2:00 AM by Pugad Literary Folio

2:00 AM Pugad Literary Folio

A.Y. 2021-2022

2:00 AM Pugad Literary Folio

A.Y. 2021-2022

Pugad Literary Folio Academic Year 2021-2022 Editorial Board Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

Editor-In-Chief Zoie Irasusta Phil Ramos

Associate Editors Reuben B. Galvez

Regina Khloie B. Maderazo

English Editor

Filipino Editor

Juan Gabriel L. Arroyo

Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

Art Editor

Layout Editor OFFICERS Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

Editor-In-Chief Bettina Andrea A. Basilio

Secretary Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

Finance Officer Moderator Mr. Jan Henry M. Choa Jr.

STAFF MEMBERS WRITING DEPARTMENT POETRY

PROSE

Leana Louise Anne D. Agapito Sophia Fermina Isabel M. Alaestante Angel Kyla C. Andres Bettina Andrea A. Basilio Dana Angela M. Belo Leica Juliene M. Cecilia Atheena Monique R. Estanislao Ray Anthony M. Francisco Reuben B. Galvez Zoie Irasusta Rafael Egmundo J. Jayme Edcel Jaime L. Lagman Regina Khloie B. Maderazo Janne Althea S. Muñoz Sean Gabriel L. Navarro Patrizia Giana G. Pablo Patricia Althea N. Perez Phil Justin B. Ramos Llieu-Eign Jonn B. Suarez

Mikaela Beatriz A. Balaga Katrina D. Batomalaque Miguel Lorenzo L. Clemente Eliana B. Esguerra Keshia Ianthe B. Gutierrez Jan Marvin P. Justo Joie Melissande A. Ocampo Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez Patricia Althea N. Perez Bianca Lelaina L. Samson Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose Gianna Marika V. Santiago

COVER

Illustration by: Juan Arroyo

Folio Layout Committee Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

Juan Gabriel L. Arroyo

Layout Head

Art Editor Members Atheena Monique R. Estanislao Gianna Marika V. Santiago

Poetry Layout Editors Leica Cecilia Zoie Irasusta

Short Story Layout Editors If you have the passion for writing poems and short stories, creating visual art, taking photos, or participating in open mics, all while having your works enjoyed by the whole school, then there is space in this nest for you! Come home. Join Pugad.

Submit your work to

pugadliteraryfolio@gmail.com

Like us on Facebook at

Pugad Literary Folio

FOREWORD Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

Editor-In-Chief 2:00 AM, a pocket in space and time where the transition of seconds to minutes are fluid, unpredictable. A rush, then a mere drop— never-ending, until it ends. Much like the twilight zone, anything goes at 2:00 AM, for all that is said and done becomes a whisper between you and the stars. I am not unfamiliar with the magic and woes of 2:00 AM— I’ve found myself awake at this hour more times than I can be proud of. Sometimes the four white walls of our house decorated with the pieces of a past version of myself threatened to collapse in on me, and other times I was in a dimension only my mind could possibly conceive. Every experience at this hour is akin to a flip of a coin: heads or tails, with nothing in between. It is both the unstoppable force and the immovable object— the art of being still yet knowing you are moving towards something better, greater.

What you are about to read in this folio portrays just that. Stories where even the air stands still, tension curling around each stroke of a letter until the pin finally drops — where the dark sky feels a little too bright, the night a lot more surreal, every second passing just one more before you wake; where fear grips you like a vice, wraps around your throat like leather digging into your skin— all these to be found, in the works of Pugad’s members. After so long of being left alone with only memories and thoughts to keep us company, we hope that through these you find peace in solidarity, solace in recognizing the lonely after countless times of finding it in the mirror; and we will brave together the fog in the 60 minutes 'till 3 AM.

TABLE OF CONTENT POETRY Doppelganger

Leana Agapito

Mga Nilalang sa Ilalim ng Itim na Manta

Phia Alaestante

Tinatakasang Kanlungan

Angel Andres

Unlocked

Andie Basilio

Lucid Dreaming: The Last Letter

Dana Belo

Rapid Eye Movement

Leica Cecilia

The Fool's Eccentric Velocity

Atheena Estanislao

The Closet

Anthony Francisco

2 AM

Reuben Galvez

A Christophany at Midnight With LoFi

Reuben Galvez

Revenge Bedtime Procrastination

Zoie Irasusta

Night, Light and the Light in Night

Raf Jayme

Counting Down to 2:00 PM

EJ Lagman

Evermore

Regina Khloie Maderazo

Fragmented Notes

Janne Muñoz

Ala-Ala

Janne Muñoz

Forrest on End

Janne Muñoz

A Mere Hour for Some a Lifetime for One

Sean Navarro

The Night-Walker

Yana Pablo

Ligaw sa Panliligaw

Phil Ramos

The Man on the Moon

Llieu-Eign Suarez

Prose When the Author Writes a Self-Portrait

Riz Balaga

The Paradoxical Hour

Trina Batomalaque

Inner Thoughts

Papa Clemente

COLD

Papa Clemente

In Another Life

Eliana Esguerra

Cinderella with the Black Shoes

Kei Gutierrez

Late Night Convos

Jan Justo

Universe[VOID]

Joie Ocampo

Ripple

Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

Second Hand

Trisha Perez

The One Where a Boy Speaks to the Moon

Bianca Samson

100

John Doe's Flow Chart

Aubrey San Jose

106

Doing Classwork with the Undead and Grieving

Gianna Santiago

111

POETRY

I believe that, for many, the hours after midnight is a time when one is truly himself. Only when the facade fades and the masked is removed can we truly begin to explore ourselves - both our inner horrors and beauties. As I was working on and reading through this folio, what I found were honest explorations of the self. May we all remember to slow down, pause, and dive into the depths of our innermost being - for without it, we are naught. Reuben B. Galvez

English Editor

EVERMORE Regina Khloie Maderazo at 12:45 AM, time fills my ears with chatter, its lips forming stories out of my doubt. your feet land on my doorstep with a clatter— you sound like a vow i could not live without.

at 1:00 AM, time grinds my bones into dust and clamps its teeth around my throat. i drown in the depths of our broken trust while you stomp on my ribs to stay afloat.

at 1:15 AM, time remains seated in my chest and captures each breath i try to release. the bomb in my lungs ticks at your behest— you lock it with a kiss and swallow the keys.

at 1:30 AM, time lingers with idle eyes as your shadow encroaches upon my skin: time greedily devours our hushed goodbye's while i hunger for what truly lies within.

at 1:45 AM, time no longer wants to speak; it swallows silence as you move to turn away. why is it that i remain the one you seek, when you never seem to want to stay?

at 2:00 AM, time starts to hum a melody— and the world chimes in to sing of you. i dance to the requiem your vows embody, and as you vanish, the cycle begins anew.

(at 2:01 AM, the bomb is left to shatter. my drowned corpse is left to drift ashore. the dust of my bones is left to scatter. my shadow is left to chase you evermore.)

fragmented notes Janne Muñoz She turns her mind To countless things Then back again To where it begins A forbidden time Where sparks were once bright Is it such a crime To be a guiding light? A feeling of isolation When in someone’s embrace You are my consolation That keeps me out of this haze Wouldn’t want to interrupt your night, Don’t get up, s’il vous plait. In pieces, my heart was torn, You stirred in me a splendid storm.

I’ll send you my love, Through each strum of the strings. The marks on my fingertips, And the magic of words coming from my lips. It’s been too long Since I last heard your voice In empty halls Make yourself known This restless urge And all it brings To start the notes You once wrote me An unfinished symphony for you, For colouring me all but blue. While remembering the sound of your heartbeat, I know I’ll finish this masterpiece. Only you will know, the secret of them all; You know where to go, In our love-filled hall. The reality of you, Disguised by hope. Arms wide open, this love awaits you, It’s as endless as your newfound home. I’ll forever search In the endless sky In empty abyss Waiting for your light

In starry nights And silver lakes On broken glass And silver chains I turn my mind To countless things, Then back again Where do I begin?

ALA-ALA Janne Muñoz Kung sa paggising ay wala ka na At matauhan na nag-iisa Kay hirap harapin ng totoo Lalo na’t wala ka na sa buhay ko Dati-rati’y magkasama Saan man tayo magpunta ‘Di magawang magkalayo Yaring pusong laan sa iyo Ngunit ngayong lumisan ka Wala ka na sa piling ko Kay hirap yatang tanggapin Pag-ibig na sana’y sa iyo Paano ko haharapin Buhay kong nag-iisa Kailangan ko nang karamay Sa malamig na umaga Sa kadiliman at kapighatian Sa mga kalungkutan pang darating Batid ko na pagmamahala’y aalalahanin Bunga ng pagsubok na naranasan

Magiging matibay Magiging matatag Dahil sa mga alalang Na ating pinagsamahan Hinding-hindi malilimutan Ang ating dakilang nakaraan Lahat-lahat ay naririto Naiwan sa aking puso Magsisilbing gabay Magsisilbing daan Upang makarating Sa nais mong paroonan Sadyang ganito ang buhay Ika’y maagang humiwalay Dito tayo tumitibay Natututo’t nagtatagumpay Ngunit iyong pag-lisan Hindi hadlang sa pagsikad Pagka’t ako’y mabubuhay Gabay ng munti mong ala-ala Mahirap sa una Kailangan tanggapin Ngunit patuloy munang luluha Tsaka na liligaya

forrest on end Janne Muñoz Then night falls again and again, and you keep spiraling for hours on end. You have no idea where you are, and it’s time to admit that you’ve gone too far. You have bewildered yourself so far off the path, that you don’t even know which way to go back. Which direction did you take or do you think this is a mistake? Is your saving grace only your fate? Then morning comes in such a haze. You keep spiraling for hours on end wondering if you’ll ever see other days.

