Pallas 2014 by The Palladium

pallas 2014

“Art is the most intense mode of indIVIdualism the world has ever known.” -oSCAR WILDE

Pallas Vol. V ÂŠ Copyright 2014 Text set in Garamond, 8 The copyright reverts to the individual authors and artists of the works appearing in this issue. The works may not be reproduced without express permission of the authors and artists. Copies of this issue may not be entered into any kind of business transaction. Correspondence may be addressed to: The Palladium 3/F Ateneo Professional Schools, 20 Rockwell Drive, Rockwell Center, Makati City 1200 Pallas is the official art and literary folio of The Palladium, the official student publication of the Ateneo de Manila University School of Law. Website: http://thepalladium.ph Facebook: facebook.com/palladiumALS Twitter: @ThePalladiumALS Instagram: @ThePalladiumALS Email: thepalladiumals@gmail.com

editorial board Joseph Giancarlo C. Agdamag Editor in Chief Paula Elise R. Rivera Associate Editor Ivy J. Enguio Managing Editor Kim L. Rances Junior Associate Editor Alexis Ann V. Aquino News Editor Frances L. Pabilane Legal Editor Kathlyn Nadia D. Baldonado Features Editor Ana Isabel F. Castelo Arts and Culture James Francis SP. Villanueva Layout and Graphics Editor Mike Garald C. David Photo Editor Raymond Aljon A. Cusipag Multimedia Editor Yul C. Araya Gerard Samuel B. Contreras Digital Content Manager

pallas 2014 project team

Ana Isabel F. Castelo Project Head Rachelle Gutierrez Logistics Head

Layouts Team Beatrice C. Melivo Francisco Viceni G. Alba II Roberto Romalio G. Reyes Ines Katrina M. Llamzon Tara Dominique M. Siochi Zeth Lorenzo Z. Samson

FOREWORD “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” -Pablo Picasso

he transcendental nature of art is what makes it universal. It heals, it uplifts, it in spires. It’s the language of the soul, the sacred amidst the profane. And yes, you

you pray before every exam. It’s in the music you listen to as you drink your daily dose of coffee, huddled in a dimly-lit corner of the nearest café. It’s in the silhouette of the city skyline, framed by the glowing orange and blue of the sky at dusk. It’s in the tie you put on, the dress you wear. In the midst of the frenetic pace of our lives in law school, art is there to remind us to pause for a moment and breathe. For this year’s Pallas, we decided to bring it back to the basics. No themes, just let the works speak for themselves. This Pallas is a reminder of the other side, of the things that move us and the things that allow us to see beauty in the mundane. Just as learning the law feeds our minds, art and literature feed our souls. We may not realize it, but laws exist to protect all facets of human society, including art. Because what is humanity without it? As Lt. Frank Stokes said in The Monuments Men, “They tell us, ‘Who cares about art?’ But they’re

Ana Isabel F. Castelo Pallas Project Head

Art is a medium.

There can be no better form of expressing oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s self other than by pieces of inconspicuous grandeur colloquially known as art. Such is its appeal, that it possesses a pervasive impact, which cuts across all distinctions known to men. It conveys a dramatic vibrancy; speaks of even the smallest of works can catapult those who experience it to something beyond the can gauge with our physical senses. Art is a message. This is because art transcends mere sensation; instead, it brings forth provocation. It allows us to make something out of the ordinary, by transforming images into something that not end there, as these thoughts are further transmitted and circulated to an audience that keeps on getting wider and more appreciative of this inherent synergy. Creativity is put to its full potential when the medium successfully delivers its intended message. But what precisely does this message represent? Art is a mystery. may be. People who appreciate art may have their own interpretations of what these compositions embody. The way we understand it may be indicative of our personal experiences, and possibly, our deepest desires and aspirations. One can be very mundane about it, but others may choose to tackle it with sheer profundity. The difference in how we approach art way we perceive it actually hit the point that the artist wants to convey? We will never know. And that is precisely the lure of art.

Enjoy the experience.

