Pugad Literary Folio
S.Y. 2019-2020
MARIONETTE
Pugad Literary Folio ACADEMIC YEAR 2019-2020
EDITORIAL BOARD VEDA LUNA M. ZABALA EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SHAUNN ENRIC T. CALAYCAY ASSOCIATE EDITOR
CRISTYANNA MINDA L. ONG
RYAN GABRIEL B. SUAREZ
KAHLO JULIA I. IMAO
ENGLISH EDITOR
FILIPINO EDITOR
ART EDITOR
OFFICERS VEDA LUNA M. ZABALA ORGANIZATION HEAD
NICCOLO BENITO G. DE VERA INTERNAL SECRETARY
NICCOLE ANN CLAIRE JAO
DANIELLE B. HALILI
EXTERNAL SECRETARY
TREASURER
MODERATOR MA. CECILIA ROSARIO B. LAMUG
Staff Members ENGLISH WRITERS
FILIPINO WRITERS
Zwei Angela A. Balderas Yvonne Chloe U. Bayan Niccolo Benito G. De Vera Seth Michael R. Eliserio Nico Lorenzo C. Escalona Danielle B. Halili Isabel Clarisse S. Inocentes Justin Daniel T. Jo Mikaela S. Lacao Kimberllee S. Lardizabal Nathaniel Xavier Malong Ysabel Bryanna Y. Marinas Francine Elisha C. Manzana Shane Angel Q. Mendiola Cristyanna Minda L. Ong Cliff Albert D. Pe Maia Lisandra M. Wang Veda Luna M. Zabala
Ynigo Miguel N. Almeda Shaunn Enric T. Calaycay Jay Lorenz A. Dela Cruz Niccole Ann Claire D. Jao Ryan Gabriel B. Suarez Miguel Marcel D. Vera Cruz ARTISTS
Benjamin Kyle Lee Competente Kahlo Julia I. Imao Mary Rain Gabrielle D. Ligot Ana Lucia D. Pineda Aivann Jakob H. Romero Hanns Winald P. Scheewe Seth Ephraim G. Umipig CONTRIBUTOR Tricia Kate Siazon
COVER
KAHLO JULIA I. IMAO
FOLIO LAYOUT HANNS WINALD P. SCHEEWE
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foreword Veda Luna EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Oftentimes, I feel as if my life is not mine to control – that there will always be things that are out of my reach. Deadlines, bloodlines, expectations – these are all things that I will never be able to command. These are my strings; they drag me around and pose me as they see fit. In that sense, I am a marionette myself: a puppet controlled by the invisible forces that govern life. We think to ourselves that these strings were put in place for a reason: perhaps to protect us, guide us. Some people find comfort in this thought, in knowing that they are not in control. But I am not one of those people. I am someone who fights against the pull, who tugs in the other direction and moves however she wants. I
am someone who will write her legacy in her terms. I am my own marionettist, and my strings are my own. If my words ring true with you, as someone who takes no comfort in helplessness, then take the pieces in this folio to heart. Let them speak to you of courage and boldness and pain, for these are the things you will need to march to your own beat. Never be afraid to test the waters of the world and go against its flow. Never fear the highest mountain if that is where your being is called to be. Never cower beneath the strings that bind you. Slash them if you must, cut them down until all that is left is your own being. The world is your stage when you hold your own strings.
English as fate would have it
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endless nights
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so you wait ‘til kingdom come
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the puppet and the fairy
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fate
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musings for the muses
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curtains: open
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body shots
25
puppet
27
two years and counting
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rancid love
31
hickory, dickory dock
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kim lardizabal albert pe
danielle halili
kobe de vera
isabel inocentes tricia kate siazon maia wang
veda zabala
zwei angela balderas seth eliserio lia manzana
shane angel mendiola
9
tangled
35
pronouns
38
one to twelve
42
lost
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feelings of pressure
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LOML
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goodbye
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yvonne chloe bayan nico escalona shane angel mendiola cristyanna ong nathaniel malong niccole jao cody anakin pe
Filipino sub imperium
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(Heart)Strings
56
teka
58
unang linggo ng bagong dekada
61
libingan
65
gabriel suarez
miguel vera cruz
shaunn calaycay jl dela cruz
mikaela laicao 10
Art grooming
68
dance for me
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pygmalion
70
animus
72
cutting strings
73
TicTacToe
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chains I, II, III
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rain ligot
kyle competente kahlo imao
ana lucia pineda aivann jakob romero seth umipig
hanns scheewe
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english
Cristyanna Ong ENGLISH EDITOR
We hang by strings we have tied ourselves. 12
as fate would have it KIM LARDIZABAL
How wretched are we that we incur the wrath of life itself? How cursed are we that, like sparks flying upward, we’re born unto suffering? Nothing definitely of worth nor of value. All possibly for naught and for nil. And still, by the impetus of whatever purpose we find —we learn. We love. We live. Fate pulls its strings, stretched to every corner, leaving no clue for us desperate wanderers. Still, we try and keep on —for as humanity, we believe.
To faith, we hold on.
