Shades of Gray

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Shades of Gray The long days are over.

The official student literary folio of De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde Volume XX

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Shades of Gray Volume XX: Convalescence Life is but a spinning cycle of recovery and resolution. With tales about chaos and strife, as well as defeat, we gather the bits and pieces of a rectified conflict and color the transition in between. The spotlight is set on your triumphs — the release from restraints, the magic bullet of society, the calm beyond the storm.

These are the stories of the convalescent.

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STUDENT PUBLICATIONS OFFICE

BENILDEAN PRESS CORPS AY 2017-2018

Editor in Chief Associate Editor for Print Acting Associate Editor for Digital Media Acting Creative Director Managing Editor News OIC Sports Editor Features Editor Kultura Editor Literary Editor Art Editor Layout Editor Photo Editor Digital Media OIC Head Publications Coordinator Student Development and Training Coordinator Operations Assistant

Brian Castillo Manolo Tan Mark Baltazar Nash Cruz Francesca Federizon Jessica Garcia Jan Renolo Mac Fabella Symon Lao Thea Torres M.j. Ronquillo Alexei Trajano Sace Natividad Patricia Gonzaga Mr. Juan Miguel Lago Ms. Dayanara T. Cudal Ms. Rizalyn Lagman-Manalili Ms. Catherine Bucud

Shades of Gray is the official student literary folio of the students of De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde (DLS-CSB).

No part of this folio may be reproduced, whether by photocopying, scanning, or by any other means, without written

permission from the Student Publications Office (SPO). Copyright 2017. For inquiries, visit the SPO at 2/F Br. Miguel Febres Cordero Bldg., DLS-CSB, 2544 Taft Avenue, Manila, or call (02) 230-5100 local 1521.

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Contributors

Leara Bribage Lace Solis Christian Rennen C. Mendoza azrael

Kudo Haruki Dustin Gahite Kypellon Grandiflora Gladys Milioga

Alyo Jadera Geo Olitoquit Charlotte Mae Martin

Kyle Livelo Frances Marie Zaira S. Cabanlong koo.kayl David Tongol megumi

Literary Staffers Bianca Arellano Gab Torres Joshua Lapid Noel Mendoza

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Illustrators

Isabel Weber Vermeer Crisostomo Ivy Berces Miko Fernando

Isa Hilario Francis Tadeo Ian Abella

Manager

Dianne Consignado Nash Cruz Patricia Gonzaga John Carl Aujero Andi OsmeĂąa M.j. Ronquillo Patricia Oliveros Jazz Solomon

Web Developer Uzair Hayat

Video Producers

Koy Mico Sace Natividad Vermeer Crisostomo

Layout Artists

Alexei Trajano Kristen Alimbuyuguen Sonya Valino Jazz Solomon

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Table of Contents A Happy Ending

by Bianca Arellano art by Isa Hilario

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Destruction tries to write

by Leara Bribage art by Isa Hilario

22

24

Skin of Steel

by Lace Solis art by Isa Hilario

26

And Never You Left

by Christian Rennen C. Mendoza art by Francis Tan Tadeo

Ash Like Snow by azrael art by Francis Tan Tadeo

32

30

Inverse Chroma

by Joshua N. Lapid art by John Carl Aujero Once upon another time by azrael art by John Carl Aujero

28

I, Innocence

by Kyle Livelo art by Francis Tan Tadeo

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keeping alive at dawn

by Gab Torres art by John Carl Aujero Cat Burglar by koo.kayl art by Isabel Weber

38 42

46

The beauty underneath

by Azrael art by Isabel Weber

44

Dust and Ashes

by Bianca Arellano art by Isabel Weber

48

At this point in time

by David Tongol art by Vermeer Crisostomo

50 52

ouroboros by megumi art by Vermeer Crisostomo

54

Memories

by Kudo Haruki art by Ivy Berces

56 60

Salvation

by Thea Torres art by Vermeer Crisostomo

Medusa leaks by koo.kayl art by Ivy Berces Together at last

by Dustin Gahite art by Ivy Berces

Scarlet City

by Bianca Arellano art by Miko Fernando

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58 The Vinyl and the Needle

by Dustin Gahite art by Miko Fernando

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Hell Through Heaven

by Kypellon Grandiflora art by Miko Fernando A Star’s Ode to Man

by Gab Torres art by Andi Osmeña

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Forget-me-not

by Noel art by Andi Osmeña

70

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The moment I finally understood

by David Tongol art by Andi Osmeña

72

74 Salted Wounds

by Noel art by Ian Abella

78 80 82

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Phoenix

by Noel art by Ian Abella It’s now my forte

by Gladys Milioga art by Ian Abella

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We Hold

by Dustin Gahite art by M.j. Ronquillo How would you describe a sunset?

by Noel art by M.j. Ronquillo

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A thing of thread

by Kypellon Grandiflora art by M.j. Ronquillo Tinig

by Alya Jadera art by Nash Cruz

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Revolution

by Thea Torres art by Nash Cruz

86 88

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Kanus-a

by Geo Olitoquit art by Nash Cruz

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Daddy - Interlude

by Charlotte Martin art by John Carl Aujero

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Rift

by Joshua N. Lapid art by Patricia Gonzaga

Woman

by Thea Torres art by Ian Abella

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Tanikala ng Karunungan

by David Tongol art by Nash Cruz

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Buntong Hininga

by Charlotte Martin art by Patricia Olivares

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carmen cygni by koo.kayl art by Jazz Solomon

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Memories are the heaviest

by Joshua N. Lapid art by Francis Tadeo

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Editor’s Note this is an affinity for prayers by believers who have grown weary and non-believers who are fighting for the last gasp this is a restless desire for hope, I wish you pray for for dreams, I dare you hold on to breathe now as the fragmented reality reveals itself into a resolution although sentient to destruction convalescence battles the hands of the clock in its wake, the impact of resilience above and beyond, trust in your vigilance forged in this promise of inevitability that the lionhearted will reign through

Thea Torres

Literary Editor

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A happy ending

by Bianca Arellano

And for the first time after the longest time, she finally saw the love in his eyes.

