damp sand. ...with pieces of porcelain scattered in front of you. The color remains vibrant, but there is no image for the parts to form a whole. You try to remember how the ornament had looked like, but your only guide are the jagged edges of the fragments. ...in a crowded bus, among other vehicles at a standstill. The city feels larger than it should, yet you feel like there’s no room to breathe. And as you approach your destination, you doubt if it’s even worth it, because the round-trip drains you every time. In this issue, Malate Literary Folio and its contributors call on the reader to take agency. May the semblance of control in thoughts, emotions, and experiences allow you some space of freedom. That even if a story is a mere reconstruction and an image is a mere representation, may this process be therapeutic. i

Let the aspect of choice continue your narrative; with decisions, and lingering indecision, you will soon arrive at an outcome. Waves eventually wash away the footprints, fragments remain disjoint, daily grinds accumulate to years. But in seeing where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gone and looking to what can still be done, hope becomes dynamic.

NINIAN PATRICK SAYOC Punong Patnugot

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NILALAMAN Introduksyon

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Prosa

Multiple Choice Jihan Marie Ferrer Itim Josh Paradeza

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Boyfriend Katrina Alyssa Tankeh

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The Five Men of Santana Katrina Alyssa Tankeh

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To the father I never knew Angela Mitzi Nazareno

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The Yellow Shirt Mary Joy Abalos

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Sining Pahingal Matthew Rafael Florendo

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Ang Pagkakakilanlan Thea Enrica Ongchua

Kulong Chaunne-Ira Ezzlerain Masongsong

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i only hope theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re listening Luis Antonio Pastoriza

Recovery Jao Terrado

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at ease. Van Rien Jude Espiritu

Tula Punan Christine Autor

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Sa Tabing Bintana Ninian Patrick Sayoc

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Paninila Adrian Neil Holgado

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Pulso Paula Bianca MaraĂąa

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Life After Vince Gerard Victoria

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Habilin Fernando Belloza

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Retrato

Reality TV Show Sean Xavier Nieva

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Alexa Paula Bianca MaraĂąa

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Unassuminng Gabrielle Marie Lacuna

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Delirium Kyle Noel Ibarra

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Pag-alala Nigelle Lim

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Lipad, Langoy, Laya Adia Pauline Lim

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Voluntarily Drowning Sean Xavier Nieva

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Errata Pasasalamat

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PATNUGUTAN Ninian Patrick Sayoc Punong Patnugot Patnugot ng Tula Armando Miguel Valdes Pangalawang Patnugot Patnugot ng Sining Jared Rivera Tagapamahalang Patnugot Patnugot ng Prosa Beatrice Julia Triñanes Patnugot ng Retrato Cheyenne Grace Espiritu Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Maria Gabrielle Galang Philippe Bernard Cabal

MGA TAGAPAYO Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE David Leaño Director Jeanne Marie Tan Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY

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MGA

Prosa Mary Joy Abalos

KASAPI

Tula Christine Autor

Abigail Batan

Claire Madison Chua

Jihan Marie Ferrer

Adrian Neil Holgado

Cathleen Jane Madrid

Paula Bianca Maraña

Francis D’Angelo Mina Querix Keershyne Recalde

Sining Van Rien Jude Espiritu

Andre Joshua Cordero Sy Vince Gerard Victoria

Retrato Isabella Alexandra Bernal

Matthew Rafael Florendo

Joaquin Dimayuga

Kathleen Nicole Garay

Danish Fernandez

Phoebe Danielle Joco

Alexander Flores

Jamie Shekinah Mapa

Kyle Noel Ibarra

Chaunne-Ira Masongsong Thea Enrica Ongchua Bea Mira So Cielo Marie Vicencio

Gabriella Marie Lacuna Adia Pauline Lim Nigelle Lim Sean Xavier Nieva Brandon Kyle Pecson

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MGA

KONTRIBYUTOR

KATRINA ALYSSA TANKEH Katrina Tankeh is a woman of faith, a writer, and the co-founder of Gyoza Zaragoza, a small collective of primarily emerging female artists. She graduated from De La Salle University with a degree in Literature and a minor in Fiction, yet pursued marketing and communications outside the university. She was a speaker at the 10th Philippine International Literary Festival and is a self-published author of zines, including The Female Dilemma and Ghosts of My Home.

JAO TERRADO Jao Terrado graduated from De La Salle University with a Bachelor’s Degree in Advertising Management. Despite the business degree, they decided to pursue projects and part time work within the art scene. Jao is currently working as a gallery assistant at Mono 8. Other than his collage work Jao is also a digital artist who does commissions and tattoo designs. They are currently taking a tattoo apprenticeship, and is just trying to survive this cruel world.

ANGELA MITZI NAZARENO Mitzi found her passion when she started writing short stories in elementary. Her curiousity in writing also lead her to participating in press conferences. In college, she took up Advertising Management and explored other fields such as cheer leading, yet it didn’t stop her from hoping to put her life realizations and explore the world through words with the readers. Now, she’s starting to write again. Mitzi plans to convey overlooked emotions and perceptions by fusing the power of words and the messaging strategies she learned from her degree.

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JOSH PARADEZA Sinusubukan ngunit pumapalyang pagsabay-sabayin ni Josh Paradeza ang napakaraming bagay. Madalas siyang lumangoy, sa dagat man o sa gubat, nang walang takot sa sinag ng araw. Naniniwala siyang naroroon sa mga pagawaan at bukirin ang magliligtas sa sangkatauhan. Kung mapahihintulutan ng panahon, nais niyang matunghayan ang pagpula ng silangan. Mahilig siya sa tokwa.

FERNANDO BELLOZA Fernando P. Belloza is currently an English Coach in Alue Phils. He graduated at DLSU-Manila with a degree in Secondary Education, Major in English, Magna Cum Laude. He has published his works in some Malate Folios, one of which (BanghayAralin) won 1st place in the anual Litaw-Visaw Competion.

LUIS ANTONIO PASTORIZA Antonio Pastoriza is a 22-year-old AB-Psychology graduate from De La Salle University, Manila. He currently focusing on expanding the reach of his art through exhibitions and commissions as well as collaborations with brands, organizations, and other artists. With an inclination towards abstraction and background in psychology, Antonio wants to create awwwrtworks that evoke and portray human emotion, thoughts, feelings, and situations through a visual medium. The distorted geometric architecture and shapes coupled with the gestural abstract forms and backgrounds incite the subtle harmony of structure and constraint amidst the flexibility and instability that one faces when coming to terms with oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s identity and relationship within society.

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Malate Literary Folio

SEAN XAVIER NIEVA

Reality TV Show 2

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JIHAN MARIE FERRER

Multiple Choice

TEST I: Choose the best answer (1 point) You, a bystander, noticed a car going at full speed, and headed straight for two pedestrians: An elderly woman, who is closer to the speeding vehicle and has a good chance of being hit first, and a younger girl who is further away from the car, but will still has a good chance of getting hit. Who will you save first? a. The old woman. You eventually realize that the old woman is your mother. She promised you that she would buy some drinks to cool off in this warm day. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a while since you two have met, you being so busy with work and her just not being visited enough at the home you left her in. Finally, when you had some time in your schedule, she insisted youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d come to visit her. You agreeing to her wishes has brought joy in her, but you seemed indifferent about meeting her.

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Multiple Choice

You remembered the phone call you had with her the moment you wanted to break to her the news that you finally had some free space in that planner of yours. She decided to go on tell her story, pour out her heart. She told you that she wished to talk to you, missed your presence. You felt moved by her words, remembered what she has done for you as a kid. She showered you with unconditional love, was there at your lowest, and cheered for you at your highest. The connection you had with her meant so much to you. You loved her, she loved you. All you wanted her to be is happy. That aside, the fact that you’d watch your own mother, the one who raised you, get run over by a car would be horribly cruel, so you plan to simply yank her out of the road. The car–still going at full speed– runs over the younger woman you failed to save. You think you saved that day, but as a crowd of fellow bystanders gather around the casualty, your mother invites you to do the same, wrinkly hands wrapping around your arm. The two of you manage to squirm through the crowd, finding what was recognizable of the horrible mess, the accident left behind. Your mother screams, face drenched in tears, running to the body and hoping there was some life left in her. “Your sister... she’s dead!” b. The young woman. There’s something familiar about her face, but with the time left, you have no choice but to leap and save her. If she is, indeed, the person you thought she was. Your sister, you automatically think to yourself. She reminds you so much of your sister who has left your family years ago, the last you saw of her was the image of her leaving the door with her bags packed.

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“I can’t stand the fact that you’d end up like this! From now on, I create my own life, so don’t go around taking credit for who I am in a few years’ time!” She was talking to your mother, who was a sobbing mess. You stood beside her, but you didn’t feel sorry for the woman. You knew she was the main reason why your sibling has decided to leave the family. The fact that her vices got the most of her was what brought everything spiraling down. Gone were the days when she’d act like a normal mother to you and your sibling back then. When you started growing, she seemed to never care anymore. She spent all her savings on gambling, even attempted to spend that money set aside for your tuition fees. You and your sibling hated these events, but it seems like she was the bravest one to let go. Even to this day, you still appreciated that effort. You always wanted to do the same, but what pulled you back was the fact that she was still your mother at the end of the day. But was that enough reason for you to allow yourself to be stuck with someone like her? You look at your mother, the old woman crossing the street, moments away from being mauled by that vehicle. She was the reason why you’re here, watching it all happen. The phone call you two had prior to these events was so much different, her voice being sweet, bringing back those moments when you were happy and young, enticing you to come and visit. And when you do, the mask comes off. The moment you meet, the first thing she starts asking is about the money. The money for her maintenance medicine, and other expenses for necessities. “I already gave you money,” You tell her. “Just last week, don’t you remember? That was a full five thousand pesos!” Her lips quiver, not enough to force out an answer. “What

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Multiple Choice

did you do to the money?” Your feeble looking mother seems to be tense under the conversation. Her skin noticeably goes a little pale, and you could swear you could see beads of sweat forming on her forehead, upper lip. “Listen, you seem tense. Maybe if I get us something to cool the both of us down. Besides, the weather is hot. Maybe it’s affecting your mood.” It was a cheesy way to redirect the conversation, but that’s how she always was. You should have known better that she will never change. She’s still the same woman you left years ago. You look back at the young woman. Was she your sister? Was she right all along? Your mind fills up with pure hate for your mother. If you keep your mother alive, you would end up years and years of her draining your savings, your salary. You felt like your sister was the one worth saving. If your mother dies now, then it means it’s all over. Those constant headaches, those issues you had with her... Your sister was right. You decided to do what is perceived to be right. You hurriedly save the young woman’s life, pulling her to the side, and the car runs over your old and feeble mother. She dies instantly, the last of your problems. What’s better is that you were indeed correct. The younger woman you have saved was who you thought it was from the beginning. Your sister who ran away from home. She had the same fears as you, that your mother would still remain neglectful, no matter how you’d defend her. “She’ll just use us to fund her strange gambling addiction,” You recall her saying. As you look into her eyes, noticing what just happened, you could see she stood by what she