And so, learn. Love. Live. Live. 13
endless nights ALBERT PE
hop, skip, turn, dip dance and sway to the melody a tear in the woodworks ignore it, keep dancing hop, skip, turn, dip dance to the melody. trip. feel the blood trickle down your cheek. disregard the sprain and the severed hamstring follow the strings lest they snap the strings of fate led you here by the neck one leg is no hindrance. pay no mind to the pain escape from fate’s grasp is death to remain in it is suffering eternal dancing is attempt at relief that brings only pain caught between suffering and death at the gallows hop, skip, turn, dip pay no mind to the cracks in the woodwork ignore the gouged out eye and the fallen limbs the strings still work, don’t they? 14
so you wait ‘til kingdom come DANIELLE HALILI
daylight hits and your breath still reeks of Red Horse you find blue bills strewn haphazardly on the floor and count them, one, two, three you remember you charged for four the words kapit lang are stuck to a jar of Stick-O vaguely labeled, like you don’t know what it’s for garters and lace, maybe a couple good meals if only you weren’t spending the day scrubbing your skin sore just in time for the next CEO, next hotshot, next white-collar middleman with a tired wife their pants seem heavy with the promise of freedom an easy trick to fall for, but you know you’re handcuffed to this life
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people ask, “what happened to tito and tita’s sweet little princess?” now she’s queen of the sheets, girl almighty, scavenging the streets for her knight in shining armor, finding him in flashing lights and 2 AM whiskey each of them is a new taste on your lips, they ask if they can have you, all of you and you scoff because as if you’ll say no tonight, just like any night, you’ll let them do to you what they want to but the dawn comes and all the glimmer vanishes your bed is no longer a throne the walls are closing in and whimpering and screaming you’re plush red and reduced to bare bone
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the puppet and the fairy KOBE DE VERA
With a whisper as soft as the night breeze The fairy asked him What is it you want? Hanging, swaying, suspended in the night breeze The puppet replied gently I want to be a real boy With lips made of moonlight, and hair of stardust The fairy laughed under her breath All I have to do is cut those strings of yours Dazzled by the glitter in her eyes The puppet asked a question And I will be a real boy? With bright eyes wide, and lips curled in a smile The fairy lied As real as you want yourself to be
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His wooden heart pounding The puppet steeled himself Do it then With an ever growing smile on her face The fairy gently moved her hand Then let the strings fall away Falling, falling, falling The puppet stared up from the cold ground Why can’t I move? With a smile as bright as a dying star The fairy floated toward the window And, with a giggle, left the puppet alone
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fate ISABEL INOCENTES
our souls hang in silver threads from the sky and death assesses them with a practiced eye long slender fingers playing them like a harp and the sounds of our lives blend together, warped
SCENE ONE
a devil dressed in a business suit and tie impassively watching the impoverished die dipping his hands in taxes meant for food programs making democracy look like a feeble sham
SCENE TWO
a little girl standing in her broken house as soldiers pass she becomes as quiet as a mouse wincing as deafening explosions sound out nearby and she can’t help but curl in on herself and cry
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SCENE THREE
“it’s all your fault, and you’re the one who’s wrong,” he says to the girl who’s trying to remain strong as he twists her fate in black and red hues he doesn’t understand the hell he’s putting her through
SCENE FOUR
she stays silent, lying motionless in bed she reaches for a pillow and places it atop her head screaming into it, sick of her tired old pantomime but death moves quietly past her (it’s not yet her time)
SCENE FIVE
steady beeping accompanied by shallow, labored breaths a hand cast over his eyes: “sleep now, time to rest,” and the rise and fall of his chest slowly begins to cease and death takes his opportunity, reaching out to seize— snip.
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musings for the muses TRICIA KATE SIAZON WINNER - PROSFORÁ WRITING COMPETITION
o, Calliope, teller of legends: of gallantry and valor written on stone, may their awe-inspiring stories penetrate our bones. Clio, master of scrolls, tell us where the past and present meet and let the intertwining branches of history rewrite what we’re foretold. Muse Urania—she who hung the moon and stars remind us about celestial beings that we ourselves are let us not be lost among the galactic sphere of planets and black holes for we are meant to reach light-years beyond our orbits we call home.
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how ironic it is to realize the world isn’t mean how every denouement leads to a new dawning Melpomene may be asked as she hides behind masks in seeming rhetoric, “Isn’t every fall written by sins, not tragedies?” there is beauty in the way: 1. your feet delicately hit the floor 2. you can move through genres of songs —lithely, lively, in a dance with the heartbeat of Terpsichore Thalia may draw a fine line (or lack thereof) between comedy and geometry: how humor may add color and shape our lives for eternity but behind every mask is a soul that is three-dimensional —oh and here’s a joke: what do you call a cute angle?
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shoot the answers straight into our hearts, sweet Erato—muse of love— why amidst all the sufferings, loving is still worth it. beyond meter, beyond rhyme loss drips off lyrics like wine emotions are to be expressed, said Euterpe desiring, achieving, inspiring catharsis. uplifting spirits; restoring divinity to Elysium Polyhymnia sings of hymns in a harmony that is euphonious in a melody that is sonorous.
