u
t
s
s
o
d n
d
J
e
m s
a
s a
h
w m
o
m
e
m
o
a
b
a
n
p
h
e
t
t
r
c
o
t
a m
n
,
a
m
p
s n
e
t g
o
n
i
b
l
h
e
a
r
t
l
o
m
d
a
c
u
m
v
e n
r
u
g
u
t
h
r
a
y
e
I c t
o
n
t
s
i
l
h
e a
M
u
r b
r
e l
s o
m
p
y i u
h
t
s
i
n
i
s
a e
x
i
i
r
e
c
o
n
d
l
e
n
e
s
t
i
a s
n n
d
d
o
m
n
e
d
o n
i
a e
n
l n
g
?
e
e
d
a
i
n
h
o
r
e
i u
i
e
a
o
.
o s
v
n
g
t
g
n
r
l
h
l s
i
e
x y
t
h
y
m t
s
W
h
m
d
e
o
n
n n
i
t
d
l r
o
h
g
e .
u o
n
a t
.
e
t t
a
o
t
f a
d r
s
r
i o
t t
n l
t d
y s
I n
p n
e
a w
e
n
t
e
t
r
e a
a e
a i
e e
n t
m
r
n
a
h
n
s
n
e
s
e
H
e r
w
r .
d
,
e
s
e
, e
a
l
.
r
h
h
e
y e
g
w
y
u
d
e
g
f
e
k
a
n
a
i
n
o
w
s ,
y
o
t
r
i
a t
d
n
u
s
n
g
o
s
a
e
n
t
o
n
c
k
i
t
d
a
n
w
o
v
i
e
r
r
a
n
r
o e
n
l
e
,
a
i
y
e
h
s
e r
s
o
o
h
h g
o
e
y
e
h
w
f
n S
n
. h
n
d
d
s
d
a
i
–
p
t o
p s
w
e
e
v
d
s
e t
e a
e
d
h u
t
e
y
r
l
h
m
u
n
i l
m
f
n p
a
l
m
n
e
t
n i
r
s
u
t
c
o
o
m h
o
e
i m
d d
t
n
k
e
t a
e
s t
l a
e
h u
d
c
t l
a n
u
c
u
.
l
n
r t
r
d
n
o
B
I
i o
o
e
e
t
p ,
h
e
l
y
e
t
.
w
s
s
a
e
l
t
’
l
o
e
a
i
e
l
t
s f
e
d
c
h
r
u
y i
s
s
a
d
d
a
b e
r
l t
e
a n
b
l
t
v i
o
t
t
o
n
r
s
p
t o
,
e
e
f i
l
g m
o h
g
t a
r
p
s
e r
w a
’
l
n
d
o
a
n
o o
n
o b
c
i
a
l
s
v
t r
m
l
x
k
e d
m
i
s
r
o r
a
o
s
h
’
I
i d
b
r s
t i
l
o
o
r
r h
m
e I
t
f P
.
t n
a
d
m
e
a
g
s
i
o
n
o
e
h
l
e
u
n
p
a
y
b
d
d
. e
b
d
e a
l
a
o k
h
f
n
y
e
.
s
e
m
n
y
t
d
a
e
e
h
r
e
o
e
n
e
t
n
t
s
a
l
n
a
o
j
m
s p
a
e
e
n
i
r
r
s
k
s
o
e
b r o
f
p
t l
g
f
a
c
i
r
t
t
t s
l
d
h
e
m
h i
a a
a
u
E
n g
h
a
d
i u
, i
d
l
e
e
h
h
h
d
k o
n
m
s
y
c t
x
h
i
c s
e
e
c
s
r
D
o
h
t e
s
i
e
s v
n
i
p
t
l s
a
i
o
u
r
v
y
e
a
r
h
a
l
e
r
d
s
t
w
p
a
e
f
w
s
i
m
o
h
t
s
’
d
h
l
s
r
e o
a
e
a
n
r
h
w
s
a w
e
e n
a
l
g
e
u
c
c
r t
e
e
n
t
h
t
t s
v
i
i s
n
h
o
e
e h
i
m w
ta h e fg i nee p rt i nh t n
s
d i
y
m
v
n s
n
e
a
a
,
e r
r
e
h
f
y
k
t
a
t
d
d
h
r
a
r
s
n
a
w
w f
e
n
c
o
a
u
t
e
n
e
a
e
i
e t
t
t
t
o
g
h
i
d a
v u
r
s
d
w
u
i
e
l
i
i
d
c
l
o
e
r
e
k b
n
1
m
e
s a
o
s
i
t f
,
s
e
t
g
a
, a
e p
s
m u
u
r
y
m a
m
r
v
e d
e
n
l
B
r
e
l ,
.
m
l
m
i r p
s
e
a
J
r
a e
a
i
m
i
v e
l
m o
w e
k
o t
n
e e
p
h
f
o
r
c
o
s
.
d
e
o
f
i h
o
T
a
d r
t t h
s
i
r
n f
.
r
e
i
d
d
i
a
a
s
l w
h
l
n
l
v
o
t
’
a n
J
o o
a
i
r b
o
t
e
,
n r
E
I
e d
t
h
t
d n
o
a
w
i u
A Collection of Literary Pieces by MINT Students
O
r
o
i
n
e
s
t
a
n
g n
? g
Adviser: Isa Garcia Book Design / layout: Te k s P a b u a y o n All rights reserved. 2018. www.mintcollege.com fb: mintschool
P O L AROI D WRI T I N G I held on to my jacket, rubbing my hands together to try and create some warmth out of the cold night’s air. It didn’t help that I was as nervous as I can get. This after all, was the first time I had asked her out for dinner. The streetlights seemed blurry, the cars just ran by as I stood outside of the cafe. Time slipped from my hands. I kept looking around, hoping that she’d finally arrive. The scene seemed perfect; the city was quiet, the air was sweet, the streets were dimly lit by the moonlight. I thought to myself, "It couldn’t get any more picturesque than this." As I was still caught up in my daydreaming, she finally had come. A breath of relief had escaped me. For a moment, I just stared at her in all her beauty and perfection. I reached out w ith my hand to greet her. I was still savoring the soft, pleasing aroma of her perfume; a sweet mixture of bergamot and vanilla. I thought to myself, "So this is what angels smell like." I gave her a little smile and a kiss on the hand. She seemed to blush. It was the most adorable thing I had ever seen in a long time. We decided to take a stroll around the place, the gentle breeze blow ing around our coats. The jewels up above us set the mood for the evening. "Perfect, don’t you think," she went on to say. I just smiled as the breeze played w ith her hair and her eyes just sparkled in the moonlight. I leaned in close and said, "Yes, just like you."