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said. She did seem teary-eyed, but not in the sense that she was completely destroyed. It seemed like her connection with mother was near non-existent. You plan to have coffee after you clean up this mess. Ask her how things are doing, what has she been up to, if the decision you have done was right all along. You needed assurance to know if what you have done was right. You think your mother wasn’t all that evil, right? She was the one who cared for you since birth, right? She is your mother after all, right? c. Neither. The old woman is your old and feeble mother, and the younger woman is your sister, someone who ran away because she was tired of this family, leaving you all behind before you could even crumble. You saw it all happen, the image of what was once a perfect family shatter before you. As a young child, your family consisted of a mother, a father, and a sister. All were smiling, all were happy. You’d play with your little toy dolls with your sister, have them drink tea on a plastic table. Your father would tell you crazy stories after work, sometimes crack jokes if he was in a good mood. Your mother would cook a delicious meal for all to enjoy, and the banter was all about joy and excitement, good news after good news. You thought it would last forever. You thought wrong. The older you got, the more that has happened. Your father got problems in his work, and your mother was dragged into his problems. They’d end up shouting on the dinner table now, and you and your sister were forced to watch. He’d always curse the family, curse you two before leaving the

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Multiple Choice

table, and so did your mother, swearing that she would be so much happier if she was with a different family, married someone else. It hit you hard. It meant that your existence was nothing to her. The family you loved was nothing to the both of them. Eventually, she discovered vices that made her happier. One of her usual activities was gambling and gossiping with the other housewives in the neighborhood. She’d spend big money on bingo, buy dozens of tickets on lotteries with numbers destined for loss. You knew the spending got out of hand when she wouldn’t allow you two to do activities that required any extra money to be shelled out. You felt like she didn’t care for your happiness at all, that this woman has changed. You felt like you no longer knew her, and you became distant to her. Your sister, on the other hand, was probably the only remaining family you had left. You wanted to air out all your problems to her, knowing that she felt the same way. Instead, she’d refuse to talk to you. There she was, quietly scheming her future. Whenever you’d want to talk to her, express your feelings, hoping that you’d get an ounce of advice from her, she’d always dismiss you. Even if you had a chance to talk to her, she’d always say “We’re going through the same thing. You won’t get anything from me.” You just wanted to strike a conversation, hope to get this familiar connection you’ve missed. And the day she decided to leave, it has caught you in shock. You didn’t know what to do now. You tried to take her back, but all she said was “She’ll just use us to fund her strange gambling addiction...unless you’d want to drag me into this mess.” You didn’t know what to say. It seems like anything

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you’d tell her was against her. She made you an enemy despite not knowing that you wanted be on the same side. You decided to air your issues out to your friends, the closest ones, and for the first time, you felt a connection with someone else. They convinced you that the world was not against you after all. You were, in fact, convinced that you did not need any family. They all left you, disappointed you, made you doubt if you were really loved or not. And so you sit back and allow the both of them to die. They failed to show you love, and you decided to return the favor, allowing them to both get hit by the car, your mother going first, moving on to your sister. The car only stopped after both of them were as good as dead, a crowd forming around the bodies, the driver looking terribly sorry for what he has done. You didn’t mind, though. You felt like they were now nothing to your life, they’ve hurt you, and they have proved to you that you didn’t need them to live. You turn your back and leave the scene, feeling like it’s all over, but after these events, you hear a small voice in your head, begging the question on why your sister and mother were both in the same spot at the same time. You felt like things could have ended differently, and you should have set aside your emotions to change these events, hopefully patch these holes you mourned about. You can’t change the past, but you can help create the future. d. Both. You didn’t even think twice, immediately running to the old woman, who you recognize is your mother, and the young woman, who you assume is your sister, someone you have never seen years ago. But you allow that hunch to

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Multiple Choice

take over. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Look out!â&#x20AC;? You yell. The young woman faces your direction and dodges the vehicle successfully. The car runs to a tree, a crowd forming on the damaged vehicle, checking if the driver was fine. But that was none of your problems. What was your focus now was the fact that your mother is safe. The young woman you saved was indeed, your sister. With the attention you have brought on to yourself, she seemed to recognize you as well. She knew you are her sister, and the old woman is her mother. A family reunited. Your mother was filled with tears upon seeing your sister, immediately running for a hug. For the first time, you see her excited to see her, both trapping each other in an embrace. Your sister eventually gives you the same treatment. You felt it was right to give them both a chance to live, despite what they had done for you. You remembered your mother drown into gambling, draining funds meant for you and your sistersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; education, and showing no concern for the both of you. This is what caused your sister to leave, feeling as if she had no family to run to, feeling like her independence is what will keep her alive. You thought that they were what ruined you, but that split second before they both got harmed, you realize that they are human too. They had their own problems. Your father eventually died in a sudden, work related accident. Your mother lost it the day his body was presented to the morgue. Despite all the fights they had, all the misunderstandings that happened, she still loved him so. Her heart was broken, and she wanted to find a way to fix it. She turned to some friends to give her advice, but all they gave her was a new activity to do. To gamble. Fueled by pure sadness, she started spending everything, only focused on whatever would keep her mind away from remembering the family that once was.

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Your sister was annoyed at these actions. You two never understood the deep sadness your mother felt. Yes, losing your father was depressing, but you two felt like you could get out of the deep. You were wrong. Your sister was the first to feel this pain, and she felt like you would never understand, being the youngest sibling. She tried not to pull you into her problems, but she didn’t know how to handle yours. She deeply wanted to connect, but it was the falling apart of everything that kept her from doing so. You felt like this was the perfect opportunity to fix everything, so you invite the both of them for coffee at a nearby coffee shop, having them both sit down and talk about it over a cup. “How are you? It’s been long since I have seen you,” your mother asks. “I’ve been doing well, mom. I’m working now as a human resource person. I live in an apartment right now, and I’m pretty content with where I am,” your sister responds. Immediately, your mother has a smile crawled on her face, tears starting to stream down. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, but I believed that you cut me out of your life. I couldn’t contact you, but I’m so glad that we’re finally together.” With all the joy around, it suddenly hit you. Your mother is still the woman your sister despised. She has never gone over these gambling habits, and you feel like she’ll never change. “How about you, mom? How are things?” Your sister asks. Your mother pauses for a response. “I’m doing fine as well. I have to admit, sick and relying on medicine.” She tells her. It was just like before, when she’d let her pity take control, and the rest is all hell. Your sister falls for the pity party your mother sets for herself.

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Multiple Choice

It reminded you of that phone call you had before all of this happened, the one thing that brought you to this situation. Your mother talked about her sicknesses too, that she was old and feeble, that she loved you as a child and you had to love her back. You suddenly question if it was love that she wanted, or was it the money you had. You felt like this happy facade wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t last long, that one day, the two would fight again. Your sister would swear to leave the family once and for all, and even blame you that you kept the other party alive. A new kind of guilt forms in you, the fact that you did not think of the future, but rather, dwelled on the past. You quietly wish to yourself that the same scenario would happen again, and maybe this time, you would take a different option. e. ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________ ______________________________________________.

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MATTHEW RAFAEL FLORENDO

Pahingal digital art

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THEA ENRICA ONGCHUA

Ang Pagkakakilanlan digital collage 14

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PAULA BIANCA MARAÃ&#x2018;A

Alexa 15

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JOSH PARADEZA

Itim

Umaga na, tanghali kung pakikinggan ang paggising ng mga ina sa kanilang mga anak, ngunit makulimlim pa rin ang langit, gaya ng palagian nitong mukha tuwing Hulyo at karatig na buwan. Kahit hindi nakasaksak ang electric fan ay balot na balot sa kumot ang mga natutulog, hindi sanay ang mga tustadong balat sa pagbisita ng hanging amihan, tukso para hindi bumangon gayong napakarami pang trabaho sa maghapon. Lulan ng karagatan ang probinsya at abot-kamay ng barangay ang dagat kaya umaabot hanggang sa loob ng mga tahanan ang lamig at lagkit ng hanging-dagat. Panahon ng mga bagyo, sabi ng mga matatanda at ng mga matatanda bago pa sila.

Mag-isa sa bahay si Alma. Hindi nagalaw ang pagkain kagabi; sa ibang panahon, walang maglalakas-loob na tanggihan ang pritong danggit at ensaladang talong ngunit nagmamadali ang lahat na umalis ng bahay, nakalimutan ang gutom maging ang respeto sa pagkain. Siya namang naiwanâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;nagpaiwanâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;ay wala ring gana. Alam niyang kailangan niyang kumagat kahit papaano, nararamdaman ang pabugso-bugsong pagkulo ng tiyan at ang panginginig ng mga nanlalambot na tuhod, pero iniisip pa lang niya ang naghihintay na 17

Itim

piging ng mga lumang ulam sa ref ay nasusuka na siya. Hindi rin siya mapapalagay kung kumain nang mag-isa. Kape, kape na lang, iyon na lang muna, pangungumbinsi niya sa sarili para tumungo sa lababo para sa ipapakulong tubig. Sa paghihintay na mapuno ang takure, natanaw niya sa maliit na bintana ang paghampas ng mga sanga sa bubong ng mga karatig-bahay sa compound. Lumilipad ang sanlibong dahon, umuulan ng luntian sa semento; sa langit naman ay kulimlim. Iniisip niyang kung ganyan kadilim ang mga ulap ay baka itim na rin ang tubig na bumagsak mula rito. Wala rin ang tipikal na dami ng tao sa kalsada. Bawas ang bilang ng mga tsismosa sa daan. Dadalawa lang silang napapanood ni Alma: si Marites, naka-sweater at bonet, padala ng asawang janitor sa Amerika, at si Baby, karga-karga ang pang-limang anak. Nakatambay malapit sa poso ang ilan sa mga kilalang manginginom ng barangayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; doon sila madalas tumambay dahil sa tuwing may nalalasing naâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t kailangang umuwi, isasahod lang ang ulo sa poso at saka magbo-bomba ng tubigâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;ngunit walang alak sa paligid. Matipid ang kwentuhan sa bawat grupo, sumasabay ang mga buntong hininga sa ihip ng hangin, pare-parehong naghihintay ng unang tricycle na darating sa liblib nilang barangay, baka-sakaling may dalang bagong balita. Isang manipis na tinig, Lola, ang bumasag sa katahimikan. Nakapasok na sa pintuan si Jona, may hawak na supot ng tinapay. Malakas ang amoy ng bagong lutong pandesal at shampoo ng bagong ligong bisita, bumabaha sa loob ng tahimik na bahay. Sinara ni Alma ang gripo, di namalayang umaapaw na pala ang tubig sa takure. Ibinuhos niya ang sobra at ipinatong ang malamig na bakal sa kalan. Sinindihan niya ito ngunit hindi bumukas. Inulit niya ngunit wala pa ring sumisiklab sa bawat pagpitik nito. Hinanap ng kamay niya ang pihitan ng tangke at kinapa kung bukas. Inulit niyang muli. Kumakagat naman ang gas: naaamoy niya ang paglabas nito at paghalo sa halimuyak ng tinapay at pabango kaya nagtataka siya sa hindi paglitaw ng apoy. Nangingilid na ang luha ni Alma, nagtataka kung bakit ayaw magpakita ng apoy sa kanya gayong gusto lamang niyang magkape nang mapayapa na ang nagpapapansin at nag-aalburoto niyang tiyan. 18