Joseph Giancarlo C. Agdamag Editor-in-Chief

Art is an expression of human sensibilities, an idea breathed into life and an attempt to assuage the pang of his grief, and to explicate the impalpable. Art bares the soul of its maker and lets its patrons have a glimpse of the person behind the craft; the audience appreciates the alluring work, and uses their own historicity to transform it into something deeply personal, a tête-à-tête between them and the masterpiece. This is best experienced through the senses. The sheer power of sight, the ability to hear and sense of touch are the most pivotal means by which art is created, communicated and shared with one another—a feast of the senses. The use of the senses as a way to create and admire art is what binds people. It is universal and can lead to a collective aspiration but still evoke a personal connection. The use of the senses to appreciate the world is so organic and instinctive in every human person that it is transcendental, and yet it can be overlooked. Let us enliven the senses! Let us celebrate the exuberance of life through art!

Paula Elise R. Rivera Associate Editor

The Palladium will be turning 50 this 2015, and as a kick-off, we should celebrate by having a feast of the senses! For years, Pallas has showcased the artistic side of law students, as well as their professors. The esteemed lawyers of Ateneo become more admirable when you know that not only do

distinct features. Law, for instance, takes rules as its foundation, and requires consistency in its application. Art, on the other hand, bears no basis at all; it is subjective and abstract. Audiences may have different interpretation son a single work. But somehow, contributors, both past and present, had managed to make something powerful when these two collided. Pallas helps us celebrate the beauty of art as illustrated and imagined by the law school a portal where one can express creativity and ingenuity. Pallas is more than just a compilation. It tells us the story of each individual who contributed to every issueâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;what they see, hear, and feel at that exact moment. Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to hoping that you enjoy this issue!

Ivy J. Enguio Managing Editor

Poems

by Justice Magdangal M. De Leon

i and the cosmos: echoes of a celestial dream mystic river weave your iridescent charm upon this ancient mariner call forth from the depths of the akasha your rites of spring we conjure you on this dawn of creation, illumine, o numinous presence, the grail from which sprouts the tree of life as visions of ethereal grace

eons, usher chokmah and binah, give birth to the logos, and coalesce with the glorious plan that will endure till time is no more life and descending, tread on sacred waters, to form the salt of the earth and preside over this rite of consecration yes, exquisitely unfold through the divine invocation, in the middle of the outer temple, o holy of holies, the inner temple while elohim intone the effulgence of the spheres such brilliance so dazzling that beggars the sun, such rapture unsurpassed whence ascends the celestial dream tempt me with a thousand and one sybaritic delights, entice me with immeasurable power, lure me with boundless lucre, sift me,

until there is nothing but sheer purity, unalloyed quintessence until only the individuated immanence exists answer the call, o mage, obey the sublime design, as it is ever so arranged: gathering and scattering, prospering and declining, for this is how the grand helix has turned since time began i heed the summons, i believe, i act, i move, i feel, i think, i see, i hear, i touch, i am here, i am there, i am everything, i am nothing, i am severe, i am gentle, i am in every cell, i am in every atom, i am in every particle, i am the whole, i am a part, i am a drop, i am a ray, i am a circle, i am a dot, i am the cosmos, i am the dust, i am the sound, i am the silence, i am the tumult, i am the stillness, i am the fullness, i am the void, i am the vastness, i am the smallness, i am above, i am below, i am within, i am without, i am one, i am many i am the beginning, i am the end, i am that i am.

ENIGMA

Ayer estabas solamente un punto que apareció de la nada Te miré cercamente, o tan cercamente Instante estoy envuelto por el universo Donde esta el punto? Ahora te veo, ahora no Si el es invisible existe o no? Es lo que veo verdadero? Tal vez si, tal vez no

Yesterday you were just a dot which appeared out of nowhere I looked at you closely, oh so closely Suddenly I am engulfed by the universe Where is the dot? Now I see you, now I don’t If it is unseen does it exist or not? Is what I see real? Maybe yes, maybe no Let me ponder I am a drop in the ocean But will I ever see that ocean? If nobody saw a bird falling from the tree How can one be sure that it fell? Does time pass or Do I pass through time? When did time begin? Will I still be here when time ends? Who will enlighten the grass and the trees When I’m gone? If I have no eyes I cannot see If I have eyes but have no brain Can I still see? Which is better? The bird’s eyeview Or the worm’s eyeview? What is beautiful?