It excited her; it gladdened her.

Oh, she had never felt so happy before.

Never had anyone loved her this much.

And never had she wanted someone so much.

Oh, how could she have not seen it sooner?

It overflowed from his very being, from his wandering hands, his meandering quirks, his slightest touch, his sweetest words.

How could she have taken them for granted?

She could not possibly deserve him, such an exotic creature, bearing a universe of love for her, and just for her.

This couldn’t be real.

But it was.

He loved her, and such a tangible electricity was that love!

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Destruction tries to write

by Leara Bribage

She eats bullets for a living; she says guns are her medium, and the fire that emanates from her is natural, not artificial – I used to believe her, you see, because I thought that bullets were meant for safety, and she was what I needed to live in a world that kept me wounded with broken mirrors when I tried to touch what I thought was a canvas – a still life of a life in motion.

I wanted to be wrong in a reality that constantly cultured me into thinking that what was right was what I should want, and I thought that what I needed was the wrongness that she saw, and I realised all too late that I have become a bullet for her field, so that she could survive the same tragicomedy again and again, even if she knew that she will not try to finish the play.

I never played with guns, but I knew I could shoot my reflection because I woke up

from the vestiges of the ashes that she left me with; and I decided that it was not my book anymore because these are not my lines, but hers – she has taken me captive, and thought that my fantasy can be stilled in the travesties of what she gifted to reality.

She will leave the world with the trails of smoke that she thought was the breath of life – and there will be chimneys welcoming the calling of the girl who named herself the death of enigma, after the fields of those murdered when she stitched them in the folds of her doubts – while I, firing the gun at the mirrors, exit the stage with the remorse she threw away.

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Skin of Steel

by Lace Solis

My skin was not always made of steel, Once it was silken, A scrape of the nail could loosen a thread.

Under my hand, the pink ran a river of red.

My skin was not always made of steel, Once it was a garden at night, In the darkness of my room, a flower bed, Its quiet voice spoke of horrors that filled my head.

My skin was not always made of steel, It was soft and sweet and young Until it could no longer be For satin is no match against the sharp kisses of silver And my eyes lost taste for the rivers of red.

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And Never You Left

by Christian Rennen C. Mendoza Vermilion Submerged in the Dreams of Endymion

Afraid of All that I need Feel I am unloved

Emptiness Like husks of the Things you always said

In building Debris that feed On their only king

Raven sings Through hollow tusks Of barren buildings

As sun wanes Lay my head down Dream tomorrow’s pains

To love you As you cease to Be in all I do

Waste away No more poems No more lines to say

Speaking is Difficult as Now living like this If I stay As worn-out as Every end of day

This is real My own cocoon Where I am numb to feel

Creased plastic Too late to find Love is destructive And now I Live for my fears Insisting on lies

Not knowing All broken things Are dust in crumbling We are cracked But are still one We are what we lack Hear the deaf Always with me And never you left 26

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Ash Like Snow by azrael On frail, broken wings Into the winter solstice Behold – true despair On the horizon O’er there, shining ever bright A light, a new hope

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I, Innocence

by Kyle Livelo

So naive So vain So steadfast Once we sold ourselves, A never ending symphony of horror A harrowing tragedy A dance of torment Once we freed ourselves, Peace Happiness Freedom Shall reign forever and ever, Amen.

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Inverse Chroma

by Joshua N. Lapid

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Kinslowe has been stuck in this sordid cell for years now — somewhere between five and fifty. Even he isn’t sure. His ultimate visage of the outside was that of scintillating siren lights, the chromatic sartorial choices of those statuesque bystanders, and the deep crimson of flowing blood. The squad car transported him from the real world to a private world; a world of gray bars, gray walls, and gray souls.

Time crawls like a writhing worm in his four-foot by six-foot world. Kinslowe didn’t bother counting the days after the 356th. It’s hard to keep track when one day seamlessly melds with the next. Sometimes, cockroaches come out of their comfy cracks to laugh at their unwilling guest, which is a break from the perpetual film of patrolling guards, indifferent convicts, and stale bread.

Kinslowe’s sanity was eroded by the constant stream of dullness. A trip in the corridors of his mind would result in a museum exhibiting gray, dark gray, and light gray. Whatever little humanity he had left wanted to seek solace from the hideous banality that was thrusted upon him. He befriended some guards, asked them for books and slightly fresher bread, a respite from the grip of boredom. One day, as an act of goodwill, Officer 213B hanged a gaudy painting of a verdant field with a road winding to grand citadels over the horizon.

Kinslowe loved to stare at it, dreaming of leaving his prison.