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curtains: open MAIA WANG
The dance begins. Two pairs of eyes meet from across the stage -- finally, finally, looking at something that matters. The audience sighs. Two pairs of feet run, drawn towards each other as if pulled by strings. Two pairs of hands clasp, promising to never let go; the dance continues. The audience gasps when their lips meet for the first time, latching onto each other as if all the kisses that had come before had been butterfly kisses -- beautiful, yet flighty, almost insignificant. This is it, the real thing; the dance becomes frantic. The music swells as movements become quicker. It is passion. It is lust. It is love. The dancers jerk, twist, crash into each other, run away, come back. The audience screams. They want to know what happens next; the dance stops. The strings snap. The puppets fall. Curtains: closed.
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body shots VEDA ZABALA
crossed ankles, hands daintily on the lap, shoulders back, head up. “that’s good,” they say. her mouth morphs itself into a forced smile – a lime slice and a pinch of salt away from a tequila shot. you’re doing good, she whispers to herself. lie, lie, lie. her leading man delivers lines reeking of scripted machismo. she delivers cardboard syllables crafted by the hands of a man-child. her hero continues his tirade as she smooths over her just-right length skirt. she senses beady eyes following the motion. the camera is unmoving at the corner of her eye – hulking metal hiding scheming smirks behind it. silence weighs bitterly familiar on her tongue, held down by courses upon courses of unserved justice. the taste contorts her face like a gymnast’s body. “cut! what’s with that look?” “sorry, but i’m uncomfortable.” “baby, it’s in the script – “ the script is skewed. “the script’s fine.” “but?” “him.” she points to the cameraman. “he’s been leering.”
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“baby, just do what you have to. we’re paying you to look pretty” he says, caressing her face with a sweaty hand. “don’t-” she pulls away in disgust. his hand tenses midair. “you think you’re some big shot? i can replace you anytime with another pretty face! kids these days...” “y’know, i don’t care. replace me. at least this ‘kid’ knows how to call out the wrong she sees.” “that just makes you easier to sack.” fingernails digging into the meat of her palms, she pointedly stands up and walks towards the set’s exit. “so what, you’re gonna make a scene ?” he asks, mockery dripping from his tone. “if it makes a difference.” as her heels echo in the empty halls, she thinks, it’s the small victories.
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ZWEI ANGELA BALDERAS
puppet | ‘pepet | e e
noun 1. a pawn, a mere plaything in the grand scheme of things
a. expendable, docile, worthless
b. without volition, liberty, and autonomy
2. skin, pale white; the color of snow, of lightning, of white
hot fire, of clenched knuckles, skin pulled against bone, of thin, white 3. strands of thread pulling bruised limbs and tired joints
taut, connected to the fingertips of an invisible god, controlling the body, t he mind a 4. mouth, rendered useless, spouting lexemes and
morphemes and morsels of words fabricated, falsified, dreamt up by 5. an empty head, mind full of cotton and clouds and
make-shift stars controlled by 6. whispers and taunts and fruitless commands murmured
howled directed unfiltered onto deaf ears and dead 7. eyes, empty and blank and unstaring, unsettling eyes
dead and dead and dead and 8. a lack of life, not your own, slipping through your
fingers— your 9. past, present, no future 27
10. a pawn, lost, without control, boneless and spineless
and meritless, nothing to your name, nothing to call your own, nothing— 11. you are nothing but a puppet.
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two years and counting SETH ELISERIO
hi. it’s been a long time since we last saw each other. two years. i remember the days we spent together hiding behind striped sheets on the old feather mattress. we ate white marshmallows (thinking) hoping all was well, but we were both in cold sweat. no one could ever know about us. they did—however—came looming over, casting a black, morose sky that signaled our end. i saw creases in that thick blanket. they reminded me of lightning, and it came grabbing me by the throat, only to keep me away from you. now, i can only ever see you through these windows i have boarded up myself. and yet, i’ve seen how they’ve corrupted you, my angel. they chained you down, with thin shackles covering your whole body. rules stated that it’s either 10 meters away or you’ll be shot. all eyes and spies were on us, watching every interaction we ever had. (and we had none!)
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and they’ve even cut down your wings. tagged to have an expiration date due 02/12/17. 1817 . maybe it’s time to renew your passport, but they won’t. let. you. you once said to me, “it feels embarrassing to be seen with you.” you once said to me, “you’ll look like a slut if you do that.” you once said to me, “come on, it was only a kiss.” i only recently learned how you only echo the sentiments of your perpetrators. they’ve all gone into my head too, each reverb pulsating at exactly 12:38am . it took me some time to get them out. i’m still counting
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rancid love LIA MANZANA
i fold my arms into myself tie knots round the tap shoes of my intestines toss a coin to decide who leads the swing and stand back i mock myself as to have swallowed fish bones push back and forth to almost stencil its hair unto diaphragm sky and have its aglets almost caress kidney skin feed me false hope and it’ll latch on like nicotine make me a promise and it’ll break my carina like wishbones tell me you love me to draw the crescent moon upon my face and sedate the sun’s embrace until the dew rises to my sternum
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until your kisses become broken records and my tongue has to force down the diluted wine of “i still love you” and feel it decay into “you are the single beat my heart skips when i daydream of soulmates” and hear it vibrate along my bones only for it to sound off-key is it a varied frequency of desperation to digest love and feel it under my skin to overdose on minimum dosage to believe i am worthy of heavenly sins my appetite for myself hangs loose like pulled thread from tattered hems of my hunger for you
ART BY LIZA MANZANA
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hickory, dickory dock SHANE ANGEL MENDIOLA
why does it keep spinning? it turns and turns infinitely, as if to mock the twenty-four thousand times i’ll only be able to see it reborn in this lifetime. shackled. from the first rush of my blood until my lungs run dry. i struggle to stay still. to stay where everything is right. where everything is in place. the peak of roller coaster rides where the world is the view. tears of laughter. a day of me and you. a new life to live for, too.