One door is where I came from A chapter of my life that I may revisit The root of all my regret The regret that consumed me for the longest time While one door leads to uncertainty I do not know what is to come Will I keep what I have and value now Or will I lose it by treading that path? The other two are mysteries I do not know what is to come if I enter One of them is a pathway to my hopes and dreams While the other, I am void of knowledge on Every day, my mind struggles For I do not know which door to open Each one is like a flip of a coin They can all either lead me to light, or leave me to be consumed by the darkness

THE NIGHT-WALKER Yana Pablo

Prose

During the day, we often lose ourselves in overcrowded streets and flickering opportunities. During the night, we assemble the broken pieces of ourselves together in preparation for another day. 2 AM seeks to explore what occurs in between those two extremes; it wants to divulge the secrets we cling to when silence is the only company we keep. 2 AM is the echo of hushed promises, the clamor of unrestrained thoughts, the shadow lingering in the crevice between the moon and the sun—2 AM is the search for a truth that only we can recognize. Khloie Maderazo

Filipino Editor

When the Author Writes a SelfPortrait Riz Balaga She strains her eyes as she gives the blank, white screen a look of utter resentment. No harm done. It's not like the screen could return it anyway. She's tried everything. Well, it seems to her that way. Her online search history overflows with all sorts of writing tips from grammar to making decent descriptions. She's made countless plot outlines, designed a dazzling amount of characters, and written and typed in various ink. Yet as she sits down to regurgitate whatever words are in her, all that comes out is painful emptiness. It definitely didn’t help that her lights blink in a seizure-like manner, worsening both her eyesight and already sour mood. She facepalms for the nth time that dark and awfully early morning. She knows that she shouldn't be forcing herself to spit out creative juices at such an ungodly hour. She also knows that the moment she shuts her eyes, her unfinished work is all she would think of. Her fingers twitch slightly as each passing minute makes it increasingly enticing for her to throw her laptop. That thought jolts her awake. Her pockets would hate her for eternity if she did such a thing. She leans on her chair in defeat as she skims through her pink, flowery notebook of ideas. Each page turn discourages her slightly as a compilation of rejected or abandoned story plots greet her.

She's reached the point of not knowing whether it was sleep deprivation, lack of skill, or simply self-doubt that's keeping her from writing. Maybe it's a mix of all. Maybe it's just one of the three. Either way, she's as tired as her brain is fried. After her gaze darts between her notebook and screen for another good 37 minutes, she decides to turn in. She doesn't bother to shut down her laptop, return her glasses to their case, or even turn off the lights. She just plops face down on her bed, slippers and all. In that awkward position, she actually begins to fall asleep. Her face buries itself on her pig stuffed toy's stomach as her internal screaming lessens. (She's also quite convinced that she'll wake up with a stiff neck and deformed facial features.) Everything would be in complete silence if it weren't for the persistent hum of the air conditioner or the repeated concert of the familiar gecko outside her window. Funny enough, the latter reminds her of the unfinished quests she has in a game she's been playing for a couple of months now. The following word sequence plays around in her head: Gecko. Mr. Gecko. Familiar Mr. Gecko. Familiar. Game. Game. Familiar. Gamer grandpa? Aha. Long-waited inspiration finally slaps her. Mercilessly. And heck does she love it. She kicks off her slippers in excitement. Of course, she puts them on again as she rolls around for a bit and scurries back to her desk. She laughs like a certain cat surrounded by a dozen knives knowing full well that she still has the upper hand. Her claws are ten times sharper, after all.

It's probably the peculiarity of the prompt that stirs her mind. She scribbles then types contentedly as the words journey from the inner workings of her consciousness all the way to her fingertips. She acknowledges that there is a high chance she'll want to tear apart whatever she has written after she gets some proper sleep. And yet, she continues fabricating the ventures of Frank, the Gamer Grandpa. For the time being, she is gone from her lackluster desk and pink-walled room. She is far away from the songs of Mr. Gecko and the restraints of her notebook of rejects. Cliché as the feeling may be, she has lost herself in another world called the Depths of Her Imagination. She'll let herself wander here a little longer.

The paradoxical hour Trina Batomalaque It’s the deafening silence that hits me. How can those two words even be put together? Such contradicting descriptions; a paradoxical statement. And yet it is those two opposing words that so perfectly describe the current hour. 2:00 A.M. So many contradictions at this hour. The beginning of the day has already been ongoing for the past two hours, but why is time passing by so idly? Why is the mind the most active during this set hour of deep slumbering? Why is the sensation mildly unsettling yet so comforting? Cronos indeed is a sly man. Or rather, a sly entity. Known as the titan of time, Cronos indeed is sly for working so diligently at this hour. Speeding up and slowing down time, playing with people’s times as if it were a toy, 2:00 A.M. is the hour where you can feel all his hard work pour through. Standstill. Stuck in time.

It is exactly the deadness of the night that produces such serenity and calmness that allows time to stand still. The perfect time to rewind life. Inside the four walls of your own bedroom, hearing those faint snores across the room, with the quiet yet also loud ticking of the clock, where your mind clears from all the noisy distractions from the day. A perfect time to think. A perfect time to remember. Remembering all those moments with you. All the fond memories, the unforgettable little moments we shared… I remember everything clearly. To the moment everything between us shattered, until there was no longer a reason to fight and keep going. I remember it all so clearly. Frankly I have no regrets, and I know how mutual that feeling is. It was for the better, and yet during this time in the deadness of the night, you suddenly pop into my mind. There was no bitterness that crept into my thoughts. No lingering feelings nor twinges of pain and regret. That was when I suddenly realized that I have moved on. In the deafening silence surrounding me, I realized I was no longer stuck in time. I was merely reminiscing, as I have grown far more than I would have imagined. The silence no longer was deafening, as the thoughts and realizations comforted me. I was no longer tied to any regrets of the past, as I was free. I soundly wait for the drowsiness to hit me, waiting for my body to teleport into a new and fresh beginning—a new day.

Inner Thoughts Papa Clemente Knowing it is time to take another step Is a terrifying thought that I can percept Lingering effects of late night Lamenting the future I will eventually fight My mind cowers as my body is still Eventually, I sleep past the horrors of thought

Cold Papa Clemente What exactly do I want to do out there? I ponder this under the warm sheets on my bed surrounded by darkness that is as cold as snow. For the longest time, I wondered what it was like outside the warm sheets that cover me. I know I will be as cold as the air the moment I step out. The real question is will I freeze. When will I freeze? Have the sheets, which I’ve grown accustomed to, given me enough warmth to survive the sheer cold?

In Another Life Eliana Esguerra Audree stood at the entrance of her town’s museum, bewildered at the thought process that led her there. She could’ve sworn that it started by a strange familiar feeling that came over her when she passed by the museum after studying for her exams. It bothered her, fueling the restlessness that remained after going through her notes and reviewers, because there was no rational reason to it. She stood in front of the museum’s newest art exhibit, an event she had seen hundreds of times and even helped the art students of her university prepare for. There was nothing unusual about it yet… it felt nostalgic. Audree couldn’t explain it but there was something about the newest theme, medieval fantasies, that she could also recognize. The previews of a distant kingdom and its people made her feel dream-like, reminding her of the strange dreams that plagued her every night. She refused to let it eat away at her mind during finals week so she entered. In another world… no, lifetimes ago, she would sit in the gardens outside of a castle she used to call home. After a long day serving as her kingdom’s queen, she loved how the wind and the flower beds soothed her. Audree would remove her crown and place it on her lap, letting the wind sweep up the leaves and flowers around her. They danced, not for her, but for a greater and older monarch, Mother Nature, yet she was gracious enough to let her watch.