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Oftentimes Kinslowe would spend hours sitting across the painting. He crawled inside it and imagined the soft ground on his feet and the cool wind on his hair. He merely ran across the fields at first, feeling every stone on the path that tried to thwart his elation. Eventually, he dreamed of sprawling cities that housed people and experiences of all kinds. He would crawl out of the painting and notice that there are three untouched plates of bread in his cell. He would gorge on them before counting the memorized cracks on the ceiling so he could fall asleep.

He finally had a respite from the drab experience. It only took an equally drab painting and the expanses of his unlimited mind. No longer does he have to endure endless days of gray.

Now he could dream of flying away, upwards into the allwelcoming sky and never to return to this private hell. On one of his adventures, he met an old man with loose skin hanging from his arms, bushy brows, and a walking stick complemented his somber disguise. He told Kinslowe that the ultimate prison is merely our bodies for are we not spirits imprisoned in flesh?

As his hunger for freedom intensified, the justified lie from his own subconscious ripened in his impressionable mind. As with fruits, ripe ideas also become ready for picking. Kinslowe politely asked Officer 213B for rope of generous length — the skeleton key to the sealed doors of freedom.

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Once upon another time by azrael

It’s difficult to forget the one person who gave you so much to remember no matter how hard you try to suppress your memories together.

I may have had my fair share of bringing terror into these plains and have seen people coil in horror of me, but despite all that, she accepted me for what and who I truly am.

From out of ugliness, such light.

From out of darkness, such a flame.

In her, I’ve known how it feels to be truly alive; she became a monster’s saving grace, and yet — and yet I lost her.

I lost the only thing that made me feel truly alive.

“Just live, just give.” Those were her words, words in which I continue to heed up to this day. To honour her wish, to be faithful as I could ever be. To live, to give, and to take what little I deserve. In my music and poetry, I shall keep my beloved alive for the generations to come until the treacherous Time took its toll.

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keeping alive at dawn

by Gab Torres

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keeping alive at dawn when the world is a melted swirl of silhouettes, outside my window, the night spins on gray-red sands, pressing down the blood sun, submerged in the sadness of the seas (i see the sun leaking off its bitter sap, a crushed grapefruit: wine for the fishes) the leaves of the mango tree are claws in the blackness, and and a satellite buzzes red like a glowing eye on the horizon, watching me idle, as i write these lines-(tree of my childhood, your emeralds are now fond rememberings of a rock: i am a witness to your decay, to your wasting away, when the neighbors abhorred you and decided you are better as a lonely chair.) outside my window, the rain shrills with the tenderness of a gargoyle, an atrocity of a baby — collecting on the wings of bats that hover:

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my companions, my comrades, that loved the darkness even before they were born (tree of my childhood, all i have seen is your leaves, yellowing and falling to their cemetery: my lawn your branches have been a graveyard for stillborn fruits, that never ripened even in the secret wombs of your bark.) and i am kept alive by these at dawn: the tumult of the silenced hurricane, and the skies, saturated with a certain emptiness: a lullaby for the barren limbs of the dying mango tree outside my window, as the red dot burns like the pupil of an inspector, curious and furious in the rain-for they remind me of the vanity a life conceives like a growing fetus (the puppies cry and shiver in the cold.)

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Cat Burglar by koo.kayl

Fenced crescents shall find its way to bind anew, Supple, standing shattered; Calmly knocking; this disgrace.

Trickling mutters so paper thin, Stained atoms sodden in perdu ink, Wanders in tongue; this vernal prune.

Ivy scabs wrenched on numb crust, In here we hear the sober facade’s thud as the fractions start to make us tremble; this is the call we needed.

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Dust and Ashes

by Bianca Arellano

The hearth burns more steadily As I feed it with paper The glow seems to welcome me In a blaze of blue and amber.

Sadness fills me now Sighing at the dust and ashes So lucidly, like yesterday, Reminiscing the flashes:

Pain slices through my finger I stare at the open cuts As memories begin to wither And bleed into blackened spots.

Flashing smiles, mysterious under Flashing lights, in nights of thunder.

Flashing sparks off a hatred-clad Flashing sign of a broken facade.

Spots of color, of sadness and joy Spots of betrayal, of emotions toyed Spots of the times we promised we were true Spots of passion red, now darkened into blue.

The papers I burn Were the pictures of us Of our spirits unfurled, Under what we called “trust” Jumbled, too, in the pile Are my poems of you All the words that I wished Had never rung true.

Words on crumpled paper from a shaky, dancing hand Words on cyberspace, from fingers that were bland Words now in your ear, which you curiously observe Words I never said, and words you don’t deserve.

We always had known That things would soon change But given that fact, Why were promises still arranged?

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The beauty underneath by azrael

The night is my day, and the day is my downfall With great might, I tried to overcome The voices in my head, from whispers to a loud screeching scream, enthral; Despite great efforts to resist passing the point of no return, I succumb When the dark unfurls its wings, Revealing me glimpses of its primal might Expressing safety in the wildest things My soul is beguiled from the call of the night I have the urge to scream but no voice escaped my mouth To heed the seduction – resistance is useless Like Lucifer and the rest of the angels who rebelled, I fall south Further into the abyssal labyrinth of my own mind, I confess.

Albeit the wickedness in my head; I felt no fear of the glory and the splendour of the beauty underneath.

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At this point in time

by David Tongol

3:00 a.m.

Sweat rushing through my skin.

The breeze of the northwestern wind Straddles through the back of my neck.

Flashes of what’s ahead drowns my indecisive head.

