Hiraeth | SY 2020-2021 by Pugad Literary Folio

Hiraeth Pugad Literary Folio

A.Y. 2020-2021

Hiraeth Pugad Literary Folio

A.Y. 2020-2021

Pugad Literary Folio Academic Year 2020-2021

Editorial Board Shaunn Enric T. Calaycay Editor-In-Chief

Reuben B. Galvez Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez Associate Editors

Maia Lisandra M. Wang

Ynigo Miguel N. Almeda

Aivann Jakob H. Romero

English Editor

Filipino Editor

Art Editor

Officers Shaunn Enric T. Calaycay Editor-In-Chief

Francine Elisha C. Manzana Secretary

Nathaniel Xavier Malong Treasurer

Moderator Jara-Krizka Rafiñan

Staff Members Writing Department Acorda, Devon Jared M. Almeda, Ynigo Miguel N. Basilio, Bettina Andrea A. Batolomaque, Katrina D. Bautista, Zane Miguel C. Bayan, Yvonne Chloe M. Calaycay, Shaunn Enric T. Escalona, Nico Lorenzo C. Esguerra, Eliana B. Galvez, Reuben B. Gutierrez, Keshia Ianthe B. Lacao, Mikaela S. Lagman, Edcel Jaime L. Maderazo, Regina Khloie B. Malong, Nathaniel Xavier Manzana, Francine Elisha C. Mendiola, Shane Angel Q. Navarro, Sean Gabriel L. Ocampo, Joie, Melissande A.

Ordoñez, Kaylee Dominique T. Pablo, Patrizia Giana G. Santiago, Gianna Marika V. San Jose, Mary June Aubrey C. Semilla, John Jakob B. Sison, Gia Ibby C. Soriano, Angela Beatrice D. Suarez, Llieu-Eign John B. Tajan, Carlos Joaquin B. Tang, Eric Paul Z. Tayzon, Julian Martin R. Wang, Maia Lisandra M.

Art Department Arroyo, Juan Gabriel al. Aytin, Praire Fire A. Del Rosario, Sherrie A. Romero, Aivann Jakob H.

Cover

Sherrie A. Del Rosario

Folio Layout Prairie Fire A. Aytin Juan Gabriel L. Arroyo Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

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Pugad Literary Folio

foreword Shaunn Enric T. Calaycay Editor-In-Chief

When I think about the word hiraeth, I think about a house built undone. Its roof missing, metal rods standing upright in each corner rusting, the cement blocks placed in their respective positions, yet the foundation weak and unstable. It's a house that seems to be lifeless and lonely. However, as you enter into the front door, or maybe at least a make-shift of it, you begin to feel a sensation within you. You begin to feel the warmth, the comfort, the serenity and the love that a home makes you feel. A house that was once empty and unfinished is now constructed precisely and gloriously. A house with a roof, its foundation stable and its furniture present and laid out in a modern and aesthetic fashion.

of our emotions — of how we feel, is authentic. We act as if these moments are nostalgic and we're only just revisiting the beauty of it. These works of our Pugad members ensure to bring you the same feeling. Their words act as cement bricks and steel rods that build a home which you can stay momentarily and feel the depth of their emotions — their happiness, sadness and glimpses of nostalgia. These works hope to transport you to an alternate universe to feel complete and loved. After months of being distanced from a lot of our usual endeavors, we hope that these poems, short stories and works of art help you recall your own memories. We hope that they will make you feel at home — whatever, wherever and whoever “home” may be. We hope these works make you feel complete despite them being a temporary substitute to our reality.

Hiraeth is a noun to depict the feeling of incompleteness, yet we recognize it as something familiar. We yearn for something that may be visually and physically unclear to us, but the depth

Table of Contents Poetry No Home to Me Devon Jared “Red” Acorda

A Mental To-Do List Ynigo Miguel M. Almeda

we are our own reprive Bettina Andrea A. Basilio

Early Mornings Katrina D. Batomalaque

Hello Katrina D. Batomalaque

Piging sa May Bangketa Shaunn Calaycay

Stuck Shed Nico Lorenzo C. Escalona

To A World We Have Lost Reuben B. Galvez

Heartbreak Avenue Edcel Jaime L. Lagman

Tether Khloie Maderazo

Strawberries Lia Manzana

for you, i'd bathe myself in blood Shane Angel Mendoza

...13

...15 ...17

...18

...21

...22

...24

...25 ...26

...28

...29

...30

Still Drawn to You Sean Gabriel L. Navarro

Untuned State of Mind Gianna Santiago

Alamat ng Paglikha John Jakob B. Semilla

Skipping Stones Gia Ibby C. Sison

the bivouac of dark enigmas Angela Beatrice D. Soriano

OGYGIA Llieu-Eign Suarez

The Things Renovation Takes Away Julian Tayzon

...32

...33 ...35

...36

...38

...39

...40

Prose and, home Yvonne Chloe M. Bayan

To Remember Eliana B. Esguerra

You Eliana B. Esguerra

Caramel Keshia B. Gutierrez

A Childhood Friend Mikaela S. Lacao

What Never Was / What Will Be Joie Melissande A. Ocampo

...42 ...47 ...53 ...54

...57

...58

the idea of the fall Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

A Man Who Wanders The World Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

Five Minutes to Friday Carlos Joaquin B. Tajan

suburban sloth boy Eric Paul Z. Tang

Eighteen Candles Maia Lisandra M. Wang

...61 ...67

...71 ...74 ...77

Art Dream House Praire Fire A. Aytin

Tag-Tagan Sherrie A. Del Rosario

...81

...82

poetry

Ynigo Miguel N. Almeda Filipino Editor Hiraeth. A Welsh word that not even its own people can translate fully. Some say it is the longing for home. Others say it means the longing for something: a place, an era, a missing memory. Sometimes it can even be a person. But, who knows? Maybe the word itself longs for us to find its true meaning. So, as you read through the poems and marvel at the art, we encourage you to ask yourself: What is it that you long for?

No Home To Me Devon Jared “Red” Acorda I walk in hulking steps All around, I walk steady My chin faced down At the rosewood floor My thoughts-quite heady My boots hit the ground With a heavy pattering My hands gently swaying as I walk I narrow my eyes, thinking Words from a voice in the void I’m listening From the outside The snow’s knee deep Flakes fall from the sky While the trees quietly sleep I linger more and more In this room with walls of white Reminiscing, constantly thinking Walking in circles again

In this room with walls of white The fire rises to my fright As all the demons are released Therefore I fight them Before I’m brought to my knees I stop in my tracks My hulking steps My steady pace I then look around this decrepit place And in the mirror was another shell From the look in his eyes, I could tell He wanted to leave So I let him out into the cold The dead of winter Where he should be molded Into what he should be Away from the place called: “Hiraeth” A place that is no home to me

A Mental To-Do List Ynigo Almeda i want to love someone more than i’d know how to show it. i want to write songs about that person without needing any instruments. i want to hear the music everytime i’m with her, and all the time i’m not. buy tray of eggs i want to write poems that are not sure what they are, but are sure of what they want to say. i want the poems to be about her and about my life and about how they’re the same thing. i want to love myself. i want to love myself so much that i wouldn’t need someone else, but i would want to love someone else anyway. because that’s just how i am. check if milk is expired. if yes, buy two i want to stop being such a people pleaser, but i still want to be kind to others. If i can’t take it anymore, well then screw it, i'll stop caring and rest. not indefinitely though. i wouldn’t be able to resist caring about people i want to care about. i wouldn’t be me if i did. i want to find who i am by realizing that finding who i am is impossible, because i am an idea, and ideas change every few seconds, or whenever the hell they want to. but, i want to be an idea that doesn’t change because someone else told it to. i want to change because “i” want to change. or because something beautiful or horrible changed me. throw the trash, buy more black bags, only 2 left

i want to hear stories from people. real people. the kind that stopped being something else. i want to hear real stories. the kind that form other stories. after all, the world is made of stories, and stories about stories. i want to be an artist, but not to work as one. i want to be able to make good art. the kind that makes you think, that makes you smile, that makes you cry, the kind that makes you wonder, and dream, and be real for once, or for the rest of your life. pick up the laundry, fold when you get home i want to realize that there is no point to life, then spend my life changing that sentence. i want to change that sentence for other people too. i want to have a best friend. one that knows me better than anyone. even better than I know myself. i want to do the same for them. feed the dog, it will die if you don't i want to learn things without holding a pen and paper to write it down. i want to experience and remember, not memorize. i want to mess up. i want to do things thinking that i’m doing them right, but then be told that i did it wrong after the fact. mop and sweep the floor, it’s getting dirty i want to laugh so hard that i’d forget why i started laughing in the first place. i want to do that with friends and family, or friends that have become family. i don’t want to just be remembered when i die, i want to be brought along in story and in thought. i want my stories to be told, and i want to be alive in those stories long after i’m gone. set alarm for school, 745 am

actually start doing the things on this list.