K i efer S i s o n t h eate r a r t s
prevue 2018 | 3
e
a
ti
ve
s
f el
r po
it tra
udine guerrer | kla o,
the
at
er
ar
ts
Every morning, I wake up, go to the bathroom, and wash my face. I look into the mirror, and stare at myself. I wonder why I look how I look. I mean, I get it, genetics, but why did I get this particular look? Why did I get my mom’s face shape instead of my dad’s? Why did I get my “potato nose” from my dad instead of getting my mom’s thinner and pointed one? There were a lot of things I didn’t like about my face. I used to cringe every time someone told me how I looked like a carbon copy of my dad. Scratch that — I still cringe every time someone says that. At least now, I’m a bit more content with how I look. I got my eyes from my mother. I once asked her if I got my eyes from her or my dad, and she said, “you got the soul of your eyes from the both of us, but the shape of it is from me, that’s why they’re so pretty... though the fact that you’re visually impaired is from your dad.” Wow. A compliment and an insult in one, thanks for making sure my head doesn’t get too big, mom. There are huge dark circles underneath my eyes. When I stare at them in the morning, I compare them to their size to that of the previous day, or the day before that, or the day before that and so on. Sometimes I even wonder how big or small it would be the next day. Sometimes, I can’t help but laugh about how huge they’ve gotten by the end of the week. I never noticed how big my eye bags actually were until I got contact lenses. I started wearing glasses since I was nine-years- old. I started off with a grade of 250, and now at eighteen, both of my eyes now have a grade of 550 (that’s why the lenses of my glasses are as thick as my skin). When I saw my face for the first time in seven years without anything framing my eyes, the first thing I thought was, “huh... I did get something from mom”. Then I move down to my lips. I used to hate them. I used to think about how
c
r
4 | the fine print
much they made me look like a Bratz doll. It’s bad enough that I’m already a spoiled brat, I didn’t want to look like one. When I was a little girl, I would look into the mirror and curse my dad for my lips. Every time I met relatives from my dad’s side of the family, they always said the same thing: She has the Guerrero lips!. Thanks, dad. Thank you very much. I used to look up at celebrities and sigh when I saw their thin lips and wish mine were that small. There was, however, a time when two of my classmates back in elementary school who complimented me on my lips and told me how luck I was to have them. I didn’t believe them. At least, not until Kylie Jenner came out with thick lips and people came out with the “Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge” where you have to insert your lips into something that would suck them to make them bigger. When I saw this online, I laughed and said, “I don’t have to do this. Unlike Kylie Jenner, I was born this way” and that was when I first started to be content with the way I physically looked and didn’t feel... ugly. And now that I’m older and wiser, I realized looking like Bratz doll isn’t a bad thing. The Bratz girls were a hit for a reason. Our parents (well, specifically biological parents) didn’t just give us a roof over our heads, or food to eat, or clothes to wear, they also gave us who we are. They passed down their physical appearances to us — some of which is almost like a legacy. I, for example, have the Guerrero lips. Not only was I blessed with lips that girls all over the world practically ripped their own lips open for, every time I look at them, I see not only my dad, but also my relatives from his side. A person’s physicality isn’t just who they are, but their history. It tells their own story, and the stories of their family. Genetics is a strange and beautiful thing. prevue 2018 | 5
“So, you want to be a writer?” asked my cousin after comparing which classical books we each have read. It wasn’t the most appropriate topic on your grandmother’s 1st death anniversary, surrounded by freshly cut grass and pillows of marble. I think he’s just trying to be a good kuya. He just graduated college, so I guess he’s trying to pass on whatever knowledge he has to me before I graduate high school in the coming year. This is also what I get for being the youngest female in our big group of cousins, with him being one of the eldest. This is also karma for being too comfortable with him just because we had the same appreciation for the written word. out, but of course, I did not. What I just told him that should I have expected when, like, “let’s let future I was considering at the time, I still had to ask the me worry about it” English related teacher if I could go pee? I had And here we are). courses for college. my sights set on a Theatre Arts I started writing course with Communication, and way back then in “I guess...” was all English courses as back- up. Unlike grade school, being I could answer, performing, I never saw writing as inspired by Harry silently, I may add. something I wanted to do every day. Potter fan fiction. My skills expanded from I was 16. I thought And yet, here I am, at 20, doubting fiction to essays, then I had it all figured everything I know, and cursing my later, articles. When 17 year old self for not thinking I entered college, things through. (17 year old me was I had to lessen my writing time due to the demand of work. But late last year, thanks to English classes, I didn’t realize how much I missed writing; how much relief it brought to me, how it all seemed like a natural thing to do. I was reminded of how great it felt. They more classes I got that involved it, the more I wrote, and slowly, I returned to the place where I was with writing back then. Do I still want to perform? Yes. But I am no longer sure if I’m either in the right environment, in the right time, or if I just don’t see it as an everyday thing anymore. Do I want to be writer? Yes. But I am still not sure if this just because I’m just reveling in what I missed or this is what I actually want. So, either way, the question of my Kuya still remains, “So, do you want to be writer?”
warm comfort michelle franchesca angat theatre arts
6 | the fine print
“I couldn’t find the hot chocolate,” Phil explained. “But I think this should be alright, as long as you don’t have too much. You’re mug’s small anyway. If it’s not, consider this as your alcohol; something strong to help you through this shitty day.” He was whispering to her, like someone would hear him offering his little sister coffee. But Grandma’s house was quieter and darker than usual, that everything and everyone seemed too fragile. After everyone had left, all Jemma could hear was the ticking of her grandma’s Garfield wall clock, and the ringing in her ear.