Minutes after, she felt familiar footsteps approaching her. Her amour still clanked despite her attempts at making her footsteps light and her rosecolored cape swayed in the wind. The queen chuckled, reminiscing on when they first met and how different and more comfortable her favorite knight now is around her. “Someone’s excited,” the receptionist teased as she handed her the ticket and the guide to the art exhibit. Audree chuckled, adjusting her black braids that were messed up by her sudden decision. “You did a mighty good job with the exhibit this time,” she joked as she pointed to the entrance. “If it’s so good that people like me are getting all riled up from just seeing it outside, it’s great.” The receptionist craned her head. “Is it really?” Audree froze, making the receptionist sigh. “Well, whatever it is, it’s not everyday I get to see you like this. It’s just a little funny, someone else came here like you.” “What… do you mean?” Audree asked. “They said something about it felt nostalgic? It was confusing to me too but I guess it’s just a coincidence. I might be overthinking things,” the receptionist explained. Audree forced back a nervous smile. “Yeah,” she nodded, “It has to be.” After that, Audree quickly left, making her way to the third floor where the art exhibit was. Audree let out a small gasp as she entered the hallway where the exhibit was held. The hallway was sparsely populated as the museum only had one or two hours left before it closed. The sun, perhaps seeing that less people would cast shadows that would hide the exhibit’s paintings, seemed to rejoice. The sky, though it was sunset, popped in brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. It made Audree smile as she walked towards the wide clear windows of the museum. She bowed her head slightly, giving her own respect to the glorious sight nature gave her that took her worries away. “Nature never seems to fail,” she joked to herself. Behind her, the sun’s rays casted a soft golden glow on the paintings of the memories of the kingdom’s inhabitants.

The new queen’s ceremony did not restrain itself from indulging in grandeur. While the previous king’s passing was tragic, the kingdom’s citizens had great hope in their new queen who had been her father’s right hand for several years. The festivals outside the castle lasted seven days and seven nights and all its activities included everything they knew their new queen would love. They danced, drank, said their prayers to the guardian god, and hung the blue feathers of the previous king’s favorite bird on their doors. It was a tradition, symbolizing the soul’s flight into the next life. At the castle, a grand feast was held. All of the kingdom’s finest was laid out before the new queen and the nobles that came. Before the feast began, all the nobles and chief of castle staff walked down the carpet and knelt in front of her. All of them pledged their allegiance and some even offered lavish gifts. Queen Audree nodded at every one of them, her eyes bearing the same wisdom her mother had and her gentle smile reminding them of her father’s benevolent rule. The last of them was the royal guard, dressed in their ceremonial armor. The head of the knights, Odysseus, went first. Odysseus was part of her now inherited council and was a celebrated veteran. Despite his many victories, Audree could see age slowly creeping up on him. His hair had begun to show grey strands and his steps were heavier. “Your majesty, I wish you all the blessings that our god can offer,” he said as he offered his sword to her. Audree stood up and picked it up. “Rise, old friend,” she commanded. He obeyed and she gave him his sword back. Then he gave her a smile, gestured to the woman with hair the color of the earth behind him, then took his place on the sides of the grand hall. At the end of the hall, she came across a very tall painting. Her eyes trailed towards the plaque underneath it labeling the artist, its dimensions, and its title. “Where I Take a Rest,” Audree breathed as she read it out. She chuckled, guessing that she and the artist felt the same. “What a coincidence,” she muttered as her eyes trailed upwards. Her eyes widened as she took in the details.

It was a painting of the two women she often saw in her strange dreams. One was her, in a lavender day gown and her tiara, sitting on a stone ledge in her favorite meadow and the other was her favorite knight. Her knight was kneeling down in front of her, placing a kiss on her hand just like she always did ever since they became lovers. There are too many strange coincidences today, she thought. Surely, it’s simply her fatigue getting to her and the artist could have simply thought of a similar concept and yet, she could not deny it. It was her. It was as if someone copy pasted her picture and placed it there. They also somehow knew that in her dreams, she always kept her loveliest and gentlest smile to her lover. They knew that she loved taking walks in the meadows to rest after dreary council meetings then sit on the ledge when she craved for the wind to make the flowers dance. After a while, her knight would notice she went missing and come to this place. Then they would drop their facades and simply be each other’s other half. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Audree snapped out of her stupor and turned to the direction the voice came from. Embarrassment crept up on Audree as she realized that she hadn’t noticed that someone else was there. The girl looked like another university student, probably a junior as well. She chuckled as she bounced, jokingly placing her hands back in her pockets as she continued. “Such a big painting and it’s so cool that she’s brave enough to do that to her boss, y’know?” She turned to Audree. That was the first time she had a good look at the stranger’s face and she was pretty. She reminded her of the jocks she knew after a long day at school. Her hair was like a smooth tree bark – if that existed – and her carefree attitude (probably from giving up worrying from the number of projects the university professors gave) was cute. She also seemed weirdly familiar.

The woman he pointed to stepped forward, knelt, and offered her sword just as he had done. For a moment, Audree was captivated by the knight’s beauty. She was around her age but had a youthful reckless glint about her that Audree had long lost from being raised as heir. Her hair was messily tied up in a bun despite her clean appearance and she could see her tremble as she said her greetings. Then the realization crept up on her. She looked exactly like the knight of her dreams. “What’s your name?” Audree asked, desperate for a reason to confirm or deny it. “Oh?” The stranger gave a goofy smile. “My name’s Diana. What’s yours?” “My name is Diana, second in command of the royal guard. I have been asked by my commander to be your aide and bodyguard. I hope that I can be of service to you, your majesty.” Audree could barely find the right words to reply, stumbling as she gave her name. Seconds after, Diana’s face turned into one of confusion then nostalgia then… longing. Silence filled the time after. The rays of the sun casting shadows on them as the dreams filled them both up. Diana’s hand twitched as her dreams welled up in unison with Audree’s. Somehow, they both knew that it wasn’t only a series of coincidences. They did not dream of each other because their minds were playing tricks on them. Yet, their previous lives seemed so far away that the threads they could hold were not enough to form a solid image in their minds. They knew that long ago, they once loved each other. One was a knight and the other was a queen. Together, they led their kingdom to glory until their end but always longed for each other’s touch in public. But that was the past. They remembered but the threads were vague. Times were different too. Diana is no longer a knight and Audree is no longer a queen. They were university students now.

In that museum in the sunset, the silence of a thousand words, the past and present merging, they stood still. Then in another instant, they both moved. Diana reached for her phone and Audree reached for her sticky note and pen. “Hey, can I have your number?” Audree asked. “I-I was going to ask you the same,” Diana sheepishly admitted. The two exchanged numbers, still unsure if they should tell each other that they dream of their past. Yet, Audree could feel the excitement in Diana’s smile and her heart pound as they did. Somehow, despite their uncertainty and the time between them, they still wanted to know what the other was in the present. Whether they decide to tell each other and truly remember, does not matter in that moment. What mattered was that they met again and they could forge a unified future. Audree looked at her curiously. “Diana… is that your only name?” Diana was startled by her question. “It is not but I do not know my parents. Does it bother you, my queen? If so, I can tell my comm—” Audree cut her off and knelt down in front of her. “That will not be necessary. I am only sad that a wonderful knight like you was not given the gift of family,” she softly replied. Diana scoffed, “Your majesty, there is no need. This kingdom is my family.” Audree smiled and gave back her sword. This knight, she thought, was very sweet and would make a wonderful companion. If Odysseus chose her, she did not have to worry about her skill. “Rise, Diana. I am honored to have you be my knight and I hope that I can ensure this kingdom continues to be a suitable family for you and everyone else.”

“My queen? Are you being sentimental again?” Diana teased as she pressed her forehead against Audree’s. Audree wrapped her hands around Diana’s waist and smiled. “You know me too well and I love you all the more for that.” Diana chuckled. “I wanted to make sure you’re ok— I suppose it’s obvious you are but I do find this place more intimate. If you would let me, let me take your worries away.” Audree kissed her cheek. “You already did. You always have, even if I met you again after death and did not know you.”

Cinderella with the Black Shoes Kei Gutierrez TW: abuse, gore, manipulation, murder, sexual harassment, suicide, pedophilia (Everything from this story is purely fictional. It is not my intention to romanticize any of the scenes portrayed in it.) She went inside the bar mere minutes before midnight struck. Indeed, she was like one you’d see in a polaroid— a snapshot taken on a whim. Her long, dark tresses sat lazily at the top of her head. The grey, sequin-studded top she adorned sparkled in the purple hue of the spotlights precariously dangling on the walls, which was quite the distracting sight. Paired with the almost mellifluous clacking of her ebony corset shoes against the tiles, she was a paradigmatic, out-of-portrait head turner. I was never one to complain about such circumstances. Even with heavy makeup tainting her elfin features, she looked as if she was freshly seventeen, maybe even eighteen. What would a lass that young be doing here?

It wasn’t like I was an exception anyway. I have recently graduated high school and had been lurking around the suburbs for what almost seemed to be 5… 20... 40 years, essentially an eternity. I’ve finally managed to land my first job at some louche, washed-down pub, with an owner as disreputable as its interior. Although I am given such scanty pay, I do not necessarily dislike the place— and I’d be lying if I said I don’t meet very, very interesting individuals every so often. She went towards the counter table, a flicker of wanderlust noticeably hiding in each of her steps. She walked in rapid, skip-like steps. I was the assigned bartender for that night, hence I had the privilege of getting a glimpse of her look, her character, everything that is her. Good heavens, who knew that those black curtains embellishing her eyelids could conceal such enticing eyes? Her eyes reflected fire in water. I never knew how icy blue could spark with so much longing and desire. I couldn’t have been bothered to ask for an identification to verify her age or any of the sort that my manager would blaringly accost me to do. I just knew I had to talk to her, somehow. She immediately asked for some vodka and I had to suppress a snicker. I advised her to get the strawberry daiquiri instead. “How could you tell I have a knack for strawberries?” I smiled warmly. Every charming, innocent girl likes strawberries. We had some crumbs of a conversation, although I am assured our palaver was way more than those measly words. Every flip of her hair, every chortle she’d muster when I utter stale wisecracks made for small talk, every sip of the pink liquid I— I made especially for her— drove me to a rather familiar sense of insanity. Her sentences were pure gold, every letter she mutters was tonic begging to be imbibed— be savored drop by drop.