we are our own reprieve. Bettina Andrea A. Basillio i. witness the world in a moment of still and stay, for me. relieve me of the moments that come and go and make “forever” mean something better because sometimes, i still have to ask myself: how would i be like at the end of my wandering? and it only goes on instead.

ii. your eyes in the limelight of my mind at 1:34 —you are magical, the safest space i can find. if you knew how much you meant to me, just be the way that you are right now. because i don’t need to be chosen to know that i’m worth it yet i feel most worthy of everything good when i’m around you.

iii. the dark has always terrified me with its promises of uncertainty and the unknown, so deep that i could fall, fall, and fall— and yet nobody would know. but i wasn’t alone; when the light was slowly fading from the cracks in my life, you were there to ease right through it.

iv. and it only goes on —this endlessly ephemeral life— without a pause, without a care, and not always in the way we would like for it to. sometimes, it takes us under its wings to places we can only imagine to be true. and sometimes, it leaves us just short for breath unable to keep up or hold on for more than a measly second.

v. but in one way or another, we’re all growing, and learning, and leaving behind the parts of ourselves that had fit better in the spaces of our past and now we’re reforming them —reliving the jagged memories of the people we used to be, relieving the jaded dreams of the people we’ve long since given up trying to become— to exist as something better for the present.

vi. and we are better. at the end of all our most wayward wanderings, in the gaps between our hearts that no longer beat something worthy enough, in the darkness of our turbulent minds at 1:34 am, in this endlessly ephemeral present, we are better.

Early Mornings Katrina D. Batomalaque Awoken by the ringing sound of the alarm Forced to be energized by the sips of caffeine With little to no time to eat the food at the table I hurriedly walk out the door with earphones hanging around my neck Commuting in the heavy traffic jam Hearing the horns and engines of cars and motorcycles Running halfway across the campus to the building’s corridors To make it in time before the bell Fixing my ID messily hanging around the collar of the uniform Tidying my hair by quickly brushing it through my hands As I greet the familiar faces in the room Ready to face a whole day ahead of me Stuck inside my own home Those little moments that used to be my daily life Seem like they happened a very long time That I can only reminisce now

Hello Katrina D. Batomalaque As orange leaves begin to fall Along the beginning of a new season, Fond memories of you begin to roll In my mind that is almost as bright as the sun. You had me at “Hello.” That was all it took For me to know That I would fall like an open book. Everything with you went great. From the small moments that went by so fast, To big moments that seemed like were played by fate, To our moment we didn’t expect to be our last. As the last few months begin to unfold, I am then again remembered by our first “Hellos.” Despite the harsh winds being so cold, I stand by your tomb with a mood ever so mellow.

Piging Sa May Bangketa Shaunn Calaycay Nagsimula nang magsindi ang mga ilaw ng poste sa may tabi ng kalsada. Natatanaw nang aking mga mata ang bilog na mukha ni Luna. Kaunting hintay na lang at magkaka-piging na sa may bangketa. Naroroon na ang aking mga katropa, nagtitipon-tipon sa may kanto ng daan. Bago kasi ang piging, madalas kaming nagsasama-sama para namin mapag-usapan kung sino mauuna sa pila. Nag-aalala kaming baka may nagpapatrolyang, tanod o 'di kaya'y guwardiya. Nang dumilim pa lalo ang gabi, isa-isa na kami lumapit sa may tindahan, aabutin lamang ng matanda ang isang supot na walang laman. Pang-anim pa ako sa pila, pero nadidinig ko na ang pananaghoy ng aking sikmura. Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. Apat. Lima. Linapitan ko na ang matanda. Iniabot na sakin ang supot kapalit ang limang pisong panlimos kaninang umaga. Gaya ng dating gawi, tinago ko ang supot at umupo sa may bangketa. Sinuri ko muna ang paligid; sinisiguradong walang nagmamasid. Nilabas at tinanggal ko sa pagkakatali ang bili kong supot na plastik.

Huminga ako nang malalim at nagbilang hanggang lima. Unti-unti ko nang nakikita ang isang mahabang lamesa, naroroon na ang mga putaheng inaasam ko muling makita. Dagli kong kinuha ang supot. Huminga. Hindi ako makapili kung ano ang uunahin. May samu't saring mga pagkaing inihain, kung ano 'man ang naiisip mo ngayon ang siyang nakikita ko sa piging. Pinili ko na lamang ang aking mga paborito; dalawang istik ng BBQ, isang platito ng malulutong na balat ng lechon at malamig na halo-halo. Ang nilulunok ko lamang ay hangin, 'pagkat sa hangin ko na lang nalalsap ang lasa ng pagkain. Wala nang sasarap pa kundi sa hangin. Nabusog ako nang dahil sa BBQ, lechon at halo-halo na gawa sa hangin. Tinapon ko na ang plastik na may amoy ng rugby, manhid na ako sa pagkakagutom kaya wala na itong silbi. Tapos na ang piging, bukas ulit nang gabi.

Stuck Shed Nico Lorenzo C. Escalona Lately, I’ve been finding the skin of you in every Room of the house. I am not angry that you left All this dirt on my new, white rug, Because, let’s be fair: I told you to make yourself At home, so when you tracked mud on the carpet And closed the lights and drew the curtains And pretended I wasn’t there, I wonder What I expected from you. I will not pretend That I hang your skin on my coatrack (I don’t), But I like to think you think I keep it in my closet. The first time I saw you shed, mouth-first, I took My household abrasives and scrubbed myself red. I envy the way you lose your old skins, single-weave And all at once. When I mop your muddy footprints Off the floor, I still will have your skin to wear, at least.

To A World We Have Lost Reuben B. Galvez To a world we have lost I'm sorry I couldn't keep you I'm sorry I couldn't see you How blind I was to enjoy being with you I miss going out with you On the streets of midnight Or on the docks of sunlight How yellow it was Now mellow it is I miss getting churros Sugar-flavored and so sweet Now without you, it is all incomplete And yet, we had our issues And I was too late to take notice Of a festering disease that Grew under my nose Our relationship withered And I didn't even bother Only until disaster struck Did it start to grow on me And now I've lost you...

I miss you

To a world we have lost, I will forget you And move on.

Heartbreak Avenue Edcel Jaime L. Lagman I walked down the avenue under summers day and April breeze, wistful stare forward and a quiver in my knees. For twenty steps to the front was a visage of my pain, with the pennycress pastel colors screaming out your name. What landed you in this avenue I had dragged myself into? Why must your dress keep my favorite colors pressed on your flustered skin? What divine intelligence devised this foulest of tortures, such that desire raw and true be sent stomping back to its quarters? And yet your cheeks flickered under the summer swelter, lips curled into bitter grin, crueler than what fate dealt her. Yet fate had dealt with me in a rather similar fashion, so I flickered back to my fellow prisoner of withered passions. How does one accept the euthanization of Eros? Both hands on the plug, we pulled together, so why can't we forgive us? Our hearts were gray and faded, a corpse on a hospital bed, with the life support long gone, so it lives on hate instead. Regardless, I went onward, knees wriggling out their sockets. Gone were the rumblings from beneath, the least I could do was stop it. So with unbreathed breaths locked inside my chest, a damned CO2 suicide vest, my feet went forward, though my brain screeched not yet.

What would I say when I reached your place? Sorry for the loss we both had a hand in? Or was fate just a stand in for people we couldn’t stand much longer? Would you be happy to see my face? Or would you scream and howl at what we had abandoned? The anticipation had me rabid, gray heart growing warmer. Would you have missed me by then? Or was the grin an invitation to plug it back in? It’s still beating, just a few beats slower, we might stand a chance this summer. Yet instead you met me halfway, the green a blur behind you. A turn, a click, a stubborn hit, followed by an "It’s nice to see you". The beating stopped, but my smile did not. The gray to black, from bed to bodybag. Unplugged? Try cut. Heart skipping? Try flatlined. Now our rotting hearts get to rest this time. I turned around to see the back and wile of something free. I yelled out in half a breath and smiled with a "You too". Then I turned back around and walked far as the eye could see, and found myself out that April avenue.