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ah, yes. birthdays. it’s another evil in hiding, i tell you. mundanes think it’s all lovely—the moon within reach, sweet and filling. lighting it up with fire to please artemis. or to beg the smoke to carry their desires to the deities. but it’s not. this is its doing. masking the way it is stealing. another step to the edge of the cliff. another year closer to death. it makes you think like you’re walking an endless road. then without warning it will suddenly stop for you. i just want to break free from this life which it dictates. —time.
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tangled YVONNE CHLOE BAYAN
as the morning sun glows, he is like a lacey garment. soft fabric grazing on my skin’s most sensitive parts. hands wandering like excess unsewn threads of my nightgown. as the morning sun glows, he is like a feather-stuffed pillow. arms almost like a silk pillowcase; softly wrapping around my almost delicate state.
but at night, when the threads become too long, unknowingly, it tightens — enclosing every piece of flesh it touches, leaving rough burning lines. but at night, his threads form a rope, tightening at the worst places, making breathing a struggle, making my pulse something impossible. but at night, every night, it is as if the silky fabric had suddenly grown ruthless pointed needles. pricking a cut open as it goes deep — moving inside and out; forcibly creating a tight knot.
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and as the morning sun glows again, he is lacey, as soft as feathers, as smooth as silk. careful, as if he is holding a glass, hoping that his sewing is well. those two red lines are already embroidered deep in me. and with sewn lines or not, i remain tangled. held tightly by the golden threads i wear on my finger i never wanted. if only the first knot didn’t get loose. if only it held more.
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she was scared – painted like a lie, ignored by men she wants to help, raped for being open. she was naked; in her full glory, she is shining; needed by the needy; ignored by the normals; a prostitute to the rich. in a world where nudes is unaccepted; where being bare is losing everything – why should she be naked? she should be dressed in a champagne gold gown; hugging her deepest dips in shining chains of diamonds. she should be in a golden stiletto clicking her heels when she walks past her rapists; past her “owners”. her neck should be adorned with a gold necklace with diamonds hanging as its pendant. she should be treasured – hidden. only naked in the eyes of the worthy - the truth
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pronouns NICO ESCALONA
Each movement deft and precise, the girl with the golden scissors gently lifted the spider, each of its emerald eyes glittering like jewels in the darkness of the Star-lit Wood. She let out an awed breath, her fingers like gossamer as they traced the delicate outline of its web, glinting in the faint moonlight. “Like magic,” she said, her voice hushed and husky. She took her scissors and made quick work of the web, cutting up the silvery strands until nothing remained. Then she lowered the spider to the ground and squashed it underfoot. And waited. Finally, she felt a shift behind her and spun around. “You have my attention,” said the man, his perfectly tailored spider-silk suit reflecting the sheen of the girl’s scissors. The girl with the golden scissors looked at the welldressed man in his many eyes. “I name you He Who Spins the Dark, The Fateweaver, He Who Watches in the Night. I have been looking for you.” “I name you Emily Jeanette Green, assistant chef at The Hungry Panda. And,” his eyes drifted toward just underneath the girl’s shoe, “I know.” 38
“That’s no longer my name,” she said. “Then what is?” The girl who was no longer Emily Jeanette Green the assistant chef, the girl with the golden scissors, fixed her eyes on the well-dressed man. “I’ve come here to return my Last Names to the Star-lit Wood.” “I’m guessing you don’t mean Green.” “I have already returned that name to my ancestors.” The well-dressed man blinked his many eyes. “You’re the girl who danced with the Ancient Ones. Who killed the Prideful King at the Battle of the Sky Palance. Who harmonized with the quiet songbirds and silenced her own fairy godmother. Who jumped through time to remove all traces of the sound that was once ‘Emily.’” She averted her gaze. “If you know me, then you know that-” “That you hate names.” “Yes.” “They call you the Nameless One.” “That is a name in itself.” The girl and the man stayed quiet.
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Then the man fixed his perfectly-tailored silk tie. “Am I to think that you intend to kill me?” “I still have names.” She. The girl with the golden scissors. I. The Nameless One. These were the root names, the ones that kept her here. “Unmake them.” “I am the weaver of stories. When your names disappear, you will become untethered. No stories can be written about what can’t be called.” The well-dressed man waved his arm, and a silken hammock appeared behind the girl. She sat. “I had such a grand tale for you,” he went on. “I named you Protagonist. So few people have been named that. Your fairy godmother christened you Ever-clinging. The bees spelled out each syllable of Victorious in sweet honey made with the blooming of the morning star. And now you are the Girl With The Golden Scissors.” “My story is done. I have become Emily Jeanette Green, and I was the Savior of the Nine Kingdoms. I was the Girl Who Left Magic, and when I am finished, you’ll never have to see me again,” she said, her voice turning tender. “And that’s the problem. I had thought that you would have been happy with the name The Well Dressed Man’s Wife. I was happy as the Starsinger’s Husband.” He smiled sadly. “Even before that, I was the Sleeping One. And before that, I had no name, and I sailed the Empty Sea.”
