Malate Literary Folio Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1 Karapatang-ari Š 2020

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ng Malate Literary Folio ang opisyal na publikasyon ng sining at panitikan ng Pamantasang De La Salle - Manila, sa ilalim ng awtoridad ng Student Media Office (SMO).

Ang mga komento at mungkahi ay maaaring ipahatid sa:

E-mail address: mlf@dlsu.edu.ph Website: issuu.com/malatelitfolio Facebook: fb.com/malateliteraryfolio Twitter: @malatelitfolio Instagram: @malatelitfolio 503-Media House, Bro. Connon Hall, De La Salle University-Manila, 2401 Taft Avenue, Malate, Manila.

Nananatili sa indibidwal na may-akda o may-dibuho ang 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 Cielo Marie Vicencio Ang layout ng folio ay gawa ni Adia Pauline Lim

MALATE LITERARY FOLIO

TOMO XXXVI BILANG 1

HUNY0 2020

TOMO XXXVI

BILANG 1

pa ni mu la

INTRODUKSIYON

Matatagpuan ang sarili sa kinalakihan. Kung ito man ay tinalikuran o hanggang ngayo’y inuuwian, dito natin makikita ang mga bagay na natutunan, binabalik-balikan, tinatiyagang itama, o sinusubukang kalimutan.

Dito natin una nalalaman ang pagkakaiba ng tama at mali, at sa paglabas dito rin makikita ang mas malawak na kahulugan ng mga salitang ito. Sa paglabas dito matatagpuan ang mga bagay na naghihintay lang matuklasan, at ang mga bagay na dapat din iuwi para baguhin ang nakasanayan.

Ang pagtingin sa sarili ay ang pagmasid sa kapaligiran. Binigyan ka ba nito ng espasyo para magbago, or kinulong ka ba nito sa lumang prinsipyo? Patuloy na ba itong pinaglumaan, o maaari pa rin ba itong balikan?

Sa isyu na ito ng Malate Literary Folio, balikan natin ang sarisariling kinalakihan. Iniimbitahan namin ang mga mambabasa na magbalik-tanaw sa pinanggalingan, at kwestiyunin ang nakasanayan.

PAULA BIANCA MARAĂ‘A Punong Patnugot i

ni Nilalaman la la ma n Introduksyon

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Prosa

HOLY SHSLDSJLKDJ Ryann Ting

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Ang Halimaw ng Santa Catalina Guion Lorenzo Castro

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Regalia

Francis D’Angelo Mina

Breathe

Allysa Nicole Dequiño

Reflection

Mary Joy Abalos

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I Don’t Feel Gay Jeremy Dale Coronia

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Kung Sino Man ang Nakikinig Cielo Marie Vicencio

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Nostos Algia Philippe Bernard Cabal

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Guiding Light Dana Beatrice Tan

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Sining

Fragments

Chaunne-Ira Ezzlerain Masongsong

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Tula

Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli Adrian Neil Holgado

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Kagubatan ng Kadiliman Christian Jeo Talaguit

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Another Star Ryann Ting

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In The Subways After The War Vince Gerard Victoria

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And Let Our Response Be Paula Bianca Maraña

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Isang Makata Christine Autor

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Amaterasu

Francis D’Angelo Mina

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Retrato Decay

Kyle Noel Ibarra

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Seklusyon

Adia Pauline Lim

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Anarchy

José Isabel Rea

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Errata

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Pasasalamat

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PATNUGUTAN Paula Bianca Maraña Punong Patnugot Querix Keershyne Recalde Tagapamahalang Patnugot

MGA SENYOR NA PATNUGOT Maria Gabrielle Galang Philippe Bernard Cabal

Francis D’Angelo Mina Patnugot ng Prosa Christine Autor Patnugot ng Tula Cielo Marie Vicencio Patnugot ng Sining Kyle Noel Ibarra Patnugot ng Retrato Chaunne-Ira Masongsong Tagapamahala ng Marketing at Events Van Rien Jude Espiritu Tagapamahala ng Pagmamay-ari Adia Pauline Lim Tagapamahala ng Layout

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Cheyenne Grace Espiritu Ninian Patrick Sayoc Beatrice Julia Triñanes Armando Miguel Valdes

MGA TAGAPAYO Dr. Mesandel Arguelles Mr. Vijae Alquisola

STUDENT MEDIA OFFICE Franz Louise Santos Director Jeanne Marie Tan Coordinator Ma. Manuela Agdeppa SECRETARY

KA SA PI Prosa Mary Joy Abalos Jeremy Dale Coronia Allysa Nicole DequiĂąo Daniel Ricardo Evangelista Jihan Marie Ferrer Cathleen Jane Madrid Cris Marriel Nabayo Guion Lorenzo Castro

Sining Francesca Therese Baltasar Pablo Mulawin Casanova Marinel Angeline Dizon Matthew Rafael Florendo Kathleen Nicole Garay Phoebe Danielle Joco Jamie Shekinah Mapa

Tula

Thea Enrica Ongchua

Claire Madison Chua

Bea Mira So

Adrian Neil Holgado

Dana Beatrice Tan

Christian Paculanan Vince Gerard Victoria

Retrato

Christian Jeo Talaguit

Isabella Alexandra Bernal

Ryann Ting

Alexander Flores Benedict Lim

Marketing & Events Elijah Barongan Jan Magcaling Arvir Jane Redondo

Nigelle Jorgia Lousie Lim Sean Xavier Nieva Brandon Kyle Pecson JosĂŠ Isabel Rea

Isabela Tuason

k a a s pi

Dominique Yap

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mga nagwagi sa ika-34 na

DLSU Annual Awards for Literature at ika-9 na DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts

Mythology Collection Christian Jeo Talaguit 1st Place Aliwan Chaunne-Ira Ezzerlain Masongsong 2nd Place Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli Adrian Neil Holgado 3rd Place Sarili at Katawan Christine Autor Honorable Mention

Sunsongs Francis D’Angelo Mina Honorable Mention West Philippine Sea Jemimah Abbigael Tan Honorable Mention vi

Spirit Ryann Lance Ting 3rd Place Oka Amihan Krystal De Leon 3rd Place Clover Jennifer Santos 3rd Place

Holy SHSLDSJLKDJ Ryann Lance Ting Honorable Mention Promise and Compromise Jennifer Santos 3rd Place Lighthouse Jemimah Abbigael Tan 3rd Place

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Nostos Algia Philippe Bernard Cabal 2nd Place What Was Once in a Box, in a Slit in a Hollow Post, and in My Shoe Philippe Bernard Cabal 3rd Place People Vs. The People Philippe Bernard Cabal 3rd Place Kung Sino Man ang Nakikinig Cielo Marie Vicencio 3rd Place

Machine is the Message Philippe Bernard Cabal 3rd Place Cyclic Redundancy Philippe Bernard Cabal 3rd Place Resting Rallyists Alexander Flores Honorable Mention viii

mga hurado sa ika-34 na

DLSU Annual Awards for Literature at ika-9 na DLSU Annual Awards for Visual Arts Poetry Conchitina R. Cruz Vincenz C. Serrano Tula Romulo P. Baquiran Jr. Carlos M. Piocos III Short Story Allan Alberto Derain Glenn Diaz Essay Erika Carreon Clarissa Militante Art Sabrina Anne M. Gloria Mercedes Marie de la Fuente Tolentino Photography Miguel Antonio R. Luistro Eunice Eileen Marie V. Sanchez

Paalala: Ang kategoryang Sanaysay at Maikling Kwento ay napawalang-bisa dahil sa kakulangan ng mga kalahok. ix

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3 4 t h A wa r d s

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L i t e r at u r e

Malate Literary Folio

9 t h A wa r d s

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V i s u al A r t s

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RYANN TING

HOLY SHSLDSJLKDJ Ryann Ting is a Literature and Advertising student at DLSU. He will graduate before the world ends, which is why it won’t end in 2020.

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I. A Little Help So let’s imagine for just a moment, you’re a young community college student. It’s the weekend. You and your roommates are in your apartment watching movies. You hear a knock at the door. You go up to get it but when you open it, you can’t quite process what’s in front of you. It’s your college dean inexplicably dressed in bright colored monkey print pajamas holding potato chips and sodas exclaiming “BOYS NIGHT!” with the enthusiasm of a six year old boy.

How would you feel? What is the first thing you would say?

For Abed Nadir, the witty Film & TV dialogue-obsessed character famous for having no filter from the American sitcom Community, it was all he could do to turn to his roommates with a completely expressionless face and mumble “I need help reacting to something.”

Some of us are like Abed in that scene. We need help expressing ourselves sometimes. It can be curiously difficult to name what it is that we feel. Maybe this comes from the sheer severity of an emotion, the overly complicated mix of a bunch of them at once, or the novelty of a situation that triggers something nameless in us. We try to rely on words. We name things. We coin neologisms. We’ve gone as far as to turn “ugly” swear words into empty signifiers, probably one of our best linguistic inventions. But as the ever used platitudes like “Words failed” and “No words can” tell us, words can’t account for everything.

And there are no people who have to deal with these concerns quite like the ones who make livelihoods out of them. The writers.

II. Big Daddy G

The idea of God works as an answer to everything that people can’t grapple with in their tries to understand the universe. Where did it all start? What happens to us after? Is there an after? What’s the 2

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ideal blueprint for living while we are here? It is necessarily way out there. Unreachable. Impossible to fully comprehend. Whoever started calling the parts of the rosary mysteries was on to something.

So when writers make attempts to depict the idea of God and heaven, it can be a daunting task but also an exciting thing to see, like when white people cover Childish Gambino’s Redbone. They might not sing it as good as the original, but it is interesting to see how they creatively work around the N-word in the chorus. Take for example, a man hailed by some as the greatest writer in the English language, John Milton.

In Book V of the epic Paradise Lost, Adam asks the angel Raphael about the events that led to Lucifer’s rebellion in heaven.

Look at what he does when faced with the challenge of writing celestial affairs.

Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate To human sense th’ invisible exploits

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Of warring Spirits….

….and what surmounts the reach Of human sense, I shall delineate so, By lik’ning spiritual to corporal forms, As may express them best, though what if Earth Be but the shadow of Heav’n, and things therein Each to other like, more then on earth is thought?

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Milton puts a little disclaimer prior to the show. Adam’s puny little brain can’t handle the awesomeness that is heaven, so Raphael i.e.

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Milton has to dumb it down to an earthly level. The choice to place the tale of the Rebellion in Heaven as a recollection by an angel to a mortal instead of just narrating the story chronologically and unframed like the rest of the poem had to have been a carefully thought out excuse.

A brilliant excuse at that but an excuse nonetheless.

How does one of the greatest writers of the 17th century express the inexpressible? He doesn’t. He evades it like a blind ninja.

III. Cosmic-sized Tentacles.

Howard Philips Lovecraft was a writer that hated seafood and everything about the ocean. “I have hated fish and feared the sea and everything connected with it since I was two years old” he wrote in one his letters. So, his many fans decided to honor him today by photoshopping his likeness surrounded by grotesque menacing tentacles coming out from the water.

He was a master of horror of the unknown. He wrote about monsters and gods, beings older than time and space itself, the mere sight of which could render his characters completely mad. The paradox of writing about the horror of the unknown is that conveying information about the thing makes it more known and runs the risk of dampening the effect of the horror. In the Call of Cthulu, Lovecraft attempts to describe terrifyingly alien things to the reader by saying what they’re not.

“They were not composed altogether of flesh and blood.”

“That shape was not made of matter.”

“Although They no longer lived, They would never really die.”

He might pepper in some worldly descriptions to anchor these amorphous god things down to mortal brain quality for the sake of his readers’ imaginations much like Raphael did for Adam in 4

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Paradise Lost.

“If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing.”

But even when conveying the positive presence of information about Cthulu, Lovecraft tacks on a double negative to show the speaker’s uncertainty. So not unlike Milton, he expresses by dodging the act of expression.

How does one of the greatest writers of the 20th century express the inexpressible? He doesn’t. In that he takes the negative that lives in the prefix of “inexpressible” and uses it on the things that scare him.

IV. Even the name Cthulu was not made to be pronounceable.

In the context of the story, Cthulu is the closest approximation of the Old God’s name capable by humans. And even after it’s been dumbed down to human friendly form, it’s a pretty cumbersome word. That goes for many of Lovecraft’s creatures. To name a few: Nyarlathotep, Tsathoggua, the Chthonians. Do you hate your unborn children?

Consider giving them a name with four or more consonants in a row, you sicko.

But then again, maybe this could be taken as the highest of compliments. These are gods that Lovecraft was giving those names to after all. Even in actual religion, Judeo-Christian god Yahweh or

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Jehovah was originally spelled out as YHWH in all caps. The name is referred to as the Tetragrammaton, ironically an even more daunting looking word. They call it the “ineffable name” and the “unutterable name”. And indeed it was not made to be uttered or pronounced.

Taking the Lord’s name in vain is number 4 of YHWH’s top ten pet peeves and extra precaution was taken to prevent people from throwing it around whenever they like it. Whenever YHWH appears in the writings of the Hebrew Text the reader would substitute other words to be spoken aloud.