Tether Khloie Maderazo You slip into the cracks of yesterday; my hands dart out to prevent your fall. I’d rather have what is left of you than to have nothing of yours at all. The cobblestones underneath my bare feet shiver and shake, longing for your return. The home we built has crumbled from the heat, and I, alone, am left to watch it burn. Home is a promise, an imperfect art: a love so beautiful yet gone so soon. Home is a place you carved into my heart— now my heartstrings echo a solemn tune.

I tally each beat; I cling to the echo— but if you warned me, if only I knew, I would've planted my heart and watched it grow just to tether myself to the ghost of you. If only I knew that glimpse was my last, I would've traced my name onto your skin. Is it wrong of me to wallow in the past, if it's the only place I could find you in?

These calloused feet of mine still long to dance, lured by the song of your lies painted true. I have been deafened— you left me askance, yet everything of mine still sings of you.

Strawberries

— on romanticizing a euphoric past that never was

Lia Manzana with my tongue cut off, i asked her what euphoria tasted like she said he tasted like strawberry milk i hate strawberry milk it makes my throat cringe, teeth sick but with my tongue cut off i craved it so badly

two lovers kiss their breaths folding into cocktails strawberry mint diving deep into sweet promises it smells like a love letter skinny dipping into a toilet bowl as she vomits all the compliments he fed her so badly that my eyes lied open flat on and all the hymns he now offers to a my face faceless choir my belly flat on a bed of clock hands calendar sheets tucked tight to my chin my teeth wrestle to tear each day from the calendar sheets euphoria sounded like a song so far with my eyes rolled back, back in my mind i see the ceiling weaving me a hat a jingle for strawberry ice cream for when i pick strawberries in the next swinging through the electrical lines in summertime our street one summertime i hate strawberry ice cream i never once tried peeking through the mailbox slit to catch a glimpse of the vendor i could only imagine his face glazed half with sunlight half with artificial flavoring

for you, i’d bathe myself in blood Shane Angel Mendiola i lay in bed awake drenched in tears and sweat i had a nightmare: the last time your little hands ever held onto mine and the last time your lips ever said mom with a smile —it was your death and like every other night that came before this i claw away at my chest, ripping my nightgown apart as if the wretched pain consuming me alive will go away

at myself for being the one alive instead at them for taking you away from me for taking you away from me my soul will never rest— until i curse them to ruins with every breath i have until i spill their blood as they had done with yours until they burn in hell with me my soul will never rest

as if i can give this beating heart to you so i grit my teeth and clench my fists so hard my knuckles pale my palms bleed because im angry—so angry

I do not just want a glance What I long for is another chance A chance to fix my every foolish mistake And to make the most of the chances I refused to take I was fearful of getting myself hurt But I now realize that you were worth the risk At least I would have had an answer Because of my fear, I now will never know I wish I didn't have such cowardice If only I had let you known what was in my heart Maybe we could have had something For until now, I am still drawn to you

Still Drawn to You Sean Gabriel L. Navarro

Ever since I laid eyes on you You have been what my heart is drawn to When I could have taken action, I stayed away Now, my mind wants me to rue it every day I was held back by my fear But now my pain has lasted over a year Hours of sleep are lost every night Longing for what might have been The time that has gone, I cannot forget My life’s constantly being eaten by regret Every night, I am consumed by pain Every night, I wonder when I will see you again Others say to take a step back To see and appreciate how far we’ve come But whenever I do that, I merely feel hurt Because looking back just isn't enough

Untuned State of Mind Gianna Santiago

I AM LAYING ON THE FLOOR OF THE VERSAILLES PALACE QUESTIONING APOLLO - GOD OF MUSIC AM I NOT THE PRODIGAL SON WHOSE FINGERS CAN CHARM INSTRUMENTS SWOON MELODIES AND TURN ANIMALS INTO SERVANTS OF MINE IN ONE BIG HYMN? APOLLO, GOD OF MUSIC I AM YOUR SON??????? YET I CANNOT FATHOM THE CONCEPT OF WALKING ON WATER STEPPING ON PIANO KEYS CREATING SONGS FOR THE SOUL IS IT NOT, I ASK OF YOU, THAT MUSIC IS AND SHOULD BE

HOME

?????

i am eating music sheets until three in the morning in order to impress my ancestors oh how i long to be tender with something that i am meant to be familiar with oh how i would like Mozart’s soul to be intertwined in mine to form an entity of intimacy to form this unrequited bond with music into something more to live within the homes of musical prodigies to be invincible from the label of disgrace

APOLLO, GOD OF MUSIC why can i not rule the opera that once was supposed to be home?

Alamat ng Paglikha John Jakob B. Semilla Dalhin mo ako sa Biringan, Ang kanlungang sapat na luma. Isang mundong kawayan Kung saan nagkakaisa.

At nang unting humiwalay, Ang kawayan nilang duyan, Nahulog ang magkapatid; Isang buhay, isang sapin.

Magkahawak-hawak Sa isang naghalong kalooban. Isang diwang busilak tikom sa kanyang kawayan.

Dalhin mo ako sa Biringan. Kung saan buo pa ang kawayan. Walang pulang ekis sa puti ng kalangitan At walang agilang may kapangyarihan.

Hanggang sa nadatnan Itong mundo ng agila At piniling humimpil sa Biringan At hindi na nawala. Tuluyang namayagpag ang agila Sa pinakatuktok ng tambo At ang ibon, katutuka Nakabiyak nito.

Adios mi Patria, Iiwanin na kita Nang muling magkaisa Ang ating diwa.

Bumuka sa dalawang kalahati Ang tinukang bukawe At sa loob umiidlip May dal’wang supling. Nang maibiyak ito, Ang tinutulugang buho, Naituka na ng ibon ang utak Ng isa sa mga anak.

Skipping Stones Gia Ibby C. Sison

They say home will find you. Their sunshine arms will fill your solar-powered heart, and existing feels like it's enough. Some days, I think about my home Filled with rainbow-stretched skies, and pocket-sized laughter, that you can keep under your pillow. Darkness was velvety, and nights were made, for dancing, dancing, dancing. Crying felt like magic. As tears rolled like marbles into your lap, you could drink the moon in the star-laden lake. Some days, I think about home. And wonder if I'm home. Eyes stinging in the dark, the moon only found in chewed up fingernails. There is no more music, and the twilight air turns my bones into silver.

Shadows grow greedy, and creep deeper into the sunlight. I only have memories to keep me warm now. Really, I thought I was home. Rainbows still weaved through the sky, and laughter still tangles in the air. Though the threads seem a little taut. Like a smooth stone, the memories lay heavy in my pocket, Until I come across a lake, Devoid of the sky and the stars. I've been practicing forgetting, Skipping stones and watching it sink. So it won't hurt. So it can't hurt. They say home will find you, Is that why looking for it doesn't work?

the bivouac of dark enigmas Angela Beatrice D. Soriano — the last candle’s luminous light fades out. a certain impasse between emptiness and death carves out underneath the intensity of darkness unwavering and unconquered, it bends to hurt rot seeping out unencumbered from no vessel it erodes the last flicker of sparks trickling in for there is mercy only in death, among buried tomes its only rule is to ravage and destroy, as it seeks the grotesque beauty of souls once captive by beauty so false, so radiant, so full of rapture bursting to the seams with venomous poison there are only lies etched in the words of the “wise” every being is vulnerable to the force of material ties for the magnanimous awning that they call as shelter will soon wear away, cast out by ruthlessness such wayward gears tearing away from the light horrors in abundance, lest they are fragmented scour and roam the voids of non-existent peace seeking to prove that shelters only come in drapes of darkness so unyielding, of darkness so deafening resounding through the bones of everlasting cruelty — the grief dies out, numbed by the dull pain.

OGYGIA Llieu-Eign Suarez Oh, oh, where have you gone? I thought I had won, Thought you had nowhere to run, Was it not fun? Uh-oh, what could I have done? Our time set, like the sun, I got played, like a pawn. Still, I wait until dawn -please come backOh, did you know,

Every day, I roam the grounds, All alone where I am bound. I thought our love was so profound. I guess I clowned. I regret setting you free. I thought you'd never leave me. Now, you're on your way home. Remember me and this poem. Love, your Stockholm syndrome

How I'm missing you so? I knew you lied to me, though. You said, "I'll never let go, My beloved Calypso." Odysseus, please, no! You left with my heart in tow, Feels like I'm on death row. You dealt the final blow.

The Things Renovation Takes Away Julian Tayzon

My old house had this room, It had broken windows Also the door couldn’t close. Yet in my eyes, it was Perfection.

The room held things back, Things such as the voice in my throat, The tears in my eyes, yet The room no longer Exists.