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“Are you sure I can’t offer you another name? Even if it’s one away from the Star-lit Wood. From the Painted Cliffs and the Night City. From me. I can name you Mary or Fatimah or Shan. I can christen you The Quiet or Peacebringer.” The girl with the golden scissors shakes her head. “I want to sail the Empty Sea, my love.” He nodded, and the Star-lit Wood shifted ever so slightly and was gone. I cannot tell you what happened to , because there’s nothing I can call . The story is done.
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one to twelve SHANE ANGEL MENDIOLA
you think it is hellish that nothing you deem as a perfect moment stays.
darling, you do not know what it is like to stay an eternity; never moving, never changing, bound by the clock.
— the thirteenth child is free
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lost CRISTYANNA ONG
Lost. Lost in thought. “A sharp intake of breath, a long sigh, and an even longer drag of the cigarette leaves the lips of our protagonist.” That doesn’t sound right. Delete. Delete. Delete. Hans has been writing and rewriting this one scene for hours now, hours he could’ve been using to finish his article on God knows what his superior wants that’s been due two hours ago. He snickers bitterly. Isn’t it ironic? He too was taking a puff of his cig. He too has too much headaches, too much worries, too much
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thoughts. Just like his novel’s, if you can even call it that, protagonist. But he didn’t feel like a protagonist. He is an ivory collar worker at best in an unhappy marriage with three children he forgets the birthdays of. All sheds of being the main character in a novel went away with the hair on top of his head five years ago. It’s funny how reality is. He is getting paid to write about one, yet he much rather prefers to, yes, write about one too, but in a much more freeing way—without the compressed headlines, the constricting lead, or anything else that traps his words and sentences in columns, dressed in black and white stripes on A5 print. It’s too much like his reality, he thinks, dull. “How did I get here?, he wonders.” How did I get here?
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feelings of pressure NATHANIEL MALONG
My eyes opened to a blanket of blue water enveloping my entire body. I was in the middle of the sea, sinking down to the depths of the Mariana Trench. The fish passed by me as if I am a sunken treasure of the past, ready to be forgotten by the world of Land. I fought back, I swam with the most strength I had, but the more I tried, the weaker I got. The harder I fought, the lower I went. I couldn’t do anything, I started to lose control of my body, the feelings and soul coursing through my veins were vanishing, and I was running out of breath. Yet the deeper I went, everything was more beautiful. The fish were of many colors, contrasting the deep ocean blue. It was like the tales of great adventures, but hopefully I would’ve seen it at a time of no worry.
45
I could feel the life in me disappearing, I kept on struggling to escape this seemingly impossible fate, but alas, it was no use. I lost all my control, and it seems as if my fate was sealed As I started to lose my thoughts, I hit the bottom of the ocean floor. With full force, I felt the full pressure of the ocean on my body, yet I was not affected. After awhile, I let out my last breath, and my mind stopped thinking I lost‌ all control
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LOML NICCOLE JAO
maybe i met the love of my life when i saw him seated in front of the room during the picture day at school. with his dark brown eyes and his long hair parted in a way that others might find odd. (and i found rather cute) he was confidently introducing himself while boasting his manly golf skills - as any straight male would. i think i met the love of my life when our hands intertwined the first time, i was crying because of a heartbreak-- a failed quiz. he held me in his arms, making me feel warm and cold at the same time, thinking “why is this guy comforting me? his score is lower than mine. if anything, he should be the one disappearing into a puddle of tears� i knew i met the love of my life when i realized how much of a geek he is, how he talks non-
47
stop about his video games and his love for ed sheeran, which by the way, are not things i am interested in, but i learned to love it well, at least tried to. i knew i met the love of my life, i think. when he swept me off my feet as we danced around the floor under the stars during our prom after taking the perfect selfie to post on his snapchat story, which bothered me at first, but i went with it anyway. i hope i met the love of my life when we had our first big fight because i told him i couldn’t go meet his parents because i thought it was too soon. he told me it was alright and didn’t want to fight me but proceeded to tell me i “owed” him one. i was wrong about the love of my life when i realized how much i’ve moulded and bended myself to become a different person. when i met him in order to
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satisfy his needs and his wants. and his crave for the perfect chinese girl his parents would be proud of him for. i regret meeting the love of my life when i realized i was just a trophy for him to carry around while his friends applauded him for catching the best fish in the sea without breaking a sweat while i shedded pity tears for me aphrodite would be disappointed if i continued calling him the love of my life but he was maybe for a moment
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goodbye CODY ANAKIN PE
just a puppet in your world just a doll in your little dream house you controlled me as you desired you did whatever you wanted if you were bored you inflicted pain upon me if you were feeling unloved you put my arms around yours i had no choice but to obey you were, after all, controlling me i tried hard to get away but you stopped me in my tracks every time you would stab the doll you held and i would bleed out of nowhere you would choke the doll and i wouldn’t be able to breathe all of a sudden 50
you’d bend the doll’s leg and my bone would crack i was your plaything someone you’d use when you were bored i was your puppet, with a little spell used your doll, but with enchantments so i had to escape again even just a try i tried once again to get away because you used me too much already i had enough i, alone, could not escape you no puppet could escape the strings of the puppeteer unless the puppet had help i got someone to help me someone to cut the strings and help me get away I was done being your puppet you were too abusive thank you for showing me what i really deserve goodbye, puppeteer.