V. What the Greats Wouldn’t/Couldn’t Do.

I will speak for myself when I say that if I were to actually be confronted with a capital G God or a tentacle dragon monster, there would be less carefully sculpted language and a lot more Swearfest 3000. That would probably be much more realistic, but we just don’t want this crudeness in our epic poetry. How great a sin it would be for a sputtering idiot like me to soil the beauty that is Literature with a capital L. Perhaps the greats like Milton and Lovecraft were faced with the limits of expression not in spite of the fact that they were great writers, but precisely because they were great writers.

Now I haven’t read everything single work ever written by those two. But I am a thousand percent confident that neither of them, in their entire writing careers, or even their private notes and letters, have spelled the word “No” as “Nooooooooooo!” or laughter as “HAHAHAHAHA” or “oh” as “oooohh” and especially not an ineffable “adsjdsajf;ldsa.” Any writing class worth its salt would deter you from pulling anything like that in your work, and with good reason. Probably because they come off as cringe inducing owing to their informal and inelegant quality. The form is just so “unliterary.”

So what makes it so?

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For as long as the form of visual text has been around, majority of the time this medium was exclusively associated with formal writing because of the nature of said medium. Whether you were working with stones, blood, ink, wood, parchment, paper, cave walls, or even the good old but still young by comparison typewriter, it used up a notable amount of time, effort, resources, and space. Letters took weeks to get sent and the reply would double the time. You and your pen pal would only have been able to get in touch maybe once a month tops. So if you were going to bother to write something down in print at all, you had better made sure it was the absolute best foot you could put forward. It also would’ve been just plain impractical to write out 17 different o’s or 5 sets of HA’s. This is especially true for the keyboard smash. The odds of coming up with the letters “adsjdsajf;ldsa” together in that order with that semi colon randomly in the middle using handwriting, wherein you actually have to think of each letter before your make the next stroke is next to impossible.

And even on a typewriter it would’ve been seen as a waste of space.

VI. The Keyboard Mashsdhlakjhladfh Informal writing came in hand in hand with the digital age. Messages could be sent, received, and eventually forgotten and buried under all the new topics of chit chat in real time just like a live conversation. Things didn’t have to go through as heavy of a filter of what was considered presentable. The cloud meant virtually limitless space. I could waste an entire line of space on just !!!!!!!!!!!!

12 exclamation points and lose no sleep. For the first time in history, informal writing was able not only to mirror informal speech, but transcend it.

Old God names like Cthulu, Nyarlathotep and YHWH were effective attempts at cumbersome words uncomfortable on the tongue, but accepted pronunciations already exist for them.

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They weren’t actually all that unspeakable. They were just styled in unfamiliar configurations. At the end of the day, they’re still beautified.

Written to be read as part of literature, an elevated and stylized form of language. For better or worse these great writers were still limited by their reluctance to shun the beauty and structure of formal writing.

But nowadays, there’s no such shame on the medium of the internet.

Okay. Try and pronounce this.

1) Skkskskksskskdjdjsjsjsjs

How about this.

2) Asdfgsadfsfassddfghfdsa

This?

3) Xcn.z,xcnv.,cxzn

What if I told you only one of the three is actually real gibberish? You could actually send the other two as a message and people would understand you.

The first one was clearly typed on a phone. If you were to mash the keys on the keypad of your phone your thumbs would most likely hit the opposite ends in alternate order mainly “s” and “k”. The second one was typed on a keyboard. The tell for that is the “asdf ” keys or “hjkl” keys next to each other. The third one doesn’t look like anything. It feels off, looks off, even by a netizen’s standards. That is because the unspoken rule for mashing keys, is that they have to come from the middle row of letters. Even internet gibberish has some syntax to it.

To people who make use of informal expressions like myself, there is something so satisfying about the crunchiness of a good swearing or the visibly chaotic slap of a keyboard mash. Maybe

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it’s not a coincidence at all that it is in informal and improper language that people nowadays are finding an outlet in to convey the unconventional and improper emotions that are so hard to put a finger on. Mashes are like cursing but even more amorphous. Also like cursing, they are totally informal empty signifiers. But they don’t have to be dissociated from their original meaning like swear words, because there is nothing to dissociate from. They fulfill the unutterable quality that speechlessness is supposed to imply, the kind that the Old Gods’ names were meant to evoke but, since they’re already inherently typos, no one is compelled to try and be pretty about it. A tongue-incheekness is also inherent to every key mash.

There’s a reason I started this essay with a scene from the sitcom Community, not the Divine Paradise of God, not the Unspeakable Lovecraftian Horrors. The line between awe and awkward is finer that one might think. Both can stop you in your tracks, render you at a loss for words, but the former is just not serious enough to feel like it warrants speechlessness. That’s part of what makes awkwardness feel so off. You could never make an asdklfjalsdkj work for a grave tragedy or a solemn celebration. Awkwardness rests in an uncomfortable point where something affects you but lacks just enough gravitas to feel appropriate. It can be laughable and infuriating at the same time. That’s why key smashes lend themselves so well to the awkward.

Because they match that uncomfortabilitityness with something equally inappropriate in register.

So, how do some of the worst writers of the 21st Century express the inexpressible online?

Adslkfjd;sldkfjdfsjlkdsjflkdsagjdfslkjaskdjfldsajfladfjladfjladgfjldfjlkdh There’s no telling what could lie ahead for the act of key mashing. Trends and modes of expression, they come and go. Maybe the content will change with the mediums as the sizes and formats of keyboards/pads change. Maybe it’ll evolve like emoticons evolved into emojis. Maybe we’ll soon find jumbled letters in calligraphy and 9

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art. Or maybe it will just fade into obscurity and eventually we’ll all be making fun of that one friend of ours who still does it. Still, one would be remiss to overlook these dumb quirky lines of gibberish in our posts, tweets, and messages as the cultural artifacts of NOW that they are.

Whatever happens, one thing’s for sure. It won’t be the last of humanity’s attempts to express the inexpressible. The drive to chase after the things that so stubbornly elude our powers of expression will always need to be around. Cheers to the writers great and terrible for pushing those limits of expression.

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CIELO MARIE VICENCIO

Kung Sino Man Ang Nakikinig mixed media

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ADRIAN NEIL HOL GADO

Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli Si Ian Holgado ay isang mag-aaral sa Pamantasang De La Salle na nag-aaral ng Sikolohiya. Tahimik naman siyang mag-ingay sa mga bagay-bagay; panulat at tinimplang 3-in-1 lamang ang katapat.

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Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli

I.

Almusal Nila

Ang mutsatsa’y pinatawag na’t pinahanda ng masustansyang agahan— maaring piging sa pagbati ng bagong araw o kapalit ng nakaraang hapunan.

Mukhang masarap ang kanilang handa: Itlog na tila kahel ang dilaw— pagkasira nito’y dumausdos ang hilaw, sinangag na may mga butil na bawang— bundok-bundok sa plato’y nagaabang, longganisa’y di ko nabibilang kung ilan— ilan-ila’y tinutusok gamit ang tinidor, kutsara’y kumislap sa kintab.

Pagkalipas ng ilan pa sa aking mga paglalarawan, pansin ko sa dulo’y nagsiligpitan na sa hapag-kainan.

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II. Tira-Tira Ang mutsatsa’y pinatawag na’t pinahanda ng masustansyang agahan— maaring piging sa pagbati ng bagong araw o kapalit ng nakaraang hapunan.

Mukhang masarap ang kanilang handa: Itlog na tila kahel ang dilaw— pagkasira nito’y dumausdos ang hilaw, sinangag na may mga butil na bawang— bundok-bundok sa plato’y nagaabang, longganisa’y di ko nabibilang kung ilan— ilan-ila’y tinutusok gamit ang tinidor, kutsara’y kumislap sa kintab.

Pagkalipas ng ilan pa sa aking mga paglalarawan, pansin ko sa dulo’y nagsiligpitan na sa hapag-kainan.

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Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli

III. Paghugas Ang mutsatsa’y pinatawag na’t nangolekta ng masustansyang pang-hapunan— maaring piging sa pagbati ng bagong araw o gabing nakaraang pagsasaluhan.

Mukhang masarap ang kanilang handa: Itlog na tila kahel ang makulay— pagkakulay nito’y umaangat ang hilaw, kanin na may mga butil na puti— bundok-bundok sa basura’y nagaabang, longganisa’y di ko nakakalat ang ilan— ilan-ila’y hinihimay gamit ang kamay, daliri’y kumislap sa kintab.

Pagkalipas ng ilan pa sa aking munting pagpupulot, pansin ko sa dulo’y nagsiligpitan kailangan pa itong hugasan.

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IV. Pagluluto Ang tagaluto’y pinatawag na’t nangolekta ng mga pinulot at hinugasan— maaaring piging ang pagluto ng bagong hapunan sa gabing pagsasaluhan.

Masarap ang aming ihahanda: Itlog na nilagyan pa ng kulay— pagkahalo nito’y mabango ang amoy, kanin na puro butil na puti— wala nang duming maisasalang, longganisa’y himay na ang ilan— idinadagdag sa halo gamit lang ang pansandok at mangalawang na kawali.

Pagkalipas ng paghahalo’t nagbabango sa mismong lutuan, pansin ko sa aming handa’y pwede na itong ilagay sa hapag-kainan.

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Hapunan Ko’y Pagpag Muli

V.

Hapunan Ko

Ang tagaluto’y pinatawag na’t nangolekta ng mga pinulot at hinugasan— maaaring piging ang pagluto ng bagong hapunan sa gabing pagsasaluhan.

Masarap ang aming ihahanda: Itlog na nilagyan pa ng kulay— pagkahalo nito’y mabango ang amoy, kanin na puro butil na puti— wala nang duming maisasalang, longganisa’y himay na ang ilan— idinadagdag sa halo gamit lang ang pansandok at mangalawang na kawali.

Pagkalipas ng paghahalo’t nagbabango sa mismong lutuan, pansin ko sa aming handa’y pwede na itong ilagay sa hapag-kainan.

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PHILIPPE BERNARD CABAL

Nostos Algia Photocopies

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GUION LORENZO CASTRO

Ang Halimaw ng Santa Catalina

Kakaiba ang hangin ngayon sa Santa Catalina; tahimik ang lahat

ng tao, at ni isang kahol ng aso’y wala kang maririnig. Ang tanging tunog lamang ay ang pagsipol ng hangin sa gitna ng mga kawayang nagkakaskasan sa tabi ng kubo. Tila wala namang kakaiba, pero sa gabing ito limang minuto bago mag-alas-onse, mulat pa rin ang mga mata ni Ed. Sa ilalim ng kulambo, para siyang ibong nakakulong sa hawla.

Hindi niya matanggal sa isip ang kwento ni Tatang tungkol sa mga halimaw, kaya naman nagtutunog-ungol ang pagsipol ng hangin, nagmimistulang mga paang kumakaladkad sa lupa ang pagkakaskasan ng mga kawayan, at tila papalapit nang papalapit ang bawat anino.

Nakapagtataka dahil hindi naman matatakutin si Ed, ngunit nagpipintig ngayon ang kanyang puso, tumataas ang kanyang balahibo. Kaya mababaw ang tulog niya, nakakunot ang noo at nakakapit nang mahigpit ang mga kamay sa kumot.

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Mabilis na hinabol ng liwanag ng araw ang natitirang dilim.

Umaga na.

“Ed, bangon na diyan!” tilaok ni Nanay Baby. Nagsisimula na siyang magwalis sa loob ng maliit na kubo. Tumingin si Ed sa kama ng kanyang lolo’t lola. Wala na si Tatang, maaga sigurong tumungo sa bukirin.

“Nga-a ka tulala diyan?” tanong ni Nanay Baby.

Nilapat ni Ed ang kanyang mga paa sa sahig, humikab, at tinanggal ang muta sa kanyang mga mata. “Dili lang po maayos ang tulog,” sagot ni Ed.

Tumigil si Nanay Baby sa pagwawalis at tiningnan ang apo.

“Dahil na naman ba sa halimaw? Dios ko Eduardo, ‘wag ka nang magpani-paniwala sa mga ‘yon.” Hindi alam ni Ed kung galit ang kanyang lola, pero rinig niya ang bahid ng pagbabala.

Alas-diyes na ng umaga, kanina pa malamig ang kapeng nakahain sa lamesa. Umupo si Ed sa bangko, walang gana, nang biglang pumasok si Tatang, kagagaling lang sa bukid, pawisin. Daladala niya ang isang karatulang may pulang kamao na dali-dali niyang itinago sa ilalim ng kama. Umupo si Tatang sa bangkong katapat ni Ed at kumuha ng bimpo. Pinunasan niya ang pawis na tumatagaktak sa kanyang noo. Tinikman ni Ed ang kape—matabang.

“Anong sabi ng mga kasama?” Tapos na si Nanay Baby sa paglilinis, umupo siya sa tabi ng dalawa. Umiling lang si Tatang, “Apat na raw sa San Isidro. Papalapit na sila nang papalapit.” Hindi naiintindihan ni Ed ang kanilang usapan, kaya pinaglaruan na lang niya ang kutsarita sa tasa, iniikot-ikot. Tumilamsik ang kape sa lamesa. “Huling araw na ng bungkalan mamaya.” Tumayo si Tatang, inilapag ang bimpo, bumakas sa puti ang mantsa ng kape. “Mauuna na ‘ko.”