The walls were blue, Not the vibrant kind, The kind that is stained with A little something known as Age. The floor was a mess, Children’s toys littered the wooden floor It all looked messy, but I knew where everything Was. The room was disorderly, Air filled with the dust Dust of different ages, yet It was a room that was, to me, Home.

prose

Maia Lisandra M. Wang English Editor As we traverse the uncertainties of life, there will always be a part of us longing to go home. Hiraeth explores the idea of the "what ifs" of a home that never existed, a place we cannot return to.

and, home Yvonne Chloe M. Bayan

oily residues of night market tables taint the hem of my shirt as you pull my hand between bodies of night cravers. you are about to finish the last pieces of takoyaki on the tray when i caught myself staring at you. how long have we been here? ✈ mumbai, india i met you under the Indian morning skies, the sun blooming among floating golden petals, clouds glittering gold, turning the horizon to deep ruby-red. we were surrounded by heaping bushels of blossoms at Dadra flower market with sunbursts of marigolds leveling my sight. but your eyes, oh your eyes, they cinched marmalade sunsets and amber rays in them. suddenly, a merchant held baskets of white petals as delicate as wedding veils, distracting me from your sunbeams. then, you’re gone. ✈ helsinki, finland the next time i met you was at Suomenlinna. blustery wind greeted us beneath the clear, sunny sky. it was dizzying, being able to look at and potentially jump into the Gulf of Finland; i clung onto your midnight blue sweater, tightly. and then you were laughing probably because you did not really know me, but that is beside the point. hours fleeted and our names were like sangria; passed, raised to each other’s lips. i remember scarlet hugging your cheeks as we down cans of beers strolling like madmen on quiet streets. somewhere, under the faint glimmer of moonlight, beside the flickering lamp post, you asked; do you wanna explore the world with me?

✈ hakone, japan hakone was rainy, but i could not quite say no to curtains of thunderclouds fitting in the tiny hostel window. with only a bath towel wrapped around my frame, cold started creeping up on my skin until warm arms wrapped around my shoulders and hot breaths fanned the back of my neck. sarcasm lingered on your voice as you say something along the lines of beautiful weather, let’s go and buy an umbrella before it gets dark. dewy misting of drizzle had settled upon your bangs by the time we reached konbini. right after getting the umbrella, you hurriedly stacked bundles of assorted snacks in a plastic bag and impulsively bought a tray of takoyaki because it looked good. i watched you dip your half-eaten takoyaki into the sauce until it disappeared in your mouth and as i tore my eyes away from you, i looked in the corner where half-finished packs of onigiri rested and stuffed my mouth with it. we were about to finish. and i do not want it to end, even though that is what moments do. they end. and journeys do, too. you go home tomorrow.

and that made me snap back to reality. you let out a light-hearted laugh that sent little tremors to my ribs up to my heart. i think i heard you asking why are you even going home? but the reason choked on my throat, making it a struggle to even breathe. how could i tell you that the longer i stay here, the more i never want to leave?

tokyo, japan the day of my departure seemed to be too bright and sunny, almost as if it was screaming in happiness that i am about to leave. i let out an amused sigh with that thought. as i was about to sit and wait for my flight, i saw you trying to win an Unari-kun in a claw machine. you were sucking on your bottom lip, brows forming into a frown as you try to claw one. and then you got one. your face was beaming and your eyes, oh your eyes, sparkled more than when i first saw you. you came to me, running while clutching the plushie. you stopped in front of me and extended your arms— here, take me this with you in the midst of busy people, all moving with little suitcases, some are speaking to someone on their phones and young children are being shushed to behave. i looked back and saw you waving weak hands with a faint smile. and, oh, your eyes, they were dull, i think i packed their shine with the plushie. before i decided to ditch my flight and launch myself at you, i gave you one last smile. thank you for seeing the world with me.

manila, philippines the door to my room creaks as it swings open, a sound i have long forgotten. the watery evening light made my room look lonely, dilapidated, much like an old building with only ghosts living in it. silent thuds from the little suitcase banished those thoughts. home. it smells like newly changed sheets, lavenders scenting the room. maybe the helpers prepared the room just a day before my arrival.

home. just as i remembered. lights dim, air conditioner keeping the room cold, and scattered polaroids on the wall. a thick of dust settled on the curtains, making me sneeze when i pulled the curtains to look out of the window. home. i pushed the retractable handle of the suitcase and laid it on the floor to unzip it. one by one, i removed the clothes until i grabbed on a soft midnight blue sweater. my mind immediately went back to your drunken state in Finland; how you stumbled and giggled uncontrollably. home. i guess it is good to be back. but is it really? for the last seven months, i found myself lost, both literally and figuratively, relying on breathless promises of tomorrow. am i even alive? i gave myself a sympathetic laugh as i sit on my bed, moving my laptop on my lap. i have never felt this weird; suddenly missing home, when i am literally in my room. i felt hazy, letting my hands work on my laptop and only a day after my arrival i am already looking at flights to India, Finland, and Japan. was it not me who wanted to go home? home. well, that sure has a weird sound to it. we managed to send a few text messages to each other, usually going about how posh people are in Paris or how hard it was to understand the British. and at around two here at dawn, i read your message. doesn’t it feel like you left something in Finland or in Japan? and i could not move. tears rolled down my cheeks as i mentally agreed with your message. yes, i think i do, but it started way back in India. for days that eventually stretched to weeks, emptiness hollowed in my chest— punctured by endless denials. i thought after a month of being back here it would suddenly fade away. but it’s aching for something. something i can’t seem to get.

it became a nightly routine for me to ask myself, is it something in Hakone? the flowers at Mumbai? so, i booked a flight again to India. but looking at my ticket made the emptiness hurt more. and then, one rainy afternoon, as the thunder and admired the beam at Hakone flashed before my eyes. konbini i was missing. in all those i realized that it was you.

i was looking out of the window, i listened to of lightning. suddenly, scenes of our first night so, oh, it was not the cities, the flowers, or the memories it was just us. after months of gloom,

you were, at once, the home i have been missing. so, i will patiently wait for your arrival. and once you come back, my home will, too. — it will feel like home, again

To Remember Eliana B. Esguerra

There is a legend in the city – a library at the city’s heart that hosts memories of everyone. It is filled to the brim of written records, dreams of a storyteller, collections of travelers and scientists, and art from history that combined to create a unique source of magic. The magic manifested itself over the course of the library’s century of life, creating glowing books that hold the townspeople’s memories and animates itself when opened by the right person. Due to its magic, it attracted a great eagle that made it its home. Eventually, the eagle chose people to guard the library with it but in return, the librarian can never open or see the insides of any memory, even their own. Strangely, the librarians are rarely people who are competent fighters to protect the library from intruders. Instead, they’re always the ones who are empathetic and strive to understand people. It’s something Eryl had wondered about. Even in times of war or crisis, that pattern had always held true. But right now, it didn’t matter. It was early morning and the light of the lantern reflected off a pair of orange and brown eyes. The former were the fierce protective eyes of the eagle who trailed behind Eryl’s smaller female figure with gentler brown ones. “I really doubt someone would want to stay here especially when Christmas is around the corner,” the female figure commented. The eagle huffed in response. “People are normally doing their own thing outside but I can’t argue with you when you do these sweeps before we close up. Speaking of which, can you fly over to the area to the left and check, Adar?” Adar, the eagle, nodded and flew off while Eryl proceeded towards the right portion of the library. As she had expected, no one was there. Only unreturned books were on the table along with other items previous visitors left behind.

Eryl quickly placed them back in their proper place and carried the items back to the library’s counter where she had a lost and found box on it. She had scarcely placed half of the lost items down when she heard a scream from the left side of the library. “Someone’s actually still here?” Eryl muttered as she dropped the items, running towards the source. She stopped at one of the shelves containing different memories. Adar was looming over a young man, frightened at the bird and backing away slowly. He was surrounded by scattered memory books and papers with scribbled notes on them. “Adar, let him go!” Eryl commanded. Adar hissed at the man before retreating. Eryl rushed to the young man’s side and offered her hand. “I’m sorry about him. Adar’s protective.” The young man hesitantly took her hand and grabbed several of the memory books. Eryl’s brown eyes darted towards their labels curiously. “Pryderi… Decemb—” The man slid the book under his scarf. “Wait, don’t read it please!” He pleaded. Eryl gave him a confused look. “I’m the librarian here. You really think I’d be stupid enough to try to invade someone’s privacy?” He squinted. “You’re the librarian?” “No, I’m the book.” Eryl chuckled as she handed the rest of his items. “I’m kidding,” she reassured him. “My name’s Eryl and are you the Pryderi on the memory’s cover?” Pryderi sheepishly nodded. “Is the library closing?” Eryl nodded. “That’s why I got him to look but usually no one’s around.” Pryderi’s eyes widened. “B-but don’t think too much about it!” Eryl’s eyes darted to the book. “I’ll check it out so you can borrow it,” she promised in a desperate attempt to cheer him up. Pryderi perked up at the suggestion. Seeing his smile, Eryl led him to the counter and did as she promised, chatting with him while he waited. They eventually left the library together as Eryl locked the doors behind her. Adar took his place on the top of the building to keep watch.

