MALATE LITERARY FOLIO
TOMO XXXIII BILANG 1
TOMO XXXIII BILANG 1 MAYO 2017
MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXIII Bilang 1 Karapatang-ari Š 2017
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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO). Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:
Rm. 160-MLF, St. La Salle Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila. E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio
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 likha ni Precious Japheth Benablo
INTRODUKSYON
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asaksihan ng bansa ang maraming pagbabago sa nakaraang taon. Una natin itong natikman sa ating mga dila, hatid ng mga salita na patuloy na binibitawan ng ating mga pinuno, midya, at kapwa mamamayan. Bago natin mapansin, nakasanayan na natin ito hanggang sa ating mga pamamahay. Dito natin nalalaman ang kapangyarihan ng wika sa ating buhay at kung paano nito nababago ang ating kapaligiran. Sa gitna ng pagbabagong ito ay maraming mga biktima ang nadawit sa isang giyerang hindi nila malabanan. Ang kanilang mga pangalan, katawan, at ala-ala ay naiwan sa ating mga kalsada. Naging parte ito ng kapaligiran na ating linalakaran araw-araw, ‘tila hindi napapansin ang marka na iniwan nila sa ating mga daanan. Hanggang ngayon, ito’y nanatili sa siyudad na patuloy itong ibinabaon. Sa isyu na ito ng Malate Literary Folio ay inimbitahan namin ang mga kasapi ng publikasyon noon at ngayon na ibahagi ang kanilang mga piyesa na nagbibigay boses sa mga biktima sa mga nakaraang mga buwan. Bilang mga alagad ng sining at panitikan, naniniwala kami na ang mga pangyayaring ito ay hindi dapat malimutan. Sa pamamagitan
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ng aming mga piyesa, hindi namin hahayaan mabaon sa limot ang mga pangyayaring kinakailangan ng ating atensyon. Ngayon, iniimbitahan namin ang mga mambabasa na imulat ang kanilang mga mata at makilahok sa diskurso ng ating bayan. IRA KATRINA MENDEZ Punong Patnugot
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NILALAMAN Introduksyon
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Prosa Kuya Stephen Amiel Argente Leather Erika Carreon
Radio Days Joshua Lim So
Ang Burol ni Jenny sa Kalye ng Ipil-Ipil Maria Gabrielle Galang
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Sining
Landscapes 1 Ana Katrina Ocol
Pagtalas, Pagpurol John Vianney Ventura at Hannah Grace Villafuerte
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The Death of Justice Kevin Christian Roque
Cross Liana Maris
Detachment 65 Antoinette Sibayan
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Ang Bagong Lipunan Precious Japheth Benablo
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Tula
Sa Likod ng Gatilyo 2 Nikky Necessario
Her Room 46 Frederick Ezekiel Pasco
Propeta Fernando Belloza
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Retrato
Di Pa Sila Buhay Noon Cessmarie Villones
Dead Spot Alecsandra Denise Ongcal 17
Bantay Bantayog Jacob Layug
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Pagkalimot Katreena Dela Cruz
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Kinatay Miguel Antonio Luistro
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Errata Pasasalamat
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PATNUGUTAN Ira Katrina Mendez Punong Patnugot Patnugot ng Tula Arianne Puno Pangalawang Patnugot Maria Katrina Gindap Tagapamahalang Patnugot Precious Japheth Benablo Patnugot ng Sining Maria Margarita Uy Patnugot ng Retrato Maria Gabrielle Galang Patnugot ng Prosa Julian Russel Noche Tagapamahala ng Marketing at mga Magaganap Patricia Louise Remoquillo Tagapangasiwa ng Dokumentasyon (oic) Jibril Mercado Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari (oic)
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MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Pamela Justine Lite Francisco Gabriel NuĂąez Hannah Grace Villafuerte
TAGAPAYO Ms. Erika Carreon
MGA KASAPI Erika Zenn Ang Stephen Amiel Argente Fernando Belloza Katreena Dela Cruz Jacob Layug Nikky Necessario Juan Carlo Ona
Alecsandra Denise Ongcal Frederick Ezekiel Pasco Kris Bernadine Samonte Alyson Toni Sibayan Juan Paolo Terrado Cessmarie Villones
MGA KONTRIBYUTOR Miguel Antonio Luistro Liana Maris Sanggalang Ana Katrina Ocol Joshua Lim So Kevin Christian Roque John Vianney Ventura
STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Patricia Baun Director (oic) Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY
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Warning: Graphic content ahead.
Malate Literary Folio
ANA KATRINA OCOL
Landscapes graphite on paper
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NIKKY NECESSARIO
Sa Likod ng Gatilyo Payapa na naman ang mga daanan. Mga kandado’y nakasabit sa mga pintuan, bakante ang mga bangko sa lansangan, walang mga anino na naiguguhit ang buwan. Dali-daling humahakbang papalapit, pawis sa noo’y lumalagkit, tiyan ay parang pinipilipit, ipipikit na sabay kalabit Isang bala, isang kasa Isang putok sabay dapa
— BANG!
Hindi na ako lilingon pa, wala rin namang magagawa. Pagsikat ng araw, paglubog ng buwan ako’y dadaan muna ng simbahan luluhod at tatangis para sa ginawang kabayanihan.
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CESSMARIE VILLONES
‘Di Pa Sila Buhay Noon 3
Tomo XXXIII Bilang 1
STEPHEN AMIELARGENTE
Kuya
On the verge of tears in the middle of the street, my feet bare, all
I know is that I have to keep running. The call has been made and they’re coming for him soon, and I have to come meet them halfway. I get up and run to the next block, as flashing lights loom closer and closer. I wave my hands frantically, signaling them to come to me, but to no use as they pass by in a red and blue blur. Idiots, I think to myself, frustrated. In desperation I run after them, my feet hitting hard against the pavement, faster than the cars that seemed to slow down. They went two blocks away before I finally caught up to them, and I waved at them to follow me into the narrow streets of Santa Ana – under tarps, between night market stalls and curious people milling around, to lead them deeper through the streets – to my brother who is fading faster and faster by the minute. The earliest memory I have was back when I was still a little toddler. Not too little, but still not old enough for school yet. I was wearing a white shirt, and cream colored overalls. I had on blue little shoes on my little baby toes. It was a real special day. I was turning four.