“Mag-iingat ka!” bilin ni Nanay Baby bago siya pumunta sa 24

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likuran ng bahay upang maglaba. Hindi sumagot si Tatang.

Naiwang mag-isa si Ed. Naalala niya ang katapusan ng bungkalan ilang buwan na ang nakalipas—ang gabing ikinwento ni Tatang ang mga halimaw ng Santa Catalina.

Napasobra ang inom ni Tatang noong gabing iyon.

Pagkauwi niya, si Ed na lang ang gising, nakaupo sa labas ng kubo, pinakikinggan ang huni ng mga kuliglig. Tumabi siya sa apo, amoy lupa ang damit, amoy alak ang hininga.

“Ed,” tahimik niyang sambit, “Tumatanda na ang Tatang.”

Hindi makita ni Ed ang mukha ni Tatang, natatakpan ng mga anino. “Sa edad kong ‘to, may mga sikretong dapat ‘di na tinatago.”

“Ang imo mga magulang...” Dati nang sinubukang magtanong ni Ed tungkol sa kanila, ngunit nagalit lang si Nanay Baby kaya hindi niya na sinubukan muli. “Hindi mo na sila nakilala, pero lumaki rin sila diri sa tubuhan, sanay sa sikat ng araw. Madalas sabihin ng ‘yong itay, ‘Ining lupa ang nagbibigay buhay sa’tin, at sa lupa rin tayo mamamatay.’ Tama siya, Ed.” Sumilip ang buwan sa gitna ng mga ulap, bakas sa mukha ni Tatang ang pait ng pag-alaala.

“Patapos na ang bungkalan noon nang biglang dumating ang mga halimaw. Walang natirang buhay, ni isa.”

Matagal bago muling makapagsalita si Tatang, kaya’t ang tunog ng gabi muna ang nagpunan sa mga patlang.

“Maraming halimaw dito sa Santa Catalina, pero hindi mo sila makikilala sa umaga,” tahimik ang boses ni Tatang, “Lumalabas lang sila tuwing gabi.”

“Nagtatago sila sa dilim ng mga tubo. Tumatakbo na singbilis ng mga anino. At kapag hindi mo inaasahan, doon ka nila kukunin gamit ang matatalim nilang kuko.” Hindi matatakutin si 25

Ang Halimaw ng Santa Catalina

Ed, yun ang madalas niyang sinasabi sa sarili. Ngayon, hindi na siya sigurado.

“Pero ‘Tang, bakit hindi tayo lumalaban sa mga halimaw?”

Pilit na tinanong ni Ed kahit nanginginig ang boses. Tiningnan niya si Tatang ngunit hindi niya mabasa ang emosyon nito.

sila.”

“Lumalaban tayo, Ed. Sadyang mas makapangyarihan lang

Hindi nakatulog si Ed noong gabing iyon.

Ibinaba ni Ed ang kutsarita at tumungo siya sa bukid.

Tumamis ang simoy ng hangin paglagpas ni Ed sa mga kawayan—nasa tubuhan na siya. Dahan-dahang naglakad si Ed sa gitna ng mga tubong tila sabay-sabay na nagsasalita. Hindi maintindihan ni Ed ang kanilang mga kwento. Sa dilim ng makakapal na tubo, iba-ibang anino ang nagsusulputan. Binilisan ni Ed ang paglalakad.

Nakita niya sa gitna ng bukid si Tatang, nakaupo sa ilalim ng isang panakot-ibon. Tinatanaw niya ang malawak na lupain sa dakong labas ng Santa Catalina.

Nagbago ang kanyang mukha nang makita si Ed.

“Anong ginagawa mo dito?” Paparating na ang ibang kasamahan ni Tatang mula sa dulo ng bukid, nagtatatawanan.

“Lalaban ba kayo sa mga halimaw ngayon?” Sabik na tanong ni Ed, ngunit nanlumo lang ang mga mata ni Tatang. Hindi siya sumagot.

“Ka Narciso!” Sabi ng isang magsasaka. Tumakbo papalapit.

“Mamaya na tayo mag-usap, Ed. Mahaba pa ang araw.”

Isinantabi na siya ni Tatang at itinuon ang atensyon sa bagong dating na kasama.

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Rinig ni Ed ang kwentuhan ng “Tiempo Muerto, panahon ng patay. Swerte na kung sa gutom ka mamamatay.” Tawanan.

Mabagal ang lakad ni Ed, kaya nagtatago na ang araw sa likod ng mga tubo nang siya’y makauwi. Tapos na maglaba si Nanay Baby at naghahanda na ito ng hapunan.

Sinubukan ni Ed maghintay, pero nilunok na ng langit ang liwanag at niluwa ang dilim, ngunit wala pa rin si Tatang.

Nagising si Ed alas-dos nang umaga, sa tunog ng pinto.

Palabas si Tatang.

“Tatang!” Sinubukan siyang habulin ni Ed.

“Matulog ka na, Ed,” sabi ni Tatang, gulat. “Pupunta lang ako sa bukid.”

May pulang telang nakatali sa kanang braso ni Tatang. Daladala niya ang karatulang itinago niya noong umaga. Alam ni Ed na hindi siya pupunta sa bukid para magbungkal, ngunit wala na lang sinabi si Ed. Bumalik na lang ito sa kama at humiga.

Mabigat ang katahimikan. Pintig lamang ng sarili niyang puso ang naririnig ni Ed. Matapos ang ilang minuto, sigawan.

Tunog-tao.

Putok.

Sigaw.

Putok.

Sigaw.

Lumakas ang langitngit ng mga tubo’t kawayan, tila nakikisali sa kaguluhan.

27

At biglaan—katahimikan.

Ang Halimaw ng Santa Catalina

Pumikit si Ed at nagdasal na sana magtagumpay ang kanyang lolo laban sa mga halimaw. Nakatulog siyang magkakapit pa ang dalawang kamay, panalangin ang huling nasa labi.

“Manang Baby!” Malakas ang katok sa pintuan. “Manang Baby! Si Tatang!” Agad-agarang tumayo si Nanay Baby, maling paa pa ang naipasok sa tsinelas.

Sumunod si Ed, tumatakbo para makahabol. Dumaan siya sa tubuhan, ngunit hindi niya na naaamoy ang tamis. Hindi niya na naririnig ang kaskasan at pagsipol. Tahimik. Tila may itinatagong sikreto. Tila saksi ang mga tubo sa isang kasalanan.

Tumigas ang lupa. Natapakan ni Ed ang karatulang markado ng pulang kamao, ngayo’y mantsado ng pulang tilamsik.

Sa gitna ng bukid, nakita ni Ed ang tatlong panakot-ibon.

Lahat ay nakatali sa poste, suot-suot ang kanilang polo at kupas na maong. Nakatakip ang kanilang ulo ng sakong itinali ng lubid sa leeg. Sariwa pa ang bakas ng pula.

Lumuhod si Nanay Baby sa harap ng panakot-ibon sa gitna.

May pulang tela sa kanang braso.

Hinila ang tali.

Tinanggal ang sako.

Umagos ang dugo.

Rinig ang iyak ni Nanay Baby sa buong Santa Catalina, tagos sa puso’t laman ng bawat taong nasa bukid. Ramdam ni Ed ang takot na bumalot sa baryo—inuubos na sila ng mga halimaw.

Tatlong araw matapos mailibing si Tatang, may karatula nang nakatayo sa lugar kung saan siya nahanap.

Nakasulat: “Santa Catalina Homes. Under Construction.”

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CHRISTIAN JEO TALAGUIT

Kagubatan ng Kadiliman

I Kagubatan ng kadiliman Na iniwan ng araw, Huwag mo itong dadaanan Dahil nakaliligaw.

Isa ako sa mga saksi Nitong kababalaghan Na nagpalaho ng marami Na namamasyal lamang.

Isa rin akong tulad ninyo, ‘Di nakinig sa bilin, Lumakbay sa pinakadako Na ‘di abot ng hangin.

At doon ko na nga nalaman Kung bakit may paglaho; Pakalat-kalat sa kagubatan Mga bali na buto.

May humiyaw sa halamanan Doon sa aking likod Gaya ng pakakak panlaban; Baga ko’y lumalambot.

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Malate Literary Folio

II Hindi na nagdalawang-isip, Utos ng kaluluwa, Hindi na nga nagtumpik-tumpik, “Takbo na mga paa!”

Napaisip at napanilay Itong gipit na utak.

Nauubusan man ng malay, Buhay pa rin ang hanap.

Papalakas ang mga padyak Na tila sumasabog.

Pag-asa ko’y nababatak, Tino ko’y lumulubog.

Nagsumamo ako’t yumuko Sa malangaw na lupa.

Sabi ng giring pulang puso, “Saklolo po, Bathala!”

Nakarinig ako ng tinig Sa kataas-taasan.

Ngumiti ang araw sa langit Nang ulap ay mabuksan.

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III Isang mistulang bulalakaw Sa harap ko’y bumaba.

Nataranta itong halimaw Sa bakas ng Bathala!

Tumakbo’t nagtungo ang hayop Sa dakong ‘di matanto Na pinalilibutan ng hamog At doon na nagtago.

Ito ang sunod kong nakita: Dalisay na babae, Walang katunggali sa ganda, May buhok pang maputi.

Nabighani ako sa kanya Ngunit baliwala rin.

Nakapangkasal siyang bestida, Mayroon nang kapiling.

“Narito akong Espirito, Isinugo ng Ama. Nagpapakita ngayon sayo Sa anyo ng Iglesia.”

31

DANA TAN

Guiding Light digital art

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

RYANN TING

Another Star You must be thinking Who are you?

Where am I? How did I get here?

No need to panic.

Just a change of venue.

I’m going to untie you now.

All good? All good.

We’re pressed for time, So I’m cutting this shor— Oh. I can’t believe you’re finally here.

Sorry, I— I’m a big fan.

You were my favorite.

I can’t very well leave you in the dark. Not You. Who bedazzled time with such sound!

I’m going to tell you a secret. Okay?

Just for you.

But you have to promise Not to tell a single soul.

Okay, okay, breathe. Five minutes ago You OD’d in your dressing room.

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Malate Literary Folio

The boys brought you down here.

You know the saying About hell breaking loose?

It almost did once.

Tantalus was getting too quick For the streams and fruit trees To elude him.

Sisyphus had grown strong Enough to hurl his boulder Through the Boss’s head.

Even old Prometheus had raised The birds that ate off his innards To follow him.

All around, the damned Were rising up To their damnation.

The Boss knew it. We knew it.

It was only a matter of time Before they all knew it too.

And then one day, Down came a man, A live one.

Armed with strings, A salacious silver tongue, And a voice like syrup.

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He sang of his wife, Their stolen years, pleading To break her out of here.

He sang of the tears From those above, And so below The world disappeared.

In sweet words about breaking free Hell had disappeared.

For that moment, the tension Tugging at the chains Lifted.

Tantalus stared blankly At the fruit branch Lording above him.

Sisyphus slid back Down the hill With his boulder.

Prometheus lay back And waited for the familiar Pecking at his guts.

And now whenever Flames in this place Boil too high,

35

Another Star

We pluck another star From above And make a festival of it.

Quickly now, There isn’t much time.

They’re saying you’re on in five.

Wardrobe’s through there.

Hair and make-up through here.

Instruments are ready for you on stage.

No time for a sound check, I’m afraid.

But don’t you worry baby, You’ll find hell has the best acoustics.

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

FRANCIS D’ANGELO MINA

Regalia

I’m sorry, Ate, Leonora thought, turning the key.

Pouches of cat livers, bracelets of crocodile teeth, and other oddities were neatly arranged in the silver box, and she remembered.

“The last princess of Old Tondo hid these before the invaders could destroy them,” Ate Elena had noted. “We are lucky to have these in our possession, yet they pose a dangerous power if they are mistreated. As the descendants, the women of the Virgel de Dios family are allowed to wield it.” She tut-tutted. “One amulet for one person, for courage, for wisdom.” Leonora further examined the box’s contents until she frowned.

“Lola Teresa has her prayer book; I have my cockerel crown.

Mama had a pebble of some kind, and I think it might be with her…

Oh, this one!” Ate brightened the room that day. Lola Teresa chortled heartily at the sight. “I think this one suits you well. The black string is smooth, and the color matches your skin.” Her eyes had lightened up, and when Ate held out her right hand for Leonora to have it, a warmth

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Malate Literary Folio

streamed from her fingers, and when Leonora opened her right hand to look, it felt like the whole world was placed unto her. “You’ll love it,” Ate Elena assured, and they both grinned at the excitement and the fortune it would bring.

Leonora opened her right hand to look, there was no warmth, the warmth dissipated, the warmth replaced with the lacking cold, and Ate’s voice, once clear, rippling even, now sloshing in muddy water.

How long has it been? Too long.

Over the neck she wore the thing. For the umpteenth time, the fingers of her right hand crept up to her breast and entwined themselves with the black string, tied to a copper plate for her copper skin, square and about the size of an ordinary jewel, yet greater in value. She ran her fingers across macmamitam maepomamem, the strange, embossed engravings set in lingua franca that surrounded an eye in a winged triangle, emanating golden rays. It never glowed.