“The library opens at 6:30am if you want to be here early,” Eryl spoke up. Pryderi hastily scribbled it down on a notepad. “Well, I’ll be off. Do you live nearby?” Eryl asked as Pryderi adjusted his scarf. “I do, just on the second street after Mabinogi.” Eryl nodded. “It’s a nice area but I have to go the other way. Good night, Pryderi.” Pryderi waved goodbye as she left him in the snow. “Well, he seems nice,” Eryl muttered to herself as she arrived home. He seemed like many other people in the area. He was nervous but it was normal for anyone who had just moved in from another area. Plus, even long-time residents here were afraid of Adar. “It’ll be nice to run into him again.” Pryderi did visit the library daily after their meeting but every time, he had a hard time remembering who she was. “He’s pretty rude,” Eryl muttered as Adar came back to tell her that he was up late again inside. Adar softly roared in agreement. Eryl opened the door to find Pryderi sleeping over another memory book dated several days ago. Huh, did something good happen before they met? She shrugged as she woke him up. “Eryl…?” He sleepily muttered. Eryl crossed her arms. “Now you remember me, sleepyhead?” She joked. Pryderi gestured to the pages where their first meeting was written down. “I do now. Sorry that I forgot.” Eryl brushed it off and let him borrow a stack of memory books, strangely all his. “They’re all random dates from until ten years ago. You really like reliving all of that?” Pryderi didn’t meet her eyes when he responded, “I just don’t want to forget... that’s all.” It was a strange response but she didn’t question him further. She stood with him outside, wading in the snow. Eryl turned to Pryderi whose face was barely seen behind the mount of books he had. “I’ll be heading off then,” Eryl said, expecting a curt nod from him. Instead, Pryderi placed down his books and grabbed her arm. “Wait, where do you live?” Confused by the sudden gesture, Eryl replied that she lived nearby the city’s lake on the eastern side. “D-did we walk home that day? I only made it to when you found me three days ago but did we walk together?” Eryl paused for a moment before shaking her head. “No, we didn’t. We live on opposite ends remember? Don’t you know where you live?”

Pryderi let go of her arm and nodded. “Yes, I-I do!” He exclaimed, forcing a short-lived smile. “Of course, I do, why wouldn’t I remember?” He continued muttering the same thing until Eryl spoke up again. “You live on the second street after Mabinogi.” Pryderi’s face lit up. “That’s right, I live there!” Then carried his books and walked off. How does someone forget where they live? Why did he believe her when she told him where he lived? “What kind of idiot are you, Pryderi?” Maybe it was a one-time thing. His mind just slipped and everyone has one of those every once in a while. Right…? Eryl knew that it was too early to judge a newcomer but it didn’t sit right with her either. She’s seen many people over the course of her running the library but she’s never been this worried over someone she just met. She looked up at Adar for help but the eagle only shrugged in response. Was it really bad for me to worry over him? Eryl managed to force herself to walk several steps but the question still bugged her. There was something wrong and she couldn’t shake it off. So, she ran after him. “Pryderi!” Pryderi turned around, confused. “Don’t you live on the other side?” Eryl nodded as she grabbed some of the books. “I’ll help you with those,” she said as Pryderi hesitantly accepted. Pryderi seemed surprised by the gesture but still gave a small smile. “T-thanks,” he stuttered as they walked towards his house. “Eryl, I know we just met but… are you going to do this more?” Eryl nodded. “I can’t explain it but it feels like something I can’t ignore.” Pryderi stopped in front of his door.

“In that case, if I forget, try to convince me to accept the help.” “You’re way too shy and nice to not say no.” Pryderi unlocked the door and placed the books on his table. Eryl followed suit as he approached a music box and opened it. He gently cranked it and a soft lullaby started playing. “It’s beautiful,” Eryl commented as she noted his sad green eyes looking at it longingly. “It is,” he responded back. They had several nights, exactly the same. Though he was a strange man, she still helped him. Sometimes she came over on weekends with food and met his friend that guided him around whenever he forgets. Every time, he played the music box with the same look in his eyes. “Who’s it from?” “People ask me all the time when they notice. I’m... really surprised you went that long without asking.” “The borderline amnesia or the box? Plus, it might’ve been insensitive.” “Both, I-I guess.” Pryderi nodded, fidgeting with his coat. “I don’t mind, but it makes me feel guilty that I can’t remember things like you or anyone do.” Eryl responded, “That wasn’t always the case.” Pryderi slowly nodded. “I had an accident ten years ago. I was with my brother and I was the only one who made it. The box is his,” he explained. I guess yyou can tell how bad it wa—" All that came over her was grief. She tightly hugged the man. Pryderi stiffened up from the hug.

“W-wait, there’s no need to feel so bad for me!” He protested as Eryl let him go. “I want to,” Eryl shot back. “I’m getting Adar to watch you too.” If everything is blank, is everything just a cycle to regain what was lost? If everything is a cycle to regain what was lost, does one always have to let them traverse it alone? No, they don’t.

You

Eliana B. Esguerra How did I get here? All I remember was the cold and the darkness – the unbearable lonely night. My heartbeat drummed against my ears as my eyes struggled to focus on the pieces of papers in front of me. The words blurred into fuzzy lines that refused to stay put. The hours that swirled and hurled against me as I pushed by body to work. In those hours, it seemed that it pushed for things, the bare minimum to meet the overly demanding task that I wanted it to do – water, food, light, comfort. Comfort… that last word was so appealing. It was the light better than my dim desk light could give. In those fleeting moments, my hands reached out for a silver object then gave out along with the rest of my body. It was the complete opposite now. Sunlight flittered my drowsy eyes awake and turned to the warm arms wrapped around me. My lips curled into a smile as I looked up to see their peaceful sleeping face. My hands brushed against their cheeks as a strand of black hair loosened. I tucked it back into its place. When did they come here…? I think I must’ve called them so late. What does it matter now? They’re here now and the warmth is enough to fatten any person’s heart. So warm… comfortable and loving. I nuzzled their cheek in thanks which seemed to stir them, making them ruffle my hair. “Sleep now,” they reassured me. I’m not foolish to say no.

Caramel Keshia B. Gutierrez I wasn’t sure what I was doing in that tiny, desolated room. What I was wearing, drinking thinking, but I can recall caramel eyes. Caramel that sweetens with every bite, every flicker of the tongue. Hints of amber gold that drips from the retina, a slight glint that seems to shimmer in the sun. It was the color reflected in me as you ask for my name, as you giggle in short breaths. You were tight-hugs kind of caramel, fluttering-eyelids caramel, neverhad-paper-cuts caramel. It was the color of your coat, your hands, and your eyes, eyes of liquid light that shone brighter when you kissed me under the starless sky and I swore I could see milk chocolate that deepens with every sway of our intertwined hands, every strum on the guitar, every stroke of a pen. It was warm chocolate that flows through ceramic mugs, greets you in the morning kind of warm, keeps you company at night warm. It is steam that curls from the tips of sentences you whisper in me groggily as it became tough chocolate that lays on the nightstand, chocolate that bites back with sweet bitterness, chocolate that stains the lips. It stains with each rush hour, each bold desire to break out of repetitive, fatigue-inducing days.

It was the color of the notebooks scattered on the floor, the bed that could never be fixed, and your hollowed eyes, eyes with exhaustion that amplifies with every half-hearted caress of the cheek, and I wished I was dreaming when I saw a glimpse of dark coffee. Coffee that emanated autumn yet drowns in winter cold tinge. It was coffee that insipidly burns, sticks fretfully on the roof of your mouth coffee, hickory that smears on the sheets kind of coffee. It is dull even with every lingering touch I can give, with every tepid word I attempt to muster, with every refrain I try to sing for you and yet I see eyes, eyes that are covered with thick black frames, eyes that reflect nothing more than my own sullen, dead leaves on the ground brown, yelling at the tittering cartoons on the television brown, not-so-sober brown, and

I’m still not sure

what I’m doing in this room with you. Why I’m staring at our feet, the ceiling,

and yet the drought in my throat still yearns for

even the slightest hint of caramel.