Although my shift wasn’t over, she invited me to dance with her for a short while. Being the stricken fool I am, I followed without an ounce of hesitation. When we frisked in the middle of the jammed casket of a dance floor, the scent of something spicy yet deceivingly sweet— somewhat cinnamon or ginger— pervaded my senses. It slowly enveloped my tobacco-coated skin, my bones embodying a sunken graveyard. Yet she swayed to the music as if I was the loveliest thing that has graced the earth, as if my hollowed eyes were fissures roaring captivation, as if my freckles were the lingering sunset morphing into a crescendo of stars. She made me feel so, so beautiful. I asked her to stay, but even with all the tritest of attempts, I was met with a decline. All of my days went by somberly, my mind preoccupied with her— my darling, incipient muse. I have been fortunate enough to meet her for the second time, and it is an understatement to say that I was more than thrilled to bask in her tormentingly bewitching presence. She was now donning a tiny, skimpy dress that would have made any man’s heart flutter through the roof. She fiddled with a stupendous piece of amethyst sitting on the dead center of her pretty neck, with her familiar, laced-up shoes dragging against the floor in a coltish manner. Such eccentric taste this girl has, yet I pay no attention to the attire as I rush to her aid when her heel gets caught up in a woman’s lengthy skirt. As the lady goes on a tirade about the diminutive tear on her garment, I couldn’t help but sneer. Women in their 50’s are truly something else— their antiquated fashion sense, their eyetooth baring at anyone they are displeased with, the way their gaze dawdles on unsuspecting young males such as myself— it truly gives me a fright.

The night began with more distinct topics to natter about. I prattled about various escapades I’ve had, leaving out indecorous details as I wouldn’t have wanted to impinge her delicacy. She mostly talked about antecedent events in her life, although she could never finish an anecdote without slipping in her sweet, sweet giggles. “You were such a teacher’s pet, if I may brazenly say so,” I chuckle as I pipe in a comment about one of her stories that further defined many of her idiosyncrasies. She claims to have attracted one of her male teachers around her sophomore year and has almost been coerced into doing the unspeakable. It is an amusing account of the past— for her at least— but as I listened attentively my fists tugged tightly on my sides, a deafening wisp of anger threatening to escape my palms. How could an adult (that bespectacled, wretched old man) resort to such asinine behavior? I would’ve scalped him if I’d been given the chance to. No one may lay their filthy, sleazy hands on her, especially in such revolting ways. We were way past the witching hour when she once again dragged me into the horde of people tuned in to the current singer’s exquisitely beguiling sound. It was an open mic day and, other than the person singing Hymne A L'Amour with such passion I can almost catch a taste of what it would be like to whisper the lyrics softly into my muse’s perked up ears, we were the only ones waiting for their turn on the sordidly decorated platform. As soon as the singer dropped the microphone, she instantaneously took action and led me to the stage. Her voice, as much as it pains me to admit, prompted the noise of raucous gears. Additionally, to the evident dismay of the rest of the customers, she kept yelling explosive vulgarities at anyone who dared take their attention off her. I have never, ever met such a foul-mouthed doll. Of course, a being such as her also needs to have those little foibles.

And there we were, laughter that may very well extend for miles, the purest of bonds forming between two entities in time. It felt like a fictitious fairytale you would never think would actually turn into fruition, a sensational rush I would never trade anything for. We met for the third time almost a day after she sang to her heart’s content and got too inebriated to carry on further. I was working in maintenance for I got quite the earful due to the frolicking I did with her the night before. She will always be the source of the distension of my heart— each thump louder than the other as she staggers towards me with a faded expression. I gently asked if anything was wrong. She only manages to give me a defiant shrug before sluggishly reclining on the chair. Hot tears were forging in my eyes, although I have managed to keep most at bay. This was not my muse that I know. “Hey, what seems to be the problem?” I raise the question one more time as I stood over her hunching figure. I carefully lift her chin using my thumb and ring finger, leaving her with no other choice but to directly look at me. I was taken aback at the sight of her eyes— hard, algid sapphires— turning into a melted lake before my very own, beseeching nothing else but help and succor. I immediately suggested for her to come with me to my flat in order to work her sorrows out. She willfully agrees. Both she and I know she would rather rely on me—odd, pedestrian me— than anyone else, and I deeply cherish those thoughts as her taut fists rested in contented ease. And there and then in the dingy, sullen midst of the dusk did she tell me everything. She solemnly sobbed about her absentminded father and her tool of a mother, the way that woman’s callousness floods even the most minuscule cracks of her body.

The desperation in her lovely, lovely voice swelled as she repeatedly murmured her dear sisters’ names— how she wishes she could take them with her whenever she’d escape into the outskirts, attaining an insufficient peek of a world that caters to her sheltered imagination— a place that is only accessible at one o’clock in the murky morning. The way in which she trembled as she curled up on the wooden floor made me feel an incomparable amount of despair. I involuntarily stooped down and embraced her, my sweetest doll. I’ll save her, I know I’ll save her. Nonetheless, my suppressed emotions turned into something else as my hands rubbed against the diaphanous material of her top. I turned her shoulders to face me and caressed her dainty cheeks in a manner that is distinctively mine— and from how her gaze never faltered I knew she craved it too. “You trust me, right?” Oh, her beauty was indeed a mesmerizing kind, alright. I gapingly leer at the leather jeans that hugged her rather immature figure or her lips that simulated maraschino cherries— the upper one much plumper than the other. When I promptly laid my mouth onto hers, it felt almost like an invitation to inveigle myself in her, her thoughts, her entirety. Brushing my soiled, undeserving fingers above her sweetheart neckline was the only ecstasy I’ll ever need as I went further down, tenderly marking my way to her puny rump to her thinning calves. Everything that happened succeedingly passed by like a blur. The next thing I know, I was staring at her bare back, engraving compliments or making an S pattern using my fingertips. She shuddered in my cold touch. She turned around to face me and began to blabber about any subject she had in mind. Her infantile behavior gradually returned as I struggled to throw her zany little remarks back.

In sheer honesty, I could only focus on how the moonlight coruscated to the walls, reflecting a slight shimmer on her smooth skin. There’s the doll that I know. All I could muster in those moments were extensive accolades praising every inch of her, a sickeningly saccharine grin forming on her comely features as I do so. She toyed with the locks drooping on my face— picking each strand one by one— as she leans in closer to whisper. “I swear, you’re so obsessed with me,” she says with a slight titter with an obvious hint of sarcasm. It was just another quip, yet it somehow got to rub me off the wrong way. “What exactly do you mean by that?” I asked as I sat on the footboard of the bed, disconcerted. She merely shrugs and takes a quick glance at the mirror extended on the wall. I instinctively follow her eyes. I quickly stood up from where I was sitting. The man staring at me had gunmetal-gray hair that crept down his wrinkled neck. Lines, dusty lines swallowed his body, and discoloration contaminated his skin. His cheeks sagged greatly to the point where his lips immediately form a scowl at rest. All of his movements emanated lethargy as he touched his wilting arms, thighs, and intensified crow’s feet. The creases on his forehead buried further upon closer inspection. I look at my shriveled hands, look back at the mirror, and back to my hands. No, no, this can’t be real. Have I done something wrong? Have I been fooled by my own mind? Have I been fabricating every event that has happened? What will become of me now? Will my legacy retain to be nothing but an object of derision from here on out?

I look over at my muse. Gone was her winsome, endearing aura— I can feel that it has been replaced with a sense of uncertainty, fear and trepidation that speaks louder than the silence enveloping us. As I assertively shook my head, I began to notice that she, whose quaint body was laid in front of me, was rather average, dull, very dull in comparison to my muse, my dearest muse, my doll... She’s not her. The questions I have asked myself reverberated through the chambers of my head. I lose all of my senses as I forcefully wrap her neck around my hands, my nails digging into her soft, soft skin. She strived to fight back against my strength unsuccessfully, as I could see the stars in her eyes slowly dissipate. I drop her body in utter shock, the realization of the horrors that I’ve done sinking in excruciatingly. My fingers were still freshly stained with the wine-like liquid remains of the girl I have mercilessly, shamelessly taken the life out of, and with my ill-fated curiosity, I licked it bit by bit. Its metallic tang enveloped my tongue, my hollowed hands suddenly yearning for more. No, no, this is her. I can see, taste it much clearer now. and it feels good… good… really, really good. The rest of the week consisted of me making laborious attempts at keeping my reticence while I disposed of her. As I have expected, word got around of a girl gone missing two hours after twelve, last seen around the area I worked at. Naturally, a detective would have also come into my flat at any given time. However, I was caught off-guard when my manager stormed into my place in a rather untimely manner, with those contemptible policemen following behind him.