Maybe it was because Jemma’s young nose could no longer take the smell of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of bouquets of roses, that she even considered the smell of coffee to be such a relief. Her brother thought that adding in double the amount of caramel, and placing it in her favorite Snow White frosted mug would be make it more appealing to her. But even if he didn’t, she was already grateful for the smell and company. Everyone else already went ahead to the cemetery to bury their parents. Jemma refused to go, pinning herself to one of the monoblock chairs set up in the darkly lit living room, and her older brother Phil, agreed to stay with her. She took the warm mug into her small hands and looked down at the brown liquid. Phil watched as she slowly placed it up to her lips. It was disgusting. The hint of caramel was no match to how bitter it all tasted, despite of how many scoops of sugar Phil
tried to put in. She could feel her heart beating fast. She must have made a face because Phil started laughing at her. Jemma couldn’t help but laugh along. A first in a while. She was surrounded by bits and pieces of the once was floral mug. She stood still and stiff in the middle of the dirty kitchen that she and her brother would always swear to clean someday but never get around to. She never realized how blind her 10 year old eyes had been to the filth in the place they supposedly prepared
food. When she tried to wash her hands in between the two mountains of unwashed dishes, her elbow tipped over the mug, crashing it down to the floor, like it never had a chance. All Jemma could do was stare at it.
The kitchen has really been useless for the past couple of years now. Phil never cooked. It would be either Grandma would bring them some food, or they would order from restaurants. The outcome: take out containers, pizza boxes, used dishes, and cutlery, placed wherever there was still an ounce of so called space. Somehow, the siblings just grew accustomed to it. But as Jemma stared at the broken pieces of ceramic material, she found tears reaching her eyes. Mother would be disappointed with how they left her favorite area in the house. Jemma grabbed a broom and a dustpan while calling for Phil. It was gonna be a long afternoon. The worst part was that she knew it all along. She saw this coming from the start and she even warned herself of the possibility of this happening. And yet, for some reason, she chose the stupid route and allowed the asshole to enter her innocent 13 year old heart. Phil didn’t help either, giving her just a stream of “I told you so” over and over again. She knew he was right. They both knew that boys at this age were not capable of overnight change from a tween capable of cutting class into someone who gives attention to the bookworm with thick glasses and messy rat hair. Jemma wasn’t stupid for knowing this early on, but she was stupid for giving away the benefit of the doubt and allowing it all to happen like the ignorant fool she was. Now, she was the butt of the joke. She curled up on her bed, like the pathetic worthless being that she was, hugging her pillow, tears starting to pool all over the case cover. She kept the lights off in her room as she lay there. She tucked herself under her covers. Her collection of stuffed toys and dolls stared at her in judgment from her shelves. Even the eyes of the Jonas Brothers from her poster seemed to pay her no sympathy. Suddenly a stream of light came in. She knew it was Phil but she didn’t want to talk to him.
prevue 2018 | 7
She already knew she was at fault. Maybe if she pretended to sleep, he’ll go away. But she heard him prop something on her dresser. After that she heard him walk away and close the door. She pushed the covers off her head and looked at what he left. She could already smell the hot cocoa piping from the blue Captain America mug—Phil’s favorite. For damn sakes, she was 15 years old. She orders beverages all the time. She’ ordered coffee at Starbucks plenty of times. She’s even ordered a latte and a donut from this place. Jemma should not be this anxious. Was it because she was ordering 20 coffees? Or was it because this is the first time she’s assisting her aunt streamers of Nescafe sachets. Now for an event, and Jemma has to run to a Krispy Kreme The lady laughed. she’s unbelievably (how posh, Krispy Kreme coffee Jemma could do nervous that she the crew and talents, but it was the without the teasing. would mess up even closest café they could possibly “Well, for a single the smallest task run to without changing blocks/ receipt purchase of that is coffee? Phil streets) and buy 20 cups of coffee. this amount, you already messed by get a free coffee forgetting to buy “Did you say 20 cups of our original mug from us!” Yes, the required coffee. brew?” the lady at the cashier because how else He bought packs of reacted. Jemma guessed her voice will they reward paper cups, but no may have been quiet. All she could someone who buys do was nod. “That’s one big blow out.” 20 cups of coffee. After ringing up Jemma order, the lady disappeared and reappeared from the register and handed her a big rectangular box with the white and green Kripy Kreme design and logo all over. As she slowly walked away from the counter, she carefully opened the box and pulled out the mug inside. It was white, as expected, with the green logo at the front. It was shaped like a cylinder with a waist. However, what Jemma found surprising was how big it was. The mug was huge! She was sure it was about a liter. It was heavy like a liter sized mug. She wondered if her aunt would want it, because if she did, Jemma would then have to steal it. This is an overreaction. It’s the sleep deprivation and exhaustion talking. This is not the end of the world. Jemma repeated that in her head like a mantra, attempting to calm herself down. Her tears, she can still control from coming out of her 18 year old tired eyes, her anxiety, however, she cannot. She just stood there frozen and stunned, watching her friend, Skye, clean up the mess for her. “It’s okay, we’re okay.” Skye assured her, ripping another piece of tissue from the roll. But Jemma looked down at her phone and looked at the time. It was 1:30am. They needed to be in UP by 6. They still needed to sleep. And yet, she was standing there, panicking over spilled coffee. Coffee spilled all over their reviewers. They were taking their first college entrance exam tomorrow, could they afford this set back? Skye handed her the now empty pink mug. Jemma tipped it over when she reached for the math exercise book. The math book was safe, contrast to all their other materials drenched in brown. The entire bed room smelled of vanilla coffee now. “Maybe this is a sign,” Skye said, standing up. “We should call it in. We’ve been studying for weeks anyway. I think we can handle it tomorrow.” Jemma prayed her friend was right. Jemma wondered how Leo was able to keep the white box dry despite having 8 | the fine print