Soy una gota en el oceano Pero seré ver alguna dia este oceano? Si nadie vió un pajaro cayendo del arbol Come puede ser seguro que el cayó? El tiempo pasa o Paso a travez del tiempo? Cuando comenzó el tiempo? Seré todavía aqui cuando el tiempo termina? Quien iluminará las hierbas y los arboles Cuando estoy ido? Si no tengo ojos No puedo ver Si tengo ojos pero no tengo cerebro Puedo ver todavía? Que es mejor? La vista de pajaro O la vista de gusano? Que es hermoso?

Quizás Fibonacci lo alcanzó debido 1,1,2,3, 5, 8,13,21,34 El triángulo de Pascal tiene sentido tambien? Debería tener conocimiento pero sufre O sea ignorante en felicidad Aristotle había esa dilema: Sea un hombre o un cerdo? Fromm estaba tambien desconcertado en algo:

Perhaps Fibonacci hit it right: 1,1,2,3, 5, 8,13,21,34 Does Pascal’s triangle make sense too? Should I have knowledge yet suffer Or be ignorant in bliss? Aristotle had that dilemma: To be a man or a pig? Fromm was likewise stumped:

Tener o ser? Apetecer o seguir la corriente?

To have or to be?

Necesito una eternidad Para responder a estas preguntas

It will take an eternity To answer these questions

Mientras tanto tengo un problema Como voy a concluir este poema? El terminará cuando comience ver dentro del vacio El terminará cuando hallé la palabra perdida El terminará cuando oiga el sonido de un mano dando palmadas El terminará cuando no tenga espacio todavía Que nunca va a ocurrir porque

Meantime I have a problem How do I end this poem? It will end when I begin to see within the void

Así allí...

lost word It will end when I hear the sound of one hand clapping It will end when I run out of space Which will never happen because there is no end to space So there... February 2014

LITANIA Pitpitin ang kirot, pulbusin ang lungkot Kutkutin ang masangsang na pita Katkatin sa tungki ng mata Tuklapin lahat, tungkabin bawa’t hinuhang lisya Kung mayron pa, idarang sa baga Kung may limandaang bintana, buksan lahat At itaboy ang berdeng usok Paano’ng maruming paa? Ilubog sa lilang batis, matagal na matagal Kahit isang siglo Gayun din ang katawan? Oo, banlawan sa kweba ng Banahaw Nguni’t tatawid sa pitong bangin, siyam na dalisdis Gagapang sa pugad ng alakdan Bubunutin ang ngipin ng buwaya Tutulay patiwarik sa ibabaw ng kumunoy Habang pinapapak ng putakti At pinupupog ng paniki Yan ang mabisang pambistay Lilitaw kung sino’ng lantay Matindi pala . . . . . Bakit, akala mo’y piging? Bantad na ko, tama na . . . . Hindi pa tapos, kalahati pa lang Hanggang kailan ba? Malapit na, tatlumpung salingbuhay na lang Bathalang mahabagin! Wala bang mas mabilis? Mayron, ang litania Aah salamat. Ituran mo, susundin ko Isang libong litanya bawa’t oras sa loob ng dalawampung taon Tuwing may kulang, may dagdag na sampung taon . . . . Yan ang pampurga ng kaluluwa. Hindiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!

November 2014

LEGAL MJ* id. ibid. op cit. cf. et seq. ed. anon. vide. passim. supra. infra. These are feet notes, fancy fare festooning feet. But your body has sexy tatoos: Verily, prescinding from, at the outset, be that as it may, beyond cavil, granting arguendo, evidently, to be sure, corollarily, it is wellsettled, lest it be misunderstood, on the contrary, a fortiori, parenthetically, notably, etc. As I contend, nay aver, nay assert, nay posit, nay asseverate, yet deny not admit. Really? Companero, put your claim on the counter. Who’s negative? Who’s pregnant? Omnibus what? Maybe I’m not correct. So I try something else. Ex abundantiorem cautelam just to nettle my opponent. Quick! To dazzle the bench I pour on those sassy maxims. Res ipsa loquitur. Expressio unius est exclusio alterius. Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit. Ignorantia juris non excusat. Mutatis mutandis. Reddendo singula singulis. In pari materia. And similar mumbo jumbo. Awesome! Into the fray I muster all my weapons. Arguments upon arguments. Battle of citations. High stakes blinking contest. frazzled even a bit. Inis-talo. No quibbling, it’s a brain-frizzling exercise. This legal business s***s. Not for the faint of heart. Not for the timorous soul. I am tough. Hard as nails. Pugnacity incarnate. All out war. Take no prisoners. I’ve got what it takes to win. Ain’t I the best?. How about that sweet thing called “justice”? The slope is somewhat slippery, so catch it if you can. OMG! I wanna end with a bang. .. Yes, with a Bang! \ !!! / Today, I receive the order: “Your complaint is hereby DISMISSED. No motion for reconsideration shall be allowed.” Isn’t this what I wanted . . . to end with a bang? Be careful what you wish for. . . . ____________________ *Mumbo jumbo – complicated activity or language usually intended to obscure and confuse June 2014