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My whole family was chattering all day, and everyone was in a good mood, smiling and talking. We were having neighbors, relatives and people I have never seen before over at our house that seemed too big at the time, and my parents were busy putting on decorations and greeting the multitudes of people pouring in, never seeming to stop. I was old enough to walk and I waddled from room to room with ease, welcomed with a very audible “Aww!” from the grown-ups that towered over me. See, if your parents are throwing you a birthday party at this age, it’s mostly to celebrate you, but it’s also a way for them to see and reconnect with old, familiar faces. I guess no one noticed, or they were too busy catching up with each other, but I walked up the stairs and only got up to the third step before I decided against it. Now, three steps isn’t really that high, but for a child who just turned four, three steps high feels like being ten stories up. Long story short, I tried to go down, I fell, and the room fell silent, except for the loud crying of a four-year-old who fell down the stairs on his birthday. Looking back on it, falling down the staircase could have been avoided at that age. Knowing that it was my birthday made me think that everything would be perfect, I guess. Clearly, I was wrong. By the time I reach our house with the ambulance in tow, our nosy neighbors have already gotten up from their beds still wearing pajamas and night gowns to see what all the fuss is about. An atmosphere of hushed whispers, dreadful stares and held breaths welcomes the white vehicle blaring noises to drive the crowd away. It draws them in, curiosity taking hold better than logic. I scream at them to move away, at people whom I have never talked to, who have never seen me or heard me before, and I don’t care what they think, or how crazy I must look to them. As the the doors open and three people dressed in blue came out, carrying a stretcher and barging into our home. My knees buckle and the tears finally fall in torrents as people come to me, reaching out, telling me that it’s okay, that everything will be fine, that it’s all going to be okay. And in between sobs and gasps of breath, I keep thinking over and over, that it won’t be okay, nothing will be fine,
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and nothing is going to be okay. I didn’t think it’d be true. He disappeared, one day. We didn’t know where he had gone or who he was with. He was gone, and it made my family very anxious. See, he was a good kid, a good brother. He’d ace all his subjects at school, and he even graduated high school at the top of his class. He’d always check up on me and see that I was doing fine, and bring home my favorite Nutribun whenever I was miserable. We’d then share the bread over a conversation and our usual banter. We knew he wouldn’t do anything that would put him in trouble. He wasn’t like that. I was young back then, about thirteen. Then the rumors started spreading around town. That this unnamed kid was taken in the middle of the night by policemen, by soldiers. Another said that no, it wasn’t the soldiers; it was the rebels, the NPAs. They recruited him because he was part of an underground coup, they said, that he had vital information, whatever that meant. These were dark and haunting times, my mom told me. People were rebelling, protests running rampant through the streets, and the government fighting back against its people. The very same people who held them high and elected them into positions. Worse, people have been disappearing, and most are never seen again. Some say they were interrogated and tortured severely. Others were beaten up to set as an example to others, to strike fear directly to the people. And if a kid as innocent and pure as my brother was tortured… imagine how worse it would be for the bad guys. We tried looking everywhere and asked everybody we could, but to no luck. Months passed and eventually years, but we never stopped looking. Every day, for the three years he was gone, my mother wept and my father rarely ate. There was a lingering silence in the house, as if the tiniest noise will bring policemen and soldiers into our home, barging in and taking us all. For those three years, I was never let outside, except for school. On the first ring, my uncle picks up the phone. After a short exchange
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with my father, he comes over, bringing the car. My mother had gone along with the ambulance, and it left quickly after they hauled my brother in through the back doors. My father sits in the front seat, next to my uncle who is driving, focusing intently on the road ahead. Not a single word passes between these two men. I sit quietly in the backseat, finally letting my repressed tears fall. Sobs come out of my mouth as I cannot hold them in. He’s still too young; his head filled with dreams of becoming a philosopher, a historian, a philanthropist. But after what happened to him – after what they did to him, what would his response be to this inhumanity? Uncontrollable thoughts race through my mind, as my uncle swiftly and smoothly weaves through the light traffic of the midnight roads. There were nights when I stay awake, eyes open, ears alert, listening intently to the world around me. Other nights I could hear the loud crackle of bonfires as riots ravaged the streets – an open invitation to those in office, asking them to challenge the people’s power. But scarcely ever, the world fell silent. Once in a while, quick hushed words were exchange, but no conversation lasting more than a minute. The world would go back to holding its breath after. It is on these nights that I feel most uneasy, because I do not know what horrors the night hides in its dark and menacing silence. My uncle stares at me through his rearview mirror, giving me a firm, and solid but kind and concerned look. I wipe my tears and silence myself, and in the dark gloom at the back of the car, I weep silently for my brother. On the second month of the fourth year of his disappearance, under the cover of night, he came back. He was limping badly, his arms slung over two men who were helping him walk. They seemed familiar, and it took a while but I recognized them as his friends from college. They looked so different, so much older, with so much more experiences and memories of dark days behind their eyes. I let them into the house, and rushed to my parents’ room. I woke them up, whispering “He’s back, he’s back” under my breath, still unable to
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believe that he’s finally come home. They jumped up and ran to the living room, only to find him sitting alone at the center, under a dimly lit lamp. His friends must have left hurriedly. That’s smart of them, I thought to myself. I bolted and locked the door, and put down the blinds and covered the windows with curtains. He was sitting unmoving in the center of the living room and my parents were standing a few steps away from him, as if assessing the damage. In the dim light of the lamp on the floor, it’s hard to see, but it was enough. You could see him clearly, and at the same time, you could see him disappearing, his life seeping through his wounds. His clothes were all torn up, and he was missing his belt and a shoe. He had cuts and bruises everywhere; on his cheek, his chest, his back, his legs. He had a swollen eye, and a long scar running through his lips. He had several burns that looked recent and painful, and he was missing chunks of his hair. His eyes were staring into space; they looked like glass eyes. He hasn’t spoken or made any sounds since he arrived. He changed so much, it was a miracle we recognized him. My mother had her hands to her mouth, eyes brimming with tears. My father was clutching her shoulders tightly, an effort barely enough to keep him from crying, from screaming, from shouting who did this to his son out the window. That night changed everything. That night was a memory burned into my mind, and I knew it was never going away. Even though he was now safe with us here, it didn’t matter. His eyes were nothing like eyes anymore; they seemed like glass. Hard, cold, unmoving, unseeing. It didn’t matter anymore what his captors did to him, because now he was gone. We arrive at the hospital sometime after midnight. The ambulance was parked right outside the emergency room, its lights and sounds no longer screaming emergency. We burst through the double doors, looking frantically for the latest patient to be admitted to the hospital. Inside, there were rows and rows of patients, critically wounded, with cuts and bruises all around their bodies like my brother. An atmosphere of dread and sorrow hung in the air, and palms were clutched together, prayers being whispered to the cold night air. Nurses were
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milling about, rushing to different beds, to different patients, trying to keep the pain away. But on one bed, doctors and nurses were rushing about, getting loads of equipment and running a series of tests. His body was mangled; tubes were plugged all over, delivering liquids to his body. A cannula was strapped to his nostrils, but no breaths seemed to flow through them. A nurse closes the curtain until we can no longer see him. My mother was standing at the side, crying, and my dad enveloped her in a warm embrace, finding himself for the first time without words. A nurse comes up to me with a cup of water in hand, and a tissue on the other. Tears had been flowing down my face, and she offers them to me. As I was wiping my cheeks and trying to breathe calmly, two doctors were talking at the other side of the curtain. “Another one,” one said to the other. “Yes, and it doesn’t seem like its going to stop,” the other responded. One of the doctors came up to me, and asked, “Are you the brother?” Still gasping for breath, I nodded. “Stay strong, alright? At least do it for your parents.” A year later, I found myself in the middle of the mob, with my fist held high, chanting along with the people. “MARCOS HITLER DIKTADOR TUTA!” “MARCOS HITLER DIKTADOR TUTA!” The tanks were starting to arrive, but came to a halt right in front of the angry mass of people. The nuns were right up front; rosaries clasped in shaking hands, standing on steady feet. The cool night air started to roll in, just in time because I was starting to feel faint from the heat of exhaled breaths and skins rubbing against each other. He fled, along with the wealth of the people. They stormed the Palace, and in his place they elected a housewife dressed in yellow, and somehow, they all say that the worst was over. That the tyrant was finally gone. In a way, I guess it was. But it’s not the best, either. He died just after midnight. We buried him in secret, in the middle of the night, under the
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cover of the dark. As he was being hauled onto the ground, we threw flowers on his coffin, and we whispered our final goodbyes to his cold and lifeless body. The night has never felt darker, nor the air seemed colder than that night, as birds cawed in the distance. We came home to a dark house, and we kept it that way, at least until the break of dawn. Silence ensued through the rooms, and no one wanted to break it. Sometimes I could still see him, walking through the rooms, or hear him through the walls. And it was always enough to fill my eyes with tears, and I always blink them away. Years passed, and I grew up, still carrying him in my heart. I learned to hide my tears, and my parents learned to fake their joy. Although these were not the best ways to cope, it was enough. I still think about him often, and sometimes, I talk to him, too. I try not to let myself forget, because when I finally do, then his fight would have been in vain. These memories and scars bled for years, and I never let them go no matter how painful they may feel. I keep them as a small memento from him, as a constant reminder that bad things can happen to good people. Throughout my entire life, I grew up thinking that we would live our lives the way we see it – the way we wanted to. Clearly, I was wrong.