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Ako na ‘La, tumabi si Jona kay Alma, hinawakan ang braso ng matanda papalayo sa kalan at pinunan ang pwesto nito. Sa tabi ay kinuha ni Jona ang posporo, naglabas ng palito at ikiniskis sa gilid ng kahon. Nakalimutan niyo atang sira itong kalan niyo ‘La, akala ko ba binilhan kayo ng bago nung asawa ni Shirley? Umupo si Alma sa puting monobloc sa hapag-kainan at gayon din si Jona, sa tapat niya. Binuksan ni Jona ang plastic at kumuha ng isang pirasong tinapay saka inabot kay Alma. Nagpawis ang mga tinapay sa loob ng plastic kaya malambot na ang ilang parte nito, nababad at nalunod sa sariling init. Ang mga naiwasan ng tubig ay ramdam na malutong pa rin ang balat, hindi pa kumakapit ang mala-buhangin na mga butil. Kumain ka na, ‘La, lalamig na yan, sayang. Tumango si Alma. Sayang nga naman ang tinapay, ang pagkaing naiwan sa lamesa, ang mga ulam sa ref, kung pinapabayaan lamang na lumamig at mapanis. Swerte ng mga alagang baboy dahil dagdag sa kinakain nila, malas naman sa nasayang na pagkakataong makatikim ng masarap paminsan. Biyaya ito ng Diyos, palaging sasabihin ni Alma sa mga anak at apo na ayaw kumain, biyaya gaya niyong mga bata, sabay kukurot sa kanilang mga pisngi. Matagal nang hindi nagsisimba si Alma gaya ng mga kapatid niya ngunit nananatiling ginagamit ni Alma na panakot ang Diyos, nananatiling nakatirik ang altar sa kanilang bahay, madalas pa rin niyang pinupunasan. Halos araw-araw niyang ipinagdarasal sa Birhen ang yumaong asawa noong unang taon ng pagkamatay nito, hanggang sa unti-unti na niyang nakalimutan ang boses ng asawa, hanggag sa nakalimutan na ang dagdag na espasyo sa kama. Dalawang taon at kusang loob na lumipat ang paborito niyang apo doon at naging maaliwalas muli ang kwarto. Nandoon pa rin sila Auntie Wendy, nag-aabang, sabi ni Jona bago dumukot muli ng pandesal. Wala pa rin siyang tulog pero ayaw paawat—Nanay e. Kumagat si Alma sa pandesal, nahirapan sa pagnguya, walang malasahan, kaya pinilit ang sariling lunukin na tanging laway lang ang panulak. Nanay nga ang nag-iisang anak na babae, nanay sa tatlong anak na iniwan ng ama. Matagal nilang hinanap iyong lalaki, nagtago sa kanyang responsibilidad, at nang

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makita ay di naman pinilit ni Alma. Nang makaharap nila ni Wendy ay agad niyang nilapitan, tinitigan nang maigi, Kahit saan ka pa magtago, hindi mo makakalimutang may tatlong anak na naghahanap sa’yo, saka umalis, ‘di na nagsalita hanggang makauwi sa bahay, maging si Wendy ay walang imik. Doon nagsimulang mag-aral si Wendy kung paano maging ina nang walang asawa, at si Alma kung paano maging ina sa anak ng anak niya. Hindi niya iyon ikinagalit, nagpapasalamat pa nga sa pagkakataon. Mahirap dahil mas natagalan ang retirement pero nagkaroon ng panibagong pagkakaabalahan at hindi lang nauwi sa matagal na paghihintay ng pagkalagot ng hininga. Binabantayan naman siya ni Shirley at Kris, sinisigurado naman nilang hindi rin maaabuso ng nanay nila iyong katawan niya, sabi ni Jona sa pagitan ng pagnguya. Ang ikalawang anak ni Wendy ay ikinasal na; si Shirley ay naka-graduate sa tamang panahon, di gaya ng kuya niyang nauwi sa pagbubulakbol ang kalakhan ng panahon sa eskwela na ilang beses nang na-expel at sa dulo’y tumigil na para makapagtrabaho kung saan man tumatanggap ng hindi nakatapos ng high school. Hindi na nila hinarang ang kagustuhan ni Shirley na magpakasal sa lalaking mahal. Ibinigay ni Alma ang isang parte ng compound dahil lupa naman iyon ng buong angkan, lahat sila’y may karapatan doon, nang hindi na maging masyadong magastos ang pagsisimula. Para sana iyon sa kuya ni Shirley, kung sakaling niyaya na niya si Jona. Naunahan ka, asar ni Alma sa paboritong apo, at sasagot iyon ng tawa, Hayaan mo ‘La, mauuna naman akong magbibigay ng apo sa inyo. Si Kris, ang bunso, first year college pa lang, matalino rin, scholar, pero may pagka-pilya, mabilis at malalim umibig kaya madalas maulanan ng sermon ng nanay. Pagkatapos ng litanya ng ina ay tutungo ito sa Lola, hihingi ng opinyon. Ang tanging ibibigay ni Alma: mahaba pa ang panahon, huwag magmadalai, huwag masyadong gagaya kay Kuya.

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Kukuha pa sana si Jona, pinigilan ang mga kamay at nagkwento na lamang, Tumutulong din sila Uncle Lino doon tsaka kalakhan ng mga tanod. Sila Manang Miling, nandoon din, muntik nang mahimatay. Maraming nagpapakita ng suporta kay Auntie Wendy, sa atin. Napasinghal si Alma. Hindi kailangang kalkalin ang kasaysayan para malamang naroroon lang ang mga iyon para maki-tsismis. Minsan na rin niyang narinig kung paano nila binabaluktot ang kwento, na nanlalalaki si Wendy kaya iniwan ng asawa, na ang mga apo ni Alma ay iba-iba ang ama. Mga istoryador, lahat sila. May kanya-kanyang bersyon ng mga nangyayari sa maliit nilang barangay kahit na dapat ay madali lang matunton ang katotohanan. Nandoon sila para manghimasok. Inaakala nilang ang buhay ng mga kapitbahay ang gaya ng pagsawsaw ng binti sa dagat. Kaya maraming umaalis sa kanila at ‘di na bumabalik—mali ang naaalala nila. Tinignan siya ni Jona, hindi na umiimik, naubusan na ng balita.

Bakit wala ka doon?

Ibinaba ni Jona ang pangatlong tinapay. Ngumuya, dahandahan, binibilang ang bawat pagpwersa ng bagang. Pagkalunok ay nilingon niya si Alma, nananatiling nakatitig sa kanya, naghihintay ng sagot. Nanggaling na ako doon, ‘La, kakauwi ko lang. Galing pang bayan ‘tong pandesal, dinaanan ko kanina pauwi. Babalik din ako mamaya. Masyadong malambing si Jona, masyadong maalalahanin, masipag. Iniisip ni Alma ngayon, lalo na ngayon, na kung lahat ng ginagawang kabaitan ni Jona ay para tuluyang kunin ang apo sa kanya.

Bakit ka nandito?

Laway na ang nilunok ni Jona. Susunduin ko kayo, La. Nagaabang na yung tricycle sa labas, saglit lang naman papunta doon. Alam ni Alma ‘yon, di na kailangan pang ipaalala ni Jona. Hindi pa pinapanganak si Jona ay tumutungo na siya doon. Ilang taon na ba siyang bumibisita doon kasama ng kanyang pamilya? Ilang beses nang pumunta doon sakay silang mag-anak ng tricycle, ng kotse ng kamag-

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anak, ng nirentahang jeep, ng kanya-kanyang motor? Bawat lubak mula bahay patungong Locloc ay saulo niya. Hindi na iyon kailangang sabihin ni Jona.

Bakit ako pupunta doon?

Hinawakan ni Jona ang kamay ni Alma. La, kayo na lang ang inaantay nila. Ikaw na lang ang inaantay ni—natabunan ng pagsipol ng takure ang boses ni Jona. Nakalimutan ni Alma na meron palang nakasalang ngayon, kailangan pala niyang magkape, lagyan ng tlaman ang tiyan. Tumayo siya at pinatay ang apoy. Kinuha ang bagong termos at isinalin ang bagong kulong tubig. Siya ang bumili ng termos sa tiangge. Hindi naman kailangan ng pamilya nila, wala naman nang nagkakape sa kanila, liban sa kanya at kay—hindi makita ni Alma ang paborito niyang tasa. Regalo sa kanya iyon ng paboritong apo noong grade school pa ito, noong kapilyohan pa lamang ang alam niya sa mundo at hindi pa nalululong sa tropa, sa basag-ulo, sa yosi, alak, pambababae. Nilingon ni Alma si Jona. Mabuting bata nga naman ito, magandang ehemplo, kung hindi dahil sa kanya ay hindi magpupursiging magtrabaho si—ayun, sa lamesa, sa tabi mismo ng supot ng pandesal ang tasa, hindi nahugasan. Inabot niya ito at bumalik sa lababo, dinaan sa tubig saka nilagyan ng kape, kaunting asukal, walang gatas. Sukat na sukat niya ang timpla para sa dalawang tasa, dati’y para sa asawa, ngayo’y para sa apo. Humigop si Alma, kumunot ang noo. Mali ang timpla. May kulang. May sobra. Binuksan niya ang garapon at tinimplang muli, nagtantya ng bilang. La, si Jona habang papalapit kay Alma, patuloy na hinahalo ang kape sa tasa, sabi ng mga matatanda, baka ‘pag ikaw ang nagpakita roon, umiwas ng tingin kay Alma bago magpatuloy, magpakita na rin siya. Bumilis ang paghalo ni Alma sa tasa, tumutunog ang bakal ng kutsara sa seramika. Ayaw mo ba siyang makita? Nabasag ang tasa at kumalat ang kape sa sahig, naglaho ang puting bubog sa puting marmol. Agan na lumuhod si Alma, pinulot