I’m here waiting, on the side of your porch— A minute feels like an hour.

3:25 a.m.

At this point in time, cigarettes are my only friend.

I’ve tried calling you, but you weren’t there on the other end maybe there are things we can never mend.

4:00 am Oh, the foolishness of my aspiration-is to see your smile at this point in time, how I wish to gaze upon your glimmer.

Oh, how I wish I could stay within one’s bliss.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case moments are confined within the linearity of time.

As time transforms matter turning sour into sweet, and sweetness into vile bitterness.

5:00 am The drizzle kisses my head, maybe it’s time to go, I’m down to my last cigarette— I need to let her go.

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ouroboros by megumi climb, climb towards the light this desire to salvage myself from these incessant woes, i continuously engrave in my mind as i relentlessly pull myself up from this pitless oblivion ah, the tempting whispers from the void overtures to the sweet sound of paradise to be a very picture of a dandelion, scattered and blown away by the gentle breeze indeed, that idea is something so sublime but nay, i continue to 50

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Salvation

by Thea Torres

We keep salvation in my mother’s arms Her innocent screams fill the speechless room Beautiful, red lips and puffy cheeks A small spirit, as fragile as a flower An angel, a stolen gift from the gods above We keep salvation in a crib Plastic stars and galloping ponies circling above her She laughs and the room brightens My mother’s lullabies slow her sprightly spirit As she sleeps, I promise her protection We keep salvation in a playground Her tiny legs leaving footprints on the soft ground Feeble bruises on her knees, nothing more than child play Band-aid and betadine, then off to the slides again Merry-go-round, she brings the sun in her step We keep salvation in a classroom Uniform as clean as day, hair as tidy as a princess’ Teacher gives her five stars each day She comes home with a 100 on her testpaper Over dinner, she asks about the table of multiplication We keep salvation in my mother’s arms When she falls asleep as Mom finishes her bedtime story When she hugs Mom goodbye before she skips off to school When she lies on the street seconds after gunshots A small spirit, as fragile as a flower We keep salvation in a casket When the police tell us she was collateral damage The President tells them they are pardoned A bullet hole in her chest, no such thing as child’s play She sleeps before my mother sings her lullabies We keep salvation as a revolution An angel, a stolen gift by the gods below 52

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Memories

by Kudo Haruki

I sometimes quietly wish for the days I can’t ever return to, as there was a summer that was lost without anyone knowing, I thought it’d be nice to go back to that day and take back what went missing The past is in the the past or so I thought, that it won’t really matter to me at the very least.

But when destiny played its melody, it waked me to a brand new reality As I trace the edges of these fading memories, I walk onward once more.

As I face a deciding moment, I expressed it over and over That many springs may come, many summers might go.

Thoughts may fall like the autumn leaves and winter may make memories freeze.

But whatever happens, always remember that I want to protect a wish; a wish named you.

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Medusa leaks by koo.kayl

Faking prayers, Punishing electricities for the hymn I lost Iridescence disabling my slumber.

Drought on where my mind dwells, Biting half-heard currents, Devouring myself to settle.

Now, there goes my bare satiety on sonorous floors, cradling myself with parallel words.

Crazy, crazy to define something that’s yet to subsist; and yet still breathing the unstable mercy deprived of comparison

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Together at last

by Dustin Gahite Ashes to ashes, they said, Nausea came out, dread creeping in my head, Gust of wind whispered, my ears silenced, just dead Stalking behind us, this man with fear, At the ground we tremble, voices crawling, we hear, Keeping in mind, the end is near, In this world, together we journey, To the light, we wander here Sense of relief, these past few times, Over my head, under my soul, Bearing the medal of honor, wrapped around myself, Rage of victory, roared in me, As this soul of mine, cried with melancholy.

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Scarlet City

by Bianca Arellano

I dare you to enter The elegant city With its walls of cracked glass And words you don’t understand.

I dare you to walk the streets Arm-in-arm with a familiar stranger Though the streets are of broken glass, The sky is still gold and amber.

I dare you to take shelter In its well-furnished rooms Haunted by bouts of anger Like a spider on its looms.

I dare you to stay longer When the world is upside down When confusion reigns supreme Over the blazing, burning town.

And I dare you to leave the city With its helplessly vicious queen Who tried not to believe a lie Who wished this was not a dream.

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The Vinyl and the Needle

by Dustin Gahite Revolving around, lied down, flat and round, Nausea, I think when I saw it, That thing caught my attention, that melodic sound Scratched carefully on the surface, By some sort of thin blade, Roaming through the wounds of the black plain, Melodies were magically made, Even though that music is just cry of pain Trails of blood in a roundabout Of roads leading to the same side or the other, The other side’s different from this, without a doubt, Don’t care about this, only two, not another Side of this dark surface of this world, The light is the guide, and the needle is the creator

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Hell Through Heaven

by Kypellon Grandiflora Fire from fallen grasses They burn skies so deeply It takes the colors of Celestial bodies Where did we go In the spectrum of the Inferno?

Hell blazed through Heaven, catching fire The ravage of Mortal desire Consumes all creatures Of the earth So I wash myself Amongst others, Orphaned Supplanted A refugee from The tranquility of brazen Contentment Holy, holy contentment We trudge on, haphazardly And lost in ourselves Looking for paradise In hell burning over For this is the hell We are familiar with Too familiar with 66

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A Star’s Ode to Man

by Gab Torres

Little tramplers of the earth, How I envy you!