Illustration by Ana M. Lacanlalay

JUSTICE MAGDANGAL M. DE LEON He is currently the Chairman of the Tenth Division of the Court of Appeals, is a remedial law professor and bar reviewer at the Ateneo Law School and other law schools, apart from being an MCLE and PHLJA lecturer. He was an examiner for remedial law in the 2009 bar examinations. Aside from law, music is his other love. Born to a musical family, being the son of National Artist for Music Felipe Padilla de Leon, he is a musician in his own right. As a composer, his works include the Court of Appeals March, Bar of the Philippines March, Philippine Army March, Philippine Coast Guard the Philippine Madrigal Singers and has been a choral conductor of several choirs in Metro Manila. He has also conducted both Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra and the Manila Symphony Orchestra and served as judge at the National Music To hone his right brain, he not only composes institutional songs and liberating, as it gives free rein to his imagination, unshackled by the strictures of logic and intellection.

poetry

Four Years An Angel Atty. Howard Calleja

I remember how I held your hand how we smiled and laughed together we always called you princess Minty but happy now knowing you are an Angel I remember on your fourth birthday we embraced and danced together yes Minty you are our dancing queen happy seeing in you the eyes of an Angel I remember all the memories of you we may never hold or touch you today my Minty you are now four years in Heaven happy even more that you are our Guardian Angel we thank God for the gift of life and the blessing that is Minuet Ashley happy now that you are four years an Angel

Dear Saint, I’ve come once more, Your pious devotee, To polish yet again your handsome face With such kind eyes upturned to heaven. Are you praying for deliverance? My days grow hectic, Life outside these hallowed halls consumes me, But I am here now, Your ever-devoted servant. Do you hear my prayers? Faithfully I return, as is my custom, Hoping for some kind of intervention, Leaving you better than you were, With me the poorer for it. Am I a fool for such fervent belief ? One tawdry transgression, a few missed vigils, And one too many doubts, Makes for a progressive upheaval of the heart and mind A wicked conversion of the soul. Could you forgive me? In my absence, the altar’s become run-down The mantle’s a tattered rag, The candles all burnt to stubs. Do you even care? What would become of you, Sweet Saint, If I stopped my supplications? Perhaps the whole thing will come crashing down on itself! And all that would remain, A pile of rubble A broken headstone to mark your grave. A pilgrim no more, I am your black-clad widow. Mourning the half-forgotten, half-dreamt Stranger I had once loved. Saint no more, just another ghoul haunting the night.

BY ANONYMOUS

Pan is hot. Throw in the garlic and onions. Sear the meat. Oven preheated to 350, pop in the Pyrex. Twenty minutes and the table is set. Dinner is ready, the apartment smells like food, and so do I. I sit and eat. The chop is a little tough. Maybe I should’ve taken it off the stove a minute sooner. The lasagna is too sweet. I should’ve gone easy on the cream. The water is bland. I should’ve opened the wine, no point in saving it. Wash the dishes, take a shower. end of the semester, it’ll probably stand as tall as my hip. My eyes are already strained. I really should’ve bought that bulb for my lamp. Another wrong decision. My head’s pounding. Just one more cigarette and I’ll call it a night. My throat’s itchy from too much mentholated smoke. I should cut down. Tomorrow, the food will be better. Tomorrow, I’ll get rid of all my backlog. Tomorrow, I’ll buy that damn bulb. Tomorrow, I’ll wash the taste of you out of my mouth.