I took a fathomless inhale before letting them inspect my surroundings. These men were the most inept at their profession, and I am confident that I have erased every trace of her, as much as it has wounded me to do so. I lost her, my young, lovely, vexing nymphet. She never stood one chance. Without warning, someone strenuously rips my velvet curtains open. My eyes widen in terror. Sitting there, almost deridingly, was her stupid, fucking black heels. The infamous black shoes that could draw even the most meticulous of individuals. Why did she have to hide it in such an elusive position? Curse her, and curse everyone else! I plead that I was innocent, that I do not have the slightest idea of why it could’ve been here. Maybe it was a trifling mistake by my scatterbrained granddaughter or I simply had a fascination with such striking shoes. Distressingly, I was met with harsh jeers and suspicions. They told me they will bring back the evidence to their station, discuss matters over, and meet me again tomorrow. This is it, this is my end. All I had were specious arguments and rebuttals, there was no trace of hope left for me. I plopped myself back on the bed, where my vilest of crimes happened, and began a ruminative reflection. I am a libertine, a hinged man whose addiction stems from ignoble convictions, that I can admit. I open the nightstand, revealing a cluster of variegated pills. I was never puritanical, so why bother? I can relieve myself from this earthly pain by absconding myself through this method— this was the coward’s way out, and I have no shame in doing so. This is my way of reaching her, my beautiful, beautiful doll, my everything. As the tablets slid down my throat, I can hear distinct, haunting whispers at the back of my mind.

Are you sure this is the right way out? Don’t you feel any remorse? Whatever shall we do with you now? What is this torturous pandemonium? Is this the punishment given to me by the heavens? I screamed, screamed to drown them out, yet to no avail. My breath rattled with every second, and I realize that I made a mistake far too late to retrieve when a brooding figure stood in front of me. I hurriedly grasp its feet, the only movement I could transpire within me, yet it wasted no time in trampling my fingers. All I could do was whimper in agony. “This is his 3044th loop, correct?” it spoke to the void surrounding us. What is it talking about? What is it doing here? Am I dead? “I’m sending him back out,” it says once again. The confusion I felt further amplified the pain I felt all over my hideous, aging body. It kneels down to my level and raises my chin just how I did it with her. I cautiously looked at its eyes, its eyes devoid of anything but my own blood-curling reflection. “You did say you wanted to see her again, didn’t you?” it asks. It grabbed my face and shook it up and down, implicating a nod from me. “Very well then, as you wish.” I see it smile, and never in my life have I been petrified with such ease. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs until it is the only thing filling my decaying consciousness— a chilling, incarnadine red.

I sharply gasp and drop to the floor in an instant. I have been dislodged from my seat by one of my coworkers, expatiating endlessly about me dozing off during my shift and how I should be given a lesser wage. I scoffed at him— how he would always barely cut me some slack was beyond me, given that he has also been a lousy teenager once— and excused myself as I prepared the bar for the multitude of guests. I look at the time, and it is around five minutes before midnight. The chimes of the front door ring tunefully, and I see her, a girl with black shoes — a paradigmatic, out-of-portrait head turner. amir

Late Night convos Jan Justo It’s been a long day. Or night, I suppose. You couldn’t sleep last night. Today was your first day, so it was natural to be anxious. But the things that were annoying were the voices. ======================================= The blinking green lights from your bedside clock screamed out 2-something AM. It’s been a while now since you’ve been staring into the blank space that was your ceiling. I don’t know why I couldn’t sleep, though. Actually, you do. You don’t just want to face it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re anxious about your first day tomorrow.

Well, of course I am! It’s a new school, and a big one at that. Tomorrow’s the make-or-break of my life for the next couple of years! Oh, come on. Don’t be so overdramatic. What’s the worst that could happen? “No matter how bad things get, it could always get better.” I prefer “No matter how bad things get, it could always get worse.” But, humor me then. In retrospect, their (or your?) arguments were frustrating, to say the least. Okay, what if I don’t wake up on time? My parents will probably practically hunt me down if I do so. With the words “Of all the days you chose to be late, you picked your first day at school!” already ringing in your head, that would be a really, really good way to start the day, right? Maybe I’ll be having a talk with my teacher on the first day, with them questioning me why I slept in. Congratulations, you made a good first impression. But that won’t happen, alright? Fine. So, let’s say that I do wake up on the dot. What if I embarrass myself tomorrow? How exactly? Oh you know me. Count on me to mess things up. I could go on and on, but I’ll leave out the messy parts.

Just sleep, and hope for a good tomorrow, okay? Or at least pretend to do so. I had hoped that voice won. Unfortunately, the other what-ifs continued to haunt me to sleeplessness. Then what if as I got to know them, I joked then no one laughed? Just smile and wave boy. Smile and wave. There must be at least one classmate who shares your terrible sense of humor? Right, thanks self. How about this: on-mic, then I was talking nonsense to myself? Come on, even I would laugh at that. It would be one of the best first days that ever happened if that becomes true. “Late night thoughts determine who we are in the day.” I heard that once. Where? Magazine, I think? Or was it on my Pinterest board? I can’t remember. Anyway, do you think that’s true? Silence dawned after that. If that’s true, are you this messed up then? I’d like to think not. If I were, then you’d also be messed up. Sure, whatever you say.

======================================= That was the last thing you remembered. The next thing you knew, the squealing box that was your phone said it was time to wakey-wakey, and so you effortlessly got up. “Huh, I didn’t sleep in,” you suddenly realized. Well, how can you not sleep in if you didn’t sleep at all? So that first what if didn’t happen then. Does that give me reason to think that the others won’t, too? It won’t, right?

You smile to yourself as you start to get ready. It’ll be fine. I’ll do well.

UNIVERSE[VOID] Joie Ocampo You’ve always hated the ticking of clocks, the monotonous sound of shifting gears and moving hands following you wherever you went. Day in, day out, your brain is filled with white noise, blocking all thoughts and sensations until all you can feel is how sweaty your palms are, how they tremble with each little thing you do, how each thought is drowned out by the looming reminder of that which haunts you and never leaves, corroborated by the sound of— Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It follows you, no matter what you do. With each step you can hear the quiet click of cogwheels spinning around. It’s quiet, yes, faint, almost like the whispers of numbers flowing in and out of your ears in a maddeningly looping cycle. It’s like the song of the story of the Universe, unintelligible, unfathomable, archaic, being performed just for you, teasing you, dangling the answers you seek right in front of you. And there are many things you wish to know, questions that race through your head, pounding against your skull at the same tempo as— Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s maddening, frustrating, infuriating. How many hours have you lost listening to the mind-numbing sound of a clock’s inner-workings? How many days have passed where you did nothing more than imagine the grains of sand falling in an hourglass and escaping the palms of your hands through the gaps between your fingers?

How many sleepless nights have you had, pushing yourself to work, to run, to flee from the force reminding you of your own fickle mortality, of the limits of your existence? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Too many. Too much. Not enough. You need your answers, your affirmations, validation that what you do, miniscule or vast, is not in vain. You need to know that your mortality, the fickle force of your heartbeat keeping you alive, will not be a hindrance to your plan of etching your name amongst the stars. It’s why you stay up late each night, staring at the empty expanse of the night sky that casts dark shadows on your fingertips. It is Void, null, empty, devoid of life besides the dots of sequined stars lining the velvety fabric of space. You are fascinated by it, enraptured by it, so focused that you can almost ignore the sound of— Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Everyone around you tells you not to wander too deep into the darkness that is the Void, that it blinds and hurts and takes away pieces of yourself. It is easy to lose yourself in the darkness, they say, and when you emerge, if you emerge, you will not be the same unblemished soul that you were before. It is a warning and a challenge, to see how far you can reach into the inky and uncertain depths before you decide that your life is too worthy, too precious to lose. You do not have that holding you back, not this time. Not when the clock follows you— Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. —And reminds you of that which chases you. You reach out, then, hoping to anyone, anything listening in, that you will not be left to your own devices.