But it will again, for Ate. She closed the box, grabbed her bag and left the house for the street, with the setting sun behind her and a throbbing weight on her chest.

“Don’t forget to always bring your umbrella. It might rain!” Ate Elena’s voice rang.

Leonora opened her bag again to check if it was there. They said there wouldn’t be a downpour, but she remembered not to expect stars. The last shades of orange swathed the sky, as the clouds closed in for the day. Puddles scattered here and there, remains from the earlier shower. This dirt road was never safe from flooding, for the stony streams were slithering a few meters away, and some of the waste from Bayan found their way there.

It was always a celebration when the trees bowed in courtesy and the cooler winds broke the summer spell. Ate reveled in the rain, 70 38

Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

and it put her in a good mood, unlike twelve-year-old Leonora who would rather stay in the comfort of her bed, after classes were cancelled.

From the road, Ate Elena would holler “Leonora! Leonora!” and she would look out the window, at her sister drenched from head to toe, unmindful of the water dripping on her face. Leonora, almost always in rejection, shook her head and buried herself under her pillows, only for a sopping wet Ate to barge into her room and drag her out by the arm. “Ate, no! I don’t want to get sick!”

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s raining, you should be enjoying this!” Ate Elena giggled, despite Leonora’s protests. “Besides, the amulet will protect you from sickness. Don’t worry!’ and with that, Ate pushed her sister out of the house and into a puddle, and before she can stand again and walk back to the house, Ate lunged at her like a predator does with its prey, and chased her farther, farther away from their home.

“You aren’t coming back to the house, Leonora!” Ate Elena shouted with a playfulness in her voice. Soon, the other kids her age who ventured all the way from Bayan to scamper and slide joined in, and Ate Elena became the temporary ringleader of this gang of rainy rituals.

“I feel like a kid again,” Ate Elena surmised, wiping Leonora’s hair with a towel. “Did you enjoy it?”

An honest answer. “No. There was mud all over my fingers, and my legs were falling off.” She frowned so that Ate would know, but that did not do any good.

“You did enjoy it, Leonora, and you don’t want to admit it.

The amulet protected you. You’ll be fine.” Ate leaned in for a kiss on the cheek, but no, she got off her chair and ran back to her room.

“Aw. No kiss for me?”

Excuses, excuses. How long has it been? Too long. The fingers

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Regalia

of her right hand crept up to her breast, she ran her fingers across its strange, embossed engravings, she took a deep breath–

“Look out for cars. See if their headlights are on!” Ate Elena’s voice echoed.

Leonora turned her head to the right. Here, the occasional vehicle slogged by at first, careful to perfect the crunching sound when they drove over the gravel, then raced by as the path cleared on unfinished asphalt. The roaring of a tricycle grew in volume, and the speck of white light steadily approaching, and she saw it pass: the driver in his green vest, the passenger clinging on behind him, speeding out of the grassy neverland and into Bayan. For a while, Leonora thought the passenger to be Ate, suddenly a raging, anxious wreck, rushing home again.

“Haven’t you hurt anyone yet, Leonora?” she snapped.

Leonora saw Ate Elena emerge from under the fence. “No?” She thought for a moment. “What makes you think I do that?”

“Your good friend David told me.” Ate Elena’s expression darkened.

Of all the people– “That’s not important right now. Anyway, I’ve got a plan–”

“Why? His face is battered up, and he lost three teeth. You could have killed him there and then!”

“I was just asking him to lend me some money!” Leonora retorted. A lot of money. aaaaa

“By beating him up when he refused?” Three steps forward, and she slapped her sister with a crack, and her cheek kissed the ground, and before Leonora can stand again and maybe defend herself

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with a swift jab at the chest, Ate shoved her again to the grass. The light of the house shone on Leonora’s pearly whites gone red.

“Do you think I’ll let this slide? Do you want to justify what you did?” she growled. “Leonora, David is your friend. You do not go around punching your friends in the face with that strength of yours.

What will people say about you?”

Ate Elena grabbed her by the arm and lifted her up; Leonora brushed off her hand.

“Do you have anything else to say, Leonora? Do you even know what you’re doing?” The fire was in her voice, and her breathing caught on with the words she said to the wind.

“Yes, I know exactly what I’m doing. This amulet is mine,” Leonora said softly, with the hard cracking of knuckles.

“It’s because of that amulet that you’ve grown powerful.” Ate gritted her teeth. “But you never remember, do you? You never listen.

If people mistake them for a cheap accessory, that’s fine, but never show them what they can do. Leonora, use the amulet only when you need it.”

“But I did need it.” When she needed to ace her Physics final, she did not trouble herself studying. When she had to help Chris Sandoval from the local tough nut, she raised her legs and kicked him in the head. When she starved, and she didn’t have any more cash to spend, she concealed herself and snuck off with a bag of chips from Nenita’s sari-sari store. The drama was fun, but the days became weeks, became months, and still she loved it. “This thing is mine, and it’s for my own good, no matter what you say!”

“That thing which you always notice, when you couldn’t give the time of day for me?” Ate Elena took a heel-turn and rushed back to the house.

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Regalia

“Is that how it is? I told you, I know what I’m doing with it.

I don’t need you to tell me!” No reply.

Excuses, excuses. How long has it been? Too long. The fingers of her right hand crept up to her breast, she ran her fingers across its strange, embossed engravings, she took a deep breath–

“Be careful at this time of night. You don’t want to come across questionable people, do you?” Ate Elena’s voice echoed.

The final streetlight was about seventy steps away from the end of the dirt road and the moon was steady in its rising from behind black clouds, but it did not warrant enough visibility. Leonora fished out her flashlight and trekked across the damp grass, crickets chirping.

The tree stood at least thirty feet tall and still growing, its bark hard as hide, its branches welcoming. The wisps of smoke ascended from the rustling acacia leaves the moment she stopped walking. There was no wind.

“You can come out now!” she yelled.

There came a thud-thud-thud, and a voice the size of the tree boomed from the dark green. “What are you thinking, Leonora Vergel de Dios?” Perched on one of the branches, the man that appeared before her did not grin anymore. He was unusually gigantic, from his mouth to his feet to his eyes, hairy throughout. His clothing was muddied and torn, and he reeked of lung cancer. The kapre took a long drag at his cigar. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Yes, Asap. Anything for Ate,” she said.

“Anything to rid that thing around your neck?” Asap squinted.

“I don’t remember making that, though. And it’s a work of art.”

Leonora did not answer; instead, an unwavering stare.

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Asap jumped down from the branch, and the earth rumbled.

“No one has ever done what you’ll do. It’s dangerous, and you will risk your life!”

“Asap, I have made my decision.” She met his black, beady eyes.

He took a whiff and made a gesture to follow him. He made large strides, so Leonora picked up the pace. There were barely any houses here; field upon field of tall grass washed the earth, cut off by desolate Arellano St. coming up a few meters. Her flashlight lit the way, the brightness in intervals with the dark. Ate never feared the dark, no matter how late she left or how early she arrived. It didn’t matter that there were no streetlights, it didn’t matter that the waiting shed was the home of drunkards, as long as she is able to grab a ride to Bayan, it’ll do. That did not stop her from calling Leonora at six in the evening to accompany her there. Merely two weeks.

“How was your day at school?”

“The usual,” Leonora slurred as her sister caught on by her.

“You?” “I got to eat good food today. It was a boodle fight. I swear I hadn’t eaten that much since our Sunday nights with Lola Teresa…”

She trailed off; Leonora was on her phone.

“Have you visited Lola Teresa lately?”

“Yeah.” Leonora caught a glimpse of Lola’s caretaker, scurrying down the halls with a mop and a set of diapers. The other seniors were caught in the crossfire, as Lola thrashed the chapel, demanding to know where she is, where is her amulet, where are her granddaughters.

“Not even a ‘Hello, I’ve missed you’ or that sort of thing.”

Ate Elena frowned. “Still, you were there. You should have made the effort and talked to her, maybe she would have recognized you,” she said. “She’s getting lonely.”

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Regalia

“She’s used to being lonely,” Leonora replied, texting away on her phone. “Besides, she has the staff with her.”

“But she doesn’t like them,” Ate scolded. “Pay her a visit again.

That’ll make her day. Why, last Sunday I came up to her–”

“Yeah, yeah, Ate, you told me that. I’ll go if I have the time.”

She stopped in her tracks and pocketed her phone.

“Why did you stop?” Ate Elena called, and reached out to touch her shoulder, and saw Leonora handing out her wallet, with three thousand-peso bills sandwiched inside.

this.”

Ate stepped back. “This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about

“Yes, and this will be the last. Please accept it,” she nudged.

“See? I’m using the magic word.”

“I told you. This isn’t how you use the amulet.”

“But I’m helping you!” Leonora roared. “Don’t you want the help?”

“Yes, I need help, but not like this!” Ate raised her voice.

“That amulet is not for betting!”

“Shut up, Ate. I like it!” Leonora flared.

“Don’t make the same mistake Mama did! She thought that pebble of hers would bring her all the luck in the world, but where is she now? In the city, living with some guy who’s probably leeching off her savings? By now, she’s pawned that thing off, and I don’t want that to happen to you!”

“I’m wiser than Mama. I know my limits!” Leonora cracked her knuckles. “You said we needed money to pay the bills, and I’ll be paying my own tuition from now. I’ll be helping you.”

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“No. I’ll find my own ways.”

“Ate, I’ll help you. And I am helping you!” She threw the bills at Ate’s face. “You should be thankful.”

Is that how it is?

“Leonora, stop.” Ate scrunched up her forehead. “This isn’t about the money anymore.” She slung her bag on her shoulders. “You are too much for me now.” She turned her head for the nearing tricycle.

“You’ve made so many mistakes, but have I ever told you anything?

Not much?” She brushed up her hair. “I hoped you had learned this time, but I was wrong, again.” She sat behind the driver, unsmiling, the fingers of her right hand clinging on the railing. “Let’s talk things through. My shift ends early at eleven. I’ll be back.” She took off.

“Isn’t that very selfish of you, Ate? Thinking how you can handle everything yourself, when there are people who want to help you?” She followed the tricycle, shouting: “I’m doing you a favor! If you don’t want it, then I’d rather not be your sister anymore! Don’t come back!”

Why didn’t you come back, Ate? Leonora and Asap had crossed the fields, through the darker earth, and she had felt the cold rise.

They did not enter the main gate. That meant they did not pass by the mausoleums and their guardians of stone, or the rows of square tombs built like apartments. The two landed on the trimmed grass, treeless plain, and two white lights floating in the distance. “Reconciliation is just up ahead,” Asap whispered, taking a drag. Leonora nodded.

They were there: the freshly dug hole that reeked of the rain shower, the dirt piled up like a naked mountain reaching high, the unfinished marker, decorated with only a giant “E” in calligraphy, the white casket blending with the light, both panels open for to release the putrid stench.

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Leonora glanced at the kapre, the worry in his black, beady eyes. “She wasn’t buried deep, so I dug her out. That’ll make it easier for her.”

“Thank you, Asap. I owe you one,” she said, as the kapre retrieved another stick from his packet.

The weight was throbbing, the burden thumping, she came forth to the casket, and the stench slammed onto her, I’m sorry, Ate, Leonora thought, the fingers of her right hand crept up to her chest and entwined themselves with a black string, a copper plate for her copper skin, she ran her fingers across its strange, embossed engravings, feeling the coldness sync with the evening air, she took a deep breath– The amulet shone, it shone but faintly, it shone as if the whole world were placed unto her, it shone and the warmth was there, fading, fading, until there was no warmth, the warmth dissipated, the warmth replaced by the lacking cold again, and the groaning increased in volume, the throatiness of it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand, the groaning, the stench wafting, Leonora choked, come back, she flailed, tripped, out of the casket, (the police told her where the accident was) she opened her mouth, dotted with fungi, drip-drip-drip, (11:04PM, at Dominguez St.) she stood, she tried to stand, the layers of her bloated skin sliding off, come back, (the driver, with a fractured leg) she stood again, green, black, blue, a mass of cheek falling off her face, (to be found at the police station) slashed eyes, sunken eyes, white eyes, (Elena Vergel de Dios, with a broken body) groaning again, drip-drip-drip from her wounds, come back, (and a broken cockerel crown) from the wounds, a family of maggots, (at the emergency room, no time to transfuse blood) the smell, her white dress, tainted, her beautiful face gone, putrid, (she could have used the blood) drip-drip-drip, green, black, blue, (she could have done something) approaching her, (anything) a shriek, a long shriek, (why didn’t you come back?) Leonora caught her Ate in her arms,

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tears mingling with the fluids, (why didn’t you come back?) Leonora tightened her embrace, larvae slithering down her face, (why didn’t you come back?) Leonora winced, her Ate nearly overpowering her, scratching her, red arms, come back to me, Ate, please I have a lot to say “Leonora. Leonora.”

“No, no. Please smile for me. Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.”

“That thing on your neck won’t do anything for me now.”

“But it has done a lot for you, no? I’m glad.”

“Leonora. Leonora.”

“Before I go, don’t forget about my reminders.”

“Don’t forget to talk to your friend David, if you can. Don’t lose him.”

“Don’t forget to visit Lola, if you can. Make time for her.”

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You are more than what that has given you.”

“Leonora… Leonora…”

“I’m happy to have a sister such as you.”