BY ANONYMOUS

Chasing Butterflies BY DIEGO LUIS S. SANTIAGO

Despite the monarch’s feeble attempt from a little girl whose only ambition is to seize and contain this beautiful creature, He is resigned to his fate. The great king knows that his hourglass runs for only a day. Despite the girl’s lightness of touch Careful pinching of the amber wings She falters in the applied pressure and ends up crushing her captive’s frail scales. Then, having completely lost interest throws the emperor’s dying body to the ground. And as the monarch lies on the damp soil bleeding out an existence that took months to create his only plea is that the girl would shed tears that day she’d feel a searing pain that would almost blind her the leftover powder that now stains her hands would serve what would have been blood’s purpose as a reminder.

400 Days Later by Steffi sales

It’s all a blur, hazy recollections in time Has it really been a year? All I remember are from snapshots in my mind Like a lifeline that jumps up into recorded memory for every heartbeat Yes, it has been a year. The same calendar on my one-year old desktop marks the same date. Somewhere I’ve kept our wine bottle corks And the tickets from the show we watched from Before. All untouched. I refuse to see them again. Every item carries with it characteristic scents Marking particular parts of the past Remnants from memories I have already carefully shoved away into the recesses of my mind. It really has been a year Since the days of laughter And of tears, but still more of laughter And even those tears were never about us “We” were stellar.

Has it really been a year? That smile that used to radiate from across the room With the matching twinkling eyes and extended arms Beckoning me to come closer I haven’t seen you smile since. Or maybe I have, but perhaps I simply just see what I want to see.

Get out of my head! I’ve been through this book a million times The story never changes. This is, still A story of a plunge he decided to make But came too soon On freefall. Stupid boy. He wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been promised the world But with those changed eyes—one would have believed anything. Despite everything he was ready for Happiness But she fled In the exact, same fickle, annoying way she fled from her own Before. No explanations No remorse And absolutely no rationality. I was so sure then …Now I’m not so sure about anything. Perhaps in the end all I want to do Is just to say Thank you Thank you for the best adventures of my life. I guess. But now I sail alone And if there’s anything to be hopeful for in this voyage It is that what possibly definitely awaits me is the Spring. -Tom

Detonation

In Cold Decay

In the closet, there was nothing to see. Only a single piece of everything was left, And yet there was no theft. Tears fall, things break. Tattletales say, “She ran away,”

She left with a promise All proved to be for naught This time, there was no cheek to kiss, Because now in this port Mother was home, In cold decay enclosed in a box,

In someone else’s caress

Zenith

The Package

She lifts the skies With too much force. Fancying the moon, Ignoring its remorse. She wrestles the stars, In a manner of loving dread. She looks into herself,

Today, a package came. I wondered how many are for me. I shook it. Hands hit me. I was screaming, I was crying, But I was drowned out. Everyone wept just as loud. I took my chance, And crawled to my price. Surprised, I hushed everyone And gently closed the box You were sleeping inside.

Folding, tearing And non-stop bleeding Her heights were high The air pressure was at its peak Prying eyes and curved lips Made her dance to the tune of taunt For ambition and lust, Took her deep into An island of dust.

BY JAN DE LUIS

There is a Storm Inside of Her BY Emmanuel Rey Pine Cruz There is a storm inside of her That can never be tamed I hold her hand, I touch her face, and yet I talk softly, whisper sweet nothings, and yet Thunder booms between her ears I pull her close, take her in my arms, and yet Her heart pounds like a tempest I wipe her brow, caress her hair, and yet I gaze into the brightness of her eyes, and yet Darkness sets in I hold on But I am only a kite out in the breeze Waiting for it to cease