the both of them drenched from the cold monsoon shower. Classes were suspended, a blue moon grace given to college students like them. However, they wished they found out sooner. They were already half- way to campus when the news reached them. Now the couple of 20 year olds were stranded in a dimly lit 7/11, wondering if a Grab Car would still be willing to save them at this weather. “What’s this?” she asked, reluctantly taking the box from his shaking hands. Leo just shrugged coyly and told her to open it. He wanted to give it in school before classes started, so that he could run away the moment the bell rang. Leo’s soft eyes stared out into the of wet mop up her rain for a moment before laying nose, he met his lips Opening the box, it all out there. He spoke to her in a delightful union. Jemma gasped at softly and carefully. His words were the beautiful black, like velvet and silk that made her “You don’t have to matte, Audrey heart flutter with warmth but sink be nervous,” her Hepburn themed with admiration. He’d stutter and boss laughed. But mug that had gold awkwardly play with his wet shirt. how could she not rimming. It was But she found him adorable just be? She’s never beautiful. “What’s the same. But then it was her turn been called into this for?” she asked. to speak with words, and they would the COO’s office tumble down worse. With knots in before. The whole her stomach, and the bad stench afternoon, after getting news that the boss wanted to see her, Jemma’s mind was a mess, thinking back on what she could have possibly done wrong. Co-workers assured her it was probably just to congratulate her on the success of her project. It pulled in big numbers, coming from a project leader who was only 25 years old. But this felt different. Every time a congratulatory talk was in order, it was done during their Monday morning meetings. Today was Friday. The whole office felt intimidating. The air conditioning was colder, the walls seemed tighter. The most constant colors were white and grey. It was the least creative space in the entire office, Jemma believed, dull and impressively corporate. The boss presented her some coffee with the company mug— plain white, with their logo, typical size and shape. He started talking. Jemma tried to pay as much attention to the white mug to lessen whatever blow she was about to receive, so she barely heard her boss when he said that the last project she headed was the final test to see if she really was worthy of a higher position. With the height of her success, they could not be more assured of what she was capable of at a young age. The boss had to repeat himself to her when he said they were giving her a big promotion. Jemma’s nerves knotted in a whole new way. Jemma blinked once and she was at the altar. She blink again and she was dancing with Leo. Jemma blinked a third and she was suddenly in a hotel room, alone with Leo, hung over by the festivities. She was still draped in white, sitting on the red chair prevue 2018 | 9
near the double windows. Her veil however was left skewed on the floor, and her garter given away to Skye. If she were to be honest, Jemma couldn’t believe that she and Leo were able to get through the commotion of it all. But if they were on the topic of disbelieving, she will probably say how she can’t believe she was now a happy married woman. “I couldn’t find any wine glass,” Leo said, handing her the hotel’s complimentary mug— maroon with their name in gold, and a silhouette of their establishment—half filled with Sangria. She took a sip, watching Leo squat down in front of her and smile. She wished her parents were still around to meet him, this wonderful man. best to swallow the words that her They would have brother has spoken. In her 31 years made out of glass, adored him. “How of living, she was sure she’s never she could see her are you?” he asked. heard Phil speak so eloquently tea bag swimming She was blissfully about politics. He had his beliefs down below. She tired. He took her and opinions like any other person, was buying time, hand in his, kissed but to actually think of taking office, she was confused, her knuckles and Jemma just never saw this coming. but Phil could see then thanked her right through her. for marrying him. She held on tightly to her mug of tea, served to her by her brother’s “Is this a joke?” was Jemma tried her family’s maid. She stayed focus on all she could say. Phil the warmth on her palm piping from laughed. He knew the clear exterior. The mug was she would react this way. He said he thought he could help the country enough as a lawyer. But he can only do so much if the law itself was crooked. He wanted to change society right at the very top. She was skeptical. Phil never proclaimed himself to be a leader. He nodded and said, “I’m not a leader. I’m a servant.” And then buzzing silence fell. All she could hear was the air conditioner’s hum, and the maid’s lullaby to her nephew upstairs. Suddenly the dimly lit living room was too still for comfort. Jemma just smiled. Outside, raid filled every sound barrier, patting down on the pavements and rooftops. But inside Jemma’s home, it was all still. The rain served as a soft soundtrack to what was already a solemn environment inside her home. Jemma held tightly to her daughter’s plastic Elmo mug, something she’s abandoned when her father picked her up for bed. Jemma watched from the door frame as Phil put their 1 year old to sleep. She gave out a soft sigh. A blurred image of her parents entered her mind. After all, she was 8 when they died. She thought back on all the events she went through in her life. She felt grateful how despite without parental guidance, she found herself standing strong and independent. She had her brother to thank for that, and her grandmother. She left lucky outside the tragedy.
10 | the fine print
stop and smell louise anog senior high, arts and design track it’s right telling though the
a
ring before you to fragile flowers
of
a the
stop in
and and her
bell. fall, smell. small, hair.
telling you to stop and smell, smell the sweet aroma of her smile, the sea salt in her laughter. allowing you to enjoy it, even if only for a while. telling you smell her all around, ever present
to stop and smell, most favorite perfume. like an echoing sound. in each and every room. telling you to stop and smell, smell the burnt up pieces of her shattered heart. so sensitive and frail, but still, love each broken part.
telling you to stop and smell, smell the fireworks in her eyes, the way it shines when she looks into yours. as if you are the key that unlocks all the doors. every morning, another reason for her to rise. telling you to stop and smell the coffee stains on her the causes of every sleepless all her worry, all her clean them up, make it
smell, shirt. night, dirt. right.