Tasters of the sea, Breathers of the light Your nature of craving And desire, Your selfism And pride, Keep my blaze— I burn for another night To see, hear you curse At the waters, Before the moon, A weightless orb Above the liquid Void:

All my fire Yearns to be You All my flames Consume me, White hot with Envy To be You For your bounded Existence Belittles me Of my eternal Own.

Your malcontent Songs, Despair, Love— Your lusts— Insatiable Vultures— Kites of the Soil, Sailors of Dreams, They ignite me— 68

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Forget-me-not

by Noel

With eyes as warm as the gentle spring I tend to shrink with every blink Epitome of hope felt through your rays Every moment is filled with grace My heart sprung out from my ribs Like Moon and Earth, we coexist Thoughts won’t transcend from lips to lips In the warmth of your summer giggles A merry band plays the fiddle In this time we savor “Hide and Seek” the tale of each other Like fall, I wither Dumbfounded, you fool me once You’re lost again A thousand reasons took what could have been As the leaves and trees die in blight I woke up to a vanilla twilight One day the seasons changed Winter came to take you away I clamor for warmth I yearn for your hearth I still remember every story we wrote One was “Kindred Spirits” on a stone Once a harmony of symphonies My spirit blooms reminiscent of our energy As the sun and moon intertwined in a chase A frozen heart that love can thaw My memories will never fade In my veins is a permanent spot Just as the flower’s name Forget me not 70

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The moment I finally understood

by David Tongol To live for one’s self is a meaningless endeavor.

To be in the edge of unbearable tears for another, is to finally reach the doorway of unwavering joy.

To end the pain within the predicament of the heart— is to finally surrender.

Turning resentment into sadness and sadness into compassion.

This is the penultimate expression of passion— to express these unbearable words, words that must be left untold. let these actions speak their tone.

Our eyes conversing, our bodies divulging, our minds revolting, our hearts becoming.

Let me preserve this moment Hold me and stay in our solitude as silence suffices all meaning, this is life’s true calling.

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Phoenix

by Noel

With sealed lips Everything stole my credence Tormented within a labyrinth of vehemence Drenched in black napalm Singed within my own cradle My molten core, unstable With broken thoughts unspoken The fragments make these tears golden I hatch and exhume through the cage I latch to the remnants of yesterday Sprung from thorns of maleficence The scars we share emanates iridescence Emotions explode like solar flare From the ashes, a new hope glares A manifest of Apollo’s chariot with the rising sun Reign of halcyon has just begun To another dawn I live to breathe This new horizon shall never be taken from me 74

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It’s now my forte

by Gladys Milioga

A couple of times, in a couple of days, A couple of people, with a couple of faces, It’s only been for a couple of times It would have been enough for a couple of tries Forever, a life would have severed its ties Now, I’ve shed a couple of cries Never, again would I be damaged by guise

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Salted Wounds

by Noel

Branded as abominable and blunt Every night they all say I pull out stunts Little did they know, I always walked alone Unlike their ungrateful tongues, I miss my family back at home Shove derogatory words down my throat A scarlet letter on my ledger I wrote Out of all these rumors and gossips about promiscuity No one really tried to ask me out on a date All they propagated were countless perceptions of ambiguity But no one really tried to care if I was okay In this hypocritical sadistic system I fought with mirrors and shadows Eventually, I surrendered into the hollow abyss This is the tale of my social erosion I started to embrace the pills and potions Since no matter what I do, my voice was never heard I figured I had to look out for myself and constantly learn Just in the border of optimism A handful of lights unmasked themselves saving me from eternal pessimism Familiar faces surround me with enchantments of laughter Something genuine that I almost forgot mattered They gave color to the things that faded From a cautious smirk afraid of rejections My lips curved into a smile braving through stares and Bolstering morality with rejuvenating harmonies They helped me cope with embracing reality And with each day is a new moment to rekindle Every celebration together we wish on a candle From salted wounds To salty beaches From scarlet letters To sound frontiers, horizons and altitudes My eternally gratitude To the genuine ones I found 78

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We Hold

by Dustin Gahite

Look down for the next few weeks, See this wound upon me, Dragging forward, through our crippled knees, Dripping down to the floor in front of me My goodness gracious, my damaged one, All these horrific damage you’ve done, You’re repaired, my sight is refreshed, This scenery of shock, grateful and impressed You slide it down with legitimacy, Releasing beasts with own pain, Fine for me, good for you But please, don’t go beyond towards doom Say those cracked words, these unconscious wounds, Guide the rest with our own minds, Take this mark of the unknown sign, This life of ours, will be held benign

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How would you describe a sunset?

by Noel

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I have a sister named Orion and today is her 16th birthday.

I’m not really a party person. Growing up alone I didn’t really feel the need to celebrate anything for anyone other than myself.

And the only sister I had, well, we’ve been separated since birth.

My cousins left for college when I started to develop memories.

Life was filled with boundaries.

Unlike our relatives who came, I was trying to avoid attention.

Unprepared and not sure of what she might like due to her condition.

We’ve never met so I think I wouldn’t matter to her.

With no gift in hand, I went down to the living room and to my surprise everyone seemed like they were waiting for me.

At the center of the room were my Mum and Dad, behind them was a small girl.

“Hey brother,” she called me with a smile.

Staring straight into my eyes from across the room, she got up from her seat and ran towards me.