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JOHN VIANNEY VENTURA AT HANNAH GRACE VILLAFUERTE
Pagtalas, Pagpurol mixed media
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ERIKA CARREON
Leather
It is hard for me to talk about a time I never belonged in, and the
time I live in now, so I say instead: they make leather out of human skin. They then give it to us to wear against the temperamental climate. It is the perfect insulator. Because this skin is not our skin, because they have processed it, deadened the nerves and shaved the fine hairs, we walk around protected from the elements. Against heat and cold we survive. We are resilient. It is our special character to bend when violent force is applied. We have heard this many times, and the skins we wear whisper it to us as a constant reminder. Sometimes when we bathe, or look at our reflection, or have sex, we would see imperfections that they weren’t able to completely rub out: birthmarks, tattoos, piercings, scars, bullet holes. We shut our eyes tight to the telltale bumps and welts. Some have smashed their mirrors. Everywhere we look now, we see these faces stare out at us. They are worn by our lovers, friends, the woman who sells us vegetables and
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fruit at the street corner. They are harmless. But at the back of our minds, we wonder. When we walk through the threshold after work or school, or run into each other elsewhere, we look at each other and pause, ever so slightly. There are telltale signs to know if you are wearing leather, certain creases where there shouldn’t be, a looseness here and there, an overall dullness. In the middle of the night, we lie awake, and we imagine ourselves tearing open those holes and poking our fingers through, just to make sure that the flesh beneath is the flesh we know. We do not do it, of course. It is impolite, and the skins are comfortable. Now and then, a stranger will scream, or grab and hold us and call us by a different name. We simply stand and let the silence hang in the air for a moment. They go away after that. We try not to think about how we would look if we find a face we love and feel the telltale wrinkles on our lips when we kiss them in greeting. We try not to think of putting our arms around them and feeling layers and layers of callous leather. We tell ourselves this does not happen to anybody we know. It is night now. My wife sits beside me, and we hold each other. The skins fit so well, we almost never take them off now. We haven’t seen ourselves in a long time. Somewhere in the dark we hear a bang, and sirens, and we keep our heads down, turn up the volume on the television. Tomorrow, someone else will have a new face to wear.
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ALECSANDRA DENISE ONGCAL
Dead Spot
sequenced by Maria Margarita Uy 17
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KEVIN CHRISTIAN ROQUE
The Death of Justice graphite on paper
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JOSHUA LIM SO
Radio Days
I.
FATIMA UG DOMINGO UG CARLOTTA Between four and four-thirty in the afternoon, there was no other place Rina could be seen besides the living room, where she sat perfectly still on the rattan chair, leaning towards the old family radio. It was a metallic box with two big black speakers and a rusting tuner. She had been like this since fifteen minutes ago, when she found out They were out to kill Domingo. Carlotta had asked Them to shoot him before he and Fatima could reunite. If Rina had tuned her hearing to other things, she could have listened to the insects buzzing outside in the heat, or heard Yaya Jeny sweeping the driveway, or heeded to Father’s call from upstairs. She did not answer; the heightening music trickled down her spine. What could Fatima and Domingo do? Neither had any idea that Carlotta’s men were coming. Domingo should not meet her in the restaurant parking lot. “Rina, where are you?” Father repeated. Rina stared squarely at the radio, constructing a scene from the voice that came out of the speakers. Father came down and stood Previously published in slightly different form in A Different Voice: Fiction by Young Filipino Writers (ed. Vicente Garcia Groyon; UST Press, 2007) 28
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beside her. She looked up as he was about to wear his black suit. He never wore a suit for work. He usually wore thin cotton shirts or a short-sleeved polo. Physical appearances didn’t matter in his job. That afternoon, he was going somewhere important. Domingo! Finally, you have arrived! “I’ve been calling for you,” he said. We must leave this place, Domingo. Carlotta might see us together! As he slid his arms into the sleeves, dust jumped off the suit and danced in the blades of orange light the Venetian blinds had forged. He rubbed his eyes as the warm glow of that afternoon sliced him from his collar down to his pants pocket. Domingo! Someone is coming— “Where’s Bojo?” Domingo! They are here! “Where’s your brother?” DOMINGO!!! “Katrina, are you listening?” “Pa! I’m listening!” Her eyes remained glued to the radio. Father glanced at his watch, leaned down, and flicked her nose. Rina furrowed her brows and grunted. It was the least he could do, having distracted Rina from her favorite pastime. Fatima ug Carlotta aired after school, half of homework, and her three o’clock siesta (mandated by Mother and implemented by Yaya Jeny). The story seemed a little mature for Rina’s age. Carlotta was the evil stepsister of the saintly Fatima. When Carlotta managed to inherit all the pamana from their father, Fatima was forced to become Carlotta’s maid. Fatima had nowhere else to go, being the poor, innocent probinsyana that she was. Then there was the love interest: Domingo Rodriguez. From his sonorous voice, Rina imagined Domingo as a very muscular man with dark, well-oiled hair and a thick well-groomed mustache. Rina never realized the story was practically identical to Cinderella, but it didn’t matter—Rina thought the sinister laughter and torrid weeping, the slapping and screaming, the thunderous music and cliffhangers, and the baffling schemes and crazy plot twists were all the things associated with adulthood. At times,
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Father regretted introducing the radio program just a summer ago. He thought she would develop some interest in his line of work, but instead she got hooked and refused to go out and play Chinese garter or jackstones or tigso like the other girls in the neighborhood. But it became a staple icebreaker at dinnertime. Rina never talked much, especially about school. But ever since Fatima ug Carlotta she would talk incessantly, much to the disgust of her mother. Perhaps it was because she would talk with food in her mouth. Sometimes Rina waited until Father asked what happened, although he already knew how the series of events would unfold long before that day’s program aired. Rina, however, never talked about Father’s program. She slept through it during siesta. Father told Rina he’d be back after dinner. “And tell Mother in case she worries, okay?” He said goodbye. Just as he stepped out, Rina jumped at the sound of gunshots, almost knocking the radio off the table. They shot Domingo. Fatima screamed. The program would continue tomorrow. That night, Mother sat beside the telephone for hours. She had been sitting there since dinner. Rina was finishing her Civics project in the dining room. Running out of yellows, pinks and blues, Rina searched underneath the table for cartolina scraps. The phone rang and Mother picked it up. She didn’t say anything besides hello. The phone call didn’t take long. Mother often blabbered questions and gossip any chance she got, but she was mostly silent for this one. Rina guessed it wasn’t that kind of a phone call. Mother replaced the handset. “Rina, go to bed.” Rina said she wasn’t finished, that the sampaguita and José Rizal were the most difficult. Mother said nothing, went upstairs, and came back with the yellow radio—the one she used in the bathroom. She picked up the clunky metallic radio in the living room as well, then she went outside and came back empty-handed. “What did you do with the radios?” “There’s no reason keeping them here.” “What about Fatima ug Carlotta?” Rina had crumpled the cartolina scraps in her hands. The
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last time Rina had raised her voice like this, Mother had pinched her lips so hard they turned white. She had also been forced to wash her mouth with detergent. “No one is allowed to leave the house. Do you hear me?” It wasn’t a punishment. It was more like how Mother told Rina never talk to strangers, or always leave Father alone when he’s in his study. Mother was good at telling what not to do and where not to go. “What about my assignment?” Mother didn’t answer. She locked the door. “Isn’t Papa coming home?” “He’s not coming home.” II. A SMALL OPENING When Bojo was still a baby, Rina could remember Father yelling from outside late in the evening, angry because Mother had locked the door, and how he had to walk around the house to wake Yaya Jeny up. Mother said he deserved it. Rina guessed Mother had given up the act because she stopped locking the door each time he said he’d come home late. Mother never allowed Rina to stay out late with friends. Mother said when Rina was old enough she could go home as late as she wanted. Rina wondered why Father hadn’t been old enough before. He did not return the next day. Rina awoke with the National project still scattered about the dining room table. But Rina didn’t see Yaya Jeny around, or hear her hosing the garden or sweeping the driveway. Then she heard noises from the kitchen. Rina hid in the shadow of the doorframe, peered inside, and saw Mother chopping. There were vegetables wrapped in newspaper, several cans of sardines and a stack of twenty-peso bills on the counter. The floral-print kitchen curtains were drawn shut, leaving the room gray, except for a few yellow shafts of light like fingers blindly touching the ruddy tiling. Abruptly, Mother became still. She cocked her head as though she had heard something and peered through a small opening in the curtains, staring for