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ang litaw na bubog sa natapong kape. Ang hindi niya makita ay dinama niya sa sahig, sinalat ng palad at hinayaang mahanap ng balat ang piraso ng paboritong tasa. Pinigilan siya ni Jona. Nagpumiglas si Alma ngunit mas malakas ang mga kamay ng dalaga, mas may diin at higpit sa pagkakakapit. Pinunsan ni Jona ang sahig gamit ang basahan, napaglumaang t-shirt na si Alma ang bumili noong wala pang trabaho ang anak. Hinugasan ni Jona ang basahan at dumiretso sa lababo ang alikabok, dugo. Kinuha ni Jona ang walis, siniguradong wala nang matitirang bubog sa sahig samantalang tinitignang maigi ni Alma ang mga sugat sa kamay. Hindi niya makita ang haba at lalim ng mga sugat at hindi niya maramdaman ang hapdiâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;kung wala ang dugo ay wala rin siyang sugat. Gusto mo bang matulog na lang muna, La? Magpahinga ka na muna, babalikan kita mamayang tanghali, dadalhan kita ng ulam, habang inaalalayan ni Jona si Alma pabalik ng kwarto. Tumigil si Alma sa paglalakad nang makita ang kwarto mula sa bukas nitong pintuan. Maluwag ang kama. Malalaking alon ang iniwan niyang unan at kumot, hindi pa bumabagsak sa hangganan ng kutson. Sa mga kumot niya ibinalot ang paboritong apo sa tuwing tinatrangkaso ito, noong mga panahon ng pagkabalaho sa eskwela, sa kawalan ng trabaho, sa realisasyong wala nang pakialam ang ama sa kanilang magkakapatid. Sa umaga, pagkatapos mailahad ng apo ang kahinaan ay kakalimutan nito ang pagkalunod sa emosyon at bibiruin na lamang ang lola. Isinara ni Alma ang pintuan ng kwarto. Pinihit ang tangke, ang mga ilaw, itinali ang supot ng lumamig nang pandesal, at lumbas na ng bahay. Hindi ka ba magdadala ng jacket, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;La? Malamig ngayon. Umiling lang si Alma at sumakay sa tricycle. Malayo pa lang ay amoy na niya ang lansa ng tubig. Labinglimang minutong paghagod ng makina ng motor bago mawala sa provincial highway ang tricycle at pumasok sa looban, sa paghahalo at paglalaho ng semento sa lupa, ang paglitaw ng buhangin. Hindi siya lumalapit sa tubig kahit na mahilig silang tumungo sa dagat. Takot

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siya sa mga dikya na marami sa panahon ng bagyo, doon sila lumilitaw at sa rabaw naglalagi. Samantalang ang apo—muntik makasagasa ang tricycle ng gumagalang aso—ay dalawang beses nang na-dikya pero hindi pa rin natuto. Ganoon naman talaga ‘yon—ngayon ay bata naman ang kamuntik mahagip ng tricycle, sinuway na ni Jona ang driver na magdahan-dahan at baka makaaksidente pa—hanggang ngayon, hanggang sa paghahanap sa kanya ng lahat. Ilang beses nang nabangga sa bisikleta, ilang beses nang nakipagsuntukan sa inuman, ilang beses nang hinabol ng mga pinagkakautangan sa bahay pero parang hindi natututo ang matigas nitong ulo. Tumigil rin ang tricycle sa plaza ng barangay. Naglakad sila ni Jona lagpas sa basketball court, isang kwadradong patsi ng semento, hanggang sa matanaw nila ang buhangin at tubig. Itim ang dagat ngayon, gayon din ang langit, hindi matiyak ni Alma kung ano ang sumasalimin at ano ang sinasalamin, o baka pareho silang walang kulay at umaayon lang sa damdamin ng tumitingin sa kanila. Walang pumapalaot ngayon dahil sa lakas ng alon; di bale na raw na patay ang benta ng mga nagtitinda sa palengke kesa ang mga mismong mangingisda. Reklamo naman ng ilan ay mamamatay rin sila sa gutom kung magpapadala sa takot. Bagamat buhay nila ang dagat, marami pa ring takot kapag sinusumpong ito. Kaya ang tanging makikitang nasa labas ng bahay ay mga batang makukulit, naglalaro sa buhanginan, kalaunan ay pagagalitan ng mga magulang, tatakutin sa mga kwento ng pagkalunod. Nariyan din ang mga pasaway, mga nagtatangka dahil mas malakas ang kalam ng sikmura kesa kabog ng dibdib. Alam ni Alma na sa susunod na panahon, ang kwentong ito ay gagamiting panakot sa mga batang susuway sa kanilang mga magulang, hanggang sa makalimutan nila ang pangalan ng mga tauhan ngunit mananatili ang pagkalunod. Sinalubong sila agad ng mga kamag-anak, ilang mga kapitbahay, nang makita siyang papalapit sa pampang. Maraming kwento, sunodsunod na pakikiramay at pagsasalaysay ng mga pangitaing nakita sa mga panaginip, mga pagpapahiwatig ng langit, ng mga encanto sa

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bakanteng lote at mantatawas sa kabilang barrio. Sumunod ang mga papuri nila sa apo: mabait na bata, magalang, laging iniintindi ang mas nakababata sa kanya, masipag. Bayani raw ang apo bago mamatay, nailigtas ang tatlong kaibigan pero siya naman ang kinuha ng mga alon. Pinigilan ni Alma na matawa sa mga narinig. Hindi niya iyon maalala; hindi iyon ang kanyang apo. Makulit iyon, pilyo, palaaway, sutil. Nagbago lang ng buhay nang makilala si Jona pero nagmamatigas pa rin, parang kahapon, nagpupumilit na lumangoy kasama ng mga barkada kahit alam nilang delikado ang dagat, parang ngayon, ayaw magpakita kahit marami nang naghahanap. Hindi makapaniwala si Alma sa bersyon nila ng kanyang apo, sa paraan nila ng paggunita ng mga gawa-gawa nilang kwento. Tinuro nila ang anak ni Alma sa gitna ng mga taong nakikiusisa, mga hindi kakilalang nag-aabang sa lulutang na katawan. Lumapit siya rito, tinabihan, pero walang lumuha sa kanila. Malapit nang mag-twenty four hours, sabi ni Wendy, pero ayaw lumusong sa tubig ng coast guard, natatakot na baka sila ang matangay kaya puro mga kabarangay at kamag-anak ang naglalakas-loob na maghanap. Napasinghal si Alma, ano pa nga bang aasahan sa mga yan, hindi naman nila kilala ang dagat, hindi kabisado ang galit nito, hindi alam kung paano lalapitan ang nagluluksang ina. Tinawagan ko na rin si George, papunta na yon, putol ni Wendy na ikinabigla ni Alma. Ilang taon na niyang hindi narinig ang pangalan ng tatay ng kanyang mga apo. Sinong mag-aakalang ngayong binanggit ng anak ang pangalan ng lalaking nang-iwan sa kanila ay uuwi ito para magluksa, para maghanap ng isa pang lalaking nang-iwan sa pamilyang ito. Hindi niya maalala ang hitsura ng apo. Si Alma ang kasama ng anak sa delivery room nang manganak ito at nakita niya kung paano umiyak ang katawang basang-basa sa pinaghalong tubig, pawis, ihi, at dumi, nakaahon sa hirap ng nanay. Si Alma ang kasama nito sa unang araw ng eskwela dahil naghahanap pa ng trabaho noon si Wendy. Si Alma ang nagpalit ng damit ng apo unang beses na umuwing lasing, nagdala sa ospital nang maaksidente sa motorsiklo ng kaibigan. Naaalala niya ang mga pangyayari ngunit hindi ang mukha nito. 25

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Meron ka bang picture ni Alon?

Nilingon siya ni Wendy, di sumagot, at dinukot ang cellphone sa bulsa. Ito, Ma, inabot ni Wendy ang telepono pagkatapos ng ilang pagpipindot sa screenâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Nagsigawan ang mga lalaki sa tubig, kumakaway sa lahat ng mga taong nasa baybayin. Takbuhan ang lahat papalapit sa tubig, may kanya-kanyang bulalas, may katawan, baka may ibang nalunod ha, basura lang yan, sirena, si Alon ba, si Alon nga, Diyos ko. Naiwan si Alma sa buhanginan, hawak ang cellphone ng anak na karipas ang takbo papunta sa tubig. Mula sa kanyang pwesto ay nakikita niya ang buhat ng mga lalaki, inaaninag kung ito nga ba ang apo niya o hindi, mahirap, dahil itim pa rin ang dagat.

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GABRIELLE MARIE LACUNA

Unassuming 27

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CHRISTINE AUTOR

Punan Kung pahihintulutan tayo ng panahon, sanaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y punan muli ang mga nangungulilang katawan. Hagkan ang isaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t isa, higpitan ang pagkapit, tagalan kung kailan nais. Punan mo akong muli kung maaari.

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KATRINA ALYSSA TANKEH

Boyfriend

Divine doesn’t know what to do with the dead body of her boyfriend,

let alone his ghost. Well, the body, she can manage. Burn, chop into two hundred sixty-seven pieces, or drown in a river—the possibilities are endless. But his ghost has been sitting on her vanity table for weeks. His ghost is a glowing orb that changes color, depending on the direction of the wind. It does not speak, to both Divine’s delight and dismay. In the evening, before she sleeps, the orb brightens, squiggles, and sparks. She hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since. Divine does a Google search: What should I do with my dead boyfriend’s ghost? Séance ads fill up the top of the page. A website of witches in dark violet robes invite the bereaved to cemetery possession rituals,

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which would have been interesting had Divine not seen Rosemary’s Baby over the weekend. Then, Divine chances upon an e-commerce site owned by black magic practitioners. A tab pops up: Are you above 18 years of age? Yes or No Divine clicks yes. Have you recently experienced a loss of a loved one? Yes or No Divine clicks yes again. Do you like games? Yes or No Divine hesitates. She clicks no. Good. The page goes white. Then text appears:

Our Spectre Package includes four hosts: the sun pendant (☼), the dagger (†), the memory card (■), and the triangle (∆). Each host carries its unique characteristics and powers, all designed to give your ghost a new life.

After a week, a parcel arrives at Divine’s doorstep. It carries a note: Choose wisely.

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☼ Divine slips a long, silver chain into the hook and wears the pendant over her nude chest, the closest her boyfriend’s been to her breasts in a year. A comforting warmth oozes through her body. Then, the pendant only gets hotter and hotter with each passing minute. Divine refuses to remove the necklace. At night, the pendant burns a hole into her skin, her ribs, her heart. Divine perishes in her sleep. † Divine lays the dagger on her dead boyfriend’s pillow. The dagger is accompanied by a copy of The Exorcist. She’s seen the movie without him once and figured this was a great way to bond in his rebirth. The scene where Regan’s head twists back comes onscreen, a crucifix in her hand. Compelled by a powerful unknown energy, Divine does the same with the dagger as Regan does with the crucifix. Divine bleeds to death. ■ Divine inserts the memory card into her computer. She opens the memory card and in it is a folder labelled “vision.” She clicks on it. There are a thousand videos of her naked boyfriend with faceless women and men. Then a video of her boyfriend getting shot in the head. Then a clip of herself, holding a gun, laughing. Divine dies of an aneurysm. ∆ Divine holds the cold pieces of metal in her hands. Clink. Nothing. Clink twice. Nothing. After the third, she hears a rustling from outside her door. Then soft thuds, like fruits falling to the ground. The lock turns. The door opens and the mangled body of her dead boyfriend enters. Divine smiles.