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filipino
Gabriel Suarez FILIPINO EDITOR
Minsan, napapaisip na lang tayo kung ano ang laban natin sa mga may hawak ng ating mga sinulid. Ramdam natin ang agos ng tadhanang tinatangay tayo patungo sa kinabukasang itinakda ng sansinukob para sa atin. Minsan din, batid natin ang mga hangganang idinidikta sa atin ng lipunan. Ramdam natin ang bigat at hirap sa tuwing pinipilit natin 52
sirain ang bubong ng ating mga hangganan. Sa kabila ng mga ito, nawa’y hindi maubos ang ating lakas para lumaban. Labanan ang agos ng tadhanang mapangapi--isulat mo ang iyong kinabukasan sa mga tala. Labanan ang ekspektasyon ng lipunan--ipaglaban mo ang nararapat at huwag magpatali sa sinulid ng mga hangganan.
sub imperium GABRIEL SUAREZ
i. ako
ipinanganak nang kulong sa ‘di matakasang gulong ng tadhanang nanghuhukom, lumaki akong naniniwalang nakasulat na sa kalawakan ang ating mga kinabukasan. paano naging totoo ang kalayaang konsepto nilang mga Arkitekto, kung kanilang nilalapastangan ang aming Dakilang Karapatan-ang simpleng paggalaw ng katawan? bawat usog, kalkulado; bawat pitik, kontrolado; bawat ikot, tensyonado. sa higpit ng kanilang pagkapit, kasarinlan ba ay makakamit
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kapag pinutol na ang sinulid? mahirap nang maniwalang ang buhay ay nasa kamay ng mga kahoy ang kulay, ngunit hindi ipauubaya sa itaas ang pagpapalaya-“at habang nariyan ang sistema, laging mayroong mabibiktima.�
ii. me
unearthed from the clay with a silver spoon and the world beneath me, my first epiphany shed light that I was meant for greater things, beyond fate. I twirled Freewill around my fingers during my free time,
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playing with the Toys-porcelain against wood, strings in my hand. every movement, calculated; every snap, controlled; every twist, amusing. grip tightening on the unbreakable strings, control was not a luxury more than a need. daresay, there is nothing wrong with the gift of power pulsating through my hands, as these are the greater things that I am meant for-“and as royalty reigns, the pawns will remain as marionettes.�
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(Heart)Strings MIGUEL VERA CRUZ
FEBRUARY 13
7:30AM
Nalilito ako. Alam kong crush ko si Peter pero never ko ‘tong masasabi sa kaniya. May weird feeling kasi ako na interested siya sa akin, but I don’t wanna be too assuming. Nagpapadala rin siya ng signals tuwing tinititigan niya ako. Hindi nga simpleng sulyap, titig talaga! And tuwing kumakain ako sa canteen at wala sina Joan at Sara, tatabihan niya ako! May time pa nga na ngumiti siya sa akin, I’m sure of it! Walang tao sa likod ko nung time na ‘yon. Si Peter na kaya ‘yung the one? Kailangan ko ng love advice. Hindi rin kasi ako pakikinggan nina Joan tuwing magku-kuwento ako about my feelings. “It’s all in your head...”, sasabihin na naman nila. FEBRUARY 14
5:00PM
Finally, natanggap ko na rin ‘yung sign na hinahanap ko! Peter asked me out! Hindi ako makapaniwala, my long-time crush decided to ask me out ON A DATE. Focus. Hindi dapat maging pabaya. Kailangan ko muna ayusin ‘yung dress na susuotin ko. Not too long, but not too short either. Para safe. I also need to get my hair done, this weekend na lang siguro. Excited na ako! Ano kayang puwede namin pag-usapan? Should I compliment him? Baka mas okay siguro if I play hard-to-get. Sabagay, kahit matagal ko na siyang crush, I really think we should take things slow. Sana mag-work out na lang lahat. Breathe. 56
FEBRUARY 17
9:00PM
Hindi muna ako pumasok ngayong araw. Natatakot ako. I couldn’t believe na hayop pala ‘tong si Peter. Paano niya nagawa ‘yon? Sinabi ko naman sa kaniya na ayaw ko eh. Bakit hindi siya nakinig? Bakit niya pinilit ‘yung gusto niya? Hindi ko deserve na mangyari ‘to sa akin. FEBRUARY 18 2:00AM
Hindi na ako sure sa nararamdaman ko. Should I confront Peter? Should I break up with him? Hayaan ko na lang kaya ‘yung nangyari, maybe I can move on with my life in just a few days. Pero parang may mali. Hindi ko alam kung ano ‘yon, but I get this feeling that I should handle the situation. 3:00AM
Tinanong ko sina Joan at Sara kung anong dapat gawin. Wala. Wala raw dapat gawin kasi iniimbento ko lang naman daw ‘yon. “Peter could never do such a thing, especially to girl like you...”, sabi nila. They told me to just keep it to myself unless gusto ko ng issue. Maybe they’re right. Tiisin ko na lang na parang walang nangyari. Everything will fall back into place. It’s all in my head anyways...