Right hand on right hand, the fingers entwined themselves.

The kapre knelt down on the grass, picked up the amulet and, in one brisk motion, he enveloped his fist and opened it again, a puff of dust escaping into the sky. “Shame to destroy a beauty,” Asap complained. He glanced at the body lying motionless on the grass, and Leonora, standing there, her arm bleeding, maggots falling down her hair, her right hand on her sister’s, letting go slowly.

She looked back at him and wiped her face. “That thing you 47

Regalia

did was forbidden, but what’s done is done. Your Ate would have been proud.” He gave a sad smile and made the gesture of shooing her away.

“I’ll clean up your mess,” he said, and she escaped him and left him there, as the traces of his smoke died out and a real wind flew past.

Outside, Leonora closed her eyes, and opened them. A cloudy sky above her, and a night borne from mourning, the fingers of her right hand felt strangely empty, and for a moment she scrambled to find it–

Drip-drip-drip. A pattering came from in front of her, faster and faster and faster, until the earth was stained with tears. She opened her bag and took out her umbrella, to start again for the dirt road, for the long way back.

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KYLE NOEL IBARRA

Decay

Malate Literary Folio

You sit at home, decaying.

A future undetermined.

You feel the weight of a waterfall, an overwhelming nothing.

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You are washed away.

A violent limbo.

The certain uncertainty.

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INSERT PHOTOGRAPHER’S NAME

Insert Title Here

The infrastructure is rotten.

You rot along with it.

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53

Normality is dead, it decays.

This is your new reality.

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

Malate Literary Folio

VINCE GERARD VICTORIA

In The Subways After The War Today, my wife cooked rat soup. My son’s been crying since I

woke up. Our little hovel smells like we haven’t taken a bath in three months-- which is exactly what happened. During guard duty, I saw three children outside our metal walls. I tried to pull them inside, but they were already stuck to the ground— skin frigid, their gas masks only halfway covering their faces; I guess this is why my wife has been wiping my son’s tears away the whole day. I recognized one of them as my neighbor’s daughter. I hate that I’m the one who’s going to tell him. The elders tell me this has been happening once every few weeks, for the forty years that we’ve lived down here. I wouldn’t know. I was born here seventeen years ago. I have no clue how they can tell the time-- my skies have been gray and rusty forever. I go home after taking a few dirt-tasting shots of mushroom vodka; they help keep the howling voices in the pipes away. I kiss my wife good night. My son isn’t in his bed, but I’m sure he’s just playing with his friends.

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56

ADIA PAULINE LIM

Seklusyon

Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

ALLYSA NICOLE DEQUIÑO

Breathe

Breathing—we

all take it for granted. The preciseness of its functionality is something we never think about until it’s gone. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this—or why I’m even talking to you in the first place. If you’re going to listen in on my thoughts like a field agent on my house, I might as well be a good host and talk to you. Much less awkward this way.

So, I have a question for you: how do you breathe again? Inhale and exhale, right? Why is something so simple so difficult to do? Why does a tense situation have to make me feel like there’s not enough air in my lungs?

No answer, huh? Great.

I bet my ass you want to know what’s making me feel this way, too. You’re quite demanding, you know that? But don’t worry. You’ll find out in three… two… one…

“D-dad?” I choke out.

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I watch as he continues to make himself a cup of coffee on the counter opposite the table I’m sitting on. He’s just there, standing.

Guess you figured it out by now. The silence: that’s what’s making me lose my breathing.

People underestimate the power of unease. The way it makes your hands cold and shake. The way it makes your lungs crunch up.

The way it makes your heart beat like a drummer in a rock concert.

The way it makes you feel like your body isn’t yours anymore. It tries to control you. It tries to own you.

I try to stop the unease by forcing myself to do whatever it is that’s making me feel this way in the first place. I may not be a coward, but perhaps I’m an idiot for doing so. I can never stop shaking. Still, that doesn’t stop me. Huh, idiot, indeed.

So, should I talk to him? No, I shouldn’t. But I want to. I should.

No, I shouldn’t. God, what do I do? Rely on my stupid instincts? No, I shouldn’t talk to him.

“Dad, come on,” I beg, my jaws locking and shaking on their own. God, I’m so stupid. Why did I talk to him?

I hide my rapidly trembling hands under the table and squeeze them between my thighs.

It’s what I do to make people think I’m okay. Yes, I can hear what you’re thinking, too. You’re not the only one with that superpower.

And yes, of course, you’re right. It’s obvious. I’m not okay. I’m not okay. How the hell can I be okay? I don’t even know how to breathe.

I listen as the spoon he is using keeps on clanging on the sides of the cup.

Look at him. He’s ignoring me on purpose, I can tell. His head is down, and his eyes are fixated on his cup of coffee. I shouldn’t have talked to him. I’m so dumb.

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So, tell me again: how do you breathe? Because I feel the desire to rid the invisible hands choking my neck, and the desire to use my own hands to do it myself.

God, you really won’t answer me, huh? Fine.

I count five more seconds before I finally give up. He really isn’t going to talk to me. I let the silence ensue and try to continue getting some air into my lungs—a losing battle.

Should I scream? Just so something would happen? Should I keep prodding my dad until he yells at me? That would be progress, wouldn’t it? That would be better than this, right? No? Yes? Why aren’t you answering me? I need some answers right now. What is the point of you?

“Dad, please, talk to me. I miss talking to you,” I stupidly insist despite my will not to.

I hear dad sigh, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the counter… as if holding back a scream of his own. Or am I just imagining things again?

“Dad?” There, I’ve done it. I made things worse. Stupid. So stupid.

He turns around at that, his eyes turning to my direction for a second. Is it confusion, I see? Sadness? Pity? Or some combination of the three? Before I could analyze more, dad shakes his head, leaving the kitchen with his cup of coffee. No doubt about to go to the living room to have his breakfast there instead.

The moment he leaves, I let out a heavy breath.

You know, I’m not surprised that he didn’t answer me. I guess asking for something was asking too much. He hasn’t been talking to anyone for the past few days. As if he’s dreading this day for the past week. Then again, he has been quieter—more reserved—for the past months.

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Breathe

He wasn’t always like this, though. My dad and I were close when I was growing up. I don’t really know what changed. Was it puberty? Was it teenage angst? Was it because I’m a waste of space?

Was it because I’ve been letting him down? Because I let myself go after a long line of success in my younger years? Because now I’m not performing as well as I did before? Because I am broken? I wouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t been the best child to my parents for a long time.

What about you? Do you even have parents? I don’t even know what you are—a lurking being in my head. Shit, what is wrong with me? Why did I start talking to you today? Why are you here? Are you here to mock my stupidity?

“Alex?” I hear. “Alex, honey, are you okay?”

I look up to see my mom on the seat opposite mine, sporting a look of worry on her face.

I didn’t even see or hear her come in. Did you? Or did you also get lost within the fast and multiple contents of my head? Shit, should I start expecting people to appear like ghosts? What an entrance would that be, right?

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah, mom?”

“I’ve been calling your name five times already,” she says gently.

“You weren’t even moving.”

So, what do I say to that? Should I say that time hasn’t been real to me for a long time? That nothing has been real to me for a long time now? That I can get lost in my head? No. She won’t react too well with that. Yes, that’s good. This is not a stupid move.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I tell her instead.

“Is there… something on your mind?” she asks cautiously.

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She wants me to talk about my feelings again. That’s the kind of person she is. She cares too much, and she treats me like I’m fragile.

I love her, of course, and I appreciate what she’s trying to do… But sometimes, when she dances around a subject, I just want to throw things off the table and scream at the void. I’m not a patient person, you know.

“Mom, I’m fine,” I tell her casually.

She tilts her head, and I see her brows furrow. Of course, she knows me as much as I know her. She knows I’m not okay. I told you: I know how to read people’s minds like you do.

“What do you want, mom?” I ask quietly.

You know, I can never understand people’s desires to let their feelings out in the open. Why do it? You’re susceptible to vulnerabilities.

You’re laying it all out to another human being and they will have the power to destroy you. I can never give that power to someone else.

I’m not even giving you most of what I know and feel, and you’re directly inside my head. Maybe, this is why I don’t have any friends.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

Have I? I think so, right? I’m not sure. “Yes?” “Is that an answer or a question?”

“An answer.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I’m sure.” God, what a liar. I know, I’m a liar.

She gives me a long assessing look, as if she knows I’m not telling the truth, but thankfully, she doesn’t push it. I can also see she has another thing in her mind that’s bothering her—something about me is bothering her, and I have to know what it is.

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Breathe

“Mom, what is it?”

“Your dad still hasn’t been talking to you, has he?”

My jaw and fists clench at the reminder. “Not really, mom, no.

He’s been silent, but he’s always been like that these days. You know that.”

She hums, thinking deeply. Mom has always been smart and loving but firm, too. What the hell is she possibly thinking?

“When he gets back, I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind, okay? Don’t you worry, Alex.”

When did it come to this? When did it come to a time where my mom has to lay things out to my dad? Where are the days where the three of us would sit at this very table and laugh about something one of us said? Where are the days where the three of us would go out to a mall and spend some quality time together? Why is there only silence in this house?

I know I told you this before but I’m telling you: my dad wasn’t always like this. He wasn’t always so quiet. He was the noisy one, in fact. The funny one. I loved his stupid jokes when I was younger. My mom and I couldn’t finish our meals from laughing.

And now look at this sad state of mine: eating breakfast alone with my mom looking at me as if she’s my therapist.

What would my therapist say at a time like this? That it’s probably all in my head? Hmm, probably. I don’t like her.

“Mom, you don’t have to. It’ll pass,” I tell her for the nth time.

“You’ve been saying that for the past months, Alex. Honey, look at me. It’s been months. This isn’t right.”

I try not to glare at her but from the way she’s looking at me, I can tell that I failed.

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“Why don’t you talk to him, then? Mothers help their children, right? Then why haven’t you been of help to me?” I accidentally spit out.

Her lips purse. Her back straightens. She raises her chin. She looks down at me with a hard look in her eyes. Shit.

My breathing. It’s gone again.

“Of course, I’ve been talking to him,” she replies defensively.

Do you think she’s lying? If she’s telling the truth, she’s not really doing a very good job now, is she? No, she’s got to be lying. I can tell. I can read minds, remember? She just wants me to think that she’s on the case. Why do people have to lie about these things?

“Alex, I have been talking to him, but you know how stubborn your dad can be. I know he knows he’s wrong, but he’s a prideful man, too. It’s the one thing I don’t like about your dad.”

There, I’ve done it again. Made things worse. Stupid. I lick my lips nervously. “Okay.”

“All right, go and get dressed.”

Get dressed? “What?” I ask her because I have no idea why I must be dressed in the first place. It’s Sunday. I’m supposed to be enjoying my quiet time alone in the house. Well, alone, excluding my full-time mom, silent dad... and you, I suppose.

“We’re going out, remember?” she reminds me, clamping me back to reality before my brain goes everywhere again. “Just the three of us?”

“I don’t remember anything about the three of us going out.”

She shakes her head with a sigh. “Of course, you don’t.”

I don’t know what that means. Do you? Disapproval, maybe?

65

Breathe

But she shouldn’t be surprised. I forget a lot of things these days.

“Why today?” I ask her quietly. “What’s so different about today? After all these months... These months of silence... What’s so important today? Why are we suddenly going out together?”

She gives me a sad smile. “I think you need this, and your father knows it. It’s his idea.”

Now, I really don’t know what to say to that. Seriously, are you just going to listen in? You won’t help me with the complications of having to understand other people? Why are you here, then? What’s your purpose for being here?

Ugh, never mind. We better get dressed.

The silence is heavy as dad drives us to wherever the hell we’re going.

It was unfortunate that I was the last to enter the car since I never got to ask mom about our destination. With dad staring distantly at the road ahead, I placed myself under a vow of silence.

As expected, my hands and jaws are shaking tremendously. I stare down at my quivering hands out of perplexity. How the hell can I stop them? I know I’ve already been grilling you with answers, but I really need them now. You’re probably already planting thoughts in my head right now anyways. I’m probably not aware of them.

God, what time is it? How long are we going to stay in this car?

How long will I have to endure this torture? Is it hot? No, it’s cold. Is it both? Why don’t you answer me? Talk to me or something. I don’t like suffering alone in the silence. God, what is going on with me? I just want to scream but I’m so frozen that I can’t. I want out. I want to get out.

“Darling, are you okay?” mom asks me as she looks at me from the seat beside dad.

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I look up at the rearview mirror to see dad glancing at me as well.

I stiffly nod at them and give a small shaky smile. Mom gives me a sympathetic smile in return, turning back to look ahead on the road once more. Mom wouldn’t dare start a conversation about my and my dad’s miscommunication with all of us in such proximity with each other—especially since we’re in a car. Dad will get distracted and then we’ll die!

“We’re here,” mom says, taking me away from the last thought.

Oh, thank God, I sigh to myself as the car stops. I let out a heavy breath. Walking will help the shaking, at least. I can focus on my feet rather than the tense bridge between me and my dad. So, I leave the car with ease, and I look up at our destination.

The cemetery.

Why are we here? Is that why all of us are wearing black instead of just me?

“Dad?” I accidentally blurt out, used to dad being the first person I went to whenever I get caught off-guard.