Anxious and dumbfounded, I stood still as she hugged me.

I could have sworn she sees me.

Unsure of what to do I looked at my parents. “Alright, everyone let’s eat!” my Mum called saving me from an awkward situation.

The entire time we ate, I just stared at her eyes.

Not the best nor smartest idea when I felt this urge inside.

After everyone gave presents, Mum had the adults go to the backyard.

I snuck her out of the house and took her to the beach since it wasn’t too far.

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Summer seemed perfect for a stroll.

I saw kids playing by the shore.

She said, “Where are we going brother? What are we doing here?”

I said, “I wanted to show you something. There’s something I want you to see.”

“But I won’t be able to see anything silly,” she replied.

I couldn’t help but stare at her eyes.

“We’ve never met. How could you have seen me earlier?” I asked.

“Simple. I saw right through you,” she replied so fast Words just slipped through my lips.

As tears fell down my cheeks and to the sand they dropped.

“I’ve never really felt what it’s like to have a brother.”

“So when they told me they’re taking me to see you, I knew that we had each other.”

With such simple words I’m filled with awe Suddenly, my heart began to thaw She didn’t need perfect eyes to see right through me Just a spark of faith, and now she’s beside me Today is your 16th birthday. My gift for you is me.

Now, you won’t feel alone. Know that you always have me.

I wanted to take you to feel the sunset As warm as the smile you gave me As warm as those hazel brown eyes that looked at my face As warm as your embrace As warm as the sunset beyond our horizon As warm as the beat of my heart for you, Orion

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A Thing of Thread

by Kypellon Grandiflora We live in this realm of thread Writhing under the command of spindles To be winded into tapestries And torn apart all the same It is the inevitable destiny of All necessary things To be the something of anything Then to be the nothing in everything Find comfort in the wilting of seasons The agenda is all but finished With the likes of delicate hearts Writing our whims into its scheme And do not mistake for a lifetime The reincarnation of us Scraggly, bedraggly beings as The surrender to the wills Trample the filth beneath your feet With steel in your bones For the world will not crown laurels So we must weave them ourselves While they last so longingly 86

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Tinig

by Alyo Jadera

sa bawat pagbuka ng bibig, katuwang ang mga bisig. tuwing dapithapon at gabi tanging tono’y pagtitimpi. isang titik ay dumulas sa paghihinagpis na lumipas at tila ambong dala’y pait, lumbay ang baong awit. salitang hindi nais bumulaslas ay kay tagal nang nagpupumiglas, ngunit ipinagkakait ng pagkakataon tuluyang naibabaon ng kahapon. nagkukubling parirala sa bawat pagkabahala ay nagmistulang babala sa kasalukuyang kupas na tala. makasalanang pangungusap ay pagkamuhing mapagpanggap, kung ang sinasabi’y hindi tugma sa kung ano’ng ipinadadama. oras nang biglaang itikom dama ang panandaliang paghilom kasabay nang paghinahon ang muling pag-ahon.

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Revolution

by Thea Torres

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what time are they waking up? gold flecks of dust have sprinkled on the carpet outside, the street sweepers sing a melody inside, incessant breathy hums snooze away in a timeless theater, this could wait the city lights could rest in tranquil thoughts these public flaws could pretend in private but the same old streets hold a noisy ruckus and at this point, they should wake my indignation patters silently the ticking clock spares no alibi for this proud, bed-ridden daze across the street, the children have started to play a rampage of vigor in a childhood battlefield their fickle minds take control of their feet on swings and see-saws, on top of their worlds these four walls I live in bear no fortress against their quaking steps one runs like ceaseless dominoes a girl ablaze with stellar senses a quantum slipping off the courts unabashed and head in the skies a little boy takes on galaxies and wormholes pouring out evidence through photos and stolen stars syntax fails at the rambles of another standing on a platform of Freudian slips and birdsongs

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and one stands on mountains chest forward and eyes on the sun his native tongue liberated like a gospel the others carve stories out of trees designing dreams and unsettling on mediocrity even the sullen ears have heard their voices leaving gardens in their steps, they chase the sun an art in their swing, juggling colors in their hands through golden windows, I can hear their rhythm a pulse of the unafraid, a hue and cry of restless their youth like drums banging on my cold house they are loud enough to make them wake in playgrounds and castles, the children have stirred the lethargic out of hazy slumbers the kangaroo courts out of useless ordeals with a sweet tooth for fearless pursuits the children stay vibrant in the aftermath gold flecks of dust have sprinkled on the carpet outside, the children dance to the melodies inside, salt-stained eyes start to flicker

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Kanus-a

by Geo Olitoquit

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Nais ko sana na ikaw ang huling nasa isip Na sa pagpikit ng aking mga mata Ikaw ang laging nakikita Subali’t, kagaya ng palaging nakasanayan Tayo’y palaging nagpapaalam Palaging pinagmamasdan ang kawalan Ang matagal na nilang hinihintay na hiwalayan Kasi matagal na dapat natin tinapos Ang samahang hindi na maaayos Bakit pa ba tayo ipinagtagpo Kung hindi rin lang pala Kung tutuksuhin na mayro’n sa dulo Kahit alam naman natin na wala Bakit hindi na lang umiwas?

Bakit sa’kin ka pa ngumiti?