A Childhood Friend Mikaela S. Lacao

On the second-floor living room of my childhood home, I made a friend. My friend found lots of things scary, so I had to make sure I was alone when I came to find them. At first, it was hard to get there by myself, but I did end up having fun when it was just the two of us. So whenever the grown-ups were busy bumbling about downstairs, I would go up to meet my friend. We would go searching for tiny little dust bunnies around the room. My friend would puff up their cheeks to blow them away, but I’d always get there first to steal the chance to send the dust bunnies tumbling. It was cozy. When the world got dizzy and wibbly-wobbly, my friend was there, calm and still, like a twinkling star. I liked their glitteriness, so I never cared that their feet never made a pitter-patter on the floor we walked together, or that their shadow was all fuzzy, not even when we pinky promised to be best friends. That was in my childhood house, but my friend was the real home. But both are long-gone now, and, though I never wanted to, I broke the pinky promise. Even if I were to go back to the second-floor living room of a house now blanketed in much more than just a stray dust bunny here or there, I doubt I’d ever be able to conjure back the ghost I’d made friends with again.

What Never Was/What Will Be Joie Melissande A. Ocampo

Stood atop the mountain, two boys looked down on the walled city they once called home. Hands clasped tight for any semblance of comfort, they watched the people roam its streets, oblivious to the two outcasts who yearned to be among them. "Do you remember," one asked the other, pulling his hand away to run it through his cropped hair, "When we were in our own little world, running through the streets?" The other scoffed. "I remember you tripping on air if that's what you're asking." Despite the teasing lilt to his voice, it was obvious that he shared his sentiments. There was no laughter between them besides the howling of the autumn wind that surrounded them. Their eyes were not trained on each other but on the people scurrying about; almost like the ants they used to squish when they were still young and naive. "We were kings with holes from ripped open by grasped the shirt.

before," one whispered, clutching at the hem of his shirt, torn where his nails must have ripped the fabric. A new hole was his fiddling, the act almost methodical with how his fingers "What changed?"

Quiet. The wind continued to howl between them, deafening in the silence.

"Nothing changed. We're still kings, they can never take that from us." He had a firm voice but it still had that hint of uneasiness, as though waiting for someone to say to them, or prove to them, otherwise. "Kings of what?" The younger sounded all too tired. "Of running? Of being thrown away? Of the cracked roads they forced us to trip on?" His voice softened, shakier than before. "I'd rather be a peasant. I just want to go home." "We're kings of ourselves," the older, standing proud with a bandaged hand over his chest, declared. His eyes swept over the town as though he was a general inspecting his troops. In the setting sun, his eyes looked like they were ablaze. "We're the kings of being able to stand up for ourselves, of knowing what's right." His voice, too, softened as the sun moved farther down and the light faded from his face. "We get to decide where our home is. Wherever we go is where we'll rebuild." He looked up at him meekly, eyes wide with unshed tears but with a smile that said all he wanted to say. The wind continued to surround them, its howling mocking in its intensity, the cold threatening with how it seeped into their bones. Their trembling hands searched for and found each other's again, a shared squeeze grounding them better than any words could. "I remember the beehive we used to get honey from when we needed food," the younger spoke up out of nowhere, drawing a startled intake of breath from the other. "Do you think there could be bees? Wherever we go next?" He didn't answer just yet, electing to watch the people move around, going about their day-to-day lives.

They didn't notice the two people they've thrown outside their walls. Two kids who faced what misery the world threw at them, two kings who will rebuild a kingdom better and stronger than the one that refused them. That is, if there was something to rebuild. They came from nothing, what can they build from that? Despite himself, he smiled; tight-lipped but a smile nonetheless. It was a smile that held every bit of longing, regret, anger, and sorrow he refused to show. It was a smile that he reserved only for those moments when he felt weak, when he felt like there was nothing to smile about. It was a smile he used when the only good thing he can recall is the lingering warmth of his brother in all but blood beside him. It was a bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless. He was a king with no crown, but a king nonetheless. It's the one thing they could never take away from him. "I'm sure there'll be bees somewhere. It's our kingdom after all, we can have whatever we want."

the idea of the fall Kaylee Dominique T. Ordoñez

“Hey” he says, breaking the sudden silence that fell upon us. It is about midnight; we are having a sleepover, just as we do every week, and the lights are low as a soft breeze blows from where the window is open. Takeout cartons and pizza boxes containing uneaten crusts are scattered on and under the table placed on the floor, and Colin Firth sings Our Last Summer as awkwardly as he always does on TV as we lay horizontally across his foam mattress. “Yeah?” I ask distantly, my eyes tracing the faded edges of the old glow-in-thedark stars on his ceiling, a distant memory of when we looked up at the same stars as seven year olds resurfacing from the depths of my mind. It takes him two beats to speak, and in that time I trace two more stars and note one that looks close to falling should a particularly strong wind be present. His voice is lightinquisitive, as if testing the barriers- as he speaks again.

“Do you ever just feel like you have this giant hole in you?” I frown up at the ceiling at the question, pausing to think about it before answering. “I don’t know,” I say carefully, and it almost sounds like a question. I turn to look at him as he watches Amanda Seyfried and Dominic Cooper sing Lay All Your Love on Me to each other with an intense gaze. I don’t really blame him. “Explain it to me,” I prompt when he doesn’t speak immediately. He sighs wistfully. “It’s like you see things like... that,” he wavers then, before motioning towards the screen where Amanda Seyfried is being wooed by a bunch of men in flippers while Dominic Cooper looks cool on a speed boat, “and then you just feel this.... hole, in your chest,” he explains, his hand then absentmindedly landing on his own chest. He clears his throat, eyes darting around as he finds the words to explain his dilemma. “You’d feel sad, and you’d think ‘it’s fine, it’ll go away soon,’ but it doesn’t, so you feel this huge gaping hole in your chest, and you feel it for days on end.” he continues, really getting into it now. “There’s this loneliness in you that not even the cheesiest rom coms or the sweetest desserts can take away, and it’s only a matter of time until it’s too much, until it starts gnawing at you, really eating at you, but you just don’t know why.” An exhale, deep with longing, and a pause; and when he continues, his voice is soft, vulnerable, like a secret finally bared out into the open. “Then you realize, as more days go by, that something in you is searching for something.” He hesitates, as if pondering whether he should go on before he decides ‘screw it’ and continues. “Something, in you... is searching for someone,” he corrects. “You don’t know who it is exactly, where you’d find them, and if you’d even meet them, but your heart just keeps... missing this person. That you don’t even know.” His eyes turn serious then, voice low, and it shakes me, makes my throat dry up all of a sudden.

His eyes turn serious then, voice low, and it shakes me, makes my throat dry up all of a sudden. “Then there’s that feeling. In your mind and heart,” he starts, dragging his gaze from where it has blocked out the glorious performance of Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! to the same faded stars that I stared at just a while ago. “It’s like, yeah, you don’t know them. You don’t know if they’re a girl, a boy, if they like sunny days over rainy days, or if they like the crust of the pizza as much as the rest of it. You don’t know that but like, for some reason, you’re certain. You’re sure that ‘yeah, they’re out there somewhere’; and when they find you inevitably- because in your mind it’s like, ‘why wouldn’t they’- you just know, for sure, that they’ll fit right in, in the void in your chest.” He stops, as if to drill the point right into my lungs, then speaks. “They’ll fit there, like that lost piece of a jigsaw puzzle, because you know, deep in your soul, that they’re the person your heart has been waiting for all this time.” He laughs a little, shaking his head with a small smile. His hands come up and rub his face as he lets a breathy laugh out, dropping down his sides after the last of it leaves him. He sighs, opens his mouth then shuts it, presses his lips together as he huffs before opening his mouth once again to speak. “Okay, that sounded less desperate in my head,” he says finally, and my lips twitch, a ghost of a smile. “Definitely,” I tease, almost carefully lightly, almost giving away how my pinky finger twitches as I register that his hand is a breath away from mine now that the enchanting air around his words has simmered down. He shoves at me, telling me to shut up, and for a few seconds we laugh until it fades off, leaving us once again in silence.