Obviously, I made a terrible mistake by trying to speak to him since he looks at me at the corner of his eyes—his eyes full of regret and sadness. God, I should really keep my mouth shut.

I turn to look at mom when he looks away, wanting some answers, but she shakes her head and gives me a significant look towards dad.

I understand what she’s saying immediately. Dad needs the silence just as much as I need my answers. For now, let dad have his silence. We don’t want him to explode or something.

He walks towards the cemetery without bothering to look at me again. Mom sighs at dad as she watches him head forward before looking at me with that sad sympathetic smile again.

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Breathe

“Come on, Alex,” she encourages gently, looping her arm around me and rubbing slow circles on my arm.

“All right, all right, I’m coming,” I sigh.

I dare not break the silence again. Mom’s presence beside me is helping me with my breathing. It’s not like earlier. I’m not six feet underwater anymore. I’m near the surface—occasionally taking gulps of air before being swallowed by the sea again. Maybe the fact that she’s rubbing my arm and back is giving me a comfort only a mother can give.

You wouldn’t understand what that feels like, would you?

You’re just in my head, I think.

Walking in the cemetery is calming, in a way. To think of death.

That I am alive unlike all these gravestones around me. That accounts for something, doesn’t it?

Speaking of death, we’re probably here to visit my grandmother’s grave—dad’s mom. I never met her, but dad always told me she was brilliant. It’s probably why he was such in a somber mood all week.

I’m not sure.

But it’s probably why you came here, isn’t it? It’s why you started to listen in on my thoughts, huh? You sensed my unease in my mind, and you came to be... what? My source of comfort? My one and only friend?

“We’re here,” mom announces brusquely, her voice breaking.

I blink. How long have we been walking? I must have been lost in my head again. Do you know how long we’ve been walking? Oh right, you won’t answer me.

Shaking my head, I sigh and look at the tombstone.

“D-dad?” I blurt out again.

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Unsurprisingly, he keeps silent—his back the only thing I can see from him.

I turn to look at my mom who is staring at the tombstone with a regretful look in her eyes. She turns to look at me solemnly.

“Mom?” I ask her.

To my surprise and dismay, she keeps silent, too.

“What’s going on? What is this?” I persist. “Mom, please talk to me.”

“Honey, you know what is going on. You just didn’t accept it,” she tells me.

“What the hell do you mean?” I ask, not caring if I curse in front of her at this point. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

“A-Alex?” I hear a whisper behind me.

Dad. No, it doesn’t matter that dad is initiating a conversation right now. I need to know what’s going on, and my own mother is not staring at me in the face... She’s being uncharacteristically cryptic, and I don’t like it.

“Mom, what is this?” I beg, gesturing at the tombstone.

“Alex, look at me now!”

With a tone like that, how can I not turn around to look at my father in the face? He rarely yells at me.

“W-wow, dad, look at you. M-months of silence and now youyou yell at me?” I spit at him angrily. “Who do you think you are?”

Because how dare he? How dare he disregard me for a long time then suddenly yell a command at me? How dare he?

And now the silence is tense again, but I’m not the one who is under pressure this time.

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Breathe

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?” I ask him.

“No,” he whispers.

“And you—” I turn to my mom “—what do you have to say for yourself?”

She looks at me sadly and whispers, “Nothing.”

“Is this... Is this some kind of sick joke, then?” I ask heatedly.

Did mom and dad lose their minds? What the hell is going on?

Is the cemetery making their heads go all wonky or something? Or are you trying to get into their heads, too? Are you making them all confused as I am?

“Alex,” dad whispers—the most emotional I’ve ever seen him.

“What?” I practically growl, looking between mom and dad.

“Alex,” dad whispers again, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing it tightly, “have you been taking your medication?

“What the—? Why are you both asking me this? Yes, I freaking took it. Now, will you please tell me what’s going on?” I demand.

“Alex, don’t lie to me! Are you sure you’ve been taking your meds?” dad persists.

“Yes!... I think. Look, I haven’t been sure of anything in my life lately, okay?”

Dad bites his lip, looking down for a moment as if he can’t bear to look at me in the eyes. “I knew this would happen,” he tells himself before looking at me. “I-I should have—I should have paid more attention to you. God, I-I didn’t know how to help you. I was letting you down. I knew it. I thought you were better off without me around. I thought remaining distant would be helpful...”

“Dad,” I choke, missing his voice, “what’s going on?”

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“Alex, tell me first: who were you talking to?”

I blink. What is he talking about? “What do you mean?”

“Behind you. You were talking to someone behind you.”

I turn around to see no one else but mom there. Mom, who is giving me her now signature sad sympathetic smile. I miss her more genuine smile.

“Alex, who were you talking to?” dad asks, making me turn back around to face him.

“What are you—? There’s no one else there but mom, dad,” I answer in distress. Are you making them do this? Are you breaking them, too?

“Alex, there’s no one there,” dad whispers.

“W—what?”

“Your mom isn’t there, Alex.”

“But she’s there. Look! I see her!”

“Alex, no.”

“No, she’s real. She has to be. She even said she talked to you for me. You heard her earlier, too, in the car. I know it! We’ve been talking.

You weren’t making such a fuss about it.”

Dad shakes his head. “No, Alex,” he chokes.

No. No, no, no, no, no, this is... this is bullshit. Did you plan this out? Did you turn this into a joke? Am I in a reality show right now? Were you planting ideas in my dad’s head, too? Did you make him do all of this? Are you making him say these things to me? Because if you are, I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I don’t like this at all. I hate you.

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Breathe

Because that can’t be mom’s name on the tombstone.

No. “Alex,” dad whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

I see more than I feel my dad wrap his arms around me as I watch my mother give me a watery smile. I’ve never seen my mom cry before.

“Alex, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, fading away.

Breathing—we all take it for granted.

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MARY JOY ABALOS

Reflection

Fifteen minutes after 7:30 AM, the trek from my dormitory to school

had become a race that I had already lost. As sweat dripped down my forehead along the right side of my face, I swiped my phone from my jean pocket, quickly dodging students in uniforms and blazer-sporting bystanders and pulled up the 11-page reading I was supposed to study the night before. The Work of Representation by Stuart Hall, it said, as my eyes glazed along the cracked screen of my iPhone 6. Great. Not only was I late for my Introduction to Cultural Studies class, but I also failed to read the assigned text for our discussion today. My professor would probably be disappointed if he found out, but it was no use worrying about it now, since I was already twenty minutes late.

I guess I have to make do with the time I have and hurry along.

Upon reaching the gate of the university, as if I wasn’t already late enough, my walk to class was another fifteen minutes from the regular five, as I walked slower than everybody else. By then I would have probably been marked absent. Regardless, I carried on because missing

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thirty-five minutes of the discussion was a more appealing bargain than missing class entirely. It was my fault for not waking up to the alarm I had set anyway.

My walk was uneventful at most, until I saw a group of people near the north gate, who upon closer look happened to be my classmates for Gender & Multiculturalism. They were looking in my general direction. I debated to myself whether or not I should say hi or simply pass by them. As they drew closer, one of them looked me in the eye and smiled, but at the last minute I panicked, and I ended up looking away. I brushed past them, catching snippets of their conversation on a chemistry quiz they were dreading to take that day. Looking back at them as they walked further away, they seemed smaller; more out of reach than before. Guilt clawed its way up my throat, but I forced it back down, choosing to walk away from them as well.

When I finally made it to the classroom, fifty minutes had already passed since 7:30AM. My professor’s voice echoed through the room, as five or six people paid close attention; the rest fidgeted in their seats, eager for the sweet ring of the bell to relieve them of their suffering.

I sat on the left side of the room, fourth row, and quietly slid into my seat before my professor could notice. He did, moments later, and I feared the worst, but the smile on his face satiated those fears.

He had been teaching us for five weeks now, so I knew how he treated his students. From those five weeks, I learned that he was not the strictest professor, but he could be stern when he needed to be, so I was afraid of what he might have said to me when he found out that not only was I late, but I also didn’t read the text. I could at least ease my worries, I thought to myself, if I contributed once to the discussion. With subtlety, I managed to conceal my phone through a makeshift wall with my palm, and I scrolled through the reading, my eyes scanning for important keywords, while simultaneously listening to my professor’s discussion on cultural representation.

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Thankfully, my rushed efforts paid off, celebrating internally as my answer to my professor’s question on the implications of misrepresentation in society was deemed satisfactory. And so, I lived to see another day.

At the sound of the bell ringing, my professor quickly dismissed the class, with most people rushing out of the room; the few who were left behind shoved their yellow pads and pens inside their bags. I, on the other hand, quickly grabbed a two-page essay from my plastic blue envelope and waited for the right time to approach him.

The essay was a review of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown episode in the Philippines, and it was due yesterday. I remembered on that day, I was preoccupied with a more important task, so I completely forgot about the essay. Realizing my mistake, I stayed up until 3:00 AM, four hours before, to finish writing it.

I watched my professor walk to his desk and gather his things. I took that as a sign to approach him before he could leave. When he noticed me holding the paper, he smiled and said, “You have a habit of submitting your papers late.” Sheepishly, I replied, “It’ll be the last time, sir.” Ashamed of myself, I could only keep my head down as I handed the essay to him. “I do hope so. See you next week, Miss Cristobal.” He uttered, before walking past me and leaving the room.

A yawn escaped my mouth before I could stop it, and my eyes watered from exhaustion. I blinked several times before walking and plopping back down to my seat. By now, the room had already been emptied and I was left alone. The thought bothered me, but I chose not to let it. Instead, I grabbed my bag and rummaged through the clutter; a notebook lay in between the mess of my laptop and phone charger, a yellow umbrella that had collected dirt in between its folds, and finally the plastic blue envelope I kept neatly pressed behind my Lenovo netbook.

I took it out and inspected its contents. The first thing I noticed was 75

Reflection

the receipt I received upon paying the first half of my tuition for this semester. 64,500 pesos was relatively small for some in the Liberal Arts, but it was a huge chunk off of my mother’s pay check. Despite her contractual work as a real estate agent for a well-known corporation, the pay wasn’t enough to cover my tuition for one semester. She recognized this, but she never asked me to transfer, even if it was difficult for her. She knew that I would have more opportunities to improve my skills and gain more connections in an exclusive private university rather than being in a public university.

And so with quiet determination she kept hustling, quite frequently on the side; selling roasted nuts and Avon cosmetics to our neighbours while she tried to make do with our apartments that we put up for rent. Even then, it still wasn’t enough.

Sometimes, I think it’s partly my fault for choosing to study in a private university. Before entering college, I was also accepted into a wellknown public university. I didn’t have to pay any tuition whatsoever.

At the time, I knew we were already in financial trouble due to my father, whom we relied on for financial compensation, that was until he selfishly ran off with his mistress. My mother expressed time and time again that it was my father’s fault for abandoning us, but even then, she was too proud to admit she couldn’t provide for me as much as my father did. She wanted to prove that she could do it. And so, she told me to go wherever I wanted to go.

I knew that a public university would have made it easier for my mother, but I also knew deep down that the practical decision would have made me unhappy. For once in my life, I chose to be selfish because I had spent my days with one goal in mind, and that was to please my parents. This time, I wanted to please myself.

I liked to believe that I had no regrets with the choices that I had made. I liked to believe that my mother was happy I was getting quality education while I enjoyed the luxuries that my university had

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to offer. However, as I stared at this receipt, with the knowledge that I was the cause of my mother’s suffering, I wondered if it was the right decision to be selfish.

This gnawing guilt that made a home out of me over the years, scraping its nails inside; a vivid reminder of the weight I bore, that I was and everything else, a product of my mother’s sacrifice; it was a tenant that I could no longer accommodate.

Behind the receipt was the important task that made me forget about the essay in the first place: the content calendar.

The content calendar contained the yearlong social media plans of Pageturner, a start-up digital marketing company based in Makati.

It was a well thought-out 12-page spread that covered all things marketing, across all relevant platforms, complete with time, date, and the specific content for posting. It was the backbone of the entire company, and I was expected to pass it for approval today.

So, why did I have the content calendar in the first place?

It was right after my senior high school graduation. I just found out that university wouldn’t start until after five months. As a person with short attention span, having nothing to do for five months would drive me insane. That’s when I decided to look for a summer job.

As I jumped from one job seeking website to another, each job application was met with silence and zero response. I was about ready to give up. I had to accept that the phone just wasn’t ringing. It was silly of me to think that the government would actually keep its promise of providing senior high school graduates with lucrative jobs.

I guess in the game of life, I had been fooled yet again. That was until my friend from senior high school messaged me and told me that the company she was interning for had an opening. Apparently, she told her boss about my experience as a student journalist and wanted me to come in for an interview.

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At that time, Pageturner didn’t have a diverse set of skills in their workers. They only employed web developers, videographers, and graphic designers. This time, they needed someone who could be in charge of their content marketing.

The funny thing about this company was that they didn’t have any employees, they only had paid interns. When I heard about this, I was a bit skeptical since I wasn’t sure how a company would function without full-time employees. However, I trusted my friend’s opinion, and the company was still in its first year, so I took the leap and got the job.