Kung gaano ako kasaya noon Gano’n din ang pighati ngayon Sa unang oras matapos ang unang pagtatagpo May rehas na sa aking isipan kung saan ako bilanggo Bilanggo ng kasalanan na ikaw ay mahalin Hiling na sana ay magkagusto ka rin Ngunit nagbago ang ihip ng hangin At nag-iba ang agos ng buhay Sa pusong matagal nang hinahangad Sana habang maaga pa itinigil na lang Sana napagtanto agad para hindi na nangyari Subalit napuno ang puso ng mga salitang mapagpalalo Kaya’t mas pinilit na mangyari Kaya hindi dapat ipinapayo sa sarili Na ‘di bale nang masaktan Na ‘di bale nang lumuha Basta’t makamit ng puso Ang alam nitong hinding hindi makukuha Bakit nga ba natin pinilit ang alam nating wala na?

Bakit nga ba tayo ipinagtagpo kung hindi rin naman tayo itinadhana?

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Rift

by Joshua N. Lapid

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The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor spins a lie about the life of old Arnold; although he is still within the confines of this material world, he is almost reaching his expiry date (32 hours from now). The crisp white walls of the hospital room and the clean sheets belie the affliction that is slowly but surely killing him — a delicate case of leukemia. As he used to say “the hospital is only the waiting room for people going to hell.”

Although his eyes were closed, he was looking at memories from years past. That time when he and his wife, the lovely Joanne, were strolling along the seaside by their country villa, that time when his son, the uneasy Jonah, left their home and never returned because of a disagreement he doesn’t even remember anymore, and that time when he was arrested for getting into a fist fight with an off-duty police officer. Life had been eventful for him, and now he can’t do anything but wait for the cold sickle of Death to drop on him.

A draft hailing from the door signified that some intruder has entered his solemn sanctuary. He exclaimed to no one in particular that he did not want any visitors and that whoever entered needs to leave. A gentle voice politely said “even your own son?”

“Why are you here?” said Arnold.

“Should I not? Can’t I visit my —” “You haven’t shown your face for eight years. Just because I’m dying you suddenly want to ‘visit’?” The arrival of this specter from the past upwelled rage, sadness, and joy from the old man. He didn’t have the luxury to choose amongst them.

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“Can I at least sit down?”

“Do what you want.”

Jonah sat in the soft, all-welcoming chair next to his dad. The weight of regret anchored him down. He was near enough that he could hear Arnold’s labored breathing. For a timeless moment, none of them spoke.

There was no need. The choking tension in the air presented Jonah with two choices: Make peace with his dying father or leave, leaving a trail of regret in his wake.

Jonah broke the Saturday afternoon din of passing cars and clacking heels with two words. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your apologies.”

“Well, it’s still true. I haven’t been the best son. You don’t have to forgive me. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for leaving. I don’t even remember what we fought about,” Jonah was met with stony silence.

The lonely crucifix affixed on the white wall held Jonah’s attention as he was thinking of something to say. Even though phrases like “I should’ve been with you” and “Please forgive me” were circling like vultures in his head, he could not discern the right words that could’ve made everything alright. All he could come up with was “I better get going.”

As he stood up, a frail voice said, “Don’t. Stay for a while.”

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Daddy - Interlude

by Charlotte Martin

Detachment and indifferences Finally, apathy Is it painful or wrong To fall into oblivion?

To mend and forget Turn a blind eye for now Is it right or wrong To run towards your bliss?

Watch your heart, oh Plath There’s no use to recall Throw away and don’t look back To the thoughts that tortured every piece of you Into the silence and mere familiarity Of vivid memories and scourging letters Ask, is it painful or wrong To finally run into the rose garden?

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Woman

by Thea Torres

i allow myself language without explanation i allow myself strength without assurance no stereotypic man-like shouts no masculine declaration of your ability to think in numbers in dictionary definitions and magazine cutouts i allow myself intelligence i allow myself philosophy and mathematics judged by perseverance on my fingertips respected by my words beyond the fabric of my clothes or the length of my hair and irrelevant to the color of my skin i allow myself protection without permission i allow myself freedom without desperation not to be a category, a DIY project, a pay as you go not to be half-empty without you not to count fights and bruises not to waste myself on insecurity but to be a home for myself 102

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Buntong Hininga

by Charlotte Martin

Gumising ka’t bumangon na Iunat ang mga braso Imulat ang mga talukap Ng salamin ng nakaraan Kalaunan, ang mga gunita’y Magiging mistulang abo na lamang; Mapapanis sa tagal ng paghihintay Maaanod sa paglagi sa karagatan ng luha Bumitaw sa lubid ng kawalan Kumuha ng lakas sa mga matang Saksi sa katotohanan ng buhay Ang itim at puti ay kulayan sa bawat kurap Pagsapit ng takipsilim Mabubura nang unti-unti Ang mga ginuhit sa itim na tinta Na noo’y mistulang burado na sa balat Walang maiiwang latak Walang matitirang bahid Ng lungkot at pighati ‘Pagkat hawak mo na ang panulat Paggising sa bukang-liwayway Ilibot ang diwa sa kamalayan Sa kawalang direksyon ng iba Hatakin sila, yakapin sila Sa mga pinagdaanang yugto Ang bawat hakbang puros sugat ang tinamo At ang tanging pagtakas lamang Ay pagkalimot at pagtanggap Sa huli’y matatapos sa pagbuntong hininga At saka magsisilbing karagdagang hangin Na bubuhay sa namatay nilang kulay At bubuhat sa mga nalugmok sa dusa 104

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carmen cygni by koo.kayl

Serenity trifled gold Gallant minds girdle, Isolated swarm of presence Frolicking concepts alter to lullabies, Slapdash maniacs of the calm Held hands, stepping forward, acquainted; bastardized purity.