You do not want to sink into the chasm of time incarnate, you cry. You do not want to be reduced into an infinitesimal speck in the cosmos. You ask for someone to make you into a vessel of the Universe, spin you into a silver thread that will patch together the gaps in the history of the human race. You beg to be immortalized in the never-flickering light of your brilliance and legacy. Listen, you plead to the Void looking down on you. Listen. And listen the Void does, wrapping itself around you, intertwining its fingers with your outstretched ones, plugging up the gaps so that the sands of your life cannot pass by you. Its embrace is warm, you think to yourself. You can feel the world fall away around you, only you and the Void that cradles you in its palms, only barely picking up on time slowing down at last. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. TickFor once your mind is quiet, only the sound of your breathing reaching your ears. Your eyes are wide open, the silver string threading the stars together suddenly seeming that much closer. You wonder, for the briefest of moments, if you can touch them should your hand reach out far enough, if in the slivers of stardust you can see the answers you were waiting for. Then the Void, the oddly comforting, oddly warm, oddly alive Void, starts to sing to you, a familiar lullaby that you’ve heard many times before, the notes familiar, the whispered words finally intelligible, fathomable, concrete. And here is the song the Void, the Universe, sings: First came the Universe-the Void all alone. Then came You, bright light in the darkness. You with hands made for creation and feet made for travel, together are made to push the limits of what can be and what is yet to be.

ou are made of the same magic that the world around You is made of, composed of the same molecules that compose the stars above, the trees rooted below, and the waves lapping on sandy shores. You are formed by the same forces, the same Universe-the same Void that formed the mountains and the valleys and the trenches. You, the melody of the ground’s chorale, the notes of the wind’s serenades, the tune of the fire’s ballad. You, the masterpiece of the world you live in, the pièce de résistance of the caves and cliffs you stand on. You, the flowers that bloom in every field, the fish that swim in every sea, the birds that fly below each cloud. You are Chronos, the timekeeper, the hourglass-observer. You hold the lifespan of infinity in Your hands, sprinkled throughout all in the cosmos. You bear the power of the infinite acts You can do with a finite number of days to Your name. You, the watcher, the listener, the speaker of all the good in the Universe-the Void that made You. You, the fighter, the defender, the peacekeeper. You untapped potential, unpolished grace, untouched beauty that cannot ever be revoked. You are the Universe’s-Void’s-Your own greatest creation. For that, You will always be remembered. For that, You will always be loved. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. When you open your eyes you feel, for a moment, as though you cannot breathe. When you look up you see nothing more than the same endless dark sky above you. When you stand up there is ground beneath you, not Void, not Universe. When you strain your ears to hear the sounds of the world around you, you can hear the familiar ticking of a clock— Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. But it’s different now, more comforting now, the steady beat to a song whose lyrics you cannot remember but whose melody flows through your veins like your lifeblood.

But it’s different now, more comforting now, the steady beat to a song whose lyrics you cannot remember but whose melody flows through your veins like your lifeblood. When you stand up to leave, when you lay down to sleep you will still hear the clicking of cogwheels turning but it will soothe you in a way you haven’t felt in a while. When you start to drift off at seven past two in the morning, you will feel something wrapping around you. A blanket, perhaps, or a much-needed hug from someone who's listened to you from the very first breath you took, who will listen to you until your last breath, until your time, which you hold in your hands and claim as yours, will finally run out in its infinite potential and finite days, until you will become the silver thread that holds the night sky together, a legacy immortalized amongst stars. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You are everything You have ever wanted to be and ever will be. You are completion, a cycle of creation that moves on beyond You are perfection that cannot be contained in a single breath, a single lifespan. You are the Universe’s-the Void’s-Your own greatest creation. For that, You will always be remembered. For that, You will always be loved.

RIPPLE Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez TW: attempted suicide, death “We shouldn’t be here.” The water, cold and silent in the dead of the night, ripples around our feet as the crickets chirp amongst the bushes and the shadows that loom over us. The dock’s dewy wood digs into our thighs. I shrug at your words, lightly kicking at the water to create another ripple. “Yeah, maybe. We’re here anyway.” “And whose fault is that?” “You can’t blame me for something you agreed to.” You laugh, like wind chimes and delusions and ripples in the water. Unreal, and maybe even a little discomforting, but nice— like it came out of those fantasy books you always had on your desk that you never finished reading. I don’t think I ever made you laugh like that. You never did. Not for me anyway. “You’re right.”

TW: attempted suicide, death What do you mean? All I did was hurt you and fail you ‘til I lost you, and my smiles left with you. “I know, even before you said it.” Liar liar liar. “Sure.” You say it with a chuckle as you smile at the stars that twinkled suspiciously bright above us. Looking at them hurt my eyes, so I look at the stars’ distorted form in the water instead. The leaves on the trees that surround the river dance to the gentle breeze, and my thoughts take them for a waltz. Something felt amiss, the evening with all its glittering stars and cricket choirs suspiciously perfect. I was always ready to run, the second it felt too peaceful. Always afraid of an enemy that only existed in my mind. Maybe that’s why I had to lose you, because when a house goes up in flames you don’t try to salvage what’s left. You run, and you run, and you never look back. You were home, and I was never the kind to run; so I hid and when it all crashed and burned, I burned with you. I could never do anything without you. “Do you want to jump into the water?” Your words cut through the comfortable silence. I turn to you and furrow my eyebrows. “It’s midnight. It’s cold. Why would we?” “I don’t know. Why did you?” “...You’re not making sense.”

TW: attempted suicide, death “That's on you.” I frown in confusion, blinking at you blankly. Even here I can never understand you. Maybe that says a lot about us before everything fell apart. “You shouldn't be here." “Why are you saying this?” “Because you know that’s what I would’ve said if I was here.” “You are here. With me. You are here.” “You know that’s not true.” I am Medusa, and you are all the warriors that came across my chaos. I refuse to see because I know that when I do, I’ll be greeted by granite— stone cold truth. Reality will be etched into concrete, and I’ll freeze at the sight of it, so I block all of it out and hide within the shadows of my comfort. I can’t destroy you if you never come upon me. In your eyes, you were Psyche and I was Eros. You saw me at my most vulnerable, the monster you were holding. Then you, sweet and selfless you — you dare push closer, wrap your arms around me tighter, so Aphrodite took it upon herself to destroy us both. I screamed at the blood that poured out of us both. “Jump in the water.” “No.”

TW: attempted suicide, death “You can't be here." “I can't lose you again.” “I never would have wanted this.” You are refracted, blurred together, through the tears in my eyes. My hands grip the wood so tightly that I felt splinters dig into my fingers, and you smile so brightly that it hurts to look at what I’ve lost. I want to stay here. “Jump in the water. They’re searching for you." God, they probably are. Is it too late to go back? What do I do when I go back? How can I face them after this? What comes next? “You’ll know when you’re there.” “Jump.” I jump into the water. The water burns my lungs, and I gasp for the slightest of air. Around me it ripples, a domino effect that starts here and ends long after the one that caused it has gone. It’s been ages but the void in my soul never seems to go anywhere, so I wonder when does a ripple end? When will it end?

TW: attempted suicide, death Tue, Apr 20, 2:09 AM : Where are you? At the lake. Couldn’t sleep. : : What? You shouldn’t be there. I shouldn’t be here.

secondhand Trisha Perez “That shirt looks waaay too big on you.” Elya watches her best friend pad out of the walk-in closet, a NASA shirt hanging loose and baggy on her slender frame. It’s obviously been worn countless times, the colors faded and loose threads sticking out from the hems of its sleeves. Roma shrugs, continuing to rub her wet hair dry with a bath towel. "It's my older brother's." "The AC is like, on full blast," Elya tells her. “You sure you’re still gonna stay warm with that?” Roma gestures to the futons set up in the middle of the room. "The blanket you lent me is pretty thick, so I'll be fine." Elya frowns. She normally doesn't give much thought about anyone's clothing, but Roma's sleepwear just looks so…sad. It doesn't fit Roma at all, it's frayed, and it's old. Then again, it's not like it's her business even if it bothered her, so she focuses her attention back on the paper she was previously filling up. "What are you doing?" Roma suddenly materializes right next to Elya, who nearly jumps out of her swivel chair. "Don't do that," Elya hisses, going back to her paper.

Then, to answer her friend's question, "Career sheet." Roma raises an eyebrow. "Oh? So that's what you've been busy with since an hour ago." An hour ago…? Elya glances at the digital clock next to her desk lamp. 12:30 am. She really had been stuck doing the career sheet for an hour. It's just a career sheet… "You know, if you haven't decided what you want yet, you should just sleep it off." Roma pokes her cheek. "C'mon, it's still due next week. You've got a lot of time to think about it." —

◊—

As Elya absentmindedly gets ready for the sleeping part of their sleepover, Roma's words bounce around like a Windows screensaver in her head. “You know, if you haven't decided what you want yet, you should just sleep it off.” It wasn't that she didn't know what career she wanted. On the contrary, Elya already had a career in mind. The moment the career sheet was handed to them in class that morning, her brain automatically dinged with an answer. What was frustrating was that she couldn't seem to bring herself to actually write it down, because… Do I really, genuinely want that? Lost in thought and annoyance at herself licking at the edges of her mind, Elya harshly plops down onto her futon. Sleep sounded like a good way to forget about her life crisis.

There's a yelp, accompanied by a hard pressure on her backside as Elya lands on her futon. "Ow! Wha—" "Watch where you're plopping your ass next time, will you?" Roma groans, clutching her hand. "Ah— sorry, sorry," Elya apologizes, "my bad, didn't notice it was there." Her best friend sighs, before fixing her with a look. "What're you spacing out for?" Elya is getting even more tired by the minute, which is honestly surprising, since she's often the more energetic one during sleepovers. She blames the career sheet and her indecisiveness. "'S nothing," she mumbles, rubbing the throbbing spot on her backside as she shifts around in her futon to find a comfortable sleeping position. "I don't think it's nothing if it makes you tune the world out and sit on other people's hands," Roma quips, already laying on her side and facing Elya. Elya honestly just wants to leave the issue for later, when her thoughts aren't a mess and the uncomfortable heat of anxiousness isn't spreading like wildfire through her gut. In an attempt to avoid the impending reiteration of the previous question—which she most likely won't be able to, because she knows her best friend, and Roma can get insistent as hell at times—she mumbles something about forgetting to turn off the lights. As expected, the moment Elya drops back and settles into her futon, Roma asks her the same question from earlier. "What's got you so zoned out?"