Since I was the one they placed in charge of their social media content, they relied on me to make the content calendar. Every week, my boss, a nice, middle-aged man; happily married with two kids, would sit down with the team, which were just five people, and we would discuss the content that we wanted our target audience, small-time entrepreneurs and start-ups, to see.

I had been doing this for the last seven months since I started working for them.

At first, I had only begun working for Pageturner so I could spend my summer somewhere that wasn’t at home, but when I realized that I was about to enter university and my mother was trying to hide the fact that she had to work twice as hard to pay for my tuition, I knew I had to keep working for my sake and for her sake.

I placed the content calendar back in its envelope, and I made sure to double check if it was closed before I carefully lodged it in the back pocket of my bag.

Three hours of class usually breezed through, but today, it felt as though it was an eternity. When I finally made it out of my two Literature classes, it was already lunch. I decided to head back to my 78

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dorm because I was scheduled for work in the afternoon. I knew I had a full day ahead of me.

As I was walking back to campus, a whiff of sisig and fried egg invaded my senses, causing my stomach to rumble in unabashed shame. My feet had led me to a small stand that sold quick and easy fried meals.

The watering of my mouth reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I stood there for a good three minutes, looking at the way the cook flipped slices of hotdog across the sizzling pan. My mouth salivated, but I went against my primal instinct and turned away. I could always eat later when I was at work. There was no need to spend money right now. I looked at my phone to check the time. 12:15PM. Time felt slow, and the longer I stared, my reflection morphed into an image I was quite familiar with — exhausted, haunted, but amidst it all, resilient.

When I got back to the dorm, it was already 12:30PM. I wasn’t needed at work until 2:00PM so I had some time to spare. Plopping down my bed, I positioned my school bag on my lap and pulled the plastic blue envelope out. Whenever I looked at it, I expected it to look differently; like whatever I would find inside would solve all my problems for me; a scholarship, one million pesos, a thriving business, but every time I laid my eyes on it, it was the same as ever. Simple, common, yet had every power to ruin me. The gravity of its power was something I could never quite grasp or understand. I just knew it could. Perhaps in the future I would be able to figure it out, but for now it was nothing more than plastic.

I placed the envelope on my bed so I wouldn’t be able to forget it was there. As I was doing so, the door creaked open. Peering into the room was my roommate Nicole, who with her cramped binder, Veco columnar pad, and Anello backpack, was also back from her morning classes.

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She walked in with her Rusty Lopez heels clicking against the hardwood floor, while I made no attempt to acknowledge her. Even though I had been living in Manila for almost a year, I had no desire to become her friend. I just knew that at the end of the year, either she or I were going to move out and both of us would never contact each other again. I had no energy to start a friendship that wasn’t anything more than a product of convenience. Regardless, she always made it a point to smile at me whenever she saw me.

Evidently, as I gazed up from what I was doing, she was already waiting with a smile. My response was instantaneous, returning the gesture reluctantly. Admittedly I was a performative roommate who hated every single interaction, but I genuinely tried to be polite.

While I had the luxury of having two hours to myself, that would be spent fighting through Manila traffic. It was a journey I had to go through every single day to get to Makati. I hated it but of course I couldn’t complain. I had to do what I had to do. I stuffed all my things inside another bag in a hurry and made a beeline for the door.

When I was about to leave, a small ringing in my ear made me stop in my tracks. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, but a yawn escaped from me, furthering my frustration. I was blinking through the tears of exhaustion when I heard a thump behind me. A yelp from my roommate made me involuntarily sigh. I didn’t stop to check if she heard me.

Just as I was about to grab the doorknob, my phone from inside my bag started vibrating, feeling it against my hips. Muttering an incoherent line of curses, I ignored the stares from my roommate and dropped my bag onto the floor with a heavy heave. My phone lit up amidst the clutter, and I could see “Mama” from the cracked screen.

“Bakit ka napatawag, Ma?” I asked, masking my annoyance at her timing.

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“Kakamustahin lang sana kita. Hindi ka na kasi tumatawag.

Nagmamadali ka ba? May pupuntahan ka ba ngayon?” I paused, realizing that she had no idea I was headed to work. I never had the chance to tell her. Then again, I could always tell her now.

“Wala ma, babalik ako sa school.” Then again, maybe I should stick with my original plan, and never tell her I’m working. She would throw a fit if she did.

“Sigurado ka ba anak??” She asked me twice. Maybe I should tell her.

“Wala ma. Mag-aaral lang ako.” Maybe not. She’s better off not knowing.

My mother ended the call with an obligatory string of pleasantries. I wasn’t expecting my mother to call. She usually waited until the end of the day to ask me how I was. Even then, she only did so through text message. Having her call me during the day, right when I was about to leave for work, roused my suspicions, making me a bit paranoid that maybe she knew what I had been up to. I never told her about my job, and I probably never will. Once she finds out, she was going to force me to quit. She would also guilt trip me into thinking that I didn’t trust her enough as a provider. It was going to be another unnecessary burden on her that I would have caused, yet again.

Instead of worrying about it any further, I decided to open the door and leave.

Reaching the streets of Manila, the familiar smoke of the jeep, the smoldering heat of the sun, and the humidity from the crowded street attacked me all at once; a welcoming sensation. I found a jeep going to Buendia in under 20 minutes, which was a miracle at that point.

As I climbed in, lifting my legs higher than I normally would to accommodate the height of the jeep. I sat at the farthest end near the driver’s seat, placing my bag on my lap.

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Once I had done so, my eyes fluttered in exhaustion, begging my body to rest. The effect of waking up at 7:00AM and stopping for no rest was beginning to rush in waves. If I was going to be stuck here for an hour, I might as well sleep.

By the time I woke up, I adjusted my eyes and saw that the sun was shining brighter than ever. Looking around, my surroundings didn’t feel familiar anymore. Any indication of where I was could not be found. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard around.

I thought it was just the drowsiness clouding my senses, but when I sat right up and looked out the window to see where I was, what a surprise it was for me to discover that I was in Pasay Rotonda. My heart began to race as I took out my phone, my breath caught in my throat. It was already 1:30PM and I had slept for thirty minutes, ultimately missing my stop.

I scrambled to get down from the jeep and tried to look for another one going back to Buendia. Swarms of people met me, like bees I couldn’t shake off. They were probably also looking for the same jeep as I was. After 10 minutes, I got too impatient and decided to walk, ignoring the mix of sweat and pain from my body.

Twenty minutes passed before I finally reached the intersection between Pasay and Manila. My stomach was gut-wrenching, as though I was keeping someone prisoner, and it was demanding to be released.

Against my better judgement, I ignored the feeling and made my way across the street.

This was the worst part of my day: crossing this particular pedestrian lane. Since there was no stoplight, I, along with the other pedestrians, had to fight against the cars and buses that would zoom past the lane at the last second before the pedestrians could make their way to other side. At this point, I didn’t really care anymore so I crossed the street, ignoring the honk of the cars behind me, and made my way to the other side, not looking in both directions as I do.

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I took the deep breath and checked the time. 1:50PM. My panic spread throughout my body; a violent invasion. It was a wreckage of hunger and fear I could not shake off, but I trudged on. I had to. While waiting for the jeep to PRC, I decided to check on my belongings.

Suddenly, something hit me.

I cupped my pocket, my shirt, my jeans, my bag, and I felt my heart drop.

My plastic envelope was gone.

I tried looking frantically around me, hissing as the sun hit my eyes, unconsciously feeling the tears stream down my face. This was no time to cry. I couldn’t cry now. Not when everything was on the line. In my delirious state, I tried to remember the last time I had it, coming to a blank, a headache suddenly hitting me at the worst possible time.

I took frantic breaths as I tried to calm myself down but to no avail.

Through the corner of my eye, a jeep zoomed in my direction, so I forced my feet to get back up and I ran after it. When I sat down, I took out my bag and tried to look for the plastic blue envelope, when suddenly it hit me.

I left it at my dorm.

That calendar was needed today so I could get my salary next week.

If I don’t pass it today, I would have to wait indefinitely since my pay relied on my ability to submit my work on time. This would change all my plans on helping my mom pay my tuition, on budgeting my allowance, on the bills I had to pay. I slumped against my seat, close to admitting defeat. On top of all that, I would have to explain to my boss, who relied on me to keep the department running in the first place, that I had failed in delivering the most important task he had for me.

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Exhaustion hit me once again, and this time I did not resist. I fell asleep every now and then but jolting awake at certain points during the ride to make sure I didn’t miss my stop again.

When I got to work, it was 2:45PM. Sweat stuck to my clothes, disgusting and unwarranted. Walking up four flights of stairs was always a chore, and it felt like I was Sisyphus carrying a rock up a mountain, only for me to be forced back down. It was a gruelling, never-ending punishment.

Upon entering, my boss sat on his Divisoria-bought mono block chair, with an expectant look, suggesting he had been waiting for me.

My boss was a simple man, sporting a plain white shirt and blue jeans.

I respected that. Once he saw me, he greeted me with a smile, and I gave one in return, not letting him know the mess I went through before I got to work.

He offered the obligatory small talk, asking me how I was and how my tasks were doing, how I was doing at school, and how my family was doing. I liked to think that he wanted to connect with his employees on a personal level because he wanted to gauge how he could better approach us, seeing as we were a small group. That was probably why he always tried to take an interest in my life outside of work. It was admirable; to think that he was the opposite of the boss I expected to have — cold, uninterested, and money-hungry.

It baffled me at first, but then I realized I was just conditioned wrong.

Bosses in the real world didn’t always expect employees to be their tool; to be used and discarded once they had reached the end of their purpose. He didn’t deserve a response that was unbecoming of an employee. Out of respect, I gave him the usual answer — that I was fine, and I was getting my tasks done.

Finally, the dreaded question was revealed. He asked me about the content calendar.

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Given how much I went through today, I was tempted to lie my way out; to use pity, frustration, anything at all in my favor, so my boss could let me off the hook. However, he didn’t deserve an employee who wasn’t honest. My circumstances did not excuse my incompetence, and so I decided to tell him the truth.

As expected, he berated me and told me I should have been more responsible, and I knew I should have. He told me it was an important output and that he expected more from me, and I knew he did. It was when he told me that I couldn’t get my salary until I submitted it that pushed me to the edge. It was not my fault, I thought as I apologized for my irresponsibility. It was not my fault, I thought as I got to my table and began to work on a digital marketing article for posting next week, forcing the tears to stay in my eyes. It was not my fault, I thought as I finished work for the day and left without saying goodbye to anyone.

Only then until I was down four flights of stairs, and out of the office that I let out a silent sob. My walk down the narrow street as the darkness of the night enveloped me was a hollow journey back home that brought me a tiny bit of comfort. Crying was the last thing I wanted to do today, but it could not be helped. I welcomed it for it was the only source of relief I had with me as I faced yet another challenge: getting home at 6:00PM from Makati to Manila.

As the day began to settle down, I realized I haven’t texted my mom.

She was probably worried I was gone all day. Upon opening my phone, I stopped for awhile and saw an unrecognizable image staring back at me. My reflection morphed into an image I had never seen before – silent, eerie, but most of all, defeated.

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CHAUNNE-IRA MASONGSONG

Fragments digital collage

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JEREMY DALE CORONIA

I Don’t Feel Gay

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Paglalarawan ni José Isabel Rea

Malate Literary Folio

I was 8 or 9 years old when it first started setting in. Or, maybe 10. I

was this nerd who had his head in a book half the time. My notebooks were full of scribbled fanfiction. I remember a lot of cringey first drafts and discarded outputs. I remember Wattpad, too.

I visited my old account recently. My Wattpad reading list had stories that always contained this tag: “bxb”. boyxboy. Sometimes, it was manxman. It was all these stories of boys or men falling in love. Or something. The memories are fuzzy at best. I remember coffee-shopmeetups, a nerd forced to tutor a hard-outside-but-soft-inside jock, high school alternate universes (or AUs), date-him-as-a-dare scenarios, and all that. I also remember copious amounts of sex and the use of the word “cum”. It never occurred to me beforehand that was the start of what would become a shitshow. Wattpad was just this thing that I thought I always needed. It gave me a sense of euphoria, as if reading raunchy (trashy) scenes made me feel alive. I didn’t even know what a “member” was at the time. That word came up a lot.

There was this one story that stuck with me. No sex and no cutesy scenes like in those cheesy rom-coms. It was the story of this one boy that dealt with abuse at home and at high school, and all because he was gay. A gay boy taunted by a sadistic author Gay. Bakla. Bading. People thought he was a girl. That’s why they made fun of him.

I remember being called that name one time. We had P.E. but the sport was basketball. The guys in my class were so quick to play that game. I hung back, unsure. Some of them hollered at me. Join us, they said. It’ll be fun, they pressed. I shook my head. No, I said. I refused to play basketball. I said it was boring. “Bakla!” One of them taunted me. The rest laughed at that. I just tilted my head. I didn’t know what it meant. I tried to dismiss it but it stuck in my mind.

Now, I understood. They thought I was that gay kid. They were wrong, though. I was a boy, not a girl.

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After that, it was high school. I had a crush on one of my classmates when I was grade 8. He was a boy. I think everyone liked him just a little bit. He was attractive with his short, spiky hair and he was funny with his corny jokes. He was a basketball player too, the jock that I fell in love with time and again. I used to imagine scenarios where we’d grow close under the moonlight and he’d show me his vulnerable side. A kiss from my spiky-haired hero-slash-jock with his thousand-watt smile and the dimples in his cheeks.