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teka SHAUNN CALAYCAY
1. Naaalala ko ang mga araw na mga inosente’t bata
pa lamang tayong dalawa at maghapong naglalaro sa iyong garahe. Mayroong nakatambak na maliliit na mga kahong puno ng mga papet galing sa mga tito at tita mo mula pa sa ibang bansa. Sa tuwing binubuwag ko sa pagkakabuhol-buhol ang mga laruang papet, panay bungisngis at halakhak lamang ang nagagawa mo sa halip na ako’y tulungan. Simpleng panahon na pawang ligaya ang nadarama ng isa’t isa.
2.
Lumipas ang ilang taon at tayo’y nagsipagtanda na. Ikaw ngayo’y isang dalagang kasing puti’t dalisay ng sampaguita, at ako naman isang matipunong binata.
3. Mga 1st year high school student na tayo ngunit
hindi pa rin nawawala ang kulit at imahinasyon mo. Naging dakila ka sa teatro ng ating paaralan, namamangha mo ang madla, ‘di lamang sa iyong kagandahan kundi sa iyong mga linyahan. Sa bawat linyang nabibitaw mo, ramdam ang kirot at sakit mula sa pagkabigo o ‘di kaya’y saya’t ginhawa mula sa pagkawagi.
4. Pero, hindi lahat ng mga bagay ay puno ng
ligaya. Hindi ganyan ang buhay. Kailangan mong masaktan.
5. Sadyang mapagbiro ang tadhana. Sumigaw ka 58
sa kawalan ng kalawakan. Ipinagsisigaw mo ang iyong galit, ang iyong yamot, ang iyong pighati. Tinatanong mo ako pati na rin ang iyong sarili, 6. “Bakit kailangang mawala si ina? Bakit pilit
inaagaw ang mga taong mahalaga sa buhay ko? Sa lahat ng tao sa mundo, bakit siya? Bakit?”
7. Sobrang sakit sa loob ko ang makita kang umiyak
nang umiyak.
8. Bagaman mahirap harapin ang buhay, nagawa mo
pa ring magpatuloy. Sa bawat pagsubok, nagagawa mong patatagin ang iyong loob na tila walang makikitang bakas ng pagluluksa mula sa iyong mga pinagdaanan. At dahil dito, hindi ko na namalayang unti-unting nahuhulog ang loob ko sa’yo.
9. Sa huling taon ng high school, naging mas malapit
pa tayo sa isa’t isa. Tila bumalik tayo sa ating pagkabata na sa bawat araw na lumilipas ay tayong dalawa lamang ang magkasama, kumain man sa labas o tumambay sa may puno ng mangga, ngunit, hindi ko pa rin inaamin ang lihim kong pagtingin sa’yo.
10. Araw ng ating pagtatapos, ang araw na balak kong
aminin ang damdamin para sa ’yo, pero binalita mo sa akin na ika’y aalis at mag-aaral ng kolehiyo sa ibang bansa, kasama ang iyong tita. Nagsimulang gumuho ang mundo ko, ang mundo na may “tayo”.
11. Hay! Mapagbiro talaga ang tadhana—pilit
niyang dinudurog at sinasaktan ang pusong nananabik. Ang buhay ngayo’y parang ang papet 59
na pinaglalaruan nating dalawa noon. Ikaw at ako ang papet habang kinokotrol ng tadhana ang ating kapalaran. Batid kong naiintindihan na hinihila ng tadhana ang mga tali natin para lumayo sa isa’t isa—binubuwag ang ating napundasyong pagsasama. 12. Gayunpaman, para sa isang lalaking hindi talunan
tulad ko, mahirap yatang isipin na lalaho ka lamang sa mundo ko nang hindi mo nalalaman ang pagmamahal na handang ialay sa iyo. Hindi ako susuko. Hindi ako magpapatalo sa laro ng tadhana. Tatanggalin ko ang aking sarili mula sa pagkakatali sa kapalarang inilaan ng tadhana, pilit akong kakawala na sa pagiging papet niya.
13. Dumating ang araw ng iyong pag-alis. Sinamahan
kita hanggang sa paliparan habang sinusubukang pigilan ang mga luhang nais nang lumabas sa ’king mga mata.
14. Niyakap mo ako nang mahigpit, at bigla na lamang
dumagsa ang mga alaala ng ating pagsasama at bumigay na ang aking mga luha. Nagambala ng mga ito ang aking dapat sasabihin.
15. “Sid, maraming salamat sa lahat. Paalam.” 16. Tumigil ang aking mundo. ‘Di na ako nakapag-isip.
Nakita na lamang ng aking mga mata ang iyong pagkawala sa yakap, ang bawat pagyapak palayo mula sa akin, palaho mula sa aking mundo.