prose

East 63rd to jfk david kintanar rosario

The day after Easter, Charlie awoke, for the last time, in Manhattan. He was not dying or anything – he was simply leaving New York; though that did not stop him from feeling as though his relatively short life was approaching its end. older sister Lisa who was now raring to return home to Manila, home to the life she missed. It would be unjust to say that Lisa hated Manhattan and all the beauty of the island, but to say that she would miss it as much as Charlie would be rather untrue. They had stayed at their Aunt Toni’s place on 63rd street; a quaint apartment which seemed cozier to Charlie than any hotel he had ever been to. Their Aunt had promised them an adventure of a lifetime and on that promise she had never reneged. She took them as far as Coney Island and as high as the observation deck at the top of the Empire State Building – all the places a nine year old boy like Charlie would be sure to enjoy. Lisa, being nearly thrice Charlie’s age, was not always with them on these adventures, but whenever they got back to the apartment, Charlie would always tell her how amazing all the things he saw were. These adventures had been Charlie’s life for a whole week and every night he prayed that the week would never end. Sadly, we don’t always get what we pray for, and when Charlie awoke that morning in Aunt Toni’s apartment, he knew that the good times were coming to an end. “Have you got everything packed, dear?” asked Aunt Toni when she saw Charlie standing in the living room with his stroller bag. “Yes, Aunt Toni” he replied, not even trying to hide the sadness in his voice. “Awww, don’t be sad” she told him. Charlie stood there, looking as though he was about to cry, but before the tears came, his Aunt was hugging him, telling him not to feel sad. “I’m sure you’re gonna be back soon, Charlie” she said, wondering how to make him feel better. “I’m sure you’ll be back.” As they stood in the living room, Lisa emerged from one of the rooms blind man could sense she was ready to leave Manhattan. “Do you have everything, Charlie?” asked Lisa. “I think he has everything” said Aunt Toni for him. “Don’t you, Charlie?” All Charlie could do was nod.

“Then I guess this is it” said Lisa. “I guess it is” said Aunt Toni. She slowly unwrapped her arms from Charlie and headed to a nearby table to get her keys and her mobile phone. “Come on, Charlie. We’ll be late” said Lisa. Charlie didn’t speak a word but when Lisa offered him her hand, he took it, and allowed himself to be pulled forward through the apartment door. Outside the apartment, the sun was shining. It would have been a great day to go for a stroll around Central Park but there was no chance for Charlie to do that now. They walked towards 2nd avenue – Aunt Toni ahead of them, eyes searching for a cab; Lisa and Charlie following behind, one more eager than the other. As they walked the short distance between the apartment and the corner of 63rd and 2nd, Charlie was as distracted by the scenery as he was on the day facades of brick, and cement, and stone, littered with windows of every shape and size. He looked at the trees along the sidewalk, in their little square plots of earth, cordoned off from the rest of the pavement as if to give the trees the privacy they needed to grow. He looked at the cars, and the people, and the birds; all of them passing him by, or perhaps it he who was passing them. At the corner of 63rd and 2nd, he saw the bakery where Aunt Toni tried; it was toasted and had cheese, bacon, and egg on top of it. He had never eaten bagels back in Manila but now, as he saw the bakery, he suddenly wanted a bagel in the worst possible way. He tugged Lisa’s hand and asked her if he could have one last bagel but she refused and told him they were in a hurry. He would not relent, not just yet, and he told her that he would be a good boy if she let him have just one last bagel. She seemed about to give in but before she could give her assent, a cab pulled up before them and, before he realized what was going on, the cab driver had begun loading their “Goodbye!” said Aunt Toni, hugging Charlie. “I hope you enjoyed New York!” Charlie didn’t say a word; there were no words he could say. “It was great seeing you again, Aunt Toni” said Lisa. “We really hope you can come to Manila soon!” “Come to Manila?” asked Aunt Toni. “Why would I want to leave the greatest city in the world?” She meant it as a joke but for Charlie, that was the last straw. His eyes began to water and he hugged his Aunt much tighter, burying his face in her shirt and hoping that when he emerged, the cab would be gone and they would no longer be leaving Manhattan. “Awww dear” said Aunt Toni, hugging her nephew much tighter now. “I’m sure you’ll like it back in Manila. You’ve got your friends, and your parents, and all your toys there waiting for you.”