I inhale as my lips stutter on the way to opening, contemplating if I should push it. I go ahead and say it anyway. “But, you know, I kinda get it. It’s like... the idea of the fall: meeting someone, falling in love, the uncertainty of the whole falling process before you reach the bottom,” I say in that same “a little too light” tone, treading lightly on eggshells. “It’s scary, but you try to tell yourself it’s fine, because a part of you is praying that somehow, there’s someone on the bottom who’s waiting to catch you, so you wouldn’t just fall and fall until you crash and you break.” I explain, and when he turns to look at me blood threatens to rush to my face, and all I could hear is the loud staccato of my heart ringing in my ears. “It’s stupid, to fall without the security of what’s at the bottom, but I think... it’s not really about feeling complete, in a way. It’s about having something you can call yours, and I think that’s all everyone wants, you know? To fall into something— someone— that you can call home.” I breathe in, discovering I’m out of breath from how I pushed those words out before I could think of keeping them in, the words almost a whisper by the end of my tirade. I blink, and his eyes bear into mine. I stare into his, watching the lights of the TV reflect in the chocolate of his eyes; brown, like the color of home, and suddenly it’s too much. A ghost of... something— and I don’t dare to examine it closer— washes over me, threatening to act if he keeps staring at me like that from up close, so I clear my throat and turn to the TV where Pierce Brosnan is just beginning to sing When All is Said and Done. “Yeah, I get it,” I end it lamely, cringing before I could reel it in, keeping my eyes on the TV. He’s silent for a few minutes, and as the song continues to be performed it’s like the air is on a stand still, like we’re at the brink of something important, and my heart continues to drum fast and loud in my chest.

The air in the room is heavy with meaning, like the gaze he still pins on me, and a part of me is screaming at itself for talking too much when he asks “So, you feel it too?” A breeze blows then, and my gaze is back on him. I look at him. His eyes, this time, take on an accent of honey, specs of yellow and other shades of brown, like a kaleidoscope of colors and thoughts. Expectant, shining, waiting. The breeze made one of his curls fall into his eyes, almost like a blanket of mystery, and my hand twitches up but I force it to lay on my stomach, instead. His skin is soft, smooth like marble, like he’s from that myth or story where a sculptor brought his work to life, but his cheeks are rosy, a sign of definite humanity. His jawline is sharp, and his lips are plump and pink, though cracked and a little bruised because he has a habit of peeling the skin, or biting down just like a while ago in deep concentration as he slices the crust off the pizza.

I know him—

(He is a boy, one that’s comfortable in his own sexuality enough to also be a little bit more passionate and feeling than people expect. He’d tell you he likes all weathers, but I know he likes cloudy days best, when the weather is just right without being unbearably hot or annoyingly wet. He never, ever, eats the crust of the pizza, like a wasteful idiot.)

—And I’ve never really thought of myself as incomplete, God knows I lived on less, but right here, right now...

As a soft breeze blows once again, brushing away that stray curl from his face, I look away. The void in my chest throbs, but I force it down, and I look at the faded, old, glow in the dark stars on his ceiling instead. “No, not really,” I tell him, and in my peripheral he nods. He looks away, stands up to finally fix the mess on the floor, and the moment is gone.

“Take a Chance on Me” plays on the TV, echoing in the background.

A Man Who Wanders The World Mary June Aubrey C. San Jose

One quiet early morning, the Wanderer travelled to the peaceful damp fields. He was tall, and his clothes seemed rich—a black tuxedo attire with fancy design. Albeit this high-fashion feature, the Wanderer had no money in his pockets—only a small bag of snacks on his wrists and a vintage pocket watch. As he walked through the stony path, the wooden lampposts were his guide towards his destination and what he saw through the small light was a middle-aged man carrying an empty rickshaw, who faced at him and asked. “Do you want a ride, sir?” The Wanderer shook his head and responded, “thank you for the request, but unfortunately, I can’t ride on your vehicle.” “But your feet might sore, sir.” He smiled and looked down on his feet. Indeed, leather shoes were such a pain, but he didn’t mind for a reason. “Don’t worry about it. I bet there are people out there who need a ride.” The driver nodded and walked away with his rickshaw, chuckled the Wanderer— but sadly, the fun didn’t last. He checked his pocket watch, and his eyes widened —fifteen minutes before the dawn, but not in an ideal location yet.

Without any hesitation, he began to walk fast, not thinking about the pain on his heels. The light streaks from the east began to shine, showing a hint of the place he wanted to visit. It caused him to stride and ran as if he anticipated a once in a blue moon event. What a wise decision, the Wanderer thought, but he didn’t want to bring burden to the driver regarding his useless hurriedness. He kept on running through the path until he noticed what was on the horizon. His feet stopped on the tracks, then faced at the beauty of the skies. Painted in a blue and light yellow, the Wanderer lightly smiled as faint rays of light shined through him. At last, the Wanderer saw a big yellow tree—his destination. Before he proceeded down to the tree itself, the Wanderer gulped and took a small step away from the stony path. The terrain down there was not too steep, but the sudden drop of height surprised his foot. Carefully as he walked down, he saw farmers preparing for work. Carrying buckets and wagons—some are empty for harvesting and others are for feeding, they looked at the rich-looking gentleman walking down with nothing, but a small bag hung on his wrist. They didn’t speak, just letting the Wanderer passed through and proceeded back to work. The Wanderer didn’t interact with them as he focused on the large tree until he asked one of them. “Do you know where the remaining white lilies are?” One of the farmers was hesitant as he thought that the rich man was looking for the yellow tree. Shaking off this thought, he nodded and replied, “I don’t think the lilies are very abundant here, sir, but I bet there are some that exist along the stream. Just take a few steps, and you might see two or three.” The Wanderer nodded and thanked him. Then, he proceeded with the farmer’s instructions.

As he walked away, the farmer raised his eyebrows, and his limbs had an urge to follow him, but he felt that there was a particular reason why he was looking for something scarce. Why was he looking for those lilies? He just let this question aside and continued his work.

When the Wanderer discovered the stream after a short walk from the yellow tree, he went down and stared at the white lily. The farmer’s count was true as there were only three of them here. He shook his head when he thought of picking them since it might be unruly for him to do it. As his eyes stared at its beauty, there was an image of a woman that gave him a deep smile. She was like those lilies—small that he would have embraced her warmly, delicate to touch, rare, desolated from the other lilies as she was not like the other people. Her caring words sank his heart to the bottom of the ocean that, sadly, he would never hear it again. As the tall man touched a petal of the white lily, his hand stuttered, and winds turned unease. In every gale’s touch on his skin, he strongly reminisced of war and grief that lingered him for more than a millennium. That woman… slain along with these white lilies… She had flowing golden hair with these flowers pinned as a decoration; her long-sleeved white gown danced along with the air. Those jade-colored eyes, very similar to the Wanderer, as a sign of godhood, living for a thousand years.

He remembered their moments were nothing but her facing a one-sided love, and Rex is too oblivious to realize. She embraced her people with all of her heart, while he was just a reckless ruler fighting mystical beasts and lords that history texts always talk about. These memories rested along in the beautiful world of white lilies. The goddess’ smile was his highlight, especially when the sun goes up from its half-day of rest. The Wanderer hadn’t realized back then that they would turn into a lifetime worth of nostalgia and regret that caused a pang in his heart for ages. He was a reigning war god until her brink of death—naïve of what love really meant until he walked on this mortal earth. As his tears dropped on the petals of white lilies, there was a soothing voice that calmed the wind around him. He didn’t move an inch on his position and didn’t even look around to find its source. Because the Wanderer knew whose voice was it. “Rex? Do you finally understand?” He nodded.

“Yes, my beloved.”

Five Minutes to Friday Carlos Joaquin B. Tajan

The golden rays of the afternoon sun shine right through the well-worn window grills of a dark classroom, bouncing off some back-row student’s white iPhone 11 Pro Max before landing on the ever-reliable standard analog wall clock that reads “3:55”. The already exhausted and sweaty professor rushes to the computer to fix the audio of his video presentation flashed on the projector screen which hangs unevenly on its broken support due to some past “accidents”. Meanwhile, the students, clothed in blue shirts and khaki pants, in almost perfect sync, abruptly clear the top of their modular Dorito-shaped desks and start filling their bags with their own unique and colorful notebooks and pencil cases.

Charlie casually pulls out his brand-new leather wallet and proceeds to count his bills under his desk. All of them in the thousand denomination amounting to a whopping total of eleven thousand pesos. Relieved that nothing is missing, he then fixes them on his lap before shoving them back to his wallet while thinking of how it will be gone in a few hours. Carly reaches in the huge pockets of her yellow over-sized hoodie – searching for something. She stopped at its chest pocket and pulled out five printed movie tickets bought and delivered to her earlier in the day.