17. Teka lang muna!
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unang linggo ng bagong dekada JL DELA CRUZ
Linggo, Enero 5
3:02 na ng umaga. Hindi ako makatulog. Hindi ko pa rin akalaing iniwan lang niya ako nang wala man lang pakundangan. Sa isang iglap, nawala siya. Ganun lang. Parang hangin na biglang naglalaho nang paunti-unti matapos patayin ang electric fan. Ugh, ayoko na mabuhay. Sa bagay, nalalabi naman na rin ang aking mga araw. Hintayin ko na lang noh? Ano sa tingin mo?
Lunes, Enero 6
Nagising ako kanina dahil pumasok si Randy. Usual palit ng pagkain, pero special ngayon kasi binigay nila yung gusto ko. Sarap!
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Pero naaalala ko ang puyat ko kagabi. Ang sakit ng aking puso. Ang matulin na ragasa ng dugo sa aking dibdib. Ang panginginig na hindi ko mapigilan. Ang mahinhin kong hagulgol na sawang-sawa nang marinig ng aking unan. Hindi ko napigilan ang sakit na iniinda ko kaya bigla na lang ako sumabog sa mga bisig ni Randy. “Lilipas din yan,� aniya. At nabuhayan ako dahil napag-isipan kong doon din ako patungo. Martes, Enero 7
Wala akong masyadong ginawa buong araw kundi titigan ang mga litratong kinuha ko sa kanya. Ang ganda niya. Sobrang ganda niya. Nakarating ako sa litrato kung saan nilalaro niya yung bigay kong manika na kamukha ni Elsa. Meron din yung kinuha kong litrato na ginamit niya yung schoolbag na may Barbie na disenyo habang naglalakad papunta sa paaralan. Bigay ko nung Christmas dalawang taon na ang nakalipas. Mahal ko siya. Mahal ko sobra. Hindi ko alam kung bakit kinaya niya akong iwanan matapos kong gawin ang lahat para sa kanya. Hay.
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Miyerkules, Enero 8
T*****a ni Monique. T******a niya talaga. P******a niya. Huwebes, Enero 9
“Ayoko! Ayoko! Put*****! Pakawalan niyo ako!” Biyernes, Enero 10
Pinatay ako ngayong araw. Tinititigan ko ngayon ang aking sarili habang nakaratay ang pisikal kong bangkay sa morgue. Mamaya raw alas-4 ng hapon ang pangeembalsamo.
“Mommy Monique, overall naman, okay po ang inyong anak. Nakita ko na po ang resulta ng vaginal cavity check-up ni Carmela at medyo marami pa po ang daloy ng dugo for the next two days. Labis po kasi ang pagpunit ng kanyang hymen. Ipapa-refer ko po siya kay Dra. Santos para sa counseling bukas. ” “Sige po. Salamat, doc.” “Mommy, sorry po.“ Sumandal si Monique sa pader, at sabay niyakap ang sarili.
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NEWS FLASH>>>> Sa ulo ng mga nagbabagang balita‌ 10-anyos na batang babae mula Olongapo, minolestiya ng sariling tito.
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libingan MIKAELA LAICAO
nandito lang ako, nakatayo, sawa sa paghihintay sa libingan ng kaniyang mga pangako, labi ng mga hangaring namatay, ulilang pag-asang inampon ng lumbay.
ako’y sumisid sa lupa’t naghukay ng bangkay. hindi ko kayang buhayin muli ang mga labing kapos sa diwa, labing sa alaala ko’y tinangay, labing gunita lang ng dating dalisay.
ang kasiyahang maibibigay ko sa kaniya’y ‘di tunay, hindi tatagal - hindi niya hinangad ito’y likha lang ng aking munting kamay, gawa lamang para sa damdaming nangangalay.
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ngunit ito lang ang kaya kong ialay bangkay, lubid. tinalian, pinagalaw muli, na parang manikang binigyan ng saysay, hindi lihim ng dating pangarap na ngayo’y kinatay-katay.
nandito na ako, nakaabang sa kaniya sa may libingan ng kaniyang mga pangako. habang ang ligaya niya’y matagal nang patay, kung kaya ko ang buhayin ang manika niyang bangkay, sa kaniya, kaya ko na rin maghintay.
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art
Kahlo Imao ART EDITOR
When puppet strings are broken, one first needs to cut off the damaged strings completely before replacing them. To what extent will one continue to allow their strings to be fixed and repaired before realizing that maybe they’re better off without them? The stage is ready—make it your own. 67
“Grooming”
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RAIN LIGOT, PEN ON PAPER
“Dance for me”
KYLE COMPETENTE, PENCIL ON PAPER
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“Pygmalion”
KAHLO IMAO DIGITAL
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“Animus” 72
ANA LUCIA PINEDA DIGITAL
“Cutting strings”
AIVANN JAKOB ROMERO DIGITAL
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“TicTacToe” 74
SETH UMIPIG, DIGITAL
“Chains I - Society”
HANNS SCHEEWE DIGITAL
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“Chains II - Nature”
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HANNS SCHEEWE DIGITAL
“Chains III - Love”
HANNS SCHEEWE DIGITAL
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