telling you to stop and smell, smell the snow in her breath. merely brushing onto you when she whispers her cold words into your ears, bringing them every single one back, all your fears. you were told to stop and smell. smell the earth’s crust, smell it’s dust. a wake up call, after the rainfall. reminding you to let her go, and let her grow, when she must. prevue 2018 | 11
It was strange that all she ever craved for on rainy days was champorado. She never knew why, but every time she would see the little droplets falling, or feel its humidity on her skin, all she would think about was champorado – its richness, its creaminess, its thickness, the way every bite seemed to contain an entire spoonful of sugar and condensana. Damn, she badly wanted champorado. But today, it seemed the roads were intent on extending her agony for as long as possible. “Hay. Traffic.” were the only words she said out loud that whole trip, aside from the little curses she would utter throughout her ride. They seemed to slip out of her mouth the way her feet would slip off the slippery pedals every now and then. Damn the rain, she thought, and damn the traffic. She had left the house this morning thinking it would be a nice, breezy day; a day where she could get her sweldo, and ride her bike and get home without any hassle or delays -- but boy was she wrong. It’s a good thing I brought my raincoat, she thought. She always brought her raincoat, though, just like she always brought her slip-on sleeves, her helmet, and her pocketknife, because in Manila it would always be either painfully hot or terribly rainy, but at all times it was dangerous. And at all times in Manila, there is traffic, she thought, just before uttering another curse. Working in Tita Lita’s carinderia, she would often hear her Tita’s new Kano husband talk about the traffic back in California, or wherever it was from the States that he came from. “Ah, traffic. I remember those days on the highways where traffic would be so bad I’d be stuck in the car for almost half an hour”, he’d say fondly, and constantly, just before telling another long and annoying story. She always kept to herself, but oftentimes she wanted so badly to tell the American how stupid he was for thinking being stuck on the road for 30 minutes was considered ‘traffic’. In times like these she would often wish for the opportunity to have him angkas on the back of her bike just to show him what traffic actually looked like – a bumper to bumper mess so tight she could barely find space to fit her bicycle, and a road jam that lasted 3 hours at a time. But of course, she needed a job, and working
12 | the fine print
for her Tita Lita wasn’t so bad; she always made the best sinigang na manok, and inihaw na bangus, and champorado. Damn, she really wanted champorado. She allowed herself to contemplate champorado and why she liked it so much. Back in her childhood days, she would be utterly disgusted with the thing. She threw up that one time she finally gathered the guts to ask her mother what the fecal looking matter on the dinner table was actually made of. “Eh di rice,” her mother told her, “and chocolate.” Rice and chocolate, her childhood self would say, yuck. Now, however, she was obsessed with the thing. It was all she ever ate on rainy days, and now of all rainy days she was stuck in terrible terrible traffic. Putangina, I really want champorado, she thought. After a while, she caught herself staring intently at all the chaos surrounding her. Yes, she was actually looking for champorado now. Maybe, it would be dangling off one of the street vendor’s long sticks, or maybe she would hear one of them shout in their loud, booming voices “Champorado!”, or maybe she would even find it placed neatly on top one of the small, square trunks of any of the helmeted and non-helmeted motorcycle drivers motor’s, or maybe, miraculously, one of the cars or trucks beside her, in front of her, or even behind her, would suddenly roll their windows down, and a long, brown arm would extend and hand her a warm, wonderful bowl of champorado. My God, she thought, I really want champorado. It was exactly 2 hours and 37 minutes that she waned through the godforsaken traffic before getting home, walking with her bike more through most of the trip than actually riding it. “Ma!” she screamed right when she opened the creaky gate. “Ma!” she screamed again once she opened the flimsy, screen door to her house. “Ma! Mama!” she screamed again and again as she made her way to the kitchen. “Ano?” her mother screamed back, finally. “Ma! Ma! May champorado pa ba?” Mama, is there any champorado left? she asked desperately. “Ay, anak,” her mother answered nonchalantly and still busy cooking dinner. “Wala na.” There’s no more.
prevue 2018 | 13
Untitled Dexter Santos, MBM, English
W e came upon the remains of a ship at noon. I thought it was a fleet at first, from the countless chunks of bristly wood drifting around us, but it was a single ship. It had been huge – perhaps ten times the size of our vessel – and the golden embellishments on the scraps floating by whispered of a time when it been a galleon worthy of kings, filled to the brim with foreign riches and headed by a captain sparkling from all his medals. It had been an island in its own right, and yet everything is molecular when sailing on a world of water. We glide past, and the only sound is the erratic scraping of debris on the hull. Slowly, that watery graveyard shrinks behind us, and soon it only existed as a patch of dirt in the corner of our memories. There are very few reliable constants here, but they consist of arbitrary things: we know for certain that the sun will eventually set after rising, and that the wind in our sails will eventually die, before eventually coming back again. We need these eventualities to survive, and they haven’t failed us yet. Some things aren’t so dependable. Our silence breaks when an ecstatic yell resonates through the deck. Ahead, a sliver of green spills over the horizon. Some jump with joy, caps in hand; others stare at that thin plate of earth like it
14 | the fine print
could vanish at any moment, their grips ghost-white on the railings, almost daring God to steal it right out of their hands. After so long at sea, everyone had forgotten what it was like to dance and drink at a bar, to smell a forest, to watch the sun set without worrying about the wind. Every time we came upon an island, we would remember, and those memories would pull us to the shores stronger than any Siren possibly could. Some of us would stay on that island, content with what they were offered, but most of us would leave after a few months, having grown bored and hungering for something better. I wonder if it has come to the point where we don’t even care if it gets better, as long as it’s different and new. Different drinks? New dances? These promises seem enough to entice us to roam the world for months at a time. Maybe we’re all searching for The Island, the one we will love at first sight and know we will love forever, the one with the best drinks and the best dances. And who’s to say it doesn’t exist somewhere? That ultimate goal. I look around the deck and I see many who hang on to that, but who don’t realize that they’ve sat on the sea for sixty years already, and that their laugh lines are just gross wrinkles now and their bones are as worn as the wood under their feet. I can’t see their eyes (they are turned to the island) but I know they are as full of hope as the first time they sailed, ages ago. I hope with all my soul that this land is good enough for them. Because we’re really not sailors. I suppose we are like sailors. But I’d much rather be like an albatross and fly wherever I wanted to, or like an undying wave that listens to the moon, or like a storm that plows through everything in its path and dictates what lives and what dies. I’m not any of that, though, and never will be. I am like anyone else on this ship, and the millions of others on their own ships scattered on this world, so I watch eagerly as the land grows larger in front of us.
prevue 2018 | 15
that
I am like a cloud has a silver lining.
I have been through a whole lot. Several people tried to down me and they succeeded. The devil always wanted to wrap me in a bow tie. I guess that I am sensitive as a cat is with water; and I always thought that that’s my fault. Thus, I feel sad and down most of the time. But people won’t notice that, I don’t let them. I smile and act normal. This idiom talks about a cloud that has a silver lining – in other words, a dark thing that remains to be optimistic or hopeful – this is definitely like me. Whenever people say something bad about me, I end up being so hurt and feel like it’s the end of the world. There was a point in my life that I fell into deep depression and I didn’t know what to do about it. Prior to that, I didn’t really see a silver lining about my problems but I always found a way to move on from that. That point in my life was a
“I AM LIKE ________” hopeless period and one that I didn’t know how to move past from. I was stuck in quicksand without anyone or anything to pull me out of there. I succumbed to suicidal thoughts and eventually tried to commit suicide myself.