After counting five tickets, Carly kept the tickets in her right pocket so as not to forget it when the time comes. She goes on to kill time by playing with her ballpen. Allek takes a big gulp of water from his Tiger water jug, keeping it in his line of sight even after drinking to avoid pesky classmates from “borrowing” it. While doing so, he reaches for his Fita box which he kept under his table right after lunch has ended. After munching on a few biscuits, he starts handing out some to a few of his fellow seatmates. Meg reads the list she made for later. She scrolls down on her trusty iPhone 10, reading each line and its corresponding time slot. Fearing that she might have missed something important, Meg reads the whole list a quick run through after her initial read. Satisfied, she texts her older brother the time by which she would prefer to be picked up before glancing at her five-year-old digital Casio wrist watch. Anthony goes for another round of team deathmatch in Call of Duty Mobile on his surprisingly smudge-free Samsung Galaxy S10 which he has hidden from the professor’s sight by using the classic cover-it-with-your-notebook tactic. With only one life remaining for each side, he manages to pull a clutch win with a gamewinning “quickscope” while keeping a blank face throughout the whole match. Satisfied with his win, Anthony proceeds and succeeds in packing his switch quickly and without drawing the attention of the teacher.

The bell rings – heralding the end of a draining week. Their classmates and professor head for the classroom door, bags on their back. A vacant classroom was left, save for some scattered chairs, a handful of pencil shavings lying on the floor, one dusty blackboard covered in math equations, and a few friends.

Charlie, Carly, Allek, Meg, and Anthony look at each other, all of them picking up their bags and pushing their chairs under their tables. Charlie knows it’s going down tonight. Carly knows it’s going down tonight. Allek knows it’s going down tonight. Meg knows it’s going down tonight. Anthony knows it’s going down tonight.

It’s going down tonight.

They all nod at each other. As one, they shout, “Friday Night!”

It is a Friday like any other Friday but this is their Friday.

suburban sloth boy Eric Paul Z. Tang

Any good friend of mine would say that I'm a lazy piece of trash. And while I'd like to try and refute those claims, sadly I just can't be bothered to. I'm a sloth living in a world of cheetahs, and frankly I just wanna chill and eat some leaves. This flaw is by no means due to my own doing, as I am perfect. I blame it on something completely beyond my control: me but in the past. When I was four years old and beginning to show signs of sentience, We moved to a suburban area on the outskirts of the city. To reach it you had to take a drive through a long, winding road through rolling, gentle hills. The path took you away from the congested, gray, flat scenery of the city, and into a vast landscape of greens and browns, where the terrain ebbed and flowed like the most peaceful, meditative rollercoaster ride. The architecture of the place gave way to the trees and the grass, letting the land breathe the same fresh air you did. From whatever angle you looked there was always a view; there were no buildings and establishments that cluttered the skyline. It wasn't the fanciest of places, but to me it was beautiful.

It was quite peculiar in the sense that it seemed to be in a permanent state of stasis, And looking back it felt surreal to grow up in a place where nothing ever really happened, in a place where the world took its time. A blade of grass growing would be the most urgent news, a leaf or tree swaying in the wind was a momentous occasion. All my needs were met, and I did what was expected of me. Everything was calm, and well. With no clear distinction between the present, the day before, and the day after, I was allowed the luxury to bask in the moment and do everything at my own, leisurely pace. For years this still peace was all I had known, until one day we had to leave. I was yanked away from that small air pocket, and submerged into the moving currents of time. I panicked as a relentless torrent of change carried me away from those suburbs. Ever since then, time’s flown by, all of it a melancholy blur like a fever dream in reality. We moved to the city, to a new house, to a new school. Lost all my friends. Grades dropped. Became a social recluse. Stopped going outside, all the traffic and smoke was loud and suffocating. Higher grade levels, harder academics. Then high school. We moved again. New city, new school, new home, new social group, new demands. Looks started to matter. Talents were of utmost importance. Trends and norms clogged my mind. A social ladder was put up, which promptly crashed on top of me. Senior high. Now we're talking majors, careers, the future. We realize the government sucks and the world is slowly burning. Relationships, drama, conflict, turmoil, movement, action. Chaos. Chaos. I've tried so hard to live in the moment again, to just exist.

But life kicks me in the gut and reminds me of my future and my past. Making me dwell on my mistakes and be afraid of what's to come. I look back and wish I was younger, wish I were back in those hills. Fond memories of quiet leave a bitter aftertaste in my chest. I'm a sloth living in a world of cheetahs, but I guess I'll just paint myself yellow and bite some gazelles on their knees. I just wanna eat some leaves.

Eighteen Candles Maia Lisandra M. Wang

“Happy birthday, Miss April!” the nurse chirps, but I know that cheery facade is bull. It’s her job to smile, to laugh, to make sure I forget that I’m spending my birthday in a hospital ward. Nevertheless, I flash her a quick grin. “Thanks, Nurse. Can you believe how old I’m getting?” Discomfort dances across her face, but it quickly rearranges itself into the same manufactured, cut-and-paste smile as all the other nurses here. “Miss, you don’t look your age at all.” “Can my birthday present be getting out of here?” I ask with a dry chuckle, knowing the answer. It’s been the same for the past million years. “I wish that were the case. Unfortunately, you’ll have to settle for this.” she says, handing me a Red Ribbon box. The one good thing about this place is that they let me pick the cake. Black Forest, the same one I’ve had since I was five. I remember the first time I tasted it. My eyes had grown wide, taking in the sweetness of the cherry paired with the bitterness of the chocolate and the airiness of the whipped cream. Five-year-old me had never tasted such sophistication. My parents had never looked happier. I can remember, clear as day. Or at least as clear as the days can be within these stark white walls, where the days blend together like a shitty watercolor. I can remember. I can, I can, I can.

The image of my dad holding out a cake with a real, not-hospital-nurse grin blurs. Something is dripping down the side of my face. Sweat, maybe? No, tears. Tears? I look up at the woman standing in front of me. My voice shakes along with the hands that grip the cake box. “Candles. Where are the candles?” She smiles at me. “You’re one step ahead of me, miss. Here you are!” She hands me two candles -- a one and an eight. That’s right. I’m eighteen. Time moves so much slower in the hospital; sometimes it feels like I’ve spent decades inside it. “Can I go to the garden?” I ask, gently. They let you go more places when your voice is soft. It means you’re not a threat to your fellow patients or, God forbid, yourself. “Of course! It’s your birthday, after all. Miss April, born in April!” It’s always the same joke. Somehow, though, it’s comforting. It reminds me of mom running her fingers through my hair the morning of my tenth birthday. I had begged her to French braid it. She laughed, a little bird laugh that sounded like music. “April, born in April. It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?” I blink, and she’s gone. She’s gone, and the only woman in my life now is Nurse. She holds out her hand, and I take it. For some reason unknown to me, I take the candles as well. Light reflects off sparse, but shiny blades of grass as I waddle through the weeds. The garden used to be beautiful, filled with pink flowers and tall trees. Now it’s practically a desert. Nothing like the gardens I used to play in as a child. As a child...

Suddenly, I’m not in this garden. I’m back in the garden behind my house. I’m back when my world was one park wide, to when I was seven and dared a boy to kiss me. To when I ran across playgrounds with my best friend. To when my dad lifted me on his shoulders and flew me like an airplane. Then, to when I sat alone in parks. To when I sat with friends in gardens. To when the boy I gave my first kiss to broke my heart underneath an oak tree. To when I met a boy under an elm. To when I married him, had kids with him, spent my life with him. To when I sat beside his bed, holding his hand as he used his last breath to tell me he loves me. His face is a blur. His name is -- God, what is his name? I should know. I need to know. Please, let me know. Wait-Whose memories are these? Why are they in my head? And why can’t I remember? My knees are itchy. I look down to see my legs pressed against the dirt of the decrepit garden. My head is in my hands. I look up, and instead of the one nurse, there are three. Their brows are knitted together in concern. “Miss April, what happened? Why are you on the ground? What’s wrong?” I shake my head and laugh. “Nothing, just some silly little hallucinations. I dreamt of a man. A man, can you believe? He was all old and stuff. It’s so weird, it’s like I was married to him but I didn’t know his name. How odd that this happens on my eighteenth birthday. I mean, eighteen! I’m not even thinking about marriage!” The nurses look at each other, until one finally speaks. Her words are careful, and she drops them gracefully, like a ballerina preparing to make a pirouette. “Eighteen, Miss?”

I hold out the candles, the number one in my left hand and the number eight in my right. “Yes, eighteen. See? One… and eight.” Her face crumples. “Miss, you’ve read it wrong.” “What do you mean? I know basic math. One and eight. Eighteen.” Gently, she takes my hands in hers. My veiny, spotted hands. Wait, what? What’s happening? Why am I here? She offers no answers, only moves my hands. I look down at my arms as they cross over each other. One and eight. Eight and one.

art

Aytin, Praire Fire A. Pen and Paper.

"Dream House"

"Tag-tagan"

Del Rosario, Sherrie A Digital