This piece was first released in a self-published zine entitled Ghosts of My Home (2019).

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Paglalarawan ni Kathleen Nicole Garay

Tomo XXXV Bilang 3

KATRINA ALYSSA TANKEH

The Five Men of Santana

1. The first man Santana ever loved was a boy, dark and lanky with teeth like corn kernels. They met at a crossroads. The church bell had just rung, a little earlier than usual. Santana skipped down the concrete stairs in her Sunday dress while the boy skidded from the left side of the street and ran up the same steps, an older boy chasing him. This particular boy she liked had the widest grin she had ever seen and had the musk of freshly minced garlic that clouded her nostrils as he breezed by. He looked back at her for the briefest moment before he jumped onto the landing, disappearing behind the slope of the hill. Santana could barely breathe that her mother had to pull her by the sleeve towards the church. On the pew, kneeling over her skirt, she begged God to let her see the boy again.

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The next time she saw him was their last encounter. She was

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three years older and ditched satin undershirts for baby bras. That day, she was biking along the stretch of cement near a clearing of green. She saw him by the wet market carrying a basket of fish. He was taller, still as dark-skinned, but his arms were much thicker than she last remembered. And he looked back at her. He gave her a glimpse of his kernel teeth. She pressed her thighs a little harder against her bike seat and smiled all the way home. 2. The second man Santana loved was a man she wanted to forget. In a Catholic school run by nuns, the girls looked almost identical, like a battalion of toy soldiers, save for unnaturally redder lips or shorter ankle socks that slipped underneath the sole. The science teacher was a young man in charge of pointing out those differences. He gave out slips to girls who had sown the hems their skirts lower and wore blouses a size smaller, to girls who wore colored hairclips and colored bras, to girls who had noticeable layers of concealer under their eyes. But even when Santana’s haircut was a tad short for a girl’s and she had forgotten to remove a bright-colored band from her wrist, the science teacher just winked at her. During biology class, she would stare at the peeking dragon tail of his arm tattoo. The tip of the tail coiled with his every movement. She would raise her hand to ask for permission to go to the comfort room, watching as the dragon’s tail stiffened to her voice. The science teacher would glance at her a second longer than at everyone else, then gestured his permission. Santana felt pretty. One Wednesday, he told her to come by his office after class. An invite to an annual science convention, he said. She wasn’t good in science. When she entered his room, he asked her to lock the door. She hesitated, but she did anyway.

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He hiked up her skirt without her permission. He slid down her panties without her permission. He pulled her hips towards his face without her permission. She had imagined this moment to be like opening a bag of freshly spun cotton candy. But it only felt wet and cold. She left his office wanting to crash into her bed and sleep for a few hours longer than she usually did. She never received the invite to the convention. 3. The third man Santana loved was a man who looked a lot like her father. She never actually met her father, but she kept old photographs of him from before he left her pregnant mother in a tiny apartment in Hong Kong. When her mother returned to the Philippines, she gave birth to Santana without a man by her side. Her mother often spoke ill of her father. She spat his name with as much vigor as a bullet sprinting from the muzzle of a gun. But looking at her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stashed photographs of him sprawled on the sand by the beach, on a hammock underneath a mango tree, on a couch fast asleep, how could he possibly be an evil man? Unlike her father, the third man had no mustache. He had a soft jaw and a large forehead that made him look kind. He was kind. He picked her up from school and brought her home every day with no fail. Her mom loved him. So much, that her mother joked about flirting with him if she were seventeen. The man would squeeze Santanaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s leg under the table, even in front of her mother. It hurt a little sometimes. There were bruises in the same place when they would fight. Her mother never knew. The last time they spoke, he wrapped his fingers around her neck. This is love, she thought. He did this because of me, she thought, he loves me.

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4. The fourth man Santana loved was a woman. She was ten years older than Santana. She was beautiful, but not in the way that other people found women beautiful. She always had her hair tied back and wore the same pair of jeans each time they went out. Her breath often smelled of coffee, a scent Santana was repelled by. But not with her. Although Santana towered above the woman, she was in no way as enchanting, as beautiful, as alluring as the woman. The woman was the love she never thought she’d have. She would sneak out at night to drink cocktails in a bar with the woman. They learned the guitar together, wrote poems together. They would feed cats in the streets and name each one according to their purrs: Zenith, for the high-pitched purr, and Hephaestus, for the loud, growling purr. If I married a woman, she asked her mother, what would you do? Her mother flipped through the pages of her magazine, silent. Then her mother answered her question. If you fall in love with a woman, she said, then you are not my daughter. The same day, Santana called things off. Santana learned years later from a mutual friend that the woman she loved had moved in with another woman─a very pretty one. They own three cats. Santana cried for seven nights straight, then never again. But she would write her letters she wouldn’t dare send, never forgetting the scent of the woman’s breath until the day she died. 5. The fifth man Santana loved was married. To two women─one, legally, and the other, by personal agreement.

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They met through a mutual friend at a baby shower, as all late thirty-year-olds do. He would come over whenever it was convenient, a different car each time. He would step out of the room to talk to his wife and inside the bathroom to talk to his other wife. Back in the bedroom, he called Santana “dear” and touched her in the right places. Santana would scream in delight, only to watch him leave before she even got dressed. But when he told her he loved her, she somehow knew in her heart it was true. God, she would pray, why is this the love you have given me? Is this the love I deserve? Her prayers were answered in the form of a child. A baby girl whose hair curled the way her own father’s did and whose doll-like eyes sparkled the way her own mother’s did. The baby had the lips of her lover─thin as a tulip’s petal. She searched and searched for any sign of herself in the face of her child, but found nothing. The only resonant familiarity manifested in her baby’s cry. With every cry for milk or a good burp, she felt her daughter’s desperation to survive, to be held, to be loved.

This piece was first released in a self-published zine entitled The Female Dilemma (2018). 37

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CHAUNNE-IRA EZZLERAIN MASONGSONG

Kulong photo manipulation

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NINIAN PATRICK SAYOC

Sa Tabing-Bintana Nag-uumpisa siyang isang patak ng ulan na dadapo sa kristal; malinaw sa malinaw na unti-unting lumalabo. Susunod ang kasama niyang pagbuhos, dahil bihira naman na siya’y nag-iisa. At tutuloy ito, nagmumukhang talon sa’king tabi. Ngunit nananatiling nakadikit, siya: ang munting patak na nawa’y nawala; sapagkat ang tubig at kristal ngayo’y nagkaisa.

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paglalarawan ni Adia Pauline Lim 40

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ANGELA MITZI NAZARENO

To the Father I never knew

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to grow up with you by my side.

I’ve always wondered what it doule be like to wake up in the morning and see you drink coffee or eat breakfast, just how normal fathers are supposed to. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to go home and not only be greeted by my mom but by you as well. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to cry on your shoulders at times when my heart is shattered. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to always hear your voice, filled with wisdom that I would long to have as I grow older every day. I remember an instance when we were all travelling to Baguio. It was one of our typical out-of- town trips whenever you were home from

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your work abroad, where we would take pictures in the strawberry farm but not even try their famous strawberry-flavored taho, go to Burnham park, rent and ride bicycles all afternoon. Mom and my little brothers were all fast asleep. I was the only one left to keep you awake in the long highway to the high mountains. “Noong maliit ka pa, pagkaalis na pagkaalis ng kotse natin sa bahay tulog ka na agad.” I laughed with you. You were always telling me how properlybehaved I was as a toddler. “Kung alam ko lang na magiging kabaliktaran ka paglaki mo edi sana dinasal kong naging malikot ka na lang nung bata ka pa para ngayon mabait ka.” “Hey. I’m not that bad. Malakas lang loob ko pero hindi pa rin ako sutil.” You just shook your head knowing you can’t really argue with your daughter who inherited your stubbornness and bold outlook and take on life. This was my favorite part of our trips. Our conversations in our longdrives that never really allowed me to sleep through the journey or even want to at all. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to experience the warmth of your hug, whenever I want and need it. Like the day I got my heart broken at 16. Mom caught me crying while I was lying on my bed. She asked me what was wrong and after a few minutes of telling her how my boyfriend left me, my phone beeped. I opened your Facebook message. Ayos ka lang? Nagkwento si Mama mo. Ayos lang umiyak, anak. But make sure na that is the last time you will cry for him. I sent and typed ‘Thank you, De. I miss you’. I miss you din, anak. Hayaan mo. Pag-uwi ko suntukin ko ‘yang lokong iyan. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to always see you and no longer have the need to look at you virtually. I guess I grew tired of waiting for you to tell us that we can finally talk to you. 42

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I’ve always wondered what it would be like for you to be present in all the occasions we, as Filipinos and as a family, love to celebrate. I remember our video chat when you congratulated me in 5th grade for winning our school’s essay writing. “What do you want? I’ll have your tito bring it when he goes home next month.” “I don’t want anything. I just want to eat out with Mama and my brothers.” And you. I put down my trophy beside the computer monitor. “Will you be home for the recognition rites? I’ll be given a medal for this competition again.” “Anak...” I knew what your answer was going to be. “I’ll be going home on September pa. I have to make sure that I’ll come home for your graduation next year. Daddy promises to make it up to you, okay?” “Okay. We miss you. I miss you, Dade.” “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Any gadget? Laptop? They’re on sale here now in Saudi.” “I just want you to go home.” “I know, anak. Gusto ko na ring umuwi sa inyo ni Mama mo.” I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be driven to and from school by you while you listen to my stories and give me advice on how to deal with my unbearable classmates. Or sometimes I would just ask how you spent your youth, if you had always been responsible as you are now or were you just as reckless as me and gave my grandparents headaches too. I’ve always wondered if you would spoil us by treating us to meriendas around the city before we head home and how many times you and Mama would go on dates in a week without us. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to talk to you in lazy sunny afternoons in our salas, with only the electric fan and the open windows giving us wind. I could imagine my happiness in those simple scenarios; in the simple things where we can bond as father

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and daughter, where I feel how to be taken care of by my hero, my only hero. And the time has finally come. God has granted my wish. After years of praying for time to run as fast as it can, the time when it was no longer necessary finally came.

You are finally home. You are finally with us. You are finally truly present in our lives.