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a long time, the cleaver poised in mid-air. Rina thought Mother saw Father arrive. Rina felt a tug on the hem of her skirt. It was Bojo. She tried to push him away but was afraid he’d cry. Bojo always wept, like the little brat Rina thought he was. “Ma’am?” Yaya Jeny approached Mother and placed two bags on the floor. Mother wiped her hands and opened the bags, inspecting their contents. Then she took the twenty-peso bills from the counter and counted them twice and folded them over neatly. She handed the money to Yaya Jeny. “You can go.” Yaya Jeny took the bags and went out. She had been only fifteen when Mother hired her; even before Rina was born she had already been working for Mother and Father. When Fatima ug Carlotta first aired, Yaya Jeny would join Rina if Father had left early enough for his second program at night. In return, Yaya Jeny secretly shortened Rina’s siesta time. Bojo became jealous of her affections towards Rina and threatened to tell on them. Yaya Jeny told Bojo she’d cut his pututuy off if he did. She once demonstrated this to Bojo by lopping off the tip of a carrot with a carving knife. Bojo tugged again. Rina finally turned to him. He was rubbing his eyes as though he had just awakened. She grabbed both his wrists and shook his hands. “No!” she hissed. He flushed, and started crying. Rina stepped back, right into the kitchen doorway. Mother’s head rose and she stared through the slit in the curtains. Perhaps Father would return tomorrow, when he had to entertain his guests. III. WAKE Every Friday, Father’s radio associates gathered at the house for potluck. There was always a crowd that filled the entire house with smoke as they ate Tita Mar’s famous sweet potato and kaong salad and Mother’s “Authentic Chinese” pancit. At first, Father’s radio associates would be unrecognizable, but once they spoke, they became familiar; like the high-pitched Manuel Dizon, a.k.a. The (religious) Love Doc-
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tor; or Father Espasolo Maut and the broken English that he tried so hard to perfect on air. And there were the radio commentators. Father was, as he joked, the second most popular commentator in town. Rina believed she was the third most popular—people always loved to see her so dressed-up like a porcelain doll. Uncle Josep always sighed and baby-talked to Rina, no matter how old she got, and capped his attentions with a five-peso bill and a pinch on the cheek. But last week, Father didn’t shake anyone’s hand or present his popular quips lifted from Reader’s Digest. The people were dressed in black, talking under their breath; their lips hardly moved, the same way Mother talked when she had just eaten durian. Yaya Jeny was going around serving wine and Coke. Mother was in the kitchen preparing more pancit and sliced bread. Father was seated on the rattan chair. His hand slowly rose up to lift the cigarette to his mouth, but he didn’t inhale. Bojo was with Carlotta (Rina could never remember her real name) from Fatima ug Carlotta. She was messing up his hair, and then she took a brown bottle from her purse, shook its contents out on her palm and downed a tablet with her wine before she gave Bojo her empty glass. Now be a good boy and bring that to the kitchen was what Carlotta probably said to Bojo as she lit a cigarette and grinned. Carlotta was well over Mother’s age, but she only looked younger because Mother rarely wore makeup. Rina heard Mother yelling for Yaya Jeny to help her out in the kitchen. When she turned back, Carlotta had one hand on her knee and the other gesturing for Rina to come closer, as if Rina was still Bojo’s age. She noticed how Carlotta’s cheeks were flushed, her nose red, her eyes bloodshot. “O! How are you little Katrina?” She played with the pink ruffles around Rina’s collar, rubbing the lace between her ochre fingertips. “You’re growing up so fast. You are so cute and pretty. And your dress, ha!” she said, as if reassuring Rina that the voice was not of the evil stepsister’s. Rina could separate the two, as long as Carlotta shut her mouth. Carlotta pinched Rina’s cheek, her fingers smelling of sour
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smoke. Then she straightened up and took a vial of Visine out of her handbag. Carlotta put two drops in each eye, hardly flinching. A sheen trickled down her cheeks. Her lips broke into a big smile. “Do you want some, little Katrina?” She had noticed her staring at it. Rina took one step back in fear of her voice. Carlotta laughed. The kind of laughter she gave on the program when she had just done a very bad thing to Fatima. “Well, you don’t need this. Unless you have something to hide from Them.” Carlotta looked straight into her. Her eyes were no longer red. “Where is Uncle Josep?” Rina asked. “Ka Josep—?” Radio personalities kept it short, like Mareng Mary or Father Pete (Father Espasolo Maut hated his real name), to get that catchy lilt. Uncle Josep, the foremost popular radio commentator in the city, was called Ka Josep on the radio. Close friends called him Gahi because his body was known to be impervious to bullets. He had proudly showed Rina, to her horror, his scars one Friday night. They looked like some beast had bitten away pieces of his flesh. There was one that had left a large concavity on his belly, and his back bore the smaller scar where the bullet had gone through. Another two were on the torso, through which his lungs had been punctured (“I swear to God I felt His hand wrap around my insides—”), only millimeters away his heart and spine. But he was proudest of the first—the one in his throat—and the near-gurgling voice that resulted from the injury became his on-air signature. He was Father’s best friend and trusted confidant. In person, Uncle Josep was a quaint man. He was old but had a dashing air to him: the brushed, pomaded, salt-and-pepper hair, the thick mustache and the angular face, like he had been some movie actor back when he was still young. Rina always thought when Father grew old he would age as charmingly as Uncle Josep. The liquid that dripped down Carlotta’s face was replaced with tears. She sobbed for a while, then laughed. She squeezed Rina’s cheek and dripped more of the solution into her eyes before she wobbled towards Father. She stood beside him, placing her hand on his head and delicately combing his hair with her spindly fingers. She bent
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down, her crimson lips whispering very softly. Her mouth was too close to his ear. Rina slowly made her way to them. As she weaved through the crowd, their talk drifted past her. Where was the body found? Swamps. Naked? Bloated and hands tied. Dios ko… Si Gahi… Rina never listened to Ka Josep on the radio, since his program began at 11:30 PM. The only time Rina ever heard Uncle Josep’s radio show was when she woke up one night to the booming marching band playing “Lupang Hinirang,” the entrance music to Ka Josep: Atuang Bayan. Downstairs, Father had turned the big metallic radio way up. Mother sat anxiously beside him. Ka Josep was talking about the new policy the long-serving mayor had passed. They could now conduct random tests and house searches around the city. Why should we let them terrorize us? Why should we let them do whatever they justify as right without referendum or due process? To make us live in fear will never make us live in peace. My listeners, I live a third life now, and in each life, I shall do the same. I shall speak the truth! Dili ta mu hilom! The next time she saw him, Rina sat on his lap and asked why he had been so mad on his radio show. Uncle Josep smiled endearingly. He lifted his index finger, swirled the air with it. “This,” he said, “is what we have.” Then he lowered his finger and touched her nose. “As long as we have radio, we can have the air. And that’s one thing we have against Them.” Rina thought Them meant Carlotta’s goons, the ones whom she always addressed but who never had speaking lines. Carlotta would say do this and kill that, but They never replied, besides a few grunts and murmured words. Yaya Jeny loved to use Them in her scary stories. “They have many forms, and They will snatch anyone up whether day or night, whenever Their boss tells Them to.” Yaya Jeny said They would drill holes in Rina’s body and suck her blood if she wouldn’t do as Yaya Jeny said. So if Rina was bad, or didn’t
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follow orders, Yaya Jeny would tell stories about Them. She said that Carlotta’s goons were the Shadow Monsters, threatening the destined love of Fatima ug Domingo, because Carlotta was really an evil witch. “Kabau ka, They take the form of a person, but They are pure dark! Only Their eyes have color: glowing like live coals. Hala!” Rina hated these stories; like how Yaya Jeny saw this young peddler get snatched up by Them right in front of everyone in Agdao market; or the one about the old skinny man who ran away and fell down face first on the concrete screaming as They leapt on top of him. But the scariest of them all was the story about the street child who was drilled to death in broad daylight. Yaya Jeny described how the holes of his body still bled, how his eyes turned creamy, how his mouth crusted and dripped blood and frothy spit. Rina asked what the boy had done to deserve such a punishment. She laughed and choked on the tamarind she had in her mouth and said that Rina should ask her father about that. To Rina, it didn’t make any sense. What bad things did these people do? What did Fatima and Domingo do to deserve the wrath of the Shadow Monsters? Rina became afraid of not being able to clearly distinguish between what it meant to do bad things and good things, and it scared her to know They might snatch her up and suck her dry the moment she stumbled in her actions. Now Carlotta clinks her glass, gaining the attention of the crowd. Her eyes were heavy-lidded. “He was a great man. And what great loss it has been for us.” She placed her hand on Father’s shoulder. “But we need someone to fill his place. This town needs another man like Ka Josep.” Father saw Rina and gave her a tight-lipped smile. Rina remembered what Fatima had said in one episode, while cleaning Carlotta’s mansion. She had been left with nothing, but she held on, accompanied by wistful piano music: I need only lay eyes on Domingo, even if he is here to visit Carlotta, and my soul is gladdened. I make him some juice for him to drink, and my soul is gladdened. I hand him the glass, and my soul is gladdened. Just one glance from him in my direction is enough to make me oh so very happy! Rina had brought Father glasses of juice before, but he never
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professed his love for her in return. He could only spare token, increasingly baffled thank-yous as she served him glass after glass. She had not felt the slightest twinge of happiness doing it, just as seeing Father smile at her that night. Father stood up and put out his cigarette. He was taller than everyone else. Carlotta grabbed his arm and slipped a small plastic bag of white powder into his hand, which he tucked into his fist. He went upstairs to his study and never came out until all the guests had gone. IV. AN OMINOUS MESSAGE (AS DELIVERED BY YAYA JENY) It was Friday and Father wasn’t home still. Friday used to be marketing day in preparation for the potluck. Rina knew there wasn’t going to be a party—no one had called asking what to bring. There was a commotion inside the bathroom: falling metal, opening and closing of closets and drawers. Rina sat up in bed and saw Bojo dead asleep in his siesta, drooling on her pillow. Mother had told Rina and Bojo that everyone should sleep in one room, in one bed, the same place Father and Mother slept. The moment Rina’s feet touched the floor, the bathroom door opened. She slipped back quickly under the blanket, observing Mother through the blur of half-opened eyes. Mother only dressed up for two occasions: festivities and church. That afternoon, she was wearing a red blouse and grey cottonlinen pants, the ones she had worn last Friday. Rina sneaked after her as she went downstairs. Mother opened the front door and stood in the doorway for a long time. No one had left the house since Father had, but Mother walked out with a firm step, and shut the door behind her without looking back. Rina followed her outside just as she heard the gate close. When Rina stood at the front gate she only caught a glimpse of Mother’s red blouse disappearing around the next corner. She willed her mother to come back, but the street remained empty. The sun beat down on her face and she began to sweat. Her hands were growing numb from gripping the grills, and she could feel the