elijah luiz canlas Film
I eventually woke up and failed from two attempts. I was brought to the hospital and stayed for one month. My psychiatrist told me this idiom. I carried it with me after I came out and I carry it with me until today. I am still sensitive. I am still hurt with all the the little bad thing I hear about me. But this time, I can – not only find a way to move on – but be optimistic, hopeful, and see a silver lining in perspective. I remain smiling despite what context lies beneath me and remain optimistic and it is not an empty smile anymore. I could’ve said that I an like this or like that but I chose this. It represents me today, my turning point, what I’ve become and where I came from – my journey. 16 | the fine print
m
y
f
i
r
s
t
e
l
e
c
t
r
i
c
g
u
i
t
a
r
I don’t consider myself to be a materialistic person to any degree. It’s not often that I cherish physical goods, whether they be gifts from people that I’ve collected throughout the many birthdays I’ve had or things that I’ve purchased over the years. I much prefer people’s time and pleasant conversations. But when it comes to music I’m as blatantly materialistic as toddlers with their toys. Fairly recently I recieved my dream guitar as a graduation present from my father, a 60’s Fender Jaguar in Fiesta Red. It isn’t in any way the most expensive, high end, or even functional guitar on the market; it’s just an instrument that I’ve been wanting to own and have been waiting for for almost a year, I think it’s safe to say that waiting as long as I did certainly yielded positive results. However in the period between me desperately waiting for the guitar and finally receiving it, I had the opportunity to revisit and pick up my first guitar in Spain; an old beaten up slab of wood with a funny smell and rusty strings on it, battered, scratched and missing a few parts that would make the manufacturers wince. My first guitar wasn’t the best guitar ever, in fact it was the cheapest thing on the market and simply an instrument that we could afford before any of us knew that I was going to take music seriously. How bad was it? Well, let’s just say they give you an amplifier and a cable with the purchase of the instrument. But I digress; this dirty old thing is the reason I know a lot of the things I know about music: It taught me how to improvise over chord progressions, it taught me how listen to others while we played, it taught me how to break strings and replace them, it taught me how to write songs too; something I will be eternally grateful for. This dented piece of mahogany is the reason I love and appreciate music so much, in a weird way it’s the reason I got accepted to one of the best music universities in the USA. I never really thought about it until this summer when I was stuck in Spain in my aunt’s apartment for weeks without a guitar. I remember the first day I got there and the dilemma presented itself; I tried to rent out a guitar from a store but remembered that I had my first guitar in my grandma’s house in the den, amongst books and other things that nobody used. I picked it up and gave it a good sniff; you could almost smell the years of practice, failure and triumph on it. I went to my town’s local guitar shop and bought a new pack of strings. Upon restringing I noticed that albeit it being extremely hard to play, what with the warped wood and coarse neck, it didn’t sound at all bad. After practicing on this hunk of wood chips and steel I decided to disassemble it and shove it in the luggage to be bought with us back to the Philippines. I still play it to this day and it sort of acts as a constant reminder of who I was and where I came from. This isn’t the best guitar in the world, it isn’t the best sounding or easiest to play, not even by chance the best looking; but it’s got some stories to tell and it isn’t halfway through yet.
g l m
a a b
b r z a m
i r
e o
l
prevue 2018 | 17
have i met you before?
Have I met you before? I could’ve sworn Ive seen you somewhere Those shorts and that sweater seems so familiar Maybe in a mall Thats it! Ive seen you in that old mall by my house Its almost abandoned but you prance around with your diamond jacket and your nike shoes holding up bags racked on your arms and yet so humble to give it up to those street kids Have I met you before? I could’ve sworn Ive looked into those eyes I remember the stories that those stars of yours have told Ive crossed the galaxies of your music and your poetry mixed in with your romantic stories Ive visited old planets I never even knew existed, walking like armstrong in the new grounds of the moon Like gravity pulling me down and forcing me to keep myself on the ground Forcing me to forget what I’ve known and realize that this new world will make me adapt to something else those eyes put me in those moonwalking shoes and for once I wasn’t scared of aliens
18 | the fine print
Have I met you before? I could’ve sworn Ive already held this hand like the first time my baby fingers gripped around the finger of my mom balling into a fist and trying to shove it in my mouth I remember your giggle laughing at my attempt to swallow my whole world failing, but never stopped trying You never stopped me from trying. I know Ive met you before I remember your voice It plays in my head at night like my conscience Its a siren ringing in my ears when I know Im about to do something uncharacteristically me Its the faint whispers of encouragement I need when the large trucks come fully armed with cement ready to bury me under again Its that raspy manly voice telling me to stop being a girl and that soft girly voice telling me to stop being too much of a gentleman and let them open my doors Its this. At 3 in the morning staring at the reflection on your bathroom mirror Contemplating who I was and who I am now. Now im sure Ive met you before. And I would never trade that moment over anything else.
jellie villanueva film prevue 2018 | 19
At amusement parks, the attendants question if . ” I’m tall enough to ride t i n g q u i n s each ride. I look at them o yo un g with the sternest face that g? I wa s to St op sq ui nt in as ia n I can muster. My hope is that th at my sm al l to to un de rs ta nd ed os cl to be it makes me look older than my ey es ap pe ar ed rs on . pe e it wh d asian genes would normally allow. th is wi de -e ye , ll he r po li te ly I’ve waited 16 years to be able to ride “I ’m …n ot ?” I te ’t sn wa dy la e this ride, and I know for a fact that bu t th is wh it ve to co nt in ue all 5 feet of me is indeed tall enough ha vi ng it . I ha tt er s wi th th is to ride any fucking ride in this park. to re ad th e le se pl as te re d lo ok of su rp ri . I lo ok ed “YES,” I tell the attendant as I point to my fa ce te rr if ie d directly at the chart indicating the li ke I wa s le tt er s. l ca pi ta minimum height required in order to ride of this ride. I place my hand on top of my head ol , gi rl s indicating my height, and move it downwards In mi dd le sc ho in ab ou t la mp stopping at my ear to illustrate that I am us ed to co ’t we ar dn ul co ey DEFINITELY TALL ENOUGH to ride this fucking ride. ho w th st ra ps sp ag he tt i to ps . nk ta an d When I was around 10 years old, I went to the eye doctor. It was a routine check-up, nothing special. As expected, I had to read the Snellen chart. (The chart of letters that get smaller and smaller with every row). I lifted my hand to cover my left eye and and began to read, “E F P T O —“ “Uhmm,” the nurse cuts me off, “Stop
Som e got in tro ubl e bec aus e the ir sho rts wer e too sho rt. Guy s got in tro ubl e bec aus e the ir pan ts wer e too low . (Ye ah, I gre w up in the age whe re sag gin g was con sid ere d coo l.) Wel l, sch ool dre ss cod es wer e nev er a pro ble m for me bec aus e “st yle ” is a thi ng I nev er qui te dev elo ped .