Might as well answer it, or both of them aren’t getting any sleep. "I…don't know what to write on the sheet," Elya murmurs, her eyelids starting to droop. She hears the soft, muted rustling of sheets to her left and turns on her side to face Roma. “Actually, wait— no, it’s not that,” she adds quickly. “It’s more like I’m not sure if I really want to write down the answer I have.” “Well, what was your answer going to be in the first place?” “Law. Lawyer.” There’s a moment of silence. The hum of the air conditioning echoes vividly across the huge room, and Elya’s feet have never felt colder than they do now. Roma finally breaks the silence after a while. “And you haven’t written it down because…?” “Well,” Elya starts. She can’t finish her response, throat closing up and tongue heavy. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to admit the answer to herself and confirm the truth she’s always hated, but still keeps coming back to. Maybe she just doesn’t want to admit to her cowardice and her lack of resolve. She feels the tension of Roma waiting for her to go on, but all speaking functions seem to have left her. There’s a heavy exhale and Roma turns to her other side. Then, she tells Elya, in a clear, sure voice—

“If you don’t like secondhand clothes, then you shouldn't want secondhand dreams either. Between the two of us, you’re the one who’s got the world in her hands. All you have to do is claim it.” Gentle, steady breaths soon emanate from Roma’s futon, signalling the end of tonight’s conversation.

— —

◊

Roma had always been the wiser and more composed of the two of them, even in childhood. It was like she was blessed with her very own manual and an answer key to every problem in life. She always knew the right course of action to take and what to say. Tonight’s words of wisdom was an example. With her hazy mind jarred awake by the intensity of Roma’s statement, Elya lies wide awake with only her thoughts to keep her company. Again. She rips her blanket off her legs, frenzied mind generating heat in her core and adding unnecessary warmth to her body. I’ve got the world in my hands, huh? She thinks, moving to lie on her back. Staring at the blankness of the ceiling—save for the lighting fixture—the thoughts come tumbling in at full force. Pale moonlight spills into the room through the undrawn curtains, and Elya takes a look around. Up against the left wall, next to the door, her long study desk stands sturdy. An assortment of things are neatly arranged on top, from gadgets to small trinkets and decorations, most of them travel souvenirs. Above it, the shelves are lined with various books and magazines, all purchased right on the day of their release and some even signed by the authors. In front of the desk and by her feet from where she’s lying down on the floor is her queen-size bed, the mattress of the best quality and the pillows always fluffed. A sliding door a few meters away from the headboard leads to a walk-in closet, which in turn is connected to a personal bathroom. Elya thinks that she probably did have everything she could ever want.

Do I really, though? “If you don’t like secondhand clothes, then you shouldn't want secondhand dreams either.” Every trinket, gadget and article of clothing she owned was new and hers— no sharing, no hand-me-downs. Yet that idea didn’t seem to apply to the non-material things: her dreams, her aspirations, her plans. Elya had always gone with the flow, scared to disappoint in fear of being left behind or labelled as deviant. It was funny, since she’d always wanted to be seen and noticed but had settled for blending in. She played golf despite finding it boring, just so she could be smiled at and clapped on the back by her cousins. She did all she could to master the art of playing the violin so that at her recitals, she could hear her parents and uncles and aunts applaud her and tell her she did wonderful. She spent a lot of time in highschool trying to advance her knowledge in economics and business and whatnot even if the numbers and concepts made her head swim, if only to impress her grandparents at the dinner table the way her brother always seemed to be able to do without much effort. And now, she was considering to take up law and be a lawyer, to measure up to her cousins and brother, in hopes of recognition. Almost all the adults in their entire family were “professionals” of some sort. Lawyers. Business people. CEOs of their own companies. Doctors. Things like those. Elya doesn’t think any one of them has ever chosen a different path, built up a life that was a far cry from what their family’s norm was. And now, as Elya realizes in the stillness of the artificially cooled night, she’s about to construct a mere extension of that path. Truly, it’s a secondhand dream. Worn from overuse, it becomes even more crumpled and creased as it is passed from one hand to another.

There’s no meaning to the dream, its significance and essence dulled into a status symbol and for appearances. A pretty thing that sits atop each and everyone’s tongue, on the ready to be announced at parties to flatter their image like fake gold. The thought of it presses an invisible weight onto her chest. Secondhand dreams weren’t even dreams at all. They were routines, cycles that brought forth something that already existed, rendering them pallid and meaningless. “Between the two of us, you’re the one who’s got the world in her hands. All you have to do is claim it.” Elya thinks she’d rather sew up a new shirt rather than pointlessly try fitting into one that would never really fit her, no matter how much she made adjustments. For the first time in forever, Elya trusts her own decisions and cements her firm resolve onto her entire being. Tonight will mark the start of shaping her own world and making it hers and hers alone. Her phone suddenly lights up next to her. Picking it up and squinting at the screen, it turns out to be some Instagram notification for a livestream. Sliding the notification right, Elya checks the time. Two minutes to two in the morning. Setting it back down on its place on the floor, Elya turns on her side and brings her blanket back up to her chin. She’s going to finish the career sheet first thing when she wakes up.

THE ONE WHERE A BOY SPEAKS TO THE MOON Bianca Samson The moon told a boy the secrets of the universe, once. Bit of an odd story, really. It started in a domain; where nights are pitch black and desolate. One could mistake it for the void. The sight of a distant star and its light was rare and seldom. A boy lived there. A special one. For this domain was his, and his alone then. You can imagine how hard it would be; for a little boy to navigate a vast expanse, in a pitch black night. If he wasn’t so special, he would’ve had terribly scraped knees, and bruises all over. Despite the domain’s great and bright days, with its brilliant sun, ever so shining, it was not suitable for much life. It could barely house one. But even despite the empty (and often rather unfortunate) nights, the boy travelled, exploring the abyss that was his domain. He went barefoot, to feel the depths of his land, and he never tired, he never really could. After all, what good is a king who couldn’t traverse his own lands?

100

And would he truly be so special if he obliged by mortal standards? So he walked, every night, far and wide. He tripped and fell an awful lot, unsurprisingly, and he never really found anything new. What would be new in an endless void? You might consider such travels pointless; and they almost were, until one particular night. It was standard routine, to wander through a labyrinth of black until daybreak. The boy still hasn’t gotten used to his nights, so he walked as if each new step and horizon were new. As if he hasn’t been to each area a thousand times over. He suspects he’s walking through a marsh. He hopes he’s walking through a marsh. Something like quicksand would be rather unpleasant. Soon enough though, his feet would hit something cold. Not snow, or even water, it’s not soft in the slightest. It actually quite hurt to step on. Curious, he leans down, trying to find the object, searching the ground. The layers of fabric he wore were probably stained by now. He feels a metal handle, to which he grips tightly in his hands. The sun is rising soon. He finishes the rest of his trip. As his world is bathed with light once more, he’s finally given the opportunity to inspect the strange object he stumbled across. It was a mirror. Intricate and antique; crafted from silver and adorned with precious gemstones. It looked important. And it was definitely not his. He takes it “home”; to wild flora and an old colosseum, with makeshift living quarters inside. He doesn’t think much of the mirror then. He figures it’s lost. Or perhaps it's a gift from the stars. He keeps it irregardless, after all, it’s not like there’s anyone in his domain to return it to. Of course, in the same way there is no average boy in this story, this was no average mirror either.

101

The first sign was the light. It wasn’t noticeable under the sun; most would brush it off as a refraction. However, once the night came, that was quickly put into question. The light was not great or overbearing, but nonetheless, the mirror emitted it, and suddenly the boy could somewhat see the landscape during late hours. Unsurprisingly, the world quickly became easier to navigate during his nightly walks. The boy took the mirror everywhere, for it opened an entirely new world for him to explore. The second sign was the mirror itself. Not the silver frame or fancy embellishments; just the way it reflected. The boy hadn’t come across many mirrors in his life, but he’s seen enough to deem this one defunct. He swears on his life he once saw a reflection that wasn’t his. And he’s not fully convinced he’s looking into his own eyes half of the time. One can’t be too sure, though. Despite its deficiencies, he clings to the mirror, for reasons he doesn’t know. Or rather, can’t describe. After all, it’s what gives light to his domain at times when there is none, and that trumps a broken reflection every time. Then came the third sign, which was probably the most definitive. It was gradual, and he never took note of it until given reason to. He heard things from the mirror. He was convinced it was simply his own mind, that perhaps he’s gone a little stir-crazy. Maybe he has. But soon the idea of the mirror speaking to him became less and less fictitious. He stopped hearing simple hums or simple phonetics. It was almost like he was being talked back to. He hears what he believes to be quips, but he can’t be too sure, it’s all too distorted to be sure. He still likes to talk back to it more often than not anyway. He’s been alone for ages, so why not humor the thing?