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paint and rust flaking under her hands. Rina looked around her. It had been two days since she last felt the heat of sunlight, or smelled the heady scent of damp earth. Huge Balete trees lined the street, vines slithering down the sidewalk and branches stretching out over the rusting galvanized roofs of the subdivision. Before Fatima ug Carlotta, Rina used to play tigso with her friends, screaming their throats dry as they ran back to home base. Yaya Jeny gossiped with other yayas, eager to know which driver had impregnated which maid, catching up on their own version of afternoon radio drama. She wanted to go out on the street, just for a moment. The hinges squealed as she opened the gate. “Rina?” She was about to run back inside when she saw Yaya Jeny standing beside a Balete tree, gesturing for her to come closer. Yaya Jeny was wearing jeans and a blouse Mother had given her, an outfit she reserved for Sunday days-off. Rina took a tentative step towards her. “Mama said you don’t work for us anymore,” she blurted out. Yaya Jeny curled her thin lips into a smile. “How are you and Bojo?” She shifted her gaze to the house, craning her neck. Rina felt awkward now that Yaya Jeny no longer lived with them. She felt like she was with a stranger. Not that it was an unfamiliar feeling. Mother had always made sure to lock the bedroom door at night so that no one could come in while she and Bojo slept, including Yaya Jeny. “Where’s Ma’am?” “She’s inside, sleeping.” “But I just saw her leave.” Rina panicked. She could disappear, she thought, and Bojo wouldn’t even realize it, or both of them could be taken away. Yaya Jeny knelt before her and placed her hand on Rina’s cheek the way a grandmother would. On Yaya Jeny’s earlobe, Rina saw crusted specks of blood, dark like moles. “You’re going to grow up like him.”
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Rina didn’t know to which him Yaya Jeny was referring. To Rina, him was Father. On the radio, characters always stated the names of people they were talking about, the way Fatima always spoke of her love interest: Domingo this and Domingo that. Because it was hard to recognize someone she couldn’t see, and it was also very difficult to recognize a character whose voice she hadn’t heard for a long time. Him was nameless, an unrecognizable character, long irrelevant. “You shouldn’t come out of your house, Rina. They’re everywhere.” “I don’t get scared of monsters anymore,” Rina said, shaking. Yaya Jenny gripped Rina’s arm. “Tinuod lagi, Rina. I saw Them two nights ago. Near the house.” Rina could feel the heat on her face, and a huge wave tumbled in her chest, threatening to burst out of her eyes. “Your father was a very honorable man, maayo gyud, but everyone has things to hide. And They know it.” The suspense trickled down Rina’s spine; the swelling music was on the brink of giving way to the shattering line that would end today’s episode. “You know, They don’t like being talked about. That’s why They took him away from you.” Rina heard the screen door bang behind her as she rushed back inside the house. It rang inside her head for what felt like an eternity, even after she had locked and bolted all the doors that led out of the house. V. EVERYTHING HAPPENS OUTSIDE THE STORY Rina woke up when she heard the gate open. She had fallen asleep waiting for Mother, tired from keeping Bojo occupied all day, feeding him what Mother had left for them on the kitchen table and lulling him to sleep. It was already dark. She ran to the stairs in time to see Mother burst through the front door. Rina thought she would rush upstairs and look for her and Bojo. Instead, Mother collapsed into the rattan chair, rubbing her arm. Rina didn’t want to go nearer; she thought Mother would brush her off. Or maybe she’d just cry. Rina
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wanted her to cry. She wanted her to pick up the phone and find Father and for her to cry about it like Fatima. In the last episode Rina caught, Carlotta had said to Them: If I can’t have Domingo, then no one else shall! And BANG! Domingo disintegrated into the airwaves. Rina couldn’t believe it. The violins shrilled from the radio, Fatima’s cry echoed, and a thin sheet of static brushed across Rina’s face and she could feel frozen pins pricking her every pore, just as she felt now as she sat down on the staircase, gazing at her mother. Rina had imagined how Fatima held Domingo in her arms, all bloodied on the parking lot. The narrator then asked the listeners to await the following episode. “Rina? Bojo?” Mother whispered. Or Rina thought she whispered. But she was so sure Mother had moved her lips and formed their names. In the past, she would have shouted. Mother stood up and locked the door. Rina rushed back into bed with Bojo and pretended to sleep, just as things had been before Mother had left the house. Mother entered the room; the hairs on the back of Rina’s neck stood up at her presence. When she heard Mother walking towards the bathroom, Rina turned to face her, wondering what she ought to do before Mother closed the door. A white luminescence washed over the bed when Mother flicked the bathroom light on. Rina squinted and drew the sheets to shield her eyes from the glare. All Rina could do was stare at how the light behind Mother cloaked her face in shadow. And it rushed through her mind like one of Fatima’s flashbacks. Rina could almost hear herself narrating the memory, her voice rough and scratchy from the speakers, telling of the night a thunderstorm sped through the town, when lightning flashing was the only thing that illuminated the room as she shut her eyes and whispered the Lord’s Prayer each time the silhouettes of leaves and branches swooped past outside the windows; how she had plugged her ears so she could clearly hear herself praying Your kingdom come Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven as the roofs and fences ap-
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peared before the light and quaked at the arrival of thunder. Bojo hadn’t even been born yet, and Rina was all alone in her room, imagining thousands of undulating metal sheets and hundreds of bamboo rainmakers creating that ruckus outside their house, just like the way Father described how such sounds were reproduced for radio. Then Mother had entered and sat still on the edge of Rina’s bed. The rain had muffled what Mother was saying to her. It had to be about Father again. But in the midst of the suppressed chaos she recognized as her mother, Rina had detected the quiet syntax lurking underneath Mother’s breathing that night, that there was something well hidden in between the light and darkness. “Rina?” Mother said, unsure if someone was there at all. “Where did you go?” “I’m sorry, Rina,” Mother replied, her face turned away from her daughter. “I didn’t think I would be gone so long.” Rina sat up in the bed as she had on that stormy night several years ago, when she asked her mother to stay with her. She had stayed when Rina asked. “You won’t be going out anymore?” she asked. Just as Mother shifted her body to push the door shut, Rina saw bruises snaking around her wrist and similar marks on her neck. Then the light rushed back from where it came. VI. AMONG THEM Rina thought she was falling off a cliff when Bojo woke her a few hours later. She woke with a great shudder. Bojo kept shaking and shaking her. She looked at him and saw a glimmer on his cheeks. Rina took his hands away from his face and asked him what was wrong. “Ma! Ma!” he wept. She sat up to see if Mother was lying next to him. There was no one. “Mama is not here, Bojo. She went out of the room.” He kept crying, calling for her. She checked the clock. It was three in the morning. She looked to her right: the bathroom door was wide open and pitch black. She didn’t flick a switch; somehow being in the dark made her feel safer. She called for her mother, but the void
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swallowed up her voice. Rina held her little brother, making sure she was not alone. She felt that his back was cold. “Shhhhhh. She’s not here, Bojo.” “I saw her. I saw her beside the door.” She took him by the hand and they went to the stairs. She wanted to run, but each step was another descent into darkness. His grip tightened; his palm sweaty, quivering, and hot. Rina felt the floor. She looked around. The kitchen light was on, and she caught a glimpse of someone looking out the window. Rina pulled Bojo close to her and shouted, “Ma!” “No,” Bojo said. “Please, Até.” Rina turned back to the kitchen. The woman had disappeared. Rina approached the light but Bojo pulled on her arm, hard. “I heard Them talking,” he whispered. The light in the kitchen went out. She could only feel his hand, hear him breathe, taste his heat, or her own. There was nothing else left for sight but darkness so thick she could feel it grazing her eyes. It dawned on Rina why she feared the Shadow Monsters so much, because Yaya Jeny never fully described Their form—if They had mouths or hands or hands for mouths. They could have been anything with Their eyes like live coals, They could have been the emptiness of a closet, or the dark apparition in the corner of her eye. Bojo wriggled his hand and for a moment she thought that he had left her. A hot yellow light suddenly burst through the crack under the front door. A rumble of an engine grew louder and louder. “Mother’s there, waiting,” she said. “Don’t let go. Don’t scratch your eyes. Keep that grip when we came down so I won’t lose you.” Then the growling, and the light with it, died. Just as Bojo tightened his grip, Rina opened the door and ran outside. She could see the sheen of a black vehicle behind the grills. The side gate was already open. Rina turned halfway back towards the house but decided against it. She and Bojo rushed on, past retreat. All she let her eyes see were the silhouettes of roofs and fences, electric poles and wires, trees and grass and leaves rushing past as they ran.