It ends with the last fog- our mere criminal, Hushed humid in crisis of vocabulary; This swan must sing eternally; all hands pointed.

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Tanikala ng Karunungan

by David Tongol

Ngayon ako’y naririto na naman sa bingit sa bingit ng kawalan Ilang beses na akong umikot, nagpalit ng mga lente.

Nilibot ang mga bundok at batis, ngunit parang tapos na; tapos na ang kahulugan tapos na ang kahulugan nang malunod ako sa sarili kong kamunduhan Ang pagiging Kristo ng sarili ay Kawalan ng Panginoon Ang pagbuhat sa sariling upuan Ang paglunok sa buhay ng Kasakdalan Marahil ito ang sumpa ng karunungan Ang paglunod sa sarili sa mapait na katotohanan Ang katotohanan ng kawalan Ang katotohanan na Ikaw ay nanatiling mag-isa Mag-isa sa kalawakan nakakulong sa kulungan ng iyong katawan nakakulong sa kulungan ng iyong kaalaman At ang pagtakas dito ay ang pagkakulong muli Pagkakulong sa ideyang pagkakalaya.

Marahil ito ang krus ng pagsusuri, Ang pagpako sa isipan sa bawat suliranin Ang pagsipat sa mga bagay na hinding hindi mo maiaating Marahil mas mabuti na lamang na manatili sa lupa Nakabaon sa malambot na alabok Kaysa liparin na parang alikabok Na tinatangay ng bawat pagdating ng panibagong dalangin.

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Memories are the heaviest

by Joshua N. Lapid

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The car ride from the cemetery was solemn. The dull drone of the engine and the passing trees were the only things keeping the scene from becoming a still photograph of Dayna and Louie. They were going home.

The house was never as lively as it was when Carla was alive. The pallid sunlight filled their living room as they sat down on separate chairs.

‘Do you want some coffee?’ asked Dayna.

‘Maybe later, I need some time alone,’ replied Louie, staring at the floor with clasped hands.

‘Well... okay. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

Dayna was in the kitchen looking out the window as she was waiting for some water to boil. A single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the countertop. Quivering lips greeted her husband as he stood next to her.

‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said Louie. Himself, skeptical about the statement.

‘I can’t help but blame myself,’ said Dayna, trying to hold back all the tears that’s bursting out of her, ‘sometimes, I hear her voice when I’m alone.’ She broke down as her mind played fragmented films of the past.

‘D…d…do you remember when sh…sh…she would play outside by herself? I wish I played with her back then.’

‘She wouldn’t want to see you like this.’

‘Sh...sh...she’s dead! She won’t be s…s…seeing us anytime soon, Louie!’ said Dayna, breathing heavily between sobs.

‘It’s been two years, Dayna. We’ve been like this for two years. This isn’t healthy. Do you think she would want us to be like this?’

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‘I know, but we could’ve done something, Louie. We could’ve saved her. If only we didn’t leave her outside, she would still be here and we would still be happy. If only, Louie… If only…’ Her cheeks, shining as sunlight struck her tear-drenched face. Louie embraced her tightly, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘I know, Dayna. I know…’

‘Why don’t we go inside her room? We haven’t been there since the day it happened,’ suggested Louie.

‘I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.’

‘I know it’s hard. Learning to forgive yourself after living in guilt for so long, but all we need is that first step.’

Dayna wiped her face as she nodded.

Two years worth of dust were disturbed as they sauntered into the room.

It was flooded with bright sunlight. The books, toys, and even her dress hanging by the closet door was exactly the way it was two years ago. A pot housing dead forget-me-nots lay by the windowsill. The petals hung low like ashen skulls clinging to their sickly stems.

‘She used to take care of these every day. She was so proud of ‘em,’ said Louie, fiddling with the long forgotten flowers. Petals fell to the floor.

‘These used to be bright blue,’ said Dayna, eyes still red from crying, ‘why don’t we go out today and buy some fresh ones in the flower shop?’

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Reveal to us your resolution.

Confess.

Write your story.

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END

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Acknowledgments First of all, we would like to thank God, our Father, for granting us convalescence and the power of literature.

To our role models at SPO: Sir JM, Ms. Riza, and to our publications coordinator, Ms. Dayan, thank you for the unending encouragement and motivation to turn this vision into a reality.

To the editorial board, for the strong-willed support and perseverance to break through every barrier, all the while creating a lasting friendship founded on passion and creativity.

Special thanks to the Art and Layout sections, especially Nash, M.j., and Xei, for making this production exceed expectations and for creating art that perfectly captures the essence of each literary piece.

Shoutout to Koy, Vermeer, Lace, and Marlon, along with Sace, Dianne, and Cheska, who helped out with the production of the collaterals and spreading the word for this year’s call for submissions.

To the Platform section, thank you for forming a close-knit team of writers who all have the talent for creating captivating literary works that complete the organization’s success.

Finally, this year’s Shades of Gray would not be possible without the talented students of DLS-CSB who shared with us their stories of recovery.

Here’s to the inevitable ability to stand up eight times after falling seven.

Countless thank yous to each and everyone of you!

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thebenildean.org The Benildean @thebenildean @thebenildean

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