The thought occurred to me: this would have made me a girl.

Somehow, that terrified me. But no. I had nothing to be afraid of. Still, the thoughts persisted. I felt taunted by them, like I was betraying myself by thinking these things. I was lost and unsure of who I was.

There was a time that he flirted with me as a joke. My jock flirts with everyone, and I think it was because he knew he was goodlooking. He put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in, winking at me.

My cheeks and my neck felt hot. My lips twitched as I fought to keep the smile off my face. My eyes fluttered shut and I made to lean in.

“Bading!” A shout tore through the air, jarring me out of my thoughts. My jock, with his dimpled smile, laughed and leaned back.

He slapped me on the shoulder. “Kinilig ka, noh?” He asked with another laugh. My eyes widened and I pulled back. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my armpits.

“’Di kaya,” I shakily denied, looking away and giving him the middle finger as thoughts swirled in my head. I expected to be kissed.

I had wanted him to do it. My legs felt like jelly as I fought to keep still. “Baka ikaw bading?” I tried to turn the tables around, but he just laughed in my face and walked away.

I wanted to kiss him so badly, I realized. I caught myself looking at him from time to time for the entire day. There was some hope in me that he’d still do it. I wanted him and I was gay. This scared me. I stuck to myself for the entire day. When I went home that day, 89

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I sat in my room and just started thinking: me being gay now. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I’m gay. I’ve always known I was a guy, but then I started liking the jock and I had to reevaluate myself.

Nothing came to mind when I tried to understand everything.

Everything felt so confusing. Eventually, I stopped trying and opened my phone to read my Wattpad stories. I dismissed my thoughts. They weren’t important at the moment.

When I was in grade 10, I told one of my best friends that I was gay in a gymnasium during a hot day. We were seated high up in the bleachers, looking down on an ongoing ceremony. I was sweating through my shirt, and I kept wiping at my forehead. Alisa was seated beside me. The gym was packed. A few school officials were down at the court. A stage was set up in the middle.

Nothing felt right when I told her I might like boys. My voice sounded like it was from far away. I felt alien in my own skin.

Absently, I scratched at my arms, leaving red welts. I thought it would clear things up and she’d help me understand why I was gay. I started biting at my nails and flexing my fingers. My leg started bouncing. I wanted to run away. Then, she leaned over to me and put a hand on top of mine. She said nothing.

There was no relief from her, though. My body was still tense, and I shook her off. There was a voice in my mind that told me this wasn’t right. I needed to leave. I excused myself and went out back into a comfort room. I vomited out my lunch there while tears were streaming down my face. Someone in there had asked me if I was alright. I ignored them. I was gay.

The next time I thought about coming out was when samesex marriage was legalized in the US. This time, I came out to myself.

Same-sex marriage was the talked-about topic. The word “gay” popped up so much that I thought it would be the turning point. It wasn’t something bad. I could face that realization. I could say it.

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We talked about it in class one time. Here, surrounded by friends and classmates who I knew and laughed with, I somehow felt at peace. I was almost confident that they’d be accepting. Our teacher, a thin man with big square glasses, was standing at the front up on a platform. He was asking something: “Show of hands: who wants same-sex marriage?” I could see the big blackboard and the table and the chair. There were no hands. The voice came again, asking the opposite. Then, arms raising up. Arms shooting up that crowded my vision. There were so many of them. All I could see were hands and skin and unacceptance. I clenched my fists, fighting to keep silent. I looked down to the dark red-tiled floor. There were tears building in my eyes. I wanted to leave.

Why don’t you accept me? I wanted to ask—wanted to shout it at their faces. There was a cacophony of voices. Not right. Against their religion. Not ready. Asking for too much. Not for the Philippines.

There was a righteousness to their medley. The tightness in my chest coiled like a serpent. I felt cold and alone.

That news about same-sex marriage didn’t leave my mind immediately. I kept thinking about it and attributing it to people’s [indirect] opinions of me. It was starting to make me feel bitter, wanting to lash out at them.

My friends thought I was wrong, but for the longest time, I felt like I could trust my family. The fear was still there, but there was also a flicker of hope that they would help me understand everything.

Untangle the bitterness that was starting to form inside me. I was looking through that news again during one afternoon. My room was bathed in an orange light. I was on my bed, hugging a pillow as I absently scrolled through the news. Home, it felt like. Comfortable.

I was planning on how to tell it to them. I need their help now more than ever.

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Then, there was a bang. Suddenly, my sister was in my room.

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She looked worried. For a moment, I had thought that there was a family problem. Her voice cut through the atmosphere: “Ano ‘to?” She was asking about me liking the news story on Facebook. Her voice was loud. I hunched my shoulders, moving back. I felt threatened.

“No,” I wanted to speak. Nothing came. My eyes widened and nonononono—it wasn’t supposed to be this way. I hunched closer to myself, biting my lip. “Baka kung ano isipin ng mga tao!” She reprimanded me. She told me to unlike it.

Words came unbidden from my lips. Words I didn’t want to say and words I couldn’t take back. Yes, yes, yes, yes. I was gay. Maybe I’m gay. No, wait, yes, no! I’m gay. Wait. I don’t know. “Paano kung oo?” I asked her then, unsure. I was like a child, pulling at my mother’s dress to ask for permission.

Her voice shook when I asked that. She sounded like she needed to fix something quickly before it turned into a disaster. Fix it.

“Ano iisipin ng mga kaklase mo? Ng mga kaibigan mo?” I wanted to tell her that I already knew.

“‘Di pwede! Paano kami?” It was the lecture of a lifetime. I couldn’t be gay. It just can’t happen. I was told this with the sweetest, most caring and concerned tone she had, her voice almost breaking with fear, that I can’t be gay.

It didn’t take all that long for it to spread to my entire family.

My family asked me where I went wrong. My mother asked my brother if he could fix this. He was studying to be a doctor. He knew medical shit. He could fix me. My father’s voice felt the coldest, though, and only because there was no tremor. No fear. He told me that if I had not been his son, I would have already been thrown out.

My mother asked me, “Bakit, anak?’” She sounded so hurt and so disappointed. There were unshed tears in her eyes and she was gripping my sweaty hands like her life depended on it. Her eyes… I

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never wanted to hurt her that much ever again. She said nothing else.

I didn’t say anything in return. My mind was flashing back to the times I thought I could start to unravel who I am. Now, there was only confusion and bitterness.

I didn’t want to be gay anymore. Fixmefixmefixmefixmefixme.

I carried this feeling with me for so long I didn’t know if years had passed or just months. I graduated high school hating myself. College brought out a different atmosphere, however. It was something I wasn’t used to. La Salle felt very… open. The first year was uneventful, but there was a scene that stuck out in my mind. I was sitting in a study hall right across from someone with rainbowcolored hair. The air felt easy and light. There was a comfortable noise in the background, people talking about their assignments and projects and other meaningless things. My rainbow-haired friend was telling me all about her last relationship, which was with a girl. “All my past relationships have been with girls,” She told me. She segued to her current relationship, a guy she’d been crushing on for forever.

Nervously, I told her about my crush with the jock so long ago. She curled her lips, and for a moment I thought she’d say something bad, but she just told me that I chose a shit guy to like. I laughed at that, albeit tremulously. It felt weird.

“We’re so gay,” She joked. I couldn’t help but smile back.

Inside, I was screaming.

Despite everything else—no matter how much people just didn’t care—I couldn’t ignore the bitterness that gnawed at me. They were everything I could have been—part of me thinks that they were everything I wanted to be. Maybe seeing them, being with them, would have given me the confidence I wished I had back then. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have been so lost and angry of who I was.

I’m a guy. I’m gay, but I don’t feel gay. I didn’t want to be gay.

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now. I don’t know who to believe, and I didn’t know how to reconcile myself with the fact that they were unfixable. Slowly, bitterness turned to rage. They were unfixable, but maybe there was still hope for me.

Not much happened after that. There was still that belief simmering inside me. I knew for myself that all this may yet change—that this was maybe a phase. During this time, I joined an arts organization. I wanted to be a writer. Part of me thought that channeling this rage into something else would help me. Sometimes, my mind would go back to the gay stories I had read in the past, and then I’d imagine myself writing someone like that. I didn’t want to be the sadistic author tormenting a gay boy, though. That boy felt unfixable.

For better or worse—I’m still debating on it—joining this arts organization exposed me to so many people, many of whom were also gay. Gay people with loud opinions about who they were. Who they wanted to be, and what they were unapologetic about. That went against everything I wanted to believe. They were proud of who they were, and I felt discomfited. Embarrassed at myself being lost. This anger inside me thrashed and clawed, begging to be let out and to explode. Why was I so angry at them?

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I hated them. I hated my rainbow-haired friend, who eventually also joined the org. I hated the people I knew there. I hated every other out and not-out person in this fucking university. I hated them, but I admired them all so much too. Seeing them, being with them, talking to them… without them knowing, they distanced me from the rage I let grow inside of me. When I’m with them, I feel like I’m floating above-water. It was… intoxicating in some ways. I still didn’t know what to think of myself, but there was some small part of me that was saying: “This doesn’t feel so bad?” I was unsure, but it was stuck in my mind.

Come 2nd year, and I was still a part of that org. I was starting

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to love it there. I met more people, and yeah, many of them weren’t straight. Some liked boys, some liked girls, some of them liked everyone. Like one big gay cult. With them, I somehow felt less wrong about myself. Less angry. Less lost. Yeah, it doesn’t feel as bad as before, I thought to myself when I looked back. I know I have to untangle bits and pieces about myself first, work out that bitterness inside me, but with them, I didn’t feel so lost anymore.

This is who I am. I still don’t know what it is about myself that felt wrong back then. I don’t know if I still thought I was fixable in some way. There were times that I could still feel that longing—“Sana straight nalang ako,” I would think to myself when I would see others disapprove of gay people. Disapprove of me. I tried to silence those thoughts, but they persisted. I knew I was gay. I could accept that—I already did—but I never wanted this. I never expected to have to deal with this. I had thought that this, all this, would stay in the stories I had read. But no. This is who I am, and I can’t do anything to change it. Still, sometimes I feel like I can’t fully embrace who I am now.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I’m gay. I don’t feel like it at times. Sometimes I don’t even want it, but I can’t deny it. I don’t want to deny it. I’m gay. In some way, that was enough for now.

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Malate Literary Folio

JOSÉ ISABEL REA

Anarchy

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

PAULA BIANCA MARAÑA

And Let Our Response Be All words taken from bible verses that speak of, imply, or oppose homosexuality (Jude 1:7, Leviticus 20:13, 1 Timothy 1:9-10, 1Corinthians 6:9-10, Ezekiel 16:49, 1 Samuel 18:1, Romans 1:27, Matthew 19:4-5) behold, this was pride, an abundance of fullness. there, I saw the surrounding cities, undergoing a punishment of desire burned in their flesh. you say the law is laid down for the lawless. do you not know that the unrighteous will not be deceived? behold the unholy need for eternal fire— for blood upon the doctrine of immorality, knit in the souls of those who love. behold— this is pride.

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Paglalarawan ni Marinel Angeline Dizon

Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

CHRISTINE AUTOR

Isang Makata Sapagkat hawak mo ang mga salita, kaya buo ang kanilang tiwala sa iyong banayad na mga kamay.

Mula sa maingat na pagpili ng mga talinghaga hanggang sa masikhay na pagbuklod ng mga salitang magbubuo ng makabuluhang piyesa.

Sapagkat hawak mo ang mga salita, kaya ipadama sa tula na siya’y ligtas sa iyong mga kamay, isang makata.

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Malate Literary Folio

FRANCIS D’ANGELO MINA

Amaterasu “So thereupon the Heaven-Shining-Great-August-Deity, terrified at the sight, closed [behind her] the door of the Heavenly Rock Dwelling, made it fast, and retired.”

- The Kojiki, sect. XVI, translated by Basil Hall Chamberlain (1882) As the old poems go: “My sleeves are soaked.”

The incident in the cave, when they awaited you with naked ladies and merriment, remember that.

Would it help?

Your augustness never knew strings of jewels, song and dance, divine garment, twinkling laughter, only a slight on your honor,

and a smothering night.

The mirror has drawn from you large steps. A thin golden streak, later your waterfall hair, then fingers peeping through stone, then the curve of your eyes that begat deities.

You moved your lips, you cried, the whole of you burst in eight directions and all was well in the land.

I knew you’d come out sometime. for the sun herself 102

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Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

ERRATA

N

ais iwasto ng Malate Literary Folio ang sumusunod na pagkakamali sa Tomo XXXV Bilang 3:

Ang Kulong ay nararapat na nasa Nilalaman bilang isang Retrato, imbis na isang likhang Sining.

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

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Malate Literary Folio

T o m o X X X V I B i l a n g 1 106

Tomo XXXVI Bilang 1

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

Dr. Mesandel Arguelles, at Mr. Vijae Alquisola; Ms. Franz Santos, 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; 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; At higit sa lahat, sa mga kasapi’t kaibigan na patuloy na umaalalay sa paglalago ng Malate Literary Folio.

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HUNYO 2020