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She wasn’t out of breath, her knees didn’t hurt; she just ran as fast as she could, in any direction. Near the curve of the road, Bojo’s hand slipped out of hers like water. He had stumbled on the rough concrete and gashed his knee. He sat on the curb and wailed and wailed. Rina knelt down and shook him. His eyes streamed. He wouldn’t stop. She lifted her hand and slapped him right across the mouth, stunning him. His cries immediately diminished into tremors in his lungs. For a second Rina looked back. A shape moved towards the house. Rina intuitively shouted for her mother, and more shapes and forms materialized by the wide-open gate. It may seem so ridiculous now, how she thought the dark could be a portent of an impending death, clutching at every word Yaya Jeny told her about Them. But there They were, as real as Father’s friends with voices as familiar as anyone else’s; as much flesh as the throbbing wound on Bojo’s knee. The house stood like an empty cage, flashlight circles quivering on its walls, and the shadows within stirring in windows and doorways. “It hurts, Até.” Rina helped Bojo up and wiped his nose with his collar. She could hear his breathing and the hum of insects gradually turning into the violins and pianos, accompanying her, growing grander and louder as she whispered to him: I don’t need to know the ending. I know Domingo is alive somewhere. Domingo can’t be dead. The show ran so long with Domingo. Fatima will run away and find Domingo, and when Fatima ug Domingo are finally together they’ll come back and have their revenge over Carlotta, make her poor then she’ll kill herself because she can’t handle the fact that her life is ruined, or she’ll die of a car accident because no one that evil will live long. That’s what’s going to happen, Bojo. I know it. I don’t need to hear the end. I know the things made for radio. Bojo clutched at her shirt. He had forgiven her, and dead weight fell on Rina’s shoulders. Slowly the orchestra faded out, giving way to the noise of insects, searing, piling one atop another, just like the dissonant static when the radio stations signed off. Rina took Bojo’s hand and squeezed it hard as she felt the entire town shrinking rapidly around her. 43
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JACOB LAYUG
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KATREENA DELA CRUZ
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FREDERICK EZEKIEL PASCO
Her Room They ravaged her room as she lost herself inside it, Her fences gave way And her doors insubstantial. They swept inside her like water. Her belongings, her bed, they say, is not hers anymore, yet they never let her leave what was hers. One by one they examined her, Their hands led the way -She heard and felt when it went inside again. But she’s still breathing, like last night. By morning, Her mouth, they say, now chews lies and spits blood; She winces as they rinse the memory of her slaughter; Over and
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LIANA MARIS
Cross
ballpoint on paper
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MIGUEL ANTONIO LUISTRO
Kinatay
P
ara sa halos walong libong biktima ng extra judicial killings. Sila, na tulad ko ay Pilipino. Ama. Anak. Ina. Kapatid. Tao. Pinatay. Pinaslang. Kinatay. Sana, matapos na ang ang hindi makatarungang paghugot ng pagkatao at pagkitil sa buhay ng marami sa ating bansa.
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MARIA GABRIELLE GALANG
Ang Burol ni Jenny sa Kalye ng Ipil-Ipil Bahagyang sumilip si Karen sa kabaong kung saan nakahimlay ang
naging matalik na kaibigan. Kararating niya pa lang mula sa dalawang oras na nakakapagod na biyahe. Kanina pa dapat siya hapon nakarating kaso may kinailangan siyang tapusin para sa isa niyang klase. Nakapapag-sorry na rin siya sa mga kaibigan dahil late siyang nakarating. Okay lang naman daw. Pare-pareho namang wala sa plano ang pagkikita nila ngayon. Tahimik siyang nag-alay ng maikling dasal bago umupo ulit sa tabi ni Joan sa bandang gitna ng garahe nila Aling Baby. Napalakas ang buntong hininga nito’t napansin siya agad ni Joan. Humarap ito sa kanya’t pinasahan siya ng isang plato ng butong pakwan. “Uy, okay ka lang?” “Okay lang naman. Nabigla lang talaga ako,” sagot ni Karen habang nagsisimula siyang ngumatngat ng butong pakwan. Napatingin siya sa direksyon ng kabaong at nadaanan ulit ng kanyang mata si Aling Baby. Sabi ni Joan pagkarating niya, nandiyan na si Aling Baby sa tapat ng kabaong. Alas-siete na ng gabi at tahimik lang siyang nakatitig dito. Napalingon din ang katapat niyang si Mila sa kabaong.
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“Ako rin,” sabi ni Mila. Hindi naiwasang maalala ni Mila ang mga panahong kasakasama nila si Jenny. Lagi nilang pinaaalalahanan ang kaibigan na ‘wag masyadong maging mabait. Tulad na lang noong high school na ginawang patungan ng notes ng isa nilang kaklase yung libro niyang Pride and Prejudice. Nagkaroon ito ng bakat sa likod. Hinayaan niya lang ito kahit na nagreklamo siya kay Mila na may sama siya ng loob dahil bago pa ang libro. Bumalik ang tingin ni Mila sa mga kasama. “Mga ganitong buwan nagkikita-kita tayo. Tapos...” Napatingin siya sa kisame at hindi madala ang sarili para tapusin pa ang sasabihin. May luhang tumulo sa kanyang pisngi na dali-dali niyang pinunasan. “Tapos ngayon, wala na siya.” Pinikit niya ang kanyang mga mata’t iniwasan ang pag-iyak. Hinagod ng katabi na si Denise ang likod ni Mila para gumaan ang pakiramdam nito. Mahina siyang bumulong sa sarili, “Hay, Jen.” “Sabi niya pa naman ililibre niya tayo ng palabok pagkauwi niya,” sabi ni Mila sa mga kaibigan. “Ano ba ‘yan Jenny! Paano na ‘yung utang mong palabok sa’min?” Sabay-sabay nagtawanan ang magkakaibigan kung kaya’t nakuha nila ang atensyon ng mga matatandang babaeng nakaupo sa may gate ng bahay. Napataas ng kilay si Aling Mena. “Ang iingay. Akala ko ba kaibigan nila si Jenny?” “High blood ka nanaman, Mena,” giit ni Aling Emmie habang nagpapaypay. “Hayaan mo na sila. Ngayon lang ‘yan nagkita-kita ulit.” Nasa labas lang ng kanilang bahay si Aling Emmie sa tuwing dadalaw ang mga magkakaibigan kina Jenny simula pa noong mga bata pa lang sila. Nalulungkot siyang hindi na ulit mangyayari ang mga ganoong pagkakataon. Napailing si Aling Belen. “Ay, basta masaya ako na hindi na makakasama ng anak ko si Jenny,” sabi niya habang nagpapaypay. Malakas na maririnig mula kina Aling Belen ang iba’t ibang grupong nagsusugal sa harapan ng bahay. Mas dumarami lamang ang mga taong sumasali rito ngayon at lumalalim na ang gabi. Pangatlong beses nang nanalo si Daniel sa sakla nang naisipan niyang magpahinga muna’t baka biglang maubos ang swerte niya.