Gro win g up, the re was onl y 2 cri ter ia for pic kin g out clo the s. It’ s got ta be che ap, and it’ s got ta fit . To thi s day , I usu all y wea r a pai r of fad ed $5 jea ns and any shi rt tha t isn ’t rid dle d wit h hol es or too fad ed. I’m a big fan of hat s and bea nie s. I wea r the m all the tim e wit h my sho rt blo nde hai r off to one sid e. At thi s poi nt in my lif e, I wor ry I won ’t be rec ogn ize d wit hou t one . I lik e to wea r a wat ch on my lef t wri st, and nev er lea ve hom e wit hou t my rep lic a of Dea n’s Amu let fro m Sup ern atu ral . (It ’s a sub tle ref ere 20 | the fine print nce , but I’m
ly constant es that s s n a w l o g d e g the type of I hav slidin fandom.) rently, e a c y p i m p o a h p c e , r e n s person whose o o u t i a h c d s e u a b o f r p d up ) uch a be pushe arms are always ss eyes. n’t as m a s i y k s n i i need to h h T ( my c is fun. open for a see with my face ility to b a n i like y m k o s hug, won’t let o i l t i f l s a yse isn’t t made m her friends get I guess at I jus h t h c i e h z w i an l h a , t e d r i e k hungry, and that m I n asia Now, re to rt. otypical ere’s mo o e h h r t s e will wait with you t r s m a ’ e I e w th I s es, te, but cheap. Y s to e for your ride to m s ’ s I a l g , inaccura s Ye and the e eye. pick you up before I he most T . meets th ve small eyes m a who I t ha leave. I’m the type ’s not at firs Yes, I but that t seen ’ , n . m e e e r m h a t w of person that would o e n m k o f frame t o ou get l parts share an umbrella with ed when y l a e beautifu v e r They’re r e a t a stranger because glance. how I t , watch e s o n I believe in random m r i e t p f e o h take t e type h t u o m y ’ I acts of kindness. f So i I’m e that rangers. ou’ll se t Y s . r s I believe in showing o r f e h ot open ds doors ants you w God’s love in little t a h t that hol n of perso get ways and I believe the little u o y the type n me whe things can make a big difference. t to text know tha I If you take the time, look at my hands; you’ll home so safe. see my passion for music. Feel my fingertips and you’re you’ll understand the sacrifices I’ve I ’ m made for my craft. Look in my b a g and you’ll find my heart in a notebook. Read through it and you’ll see all the terrible drafts it took to find the right words. You’ll find lines crossed out, sections underlined, and parts written and rewritten over and over with question marks next to the words. You’ll see the dedication it takes to keep writing. And if you care to listen to the final drafts, you’ll hear my life story.
If you have the time, sit down talk to me. I’ll let you know all about my geeky preferences. I’ll tell you about the shows I watch, the books I’ve read, and all the weird things I’m super passionate about. I’ll debate with you that DC is better than Marvel. I will scream Hamilton lyrics at the top of my lungs. I’ll show you the dice bag I always carry with me. I will refrain from talking about Weeping Angels, Bobby Singer, Fred Weasley, or the Red Wedding. I will fight you if you badmouth Hufflepuffs. (I swear I will pin you down and tickle you until you cry for mercy.) I will gush over Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. And when you have to leave, I’ll give you a hug. I’ll tell you “Valar Morghulis” with the silent hope you reply, “Valar Dohaeris.”
ry era lit f sel rait t por
helen balaoing mbm prevue 2018 | 21
f a s t f o o f i c t i o n n o a h d e l r o s a r f
i
l
i
o
d
,
m
I’ve wonder what a heart looks like when it explodes. I’ve never seen a human heart before. Health documentaries and anatomy art are not counted. Every time I lay my index and middle fingers on my jugular or chest, I feel it throbbing underneath the layers of skin and tissue. I know it is strange to contemplate on something so silly and mundane. Who in the right mind would invest so much time pondering about an internal organ? Much less an internal organ exploding? If I were to ever get that chance (to see an exploding heart, I mean), I wonder what emotions would start to well up from inside of me. I don’t think it would be right to feel happy since that sort of event might as well be the end of a human life. But what if that heart was dismembered from its host. How long would it take before it would eventually stop beating? It’s a funny sight, actually: a heart randomly lying on the floor beating with the same vigor as it would inside a rib cage and then blowing up spontaneously into a billion tiny pieces.
22 | the fine print
Why am I thinking about this? Would I be considered perverted or psychologically damaged to even entertain the thought without even feeling the slightest tinge of guilt or disgust for myself? I am just overly curious at times is all. I have never seen a human heart explode before and perhaps I never will. I’m confident that neither of my friends or family have seen such a thing happen either. What’s so wrong with wanting to see something out of the ordinary? What if no one owned the heart? What if it was just a random heart on the ground and it just happened to explode? I don’t think there would be any need to mourn or regretful for merely observing something that doesn’t belong to anyone explode like that.
Now I’m asking myself as to why I want to be so specific. Why a heart? Why not a lung or kidney or pancreas? Would it be any different? It would certainly be just as unusual if it were a liver or small intestine exploding. But will I feel the same emotions? The same rush of fulfilled curiosity? Or would I be so used to the sight and pass it off as something ordinary.
What if I witnessed a heart exploding more than once? What if it became an everyday routine like a street performer running out of tricks or jokes? Would I observe it with the same fascination or eventually become irritated with its repetition? Surely, something as weird and unorthodox as an exposed exploding organ wouldn’t fade into a passing fad. It’s a human heart, for crying out loud. Of course people would not tire of seeing such a thing unless they were hemophobic or puritan in spirit. I wonder if this curiosity is something that needs fulfilling. Do I have a right to see an exploding heart? They say if you really want something, you must pursue it. Is this trifle desire of mine even worth pursuing? How will it better the human condition? How will it personally change me? Will it push me further towards attaining my personal goals and dreams? Will the experience help me woo the woman I will eventually marry? Will it help me amass vast quantities of wealth and fame? Or will it curse me with destitution and suffering? If I do manage to witness such a thing, how will other people react to my story when I tell them? It probably depends as to who I will talk to, I suppose. If I tell it to either of my parents, I would never hear the end of it. My brother might laugh sardonically, knowing his sick sense of humor. My boss would probably urge me to keep such silly anecdotes to myself and out of the workplace. My pastor might have me sit down and talk about how the devil might be deceiving me with illusions and trickery. I don’t think my baby brother would care any less. It is somewhat odd for me to be analyzing this impossible phenomenon like this. I assume that it is normal for boring people like myself to try finding ways to entertain the weary spirit inside. Sometimes what most people define as amazing and extraordinary eventually become its opposite definitions. That’s why there is always the urge for the new. The refreshing. The exciting. It’s been a while since I’ve seen or met anyone with that sort of description. I’m becoming bored. Too bored. I’m not sure if it’s a bad thing or not. Maybe it is. It’s time to spruce things up a bit. And if an exploding human heart on the floor is going to help do just that, then I see nothing wrong in wanting to see it happen. A human heart on the floor exploding. Haha. I’d really, really like to see something like that.