After years of sacrificing and enduring months of not being at home with us, we finally get to kiss you good night and kiss you good morning. Mom can finally sleep beside you and no longer need to say good night to you using her phone. We finally get to rant to you without dialing any number or logging into any social media. We could just call your name or walk into your room. You were no longer an image in our screens. You were physically present in the house and in our everyday lives. You could finally laugh with us at mom’s cooking yet still finish your whole plate. There were more clothes in the closet that used to just belong to mom. We can finally fold your clothes after gathering them from the clothesline. You’ve already brought yourself home. Your stuff was finally in suitcases. We no longer waited for balikbayan boxes nor still wanted to receive some. We all just wait now for you to get home from your work, just like how my classmates do after arriving from school. My what ifs and daydreams no longer remained to be questions. They were all our reality now. But I should’ve known that life doesn’t like it when someone becomes too happy. I never believed that God intended to bring us happiness and misery right after as payment for the joy that past us by, that heartache is a currency for bliss.

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I was in our salas that time; sitting down as I devoured all the chocolates you and mom bought from the grocery store and bingewatching the Korean drama I just downloaded. It was a hot afternoon and I opened all the windows, despite having pressed the third button of our electric fan. Your iPhone’s beep caught my attention. You were out running your errands for your project. I grabbed your phone and was about to give it to mom and laugh at how forgetful of things you were getting probably because of your ageing. Can’t wait to see you. Maybe you could just tell your wife that you’ll meet an old friend. I stared at your phone screen for a while, trying to recall if there was any instance you mentioned this woman’s name. Until it finally dawned on me. Not knowing how long it took me to gather the energy to put down your phone, I did. I had to. I walked to the kitchen, my breathing becoming slower. I was confused of the numbness it gave me but it went away quickly when I heard her voice. “Kahit kailan, di kita iiwan. Kahit kailan... di kita pababayaan-”

It was mom singing.

She turned to me when she noticed my presence. “Oh, bakit anak? Gutom ka na ba? Mabango ba amoy ng niluluto ni Mama? Ang galing ko na, noh?” She gave me her sweet smile. I looked at her right in her eyes and saw that contentment in them as she was cooking beef and broccoli, the first dish she could cook perfectly. The numbness was replaced by the sharp tearing in my chest and the hate ripping every beautiful memory I have of you apart. “Bakit nakatayo ka lang, diyan?” I smiled at her. “Nagugutom na ako, Ma. Matagal pa po ba iyan?” I looked around the counter and grabbed the rice cooker. “Magsasaing na po ako, ha.” Hmmm. Maybe I should throw this at your face once you enter the door. Mom smiled as she turned off the stove. “Ay oo, simulan mo na iyan. Pauwi na siguro si dade mo.” I looked away and hurriedly looked for the rice sack and rice scooper. As the violent thoughts in

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my mind added, I prayed hard I would just have dinner with mom and my brothers. For the first time ever, I did not want you to come home. Not ever again. Mom followed me out of the kitchen. I kneeled in front of the sink to open the sack of rice. I started scooping. “By the way, anak, I already got the recommendation letters from your previous teachers. Complete na requirements mo for your college application. Si Dade mo na raw sasama sayo para magpasa sa Sabado.” Tang ina. “Di ka na po sasama?” I got up and opened the faucet to wash the rice. Maybe if I wash my hands, I could also wash off from my mind what I saw. “Sorry, anak. I need to come with your little brother to his best friend’s party.” I just nodded and drained off the water from the cooker. I turned on the faucet again to refill it with water. I tried to come up with excuses to bring someone else with us on Saturday. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m left alone with my dad on the whole drive. That’s fucking 4 hours for God’s sake! I heard a car stop in the driveway. My breathing quickened. I slowly measured the water in the cooker for the nth time. Who knew I would ever be agitated with the sound I’ve longed to hear for so long. I wiped the sides and bottom of the cooker. The front door finally opened. “Nagluto na kayo?” My breathing stopped. My chest became heavier. My throat tightened. I clenched my fists, still not turning away from the sink. “Nagluto na ako, Pa. Kumusta nakabili ka na ng materyal mo?” I heard mom get up and probably walked towards you. I wiped my hands with the towel hanging from the refrigerator’s handle. 46

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I felt my every step get heavier as I walked closer towards you. I quickened my pace and locked my eyes on the floor. “Mano po...” My tongue got tied at the thought of calling you Dade. It was one of my most valued words, especially when I learned about why we call you ‘Dade’ and mom ‘Ma’ or ‘Mama’. It was three years ago. I was thirteen back then and you were back home, taking your 2-week vacation. It was evening already and we just got back from a pleasant day going around town, visiting relatives and giving away pasalubongs. I was finishing off my plate and you were waiting for me. I scooped the kangkong and put it on your plate. I smiled at you and you knowingly shook your head. You took a bite before answering my question. “Your mother wanted to be called ‘Mama’. She didn’t like to be called ‘Nanay’ because she feels it’s unfit for her age and also because that’s what everyone calls her mother. And your lolo on my side,” I remember your sad sigh at the mention of him. “Your lolo on my side... We used to call him ‘dade’. I always wanted to be like him when I was young. I guess being called ‘dade’ gives me that feeling, that validation, and that hope that I did become a good man like him.” I turned away from you and frowned at the memory. From the stories I heard, he was loyal to my grandma. He was so heartbroken from her death, he followed her months after. But what would a 13 year-old me know. Of course, you wouldn’t disclose to me any horrific stories or memories you have of my granddad. I picked up my magazine and smartphone from the coffee table. I was about to walk up the stairs when you called my attention. “It’s time to pick up your brothers from their basketball practice. Sama ka. Kain tayo sa labas.” Without turning around, I shook my head. “Nagluto si Mama. Beef broccoli.” I answered. “The more reason we should eat out.” You laughed out loud. My own guilt washed over me. That made me turn my head and look at mom. She slapped your shoulder playfully and turned her back to you. She softly replied, “Yabang nito...” My right hand itched to slap you right in the face. “Ikaw na lang.

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To the father I never knew

I’m excited to eat mom’s cooking. I requested it.” You laughed. “’Di naman mabiro ‘tong mga ‘to.” I headed towards the stairs and hoped you wouldn’t talk to me. Each word from my mouth felt so heavy, it was as if I was lying to you. My throat was dry the whole time. I turned one last time as I reached my room, checking if either of you was behind me. I locked the door and that was when I tasted something salty. My throat felt drier and I couldn’t breathe. I tightened the seal of my lips. I refused to make any sounds. My body shook intensely. My knees weakened and I sat down. I wrapped my arms around my legs. I should sit at the other side of my room. Mom can’t hear me. She shouldn’t hear me. I pinched my arm. I remember pinching myself until my arms turned red and only stopped when mom called me down for dinner. The drive to school the next morning was also dreadful. You pressed on questions about our plans on Saturday. I didn’t really want to give you any answer. I just wanted to hurt your ears with my endless screams. Screams I’ve been edging to let out my mouth but couldn’t. My little brothers were with us. “Let’s just go home right after.” I muttered while looking at empty note in my phone. My fingers pressed randomly. “Are you sure? I heard from your tita it’s sale season sa malls this weekend.” We finally arrived at my high school. I cleared my throat. “Sure po.” I took a deep breath. “Bye.” I unlocked my door and opened the passenger’s door for my little brothers. I pretended to be in a hurry and escorted them to the school gate as quickly as I could. I remember being scolded in front of class that day. My mind was too busy trying to ignore the questions bombarding my brain, I didn’t even notice I was already being called to recite for my Science class. Usually, if my mind was busy I would already be deciding where to eat with you when you pick us up in the afternoon. But I lost interest on that idea. I went to the girl’s restroom so many times that day. It was the only safe place for me to hide. Seeing people made me want to scream and ask for help or simply ask them if they know what to do when someone finds out about a parent’s affair. Yet a part of me also felt it was embarrassing to tell

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anyone. I couldn’t bear the thought of my childhood friend, Irish, to know that our family was never the ideal type she knew all her life, all my life. I also doubled my responsibilities in my extras just so I wouldn’t ride home with you. There were times, when I would lie and just in sit in the library doing nothing but kill time before I could go home on my own. The days passed so quickly, I was still panicking when we were off to Manila at that Saturday morning. I wanted to cover my face when mom kissed me good bye. I wanted to tell her what I saw. I wanted to give you away. But I was afraid of what was to happen. There was still a part of me, that believed and heavily prayed, that you were still the father I love. Maybe you were still a great husband. I was still so naïve to think like that. I wanted to. I needed to. That two to three hour drive was dreadful. I didn’t know if it was the prefect time for me to confront you. I was going to take an exam and there was the possibility of you lying about your affair for my sake. There was also this fact that I didn’t know what I would do if you didn’t lie. Finally, I decided this was my only chance. I no longer wanted to suffer for days or weeks, waiting for an opportunity for us to be alone and not risk being overheard by anyone we know. I don’t want to feel like I’m talking, looking at, or sitting beside a stranger anymore. The car slowed and the only sound left was the humming of the car’s engine. I eventually asked you. Ano? I didn’t want to repeat myself. I was unsure, and I still am, if you did not actually hear me ask the first time or was it you daring me to repeat my question. Yet, I did.

“Are you cheating on mom?”

You probably remember how my voice cracked. I dreadfully waited for your answer. I wanted to know if you were as scared as I was and if you feel guilty about your daughter knowing. I even thought that

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maybe you were panicking that I would throw a tantrum and tell on you. You snorted. You got mad at me and at the idea that I would be accusing you of such. You called me an ungrateful child. But I shut you right up when I mentioned the text message I saw. I can’t even make myself write her name. Thinking about it just makes me sick. I never thought a name could do that. I couldn’t count the minutes you were quiet. I assumed you were finally panicking and starting to make excuses. Maybe it was almost half an hour when you finally spoke. “Wala ka na ‘dun.” Everything that followed was a blur. I don’t know how I was able to take the entrance exam and then shop for pasalubongs for everyone at home. You still drove us to school. You talked to me everyday as if nothing happened. Every day felt like a normal day. To everyone else at the very least. Despite your acting that something wasn’t wrong, I knew and felt everything that was supposed to be wrong. I no longer believed in every kiss you gave mom in front of us, in every smile you gave her and in every word you spoke to her. Everything bothered me. Everything about you angered me. What’s worse was that I felt the need to pretend I knew nothing. Because for fuck’s sake it was going to be mom’s birthday in a week. She deserved to know the truth. She didn’t deserve to live the life she thought she has with you. I was too much of a coward to break it to her. Her knowing could also mean my brothers too. I didn’t want to traumatize them. I didn’t want them to go through what I did. They’re just kids. So I tried to endure keeping it a secret. I tried to just go along with your family trip suggestions. I tried to answer your questions in a respectful manner whenever you talk to me in front of mom and my brothers. I failed to convince myself that you still deserve my respect.