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“Sige, pre, maya na lang ulit.” May mga kantiyaw ang mga naging kalaro nito pero hinayaan niya lang ang mga ito at dumiretso muna siya sa loob kung nasaan sila Karen. “Daniel! Nandito ka pala?” bati ni Karen sa kanya nang nakita siya nito habang nagkwekwento si Denise tungkol sa panahong unang nalasing si Jenny. “Ah, hindi. Aparisyon lang ako,” sagot ni Daniel habang papalapit sa kanila’t nakikipagbeso sa bawat isa. “Ang corny mo pa rin. Kamusta ka?” sabi ni Karen bago siya nakipagbeso kay Daniel. “Eto, crush pa rin ni Mila.” Umupo si Daniel sa tabi ni Joan. “Excuse me. May boyfriend na ‘ko.” “May girlfriend din ako, ‘no,” banat ni Daniel. Akala niya’y makikisakay pa rin si Mila sa biruan nila dati. Nagtawanan ang grupo. “Okay naman ako. Kayo kamusta?” Kakatapos lang ng Parent-Teacher Conference kaninang umaga sa pinagtatrabahuhan ni Denise. Nakakangalay ngumiti sa mga magulang at makipagkamayan sa kanila. May isa pang nakipagaway sa kanya kasi may mababang grade yung anak niya. Hindi niya naman kasalanan na may na-miss na exam yung anak niya. “Pagod,” sagot ni Denise. Tumango lang din sina Mila at Joan. “Kamusta naman kayo?” Maingat niyang tinuloy ang tanong, “ngayong wala na si Jenny?” Simula nang binalik si Jenny sa ganitong kalagayan, naging usap-usapan na siya ng buong barangay. Nabalitaan nilang may nagngangalang Jenny Mae Crucis na binaril ng riding in tandem dahil sangkot daw ito sa droga. Iniwasan nilang banggitin ito sa pamilya nila Aling Baby. Sapat na ang pag-abot ng abuloy at pagsabi ng “Condolence” para makapagbigay ng konting tulong kay Aling Baby. Napaisip ulit si Daniel noong huli nilang pagkikita ni Jenny. Natatandaan niyang papunta siya ng trabaho noon nang makasalubong si Jenny sa may palengke. Natatandaan niya ang maluwang na t-shirt na suot-suot nito noon. Halos umabot na sa siko ni Jenny ang manggas ng t-shirt niya na ‘yun. “Ang payat ni Jenny no’ng huli ko siyang nakita. Mas lalo pa siyang pumayat ngayon.”
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“Marami rin siyang pasa noon,” dagdag ni Karen. “Hindi na bago ‘to Joan.” Nagtatakang tumingin si Daniel sa mga magkakaibigan. “Pasa?” Nag-ring ang telepono ni Mila. Umalis muna ito sa monobloc na inuupuan at dumiretso muna sa labas. Tatay niya pala. Male-late siya ng uwi dahil nagkayayaan ang mga nakakasama sa basketball na kumain sa labas. Hindi sumasagot ang nanay sa phone kaya tumawag ang tatay niya sa kanya. Dumiretso muna si Mila sa kanyang ina at binigay ang cellphone sa kanya. “Mila, ang laki-laki mo na!” pagbati sa kanya ni Aling Emmie habang nagmamano ito at nakikipagbeso sa kanilang dalawa ni Aling Mena. “Kamusta ka naman? Saan ka na nagtatrabaho ngayon?” “Diyan lang po ako sa airport nagtatrabaho, Tita,” nakangiting sagot ni Mila. “May boyfriend ka na ba?” tanong ni Aling Mena sa kanya habang pabalik na sa kanila si Aling Belen. “Nako. ‘Wag muna. Bata pa ‘to,” pagsingit ni Aling Belen habang nakangiti lang si Mila sa mga kaibigan ng ina. “Dalaga na anak mo, Belen. Nagtatrabaho na nga, o. Masyado kang protective,” sumbat ni Aling Emmie. “Mas okay nang protective kaysa naman mangyari pa sa kanya ‘yung nangyari kay Jenny. Baka kung sino na lang din lumapit dito.” Tumingin si Aling Belen kay Mila. “’Di ba, ‘nak?” “Ha-ha.” Ibinaling na ni Mila ang tingin sa ina at nagpaalam na sa kanilang grupo nang ibalik na ni Aling Belen sa kanya ang cellphone niya. Nakatago sa likod ang kamao nito. Humigop muna sa kanyang kape si Aling Mena. Napunta ang kanyang tingin sa krus na nakasabit sa taas ng kabaong. Napatingin din siya kay Aling Baby. Hawak-hawak pa rin niya ang rosaryo at mapapansing bumibigkas pa rin ito ng dasal. Nabalik ang tingin niya kay Aling Belen. “Belen.” Napatingin si Aling Belen sa kanya. “’Di pa rin ako makapaniwala na nagtutulak si Jenny.” Naaalala ni Aling Mena ang mga panahon na ‘pag magkakasalubong silang dalawa ni Jenny noong nagaaral pa ito dito, magmamano ito at laging nakangiti. Nababalitaan
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pa nito sa kanyang lola na binigyan siya nito ng painting noong buhay pa siya. Sumalangit nawa. “Kahit naman ako hindi rin makapaniwala,” giit ni Aling Belen. “Nagulat na lang ako nang natanong sa akin yung pinsan kong pulis kung may kakilala raw ba akong Jenny na taga-dito sa atin. Malay ko bang si Jenny pala natin ang nasa watchlist nila. At ayun nga, biglang isang araw nakahandusay na lang siya sa daan.” Napailing si Aling Emmie. “Buti na lang pala hindi na nagaral sa Maynila yung dalaga ko. Baka masama pa sa mga kabarkada ni Jenny.” “Nako, Emmie. Buti na lang talaga kamo,” sabi ni Aling Belen. Naisip ni Aling Mena na kaya siguro ang laki ng pinayat nito nung umuwi si Jenny noong nakaraang taon. Kumuha muna ng kape si Mila bago dumiretso sa mga kaibigan. Kinukwento pa rin ng tatlo kay Daniel ang kung ano nang nakwento ni Jenny sa kanilang apat. Mula sa kung paano naging sila ng boyfriend niya hanggang sa tuluyan na nga siyang hiniwalayan ni Jenny dahil sa pagbubugbog at pang-aabuso na ginawa sa kanya. Natandaan ni Karen ang minsang pagkikita nila ni Jenny bago siya makauwi. Kabababa lang ni Karen ng bus nang may kumalabit sa kanya habang naglalakad. Nagulat siya nung lumingon siya at nakita si Jenny. Ang kaibigan na mismo ang nagimbita na mag-tanghalian sila noong araw na ‘yun. Hindi na pinalagpas ni Karen ang oportunidad na ‘yon. “Napansin ko noong araw na ‘yun yung pag-notify palagi ng phone ni Jenny. Puro mura yung nababasa kong text. Tangina mo, fuck you, puta ka... Nalaman ko na lang na boyfriend niya pala ‘yun nung umuwi siya.” “Tangina niya rin,” pag-komento ni Denise. Inubos niya ang iniinom na tetra pack at pinilipit. Hindi niya maalis sa kanyang isip ang lubog na mukha ni Jenny nang magsalu-salo sila sila sa palabok noong umuwi siya. Hindi pa rin siya sanay na makitang maiksi ang buhok nito. Mula noong nagkasama na sila, may ispesipikong haba na ng buhok si Jenny na lumalagpas ng kanyang dibdib. Noong araw na ‘yun, hindi pa umabot ng balikat ang haba nito. Pero nabanggit niyang mas masaya siya. Sinabi pa nga niya sa kanila na uuwi siya ngayong taon at