not the same!” “Of course it isn’t” said Aunt Toni. “But that’s your home, Charlie. That’s where you live. Just like this is where I live. Don’t you want to go home, Charlie?” Charlie spoke not a word but he shook his head vehemently, holding on to his Aunt as a man lost at sea clings to a lifesaver. “Charlie” said Lisa, her gentle hand rubbing his shoulder. “It’s time to go, Charlie. Mum and Dad are waiting for us. Don’t you want to see them?” “Why don’t they come here?” said Charlie, in between sobs. “Why don’t they come to New York?” “Because they have work back in Manila” said Lisa. “And Manila is where we live.” “Manila is stupid!” said Charlie. “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!” He buried his face once more in his Aunt’s shirt, resolved not to go anywhere. “Oh, Charlie” said Lisa. She kissed Charlie on the head and gently tried to untangle him from his Aunt. After a minute, Charlie let go of his Aunt and hugged his sister, burying his face in her shirt. She held him tightly, reassuringly, and kissed him again on the head. “Come on, Charlie. It’s time to go home.” After Lisa and Aunt Toni said their goodbyes one last time, Lisa led Charlie into the cab. *** in his sister’s shoulder as soon as they got into the cab and she had responded by embracing him reassuringly. It was in her embrace that he fell asleep, momentarily forgetting his troubles. When he awoke, he thought it was all a dream, but when he saw the signs all around them, he was rudely brought back to reality. Charlie got out of the cab and thought JFK must be one of the saddest places in the world. As the cab driver withdrew their bags from the trunk of the cab, Charlie walked over to Lisa’s side and hugged her. Lisa put one arm around Charlie, doing her best to shield him from all the feelings of sadness that beset him. When the bags were transferred to a cart, she paid the driver and took one last glimpse of New York. She smiled, happy and content. She looked at Charlie and was unsure whether to be happy for him or sad; it was not every day that a nine year old had the opportunity to come to New York, and now that he had seen the Promised Land, it was time for him to leave. Gently, she took one of his hands and he let go of his embrace. Lisa saw that he was even sadder than he had been when they were at the corner of 63rd and 2nd but she knew that there was nothing she could do about it. With one hand, she pushed the cart, steering it towards the doors of JFK, and with the other hand, she held on to Charlie, guiding him forward, one step at a time. After they had checked-in their bags and claimed their boarding passes, they went through security and headed to Gate Seven where their plane would

shortly be. On the way to Gate Seven, they saw a hotdog stand just like the ones scattered all over Manhattan and, even before Charlie could ask, Lisa started walking towards it, one hand on Charlie, and the other on the small stroller bag she would be bringing on the plane. Lisa bought two hotdogs and, as insisted by Charlie, they put ketchup and mustard on them, just like he and Aunt Toni did when they ate those famous hotdogs on the boardwalk in Coney Island. For a moment, the sadness was gone from Charlie’s face but, when they were seated on the chairs near Gate Seven and the hotdogs had been consumed, Charlie once again remembered that they were leaving New York. “Do we really have to leave?” Charlie asked her. “We do” Lisa told him. “But I love it here!” he told her. “I want to stay here!” His sadness was turning into anger, his helplessness into desperation. Lisa smiled at him and put her hand on his to calm him down. “What about New York do you like the most?” she asked him. “Everything!” he told her, his arms outstretched as he tried his best to show his sister why they shouldn’t leave. “But we have a lot of nice things in Manila as well” she told him. “But there’s no Central Park there!” said Charlie. “There’s no Empire State Building! There’s no Coney Island! There isn’t even a Times Square!” “Yes, but there’s no Luneta Park here” replied Lisa, playfully. “There’s also no Intramuros, no Binondo, and no—” “But it’s not the same, Lisa! It’s not the same!” said Charlie before she and bolted towards the direction of the security checkpoint and the doors leading out of JFK. As he ran, he could hear his sister calling his name, shouting at him to come back, but he paid her no attention; if she wanted to leave, she could leave, but as for him, he was going to stay. He ran past the shops and the many people heading to their respecfaster, and as he accelerated, he failed to see that his shoe laces were coming loose. When the shoe laces came undone, it was only a matter of time before he stepped on them and tripped. He fell violently; enough to make the people around him stop what they were doing. Thankfully, he sustained no major injuries, but what to catch up to him. -