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You were still my father no matter what. Mom’s birthday finally came. You planned to celebrate it outside of town. We didn’t attend our classes so we could leave on a Friday and stay in a beach resort until Sunday. I thought that it could and should just go on as a normal family trip. Mom deserved to have it, to have a birthday worth celebrating. We were having snacks outside our room’s balcony. It was almost sunset. You asked me to call my brothers from the pool so we could all enjoy the view. Mom and I were both eating mangoes, dipping them in the bagoong she bought earlier from the local market, when you said something I wish I never heard but thankful it knocked some sense into me. “Uy. Ganda nung babae oh.” And there was indeed a woman, wearing her bathing suit but had a shawl wrapped around her waist. She was walking pass in front of our balcony. I saw your head follow her. I looked at mom at the same time you did. “It’s just a joke.” You laughed and stroked mom’s cheek. She turned her head away and started peeling more mangoes. That was when I knew. I finally recognized the fact that as a great father you may have been to us, that doesn’t give you the fucking excuse to mess around and disrespect women and my mom in front of her and your kids. That was when I knew, I couldn’t take it anymore and that I didn’t have to. I really don’t have to. That was the exact moment I realized, that if I was suffering inside what more my mother. I cannot believe she’s celebrating her birthday with her husband joking and acting around as if he wasn’t married. So I waited for the perfect time. As soon as we got home, I was able to have a chance to be alone with Mama. You may have thought that mom figured it out on her own again. But I was able to tell on you. We were in my room. Mom fussed about my cluttered room and forced

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me to clean it before we all retire for the night. You were downstairs, watching the recap of the NBA finals. She was replacing my bed sheet while I folded my clothes. My ears throbbed. The silence was too deafening. I wanted it to end, regardless of the chaos about to come. I told her about the text message. She stopped and sat on my bed. She was still looking down at her hands. She placed them on her knees before asking me, “Is it Monet again?”

Again. Again. Again. Again. Mom. Fucking. Said. Again.

“Bakit again? Ma?” I sat beside her and held her hand. She was crying. I can’t get rid of the thought that she probably cried about this. Probably in front of you, but there you were. Doing it again. “Sabi ko sa Dade mo n-na...I would leave if he does it again.” “Kelan pa, Ma? Kailan niya ginawa- ” “Last year.” It was barely a whisper. I felt my chest tightened. I hated the sight of mom crying but it felt right. It felt right that she finally knew. “But he’s a good father. Yes, he’s been good to you all. Our lives wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t for him.” Mom didn’t sound like she was convincing me. It was as if she was saying those words to herself.“You don’t deserve this, Ma.” I hugged her tight. I wanted for her to be reassured that we were going to be okay. “Alam ba ng mga kapatid mo?” I looked at her and shook my head. She nodded like she was relieved. “Ma. What are you going to do now?” She looked straight into my eyes. “You’re right. I don’t deserve this. And you need to know, and also your borthers, that no one has the right to hurt you like your father did to me. I may have nothing now but...I need to be strong for you and teach you what is right”. She touched my face with her left hand. “Will you forgive Mama if I leave him?”

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“What’s there to forgive?” I felt proud of her. I still do. It’s been almost a year. It was hard to settle in a new home. My brothers were crying every night. Mom and I stayed with them until they all fell asleep. Every night, I told mom I was happy she chose herself. Our life now is not easy and this is okay. This is better than living with you and your little lies every single day. I appreciate my life now better than when I thought I had the perfect family with you as my father. I didn’t know why I wrote all of this. I’m not sure if I just wanted to shove in your face that we’re doing fine with you. I’m only sure of one thing. And that’s I wanted to tell you how hurt I was and still am of everything you did to mom. I still can’t believe that everything did happen. That you were actually the man I hate now. But I’m living. I am free. I am free to avoid the life mom had with you, the life I had with you.

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LUIS ANTONIO PASTORIZA

i only hope theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re listening acrylic on canvas - 24 x 30 inches

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The Yellow Shirt MARY JOY ABALOS paglalarawan ni Adia Pauline Lim

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The only thing that stood between me and my bedroom was the door. Towering above me, the solid hardwood seemed darker than usual, almost threatening, but only for a split second.

Why do I feel like it looks different today? A new paint job maybe? I should ask my mom if she had it repainted. She does it every year. Maybe she did it while I was gone. I checked my phone to see if she messaged me. It’s only 9:24 in the morning, so she’s probably still asleep. She tends to oversleep during the weekend. I’ll let her rest and call her later. I placed my phone back in my pocket, bumping spare change and a few keys as I do. Most days, my room is my oasis. One foot in and I feel it beckoning towards me, caressing my cheek, whispering in my ear that whatever has hurt me beyond cannot reach me. Today, I feel as though that same promise won’t be there waiting for me. I twist the doorknob, the coolness of the metal seeping into my skin. My body always felt too hot for my taste, and so the metal was a surprise. I let my palm rest their for awhile, hoping the heat from my body dissipates. The steel stings after a few seconds, so I let go. I walk into the room, embraced by the coolness of the air. Anyone who has walked in here has always felt uncomfortable, disturbed, or maybe they just felt like they weren’t supposed to be here. Whenever I walked in, it always felt like home. I took off my shoes and threw it carelessly under my bed. Leftover candy wrappers sit among the disorganized mess of my other shoes, my socks. They lie like deadweight on the floor, and I want to rearrange them, but laziness overcomes me. I walk clumsily towards my bed, plopping down as the mattress carries my weight.

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My shelf stands across my bed, adorned with philosophy books I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t opened since I bought them. There are anatomy, chemistry, biology, and art books lying around, half open, and in between them, the words from their pages peek out, desperate for my attention, but I give them no satisfaction. Customized figurines of Star Wars characters I collected over the years stay hidden among the unopened books, and what I once valued, their only purpose now is to collect dust. Looking at the shelf reminded me of my first day in college. My mom gave me this shelf as a gift because she knew how much I loved collecting from anything to books, letters, figurines, pens, rocks, acrylics, and paintbrushes, but over the years, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve either thrown most of them away or have given them to people who needed it more than I did. Now, all that it houses are books from my classes, books I want to read but never do, and figurines that are just too expensive to throw away or too poorly maintained to sell. The urge to clean became stronger, and this time I obliged. As I began to get up from my bed, my eyes shifted to the yellow shirt hanging precariously from my door. My face unconsciously stretches into a smile. I fall back into bed, pulled by freshly laundered sheets; heat welcoming my upper body in a warm embrace. My head shifts towards the wall, and I bury my face in my pillow in embarrassment. Seeing the yellow shirt took me back five months on a cold November night. The memory played in my head like it happened yesterday; daylight had passed and the moon took center stage, owning the night sky like it had nowhere else to go. I looked up to the heavens as I waited for the time to pass. Five seconds. Ten seconds. The clock was too slow. I checked it again, but seconds take too long to turn into minutes. The cars begin to go so fast that I can barely keep up, and all I can see are colors, colors that arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even on the rainbow, but how can that be when I find myself going back to cars where are the cars maybe they went home without me but how can they go home if no

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one is there to drive them wait the illusion breaks, I have to blink two, three times to make out the white, shadowy figure approaching me, dressed in a yellow shirt and a pair of jeans. That night passed by in minutes, and it is a blur of hands intertwining, lips curling upwards, banter flying back and forth, and finally, lips meeting for one second, ending with one solid picture -my girlfriend giving me her yellow shirt. Eventually, nights grew from minutes to hours. Since both of us had full schedules during the day, we were only able to meet at night, after our classes had ended. Both of us would go to Intramuros to look for rumored ghosts that haunt the streets, and we would scream into the void, hoping anyone would respond. Most of the time, it was the guard telling us to keep it down, but we giggled and screamed anyway, just because. Other times, we would hop onto a bus without looking where it was going; we went wherever the road took us, and we came back the morning after, with satisfied hearts and sated curiosities. When we said our goodbyes, I always wondered what the twinkle in her eyes meant, whether she was looking forward to the next time we see each other or she was bidding farewell because this may be the last time we do. I could never figure it out. Seven months into the relationship, the adventures eventually died. Promises of experience turned into excuses. Every date canceled meant there was always something to do -- a project to pass, a practice to attend to, an event to organize, and it was okay it was okay I tell myself it is okay but I know she is slowly slipping away from me even though I know she is right here with me we talk every day every other day we still keep in touch so I know weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not falling apart we are okay we are okay we are. My train of thought is interrupted as my phone lights up. The brightness of the screen blurs most of the letters so I have to squint my eyes and raise my head.

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I push myself against the wall. It is cold, but the freshness of the stone trickles down my back, gliding through my spine as if it had fingers of its own. I cherish it as I simultaneously block out the vibrations from my phone. After a few minutes, I finally take a look at the screen. Hey baby. I’m on my way home. I was gonna ask you what I should get for dinner. I was thinking between burger or pizza? I begin to type maybe a burger, and it’s in my mind, but instead it’s I think you make too many unhealthy choices or why ask me why can’t you choose something that’ll get you through the night why do you eat food that’s bad for you you always do this you eat too much too little and it’s always the wrong choice but who am I to tell you what you can and can’t eat I don’t have control over your decisions what if me telling you what to eat is too much what if I am wrong what if I make the wrong choice what if I am the wrong choice why do I think you make unhealthy choices I could be an unhealthy choice didn’t I ever think of that you must be waiting for me to reply so I reply my fingers cautious with every button I press, eat what you want it’s fine, and I think that’s the safest choice letting you make your own decisions must be the safest choice I am safe we are safe. My phone vibrates again and I read your message. Are you kidding? You know it’s hard for me to decide. I can’t pick anything to eat that’s why I asked you in the first place, you say, and I am alarmed by the way you ask me if I’m kidding because why would I joke about how you make decisions I love you isn’t this what you want, for you to decide for yourself why would you rely so much on me stop putting so much pressure on me I’m clutching my phone too tightly so I let go I am okay we are okay I loosen my grip I am breathing in breathing out we are okay I think of a response a calm response a normal response a healthy response I type, I’m sorry, but sorry is another excuse I realize it too late after I press enter why would I do that why would I say that you just needed to help and instead I say sorry why couldn’t I just tell you to get a burger why can’t I do 59

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anything right I see the three dots on my phone and I know you are typing. We discussed this. Don’t say sorry if you didn’t do anything wrong, you say, but maybe you control me too much you and I don’t discuss anything you tell me something like this and I am expected to oblige so I do that is not a discussion maybe that is my fault I’m sorry I’m sorry you always have to tell me what I can and can’t do I’ll do better I tell you, I’ll do better, you should get a burger and I should have started with that I am so sorry a few seconds later you reply, thank you. See? Was that so hard but no no it’s not that hard I’m so sorry I won’t upset you again I love you I hope you and I are okay please let us be okay I’m sorry. When she didn’t respond after three minutes, I placed my phone down and released a heavy sigh, not aware that I was holding my breath. Conversations with her weren’t always like this. It gradually went from affectionate, obligatory, to emotionally draining. I thought things would change as the relationship progressed, but seven months in, I felt as though she was glass and I was trying my best not to break her. My phone vibrated again and again. I knew it was her on the other line but for some reason, I took one, two, three seconds too long, and the vibration stopped. I lifted my phone at eye level and saw that she miscalled me. A message popped up and even without looking at the name, I could tell it was her she said, I thought I’d call and make sure you’re fine, really now make sure I’m fine that’s generous she rarely asks if I’m fine it’s always about her it has never been about me but I understand why I understand that she’s going through some things there’s nothing to worry about I worry too much I always worry why am I like this The heat on my phone is slowly starting to crawl under my skin. Oh no. It’s been one, two minutes since the last message. I have to respond. Shut up and respond to her.