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sa mga susunod pang taon. Kung hindi siguro sa lalakeng ‘yun, hindi siguro nangyari kay Jenny ‘to. “Suicidal din nga pala yung ex niya, Daniel,” sabi ni Mila. “Lahat ng kagaguhan niya, like magpapakamatay siya and everything, sinisisi niya kay Jenny.” Pahapyaw itong nabanggit sa kanila ni Jenny noong hapon na ‘yon. Wala silang magawa para sa kaibigan kung hindi makinig. Akala nila’y maayos na ang kalagayan ni Jenny pagkatapos n’on. Natahimik silang lahat pagkaraan ng ilang segundo. “Sa tingin niyo ba na yung boyfriend ni Jenny yung nagdadrugs? O pareho?” “Joan!” malakas na sabi ni Mila kung kaya’t napatingin sa kanila ang iba pang mga bisita. “Si Jenny? Drugs? Nahihibang ka na ba?” “Uy, Mila, kalma lang,” sabi ni Karen. “Hindi natin alam. Hindi ko alam. Matagal nating hindi nakakausap si Jenny.” Huling nakapagtapos sa kanila si Jenny. Pagkatapos magpakain si Aling Baby para sa congratulatory party nito, nagkanyakanya na sila uli. Paminsan-minsan pa rin silang nagchachat sa isa’t isa. Pero sa simula lang namansin si Jenny kahit na nagkakayayaan na umuwi ulit. Dalawang taon din ang lumipas bago ito talagang mahagilap. Walang balita kay Jenny. Ni ha, ni ho, wala silang natanggap. Ang narinig ni Mila sa mga naghatid kay Jenny pauwi ay nakita siyang wala nang buhay sa daan, may karitong nakapatong sa katawan at ang buong mukha ay nakabalot sa packaging tape. Nakita sa CCTV na pagkatapos siyang barilin, doon siya binalutan ng tape at nilagyan ng kariton. Hindi nakita ang mukha ng mga gumawa nito sa kaibigan. Hindi niya masikmurang may gagawa ng ganito kay Jenny. “Joan, sigurado ako. Boyfriend niya may kagagawan nito.” Matagal bago nakaresponde sa kaibigan si Joan. “Paano ka nakakasigurado?” “Kapag may kaaway ka at biglang may isusumbong sa pulis, mag-ingat ka,” sagot ni Mila. “Ganyan naman ngayon, e. Kung ayaw sa ‘yo ng isang tao, kayang-kaya ka niyang patayin ng basta-basta lang.” Patuloy pa ring nagkwentuhan ang mga magkakaibigan at napagpasyahan nilang manatili dito hanggang bukas. Bumalik sa labas si Daniel at sinubukan namang mag-tong its. Naging tahimik din ang
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kanto ng Ipil-Ipil. Nakapagpaalam na rin si Mila sa kanyang ina na dito muna siya matutulog kasama ang mga kaibigan. Umalis ang grupo ng kanyang ina ng mga bandang alas-nwebe y medya ng gabi. Nanlibre ng beer si Karen sa mga kaibigan. “Para kay Jenny!” malakas na sabi ni Denise. Naging payapa rin ang kalye ng Ipil-Ipil pagkaraan ng ilang oras. Natirang gising sa apat si Mila. Nilapitan niya si Aling Baby. Napansin ni Mila ang hawak-hawak na kwintas ni Aling Baby nang tabihan niya ito. May dasal na binibigkas si Aling Baby na hindi maintindihan ni Mila. “Tita, pahinga na po kayo. Tutulungan din po ako nila Jo ‘pag gising na sila.” Pinunasan ni Aling Baby ang kanyang mga pisngi bago humarap kay Mila. Ngumiti ng bahagya si Aling Baby sa kanya. “Salamat, ‘nak.” Naramdaman niya ang init ng kamay ni Mila sa kanyang braso bago ito umalis sa kanyang tabi. Nagpatuloy siya sa pagbulong sa sarili.
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ALYSON TONI SIBAYAN
Detachment digital art
W
e live in a world where we are slowly getting unaffected by death, until we cannot see anything but the road we walk going home. “Detachment” came from the growing fear that the nature of man’s gaze narrows only to what concerns them. That anything else are just traces of white about to disappear the moment we pass by. We assume they will disappear, however they will still linger. Everyday is a cycle, and nothing will disturb it, this is what we believe in. Not the man who sleeps along the street, not the old man who sells newspapers, not the kid who begs for help by the corner of our eyes.
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FERNANDO BELLOZA
Propeta Tahimik ang milyong deboto nang magsalita ang tinaguriang propeta. May hawak na bibliya sa kanang kamay na walang bahid dungis; habang may mantsa ng natuyong dugo ang kaliwang nakatago. Tinatago. Mungkahi niya: “Sambahin ang diyos sa kanyang pagpaparusa sa mga makasalanan. Sila ay nagkasala! “Sambahin ang diyos sa pagbigay ng katahimikan sa mga inosente. May pabuyang nakalaan sa kanila.” Nagkatinginan ang mga deboto. Taas ang kilay. “Malaking sakripisyo ang kaniyang ginagawa ngayong narito siya sa lupa. Hangad niya’y isama tayo sa langit! Lahat tayo ay mapupunta sa langit! Sambahin! Siya ang ating ama; tayo ay ililigtas niya. Amen! Amen!” At nagpatianod ang lahat.
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PRECIOUS JAPHETH BENABLO
Ang Bagong Lipunan mixed media
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ERRATA
N
ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXXII Bilang 1: Ang nakaraang isyu ay maling nailathala bilang Tomo XXXI Bilang 1 sa pabalat. Ang wastong volume ay Tomo XXXII Bilang 1.
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 sumusunodmga kaibigan, kapwa manunulat, at mga mangingibig ng sining.
Ms. Erika Carreon; Dr. Ernesto Carandang II at ang Departamento ng Filipino; Dr. Jazmin B. Llana at ang Departmento ng Literatura; ang Bienvenido Santos Creative Writing Center; College Editors Guild of the Philippines; Mr. Jon Dionisio at ang Warehouse Eight; Mr. Rocky Belsazar, Ms. Mikee Atendido at ang WHOAREMARO; Wasted Wendy; College Friends; sleepersecond; The Subspring; Ms. Heidi Pascual; The Hobbit House Manila; Mr. Clemen Castro; Ang Dilawang Dutertards; Ms. Maria Kristina Castillo; Ms. Lorna Carandang at ang Cresta Monte Resort; Mr. Raffy Lerma; Mr. Mark Angeles; Mr. Carljoe Javier; Mr. Alwin Reamillo; Komiket; Meatfist Comics; WhenInManila. com; Mr. Tj Trinidad; Ms. Moira Lang; Ms. Alyssa Villanueva; Tuko Films Productions Inc.; Buchi Boys Entertainment; Artikulo Uno; Mr. Jose Eduardo Pascual Joson at ang Business Management Society; Art Sundays; Ms. Sabrina Gloria; Mr. Kenji Ramos; Mr. Mariano Batocabe; Mr. Angelo Gian De Mesa; Mr. Camilo Villanueva; Mr. Martin Villanueva; Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Mr. David Michael San Juan; Mr. Joaquin Ortiz; Ms. Eunice Sanchez; Ms. Melinda Tongco; Ms. Razel Estrella; Mr. Raymund Magno Garlitos; Ms. Wina Puangco; Mr. Carlo Flordeliza; 888 Vibers; Ms. Joelyn R. Alerta at ang Student Discipline Formation Office; La Casita; Ms. Amelia M. Galang at ang Office of Student Affairs; Legal Council; Ms. Alma Corpuz at ang Security Office; DLSU Bookstore; Ang Pahayagang Plaridel, The LaSallian, Green & White, Green Giant FM, Archers Network, at ang Student Media Council; Mrs. Anna Loraine Balita-Centeno, Ms. Patricia W. Baun, Mrs. Ma. Manuela S. Agdeppa, at ang Student Media Office; Mr Mon Mojica, Mrs. Myrna Mojica, at ang MJC Press Corporation.
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At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan ng Malate Literary Folio, noon at ngayon.
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