ing her best to see how he was doing; the small stroller bag she had been carrying was now all but forgotten. She could tell he was crying, and upon closer examination, she was sure that though he felt some pain, it was only his hopes that were dented. Slowly, she helped him up, simultaneously reassuring the people around them that there was nothing to worry about. As soon as he was standing, he buried his face in her side, unable to look at the world. She put her arm around him once more and guided him back towards Gate Seven, picking up her stroller bag along on the way. and was staring blankly at world before him, resigned to his fate. It’s not that he hated Manila; Manila was a great city too. It was just not New York. When he arrived, New York had taken him in with open arms and he had reciprocated. Now that it was time to leave, he wished the city would close its arms around him and never let him go. He knew everyone back home in Manila would think he was stupid for calling a city he had only been in for a week his home, but none of those people had experienced what he had gone through. Hell, most of those people had never even left Manila! The people back home would never understand him; they could never understand him. And with such thoughts swimming inside his head, Charlie swore that he would do everything he could to get back to New York someday. “You feeling better, Charlie?” asked Lisa. “Yes” he told her, all emotion gone from his voice. She smiled at him and pressed his hand. “Hold on, I’ve got something for you.” She unzipped the stroller bag and pulled out a plastic that had the logo of F.A.O. Schwarz, one of the grandest toy stores in New York, printed on it. “Go on” she told him, handing the plastic bag to him. He opened it and found a stuffed bear inside. “Do you like it?” asked Lisa, smiling. He smiled. The stuffed bear wore the same clothes as the doorman at F.A.O. Schwarz, and instantly, he felt as though he was transported back to the store, an abundance of sweets, toys, and happiness all around him. He hugged the bear with all his might, tears of joy streaming down his face. “I was supposed to give it to you on your birthday” said Lisa. “But I think it’s better if you have it now.” “Thanks, Lisa!” said Charlie. He hugged his sister and kissed her on the cheek. She hugged him back, happy to see his spirits raised.

New York, and perhaps someday, he would be able to live there like Aunt Toni. Today, however, was not yet that day, and so with one hand holding Lisa’s hand, and the other hand wrapped around his stuffed bear, Charlie entered Gate Seven, happy and content.

The Caretaker by A.I. Castelo The sun is burning bright and hot against a clear blue sky. She steps onto the sidewalk and sets her suitcase on the ground, a cloud of dust gathering at her feet. Behind the old iron gates stands the house, all rotting wood and weathered stone, memories swept into corners of darkened rooms. The caretaker approaches, keys jangling in his pocket. “You the new one?” he asks her. She nods, and he unlocks the gate. He shows her around, opens doors with old-fashioned keys and tears away cobwebs that hang a little too low. The antesala is empty, the furniture in the sala mayor covered with heavy cloth, the four-poster beds stripped bare and the mirrors on the aparadors removed. He gives her the keys and gathers his things, tells her he will be back in a month. “Take care,” he warns her. “Funny things can happen over here.” She nods and smiles, watches him leave through the gates. She looks back at the house, tilts her head, and sighs sadly. She enters, removes the cloths that hide the tune as she glides across the wooden panels, the husks underneath her bare feet. Someone starts whistling along with her. She glances up and sees them, young men in white suits, hair slicked back with pomade. They laugh loudly as they gather in the room. There are women seated at one suppressing girlish laughter behind their fans. One of the young men approaches them, his teeth white and his eyes deep and dark. “Lupe,” he says, holding out his hand. One of the ladies puts her fan down, her brown eyes looking up at him. She takes his hand and they walk past the others to stand by the window. He speaks, and she laughs. He takes something from his pocket, and gives her a rosebud. She accepts it, smiling, and he kisses the back of her hand. After a moment, they fade into the afternoon sunlight. She is alone again. the hallway. Her hair is graying, her brown eyes and the corners of her lips framed with lines. She leans against the wall and takes a small old book from her skirt pocket. She opens it, and smiles sadly. dust.

Photography

DAN ABRAHAM GUINIGUNDO

Chelsea Ballesteros

Alexandra Castro

ALEXANDRA CASTRO

Chelsea Ballesteros

ALEXANDRA CASTRO

Chelsea Ballesteros

Carlo Agdamag

ZANDRO GARCIA

IRIS POZON

KEVIN BULOTANO

DAN ABRAHAM GUINIGUNDO

KAYE BALDONADO

DAN ABRAHAM GUINIGUNDO

mari colinares

artwork

summer attack by angel lencio

The medium is the message by angel lencio

aki lacanlalay

themis by abby castelo

Contributors Justice Magdangal De Leon Atty. Howard Calleja Carlo Agdamag Kathlyn Nadia Baldonado Chelsea Joyce Ballesteros Kevin Bulotano Abby Castelo Alexandra Castro Mari Colinares Emmanuel Rey Pine Cruz Rose Cupin Jan Eidrienne De Luis Alta Garcia Zandro Jose Garcia Dan Abraham Guinigundo Ana Lacanlalay Angel Lencio Bianca Magtajas Iris Pozon David Rosario

Diego Santiago