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I tell her that I’m okay, that I’m just tired, but did not say why. I couldn’t decide if that was a lie. She eventually responds, okay baby. Can we please text for awhile? I’m in the UV and I miss you. We exchange updates, banter back and forth, and I think that’s my favorite thing about us. When we’re not fighting, crying, or yelling, we connect on almost everything effortlessly. She loves my collection of books, the ones I keep on the shelf, and though I haven’t read most of them, I pretend that I have because it keeps the conversation going and she always has so much to say to me I feel like it is her and me against the world I am the only one she can talk to about the things she loves and I love her because of that. I drop my phone on my bed and go to the kitchen to get something to eat. As I am walking out, I relish the satisfaction of being home, being able to experience comfort and love and I love that I’m in a relationship because I walk like my feet are on the air I am floating on a cloud and the clouds are carrying me to the kitchen I grab the first thing I see, a bag of chips, and I eventually walk back to my room. As I enter, my phone vibrates, one notification popping after another. It’s from my girlfriend again. I check my messages to see what she sent me. My fingers glide through the screen and I feel like I am Georgia O’Keeffe but I bet Georgia knew when to answer her girlfriend’s messages my fingers are paint brushes and the keyboard is my pallette but why does the canvas feel ominous I see her chatbox, she is the last person to send me a message. I tap it open and it says, Baby, I feel uncomfortable there is what? There is what? I continue reading and she says there’s someone beside me and I don’t know if I’m overthinking this but he’s touching me I read it again and again and I make sure I read it right, she sent one other message I should read it too I read 61

The Yellow Shirt

the other message it says, baby please answer me i need to talk to you i’m scared I grip my phone too tight if it was fragile enough it would have popped already why didn’t I answer her the first time what is wrong with me she could be sitting in the vehicle alone, with one other person in the car no one else and the space is too small, too large, she could be kidnapped by now why do we trust ourselves to ride public transportation with strangers why are we too trusting why didn’t I help her I scroll further and she says pls message me pls pls are you sleeping but no I want to tell her I am not sleeping I only sleep when you are safe the world is suffocating if you are not I am okay if you are okay but I know you’re not so the room feels smaller and I imagine the car feels just as small I wonder if she’s losing air as much as I am I wonder if the car’s engine is roaring too loudly, too hard for her chest, too hard for my chest I wonder if she is alone now and the driver is taking her somewhere she doesn’t know. I keep my eyes open and my mind is a scratched vinyl record as I read the last message it says baby I need you to talk to me pls i don’t know what to do please answer me I am screaming respond! respond to her I try to move my fingers but they are encapsulated in ice I bring my blanket closer to me but the chill in my spine is something I can’t seem to get rid of it I don’t let go of my phone I don’t let go because it would mean I’m letting her go I try to type but it’s as if someone is holding my finger down I am Atlas and the weight of the sky is on my hand the room feels like as if it’s reverberating my heart is making its own music and I’m not a fan I look down, and I see three dots is this her typing the dots jump up and down so I respond I am responding I am typing my fingers are locked and loaded like a gun, a gun? I shut up and stay focused I am typing I type like it is the last thing I ever have to do I type until I don’t know what to do anymore. Nothing comes out. Instead, my feet move on its own and every step echoes, bounces through the walls, scraping, caving as they tear through the floorboards my mind has stopped working I am grabbing anything I can I cup the keys in my hand but my eyes are lights flickering on and 62

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off they drop onto the floor and my feet slip I tell them not to but the floor is a welcome mat, the mixture of cold and wood meshing onto my skin my skin is on fire it is cold but it is on fire flames run down my cheeks I grab onto whatever I can the shelf the door but my hands do not oblige they are their own masters I hear the doorbell ring but I can’t remember if I even own a doorbell I lift myself up and my feet finally obey me I stagger to the door so fast I hear a bang but I don’t know where the sound came from my head is throbbing I should not be thinking about my head I should be thinking about how to get to my girlfriend she needs me I need to be there with her the doorbell rings louder and I start to hear voices the voices are loud and shrill but they are music to my ears I knock down a few clothes from my door on my way out, one of them is the yellow shirt the shirt is all I could focus on as I hear the voice scream louder and louder as if its a symphony reaching its climax so I look at the shirt until it starts speaking to me it’s telling me to get to the door the doorbell is a symphony hall and the orchestra plays as loud as it could I feel as though I am right in front of it the voices are high pitched I am compelled to grab the shirt, to tell it to stop, but my hands find the doorknob first so as I do, the door opens, the voices stop, and the doorbell finally stops ringing.

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INSERT PHOTOGRAPHERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NAME KYLE NOEL Insert TitleIBARRA Here delirium 64

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ADRIAN NEIL HOLGADO

Paninila Nakahiga lamang ang baril; hanggang sa ginising niya ito’t inilabas kaagad upang gamitin sa pangangaso. Muli, siya’y nagsimula: Inihanda ang kamay, idinakma ang bariles, umalalay sa tatangnan, at ipinasok na ang bala. Hila, Pindot, Labas! Naghanap pa ng mababarilan at hindi napipigilan ang tagaktak— tila tinitigang pa’t nilalabas sa pagkakasa: Hila. Hinga. Pindot. Labas. Lagpas. Ulit.

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HILA. Hinga. PinDOT. L a b a s, lagp-

Ay! Nagkalat ang kalamnan ng usa: naghalo ang putik at dugo. Ang sinapupunaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;y nanatiling buo; sinundan ng iyak na hindi nanggagaling sa bibig ni mata ng mangangaso.

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PAULA BIANCA MARAĂ&#x2018;A

Pulso Tumingin ako saâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;yo, at nanatili kang nakapikit. Ang hiling ko lang naman ay tumingin kang pabalik. Inilapat ko ang kaliwang kamay sa salamin na humihiwalay sa ating dalawa. Kung kaya ko lang ilipat ang aking pulso para tumibok ulit ang puso mo, nagawa ko na. Para kay Kuya.

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NIGELLE LIM

Pag-alala

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JAO TERRADO

Recovery Collage: bus tickets and journal entries and ballpen on paper 8.5 x 13

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VINCE GERARD VICTORIA

Life After I want to wipe the corners of your mouth Because you can’t seem to do it yourself Chocolate smears your unblemished skin I want to buy you a new stuffed rabbit; Mr. Carrotface looks so ragged now Threadbare— white then, brown now There are two things in the world That are sure to bring you a smile— Chocolate and Mr. Carrotface I remember the day we traded-in your skin In exchange for glass, wood, and paper It kept you young forever Every day, for the past three months, I’d find you on top of the mantlepiece That was where we placed you We’d look at you with our eyes; For we can touch with our hands no longer We pray your eyes see our sorrow. Because the chocolate smears will remain unwiped, The ragged rabbit can’t keep you company And your smile is just lines on glossy paper 71

Para sa mga magulang, kapatid, at anak.

Malate Literary Folio

ADIA PAULINE LIM

Lipad, Langoy, Laya 72

Tomo XXXV Bilang 3

FERNANDO BELLOZA

Habilin Sa aking paghimlay, ito ang ating kasunduan: Hindi ko na kailangan ng nitso sa aking paglubog; Sapat ng kumot ang mga damong ligaw saâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;king pagtulog. Tama na ang mga pira-pirasong bulaklak, na babasbas sa akin ng bango, at matatayog na mga puno bilang lilim ko. Huwag mo akong abuhin para ipaubaya sa papawirin; katawan kong putik, sa putik ilatag. Ganito ako dumating sa mundo: hubad, ganito ako aalis: sa lalim ng lupa mamumukadkad.

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VAN RIEN JUDE ESPIRITU

at ease.

acrylic on canvas - 10 x 14 inches 74

Tomo XXXV Bilang 3

SEAN XAVIER NIEVA

Voluntarily Drowning 7575

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ERRATA

N

ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXXV Bilang 2: Ang Gumamela ay nararapat na nasa pahina 75 sa Nilalaman, imbis na sa 74.

Ibig naming humingi ng paumanhin sa mga naapektuhan ng mga nasabing pagkakamali.

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PASASALAMAT Nais pasasalamatan ng Malate Literary Folio ang mga sumusunod-mga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles, at Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Mr. David Leaño, Ms. Jeanne Tan, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Ms. Dinah Roma at ang Department of Literature; Dr. Ernesto Carandang II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Mr. Joey Baquiran, Ms. Chingbee Cruz, Mr. Allan Derain, at Ms. Rosa May Bayuga para sa pag-gabay sa Malate Writers’ Workshop; Ms. Christine Chung, Ms. Jel Suarez, Mr. Kevin Roque, at Ms. Dennese Victoria para sa pag-gabay sa Art and Photo Camp; Ms. Clarissa Villasin Militante sa pagbahagi ng kasaysayan ng Malate; Mr. Mac Arboleda, Mr. Christopher Sum, Mr. Adam David, Ms. Chingbee Cruz, Ms. Kayla Tankeh, Ms. Chandral Selim, at Ms. Czyka Tumaliuan para sa pagbahagi ng kanilang kaalaman tungkol sa Independent Publishing noong Convention of the Arts 2019; Kwago; Ms. Nelca Leila Villarin at ang Office of Student Affairs; Dr. Lily Ann Cabuling at ang Health Services Office (Taft); DLSU Bookstore; DLSU Student Co-Operative (SCOOP); Council of Student Organizations (CSO); Office of the Legal Counsel; Finance and Accounting Office; Security Office; Mr. Michael Millanes at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, Archers Network, Green Giant FM, Green & White, The LaSallian, at ang Student Media Council; Magicus Junctra Corporation Printing; Maraming salamat, Igoy Dimaano, sa pagmamahal na ibinibigay mo sa Malate. At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan na patuloy na umaalalay sa paglalago ng Malate Literary Folio.

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Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXV Bilang 3

Published on Nov 29, 2019

Malate Literary Folio

Suppose you begin in medias res... ...in a crowded bus, among other vehicles at a standstill. The city feels larger than it should, yet you feel like there’s no room to breathe. And as you approach your destination, you doubt if it’s even worth it, because the round-trip drains you every time. In this issue, Malate Literary Folio and its contributors call on the reader to take agency. May the semblance of control in thoughts, emotions, and experiences allow you some space of freedom. That even if a story is a mere reconstruction and an image is a mere representation, may this process be therapeutic. Let the aspect of choice continue your narrative; with decisions, and lingering indecision, you will soon arrive at an outcome.

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