102

He fully converses with the mirror one night, as he walks through a dry meadow, bored out of his mind. “Is someone in there?” It’s a silly question. And he doesn’t expect a response. Not a tangible one, anyway. He receives one though, to his surprise, it almost sounded like a whisper. “Yes.” He thinks he might be out of his mind, that he’s probably gone insane, because there is no mirror, no matter how special, that can speak or house a person. Despite this, he presses forward; can’t get institutionalised if you’re the only autonomous being in the land. “Who are you?” “The Moon.” “And what are you?” “A Moon.” The boy is confused. Such a word is foreign to him. “What is that?” “Nothing like your kind, that’s for sure.” It barely answers his question, or satisfies his curiosity. Luckily, the voice in the mirror continues to speak. “I know the Sun. I knew the Sun. Some time ago.”

103

“It cursed you the same way it did me.” “Cursed? I’m not cursed. Maybe you’ve got familial issues.” “The Sun is not my family. Not anymore. Your nights in this domain are my constants because of the Sun. It’s a cruel body.” “Is it really?” “You are the first and only thing I know that isn’t complete nothingness.” The boy is not sure what to think. He’s not sure if he believes the Moon’s words. “I know the universe. Personally. They’re all cruel. You and I suffer by their hands and words. We both stay stuck in time, because of them. Stuck in complete nothingness.” “I just don’t think that’s true.” “But you do. Somewhere, deep down. You and I will live and die insignificant and alone, and it will all be because of my so-called family. They will live long and prosperous, heroes to all lands for the light and life they give. We will not, for we are not as special.” The Moon continues. “Do you even know the time that’s passed? The Sun’s coming out again soon. I’ll see you another night.” “I’ll be freed of my limbo soon. I expect you to help me. And I will pay it forward.” The boy’s eyes burn from the mirror’s refraction. The Sun has come out. The mirror is silent.

104

The boy looks up at the sky, from the empty meadow he still stands. The heat of the sun feels more malicious, and for once, he notices how its shine hurts his eyes. He doesn’t know what to think. He makes his way back home.

105

JOHN DOE'S FLOW CHART Aubrey San Jose John Doe stayed inside his room in the apartment for several hours, and it was the most unusual routine he did for the past ten years of his life. Supposedly, he would go to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his body. Then, he would wear clothes and attend classes. After traveling to the college near him, he would listen carefully to his professors and follow the schedules he was assigned by the registrar. After that, he would eat in a fast food restaurant or buy a quick meal for his lunch and dinner, and go home to prepare for his sleep. John’s daily routine was like a typical flow chart. It was a never ending cycle to endure in his entire life. Having a relationship wasn’t necessary for him as it was just a waste of time, joining organizations and clubs would add to his workload, and adding more jobs and money-making hobbies would make him deal with external, unforeseen matters. For him, he was just a speck of dust in this world. ◼◼◼ - 05:00:00 Inside his room, John sat down and stared at the white wall in front of him. He heard nothing other than the sound of the clock ticking and people walking home from their work. It was nine o’ clock in the evening. He stood up and opened his computer to check on the emails for today.

106

“Due tomorrow: Project Proposal” “Due tomorrow: Final Report No. 5” “Due tomorrow: Unnamed Virus Lab Report” John Doe sighed and opened his tabs to do work.They were all half-done, which gave him relief to his already dull face, thus he put his fingers to the keyboard and pressed the keys to accomplish the documents he needed to pass. They were all lengthy, which gave him a sigh, however he noticed how fast his fingers work as they input each letter one by one. Telling the objective of his new project, concluding his recent report, and dealing with the unknown entity in the lab, John Doe’s eyes became tired as they stared at the bright screen in front of him. Two hours passed, and his documents’ pages were more than ten. How strange, John Doe thought. He hadn’t done this much for the several years of studying in academia. To give himself a rest, he closed his computer and lay down on his soft bed across the desk. Looking above the ceiling, he felt an invisible force that locked him to this place. John tried to move around, however, he couldn’t. Thus, he closed his eyes and let himself blanketed in the world of blackness. ◼◼◼ - 01:00:00 John Doe woke up in the middle of New York City with no cars on the road and people on the streets. He took one step forward and smiled when he felt no dizziness, however he was drenched with sweat as he walked around the silent city. Shops were open, billboards were shining bright at night, and there were lights inside the buildings. How odd, John Doe thought. While he wandered around, he saw a woman spraying disinfectant with her whole body covered with protective gear.

107

“Hi! What just happened?” He asked her. The woman looked at him and answered, “just doing my hourly disinfection… wait why are you here? Are you supposed to stay at home!” John Doe raised his eyebrows. “Huh?” “What’s your home address?” The geared woman asked, which caused John Doe to shout. “This is my dream! Why do you need it—” “Please follow the protocols. We are in the middle of the pandemic caused by Twilight Disease.” “Twilight Disease?” John walked forward as the woman continued to do her disinfection. “Tell me. What is it?” “You’ll see…” The world around John Doe’s dream shattered, ending up floating in his subconsciousness. Looking at the beam of light getting smaller as he dived down, he heard thousands of voices that he already heard before. ◼◼◼ - 00:00:30 There was silence. John Doe’s eyes remained closed while waiting to wake up for the next day. If he would be honest, he yearned to be special among the billions of humans. John Doe? Too common to be considered a name! Although he had a determination during the more than two decades of his life — entering a field of science to research about this world, John felt the motion of the flow chart set to him. “This is ridiculous,” he thought, “when will my life be special?”

108

“From now on, your life will be special.” John Doe’s eyes were in shock when he heard a robotic voice beside him. He moved his head to investigate, however, he didn’t see a single being. His heartbeat began to race as he tried to move around and run to search before the time was up in the subconscious world. “Do you remember that dream when you’re in New York City?” The robotic voice asked, and John nodded, “bringing impact to everyone is what makes life special, Mr. John Doe.” He then began to hear a loud laugh from the voice, then a timer showed up in front of him. ◼◼◼ - 00:00:05 “In five seconds, the flow of your life will change, just like what you want.” ◼◼◼ - 00:00:04 “You will feel the light of the world as you awake.” ◼◼◼ - 00:00:03 “You will not be a common person anymore. No more documents to accomplish.” ◼◼◼ - 00:00:02 “As Mr. John Doe will wake, his name and flowchart will change.” ◼◼◼ - 00:00:01 “You will change but so do the people around you...”

109

BEEP!! ◼◼◼ - 00:00:00 Congratulations! You are no longer John Doe. You are Patient Zero of Twilight Virus.

110

DOING CLASSWORK WITH THE UNDEAD AND GRIEVING Gianna Santiago there was a time i could not sleep for my mother yelled at me that night. “you don’t deserve to grieve over my father.” my body felt sensational. very warm. very angry. my eyes were on the brim to boil its fourth soup of salty tears. my mother has announced the list of candidates allowed to cry over lolo, and i was not included. there was no reason to look at children who mourn so heretic in distaste — whose laments were filled with disbelief and silence, that they felt the need to relay a paper on why it’s alright for them to look so stoic over the man that taught them the quickest ways to living. there was no need to close the doors that the dead left open. but apparently, for my mother, there was. i did not deserve to enter the five stages of grief three months after the passing. my silence did not entail that i wished he was back home, asking for a backscratcher, reminding me to drink cherifer, and sleeping with dzmm playing in the background. i did not deserve to disregard that my body was not immaculate. there was no need to push forth the inhumane feeling of groggy eyes and dim-lit lights just to live in spaces that are not meant for the well-rested.

111

but in this case i did. i used the space to grieve over this loss, gripping onto ‘what ifs’ and developed photos. i used the night skies to feel so empty and wrenched over the idea my grandmother would play the radio in her sleep to dream of him. i used the time of silence to look into the rooms of where he would have sat and slept. i used the time when mortals’ sleep to stay awake and think of how dying was so sad for those who breathe — for you are left with clothes and memories to pick up and burn. i contemplated the idea that dying is the most common attribute we hold, yet it is the most unfathomable scenario we have ever been laid upon. the idea of life being so suddenly monotonous and inanimate was unprocessable, especially for the living. these spaces where the sun does not shine and we are left in a cesspool of thoughts are meant for the silenced grieving. during these night-time cries, i was allowed to grow on cemented floors and inhale his favorite foods to get over the deaths of stars who taught you how to fight. i was allowed to pick on my ribs and wounds and stare at my laptop with no delight in myself. i was allowed to listen to my grandmother’s sleeping breaths as the static of the radio continued to draw on. i was allowed to look into his closet and remember his favorite tops and hats. i was allowed to look back at the quick and last call i had with him. i was allowed to feel something when my father told me my grandfather uttered “i won’t make it to my birthday”. in the times where God does not govern and the city lights are on, i deserved to cry over this loss.

112