w
e
w
h
u
s
t
h
a
n
c
o
u
l
s
t
a
y
o
n
w
i
t
h
w
h
b
u
t
a
f
t
g
r
o
f
o
r
w
o
e t
h
e
e
v
e
a
s
n
s
m
e
l
e
r
e
y
o
u
h
e
r
b
r
i
o
n
e
y
o
s
m
c
r
i
i
n
g
e
w
l l
w
w e
u
n
g
b
a
c
r
r
e
m
g
o
,
w
h
e
n
I
f
c
h
a
n
h
e
a
r
e
m
u
p
e i
n
d
n l
o
f
t
h
i
k
i h v e
n h
d
i
s
H
o
w
b
e
a
t
i
n
g
a
c
t
u
a
l
l
l
y
e
t
m
w
i
n t u
h
e
n
i
n
t
o
o
w
h h
o
d
y y
I I
f
i
f
e
n e
’
i
d
w
i
n
g
i
l
l
n
r
i
a
n
o
f
f
d
r
h
u
p n
t
o
b
t
?
W
e i
’
e
r
,
n
t
s
?
m
r
e
s
a
r
l
e
t k
e
d
.
u
s
t
c
a
l
l
,
f
a
l
l
.
h
e
r
o
w
,
t
.
r
o i
n
s
t
o
l
s n
o
l
s
o
h
e
l
r
t
t
t
l i
e
f
e
.
a
s
o
s
t
.
e
f
o
r
e
o
p
s
i d
e
t
g o
a
g e
,
m
l
y
n
g
t
i
i
o e
a
s
u c i u
t
d
s
l
y
s
.
o c
n
n
e t
f l
t
a
i i
h
s
e
n
c
t
b
h
a
a
o
r
b
n
a
t
w
s
e
t
g
t
l
a
a n
’
f p
t
h i
n
p
e
t
o
a
y
s
d
d
y
c
n
u
l
r
b
.
s
a
b o
l ’
e
y
r g
l
h
s
l n
.
w
e
l
o
y s
y
a
s
w
t
n
r
r
g
e
e
o
i
a
l
e
a
h
,
g
t r
m
s
s
h
o
I
r
i
p
m
l
h
t
i t
t
p
t
n
o
s
e
x
r
t
t
g
. o
r
a m
,
r
n
e
t
e
n
e
h
n a
i
t
l
t
p
a
.
a
u
l
a
e
e
a
u f
k e
s
i
d
i
t
e
n
s
d
w
t
r
h
n
t r
g
s u
v
g
o
t
i
a
e
t
n e
o
I
e
r
t
m
i
f
r
e
u
n
n r
t
e
k
o
b
l
a
a
i
t
.
s
e
a
m
g
r
r
m
c
e
s t
a
f
e
b a
h
e a
g
n
f
o
f
h
t
s
h
n
i
r
e
a
t
h
s
i
r
u
e
b n
d
a
v
e
s
r
t
d
v
a
g
y
’
w s
h
l e
s
m e
t t
n
a
u
h
r
n
I
i
d
:
h
t
e
a
o I
o
o
h
o
e
o
o
a
o
g
v
p
v
,
l
i
a
m
d
s
d
y
l
w a
u
w l
i
’
r
?
a
w
o
e
e
e
y m
e
u
t b
w p
g
g l
t N
n
h
d
t
b
o
i
t
a
)
,
l
b
a
h
e
l
t
d
y
p
t
e
u
s
d
t l
p
n
u
m
t
a
e
w
n
o
t h
n
o
n
e
e
o
a
w
e
r
o
e
o
u
e
t
e
d
r
e
s e
s
m
v
t
n
f
g
i
o
t o
m
n
o
e
e
I o
s
o
m
r
e
y
t
n
e
o y
y d
d
w t
l
l
r
a
e n
l l
e
t
n
u
g
(
n
r
b
o
i
l
e
u
e
s d
i
h
t
e
l
d
e
, i
e
o
n
t
t
h
e h
e
g
i
n c
p
h
o
u
d l
o
f
,
h
n s
n u
w
d
s
e
o s
c
w
e
h
e
s
o
s
o
l
s
l
t
m
k
n
e
r
i
w
a
i
w c
f e
l
s
t
h
a
h
n
i m
d
t
t
o
e
i
l
s
I
w
o
,
a
f
W
t
u
e
t
e
r i
s
,
’ t
s
h
u
e
e
w r
o
a
r
o
w
g t
p ,
d
r
s
d
t
e
t f
o
r
r
t
B
n o
k
w t
e w
e
t
e
b
i
s
a p
s
d r
n n
h
f
t
t
f
n
n
g
o
l
s
a
s
d
i
e
l
i t
d
e
o
i
u
,
l
s
a
s
s D
h
l
g
u
w
r
u
u
h
f
e
o
n
l
t
t
b
w
f w
n
i
e
s
a i
i
e
y m
b
o
n
i
m
e
o
h
.
r
r
d
y
c
i
w
t
o
o
u
e
e
h
h
e
f
y t
f
a
g
a
i
r
n
o
e
n
a
o
d
m
o
t h
r
i
c
a
e
s
e
t e
o
r
n
l
h
f b
e
m
m
e
S o
a
e
i
y
t
o
r s
t
s
n
d
e
n
a
o
r o
e
t
r
w
t m
h S
p
l
m
.
l
n
d
a d
m
n
l e t
s
o
u m
o
e
t
a
s
o
t
. g