SCRIBE Vol.62 No.10 - 2017

VOLUME 21

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SCRIBE

Volume 21, February 2018 The Literary Folio of The Spectrum Published by the students of the University of St. La Salle All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or any part or form.

L ITER ARY ED I T O R

Hezron G. Pios L AYOUT ART I ST S

Glen Jed J. Descutido Jowan Dave G. Guides Shara Mae L. Pelayo ILLUSTR AT O R S

Keanu Joseph P. Rafil Karen D. Panganiban Seth V. Pullona Cedric Lance M. Militar COVER CO N CEP T AN D D ESI GN

Glen Jed J. Descutido Shara Mae L. Pelayo Set in Iowan Old Style BT and Chronicle Text G4

Foreword Hello there, buddy.

It’s been a while since your last speculation here. Whatever brought you so long to set foot back again signifies less against your actual presence.

Here, things may seem out of focus at first since you’re newly arrived, yet this mechanism will proceed to be prosaic over the duration. Forget about your duffel bags, leave that set of keys, and unbolt those windows wide enough for light to magnify every corner of this house.

Worry not about the trinkets secured safe and sound, buddy. They were further catalogued depending on their usage: large carton boxes for comingof-age novels, cheap stickers and zines contained by envelopes, missives sent during senior year, an alphabetical OPM song book.

Even knick-knacks such as bottle caps, pins, carnival tickets, movie posters, polaroids, coins unthrown to a wishing well or tidy bills—linger, without a doubt, like your surreal murals outliving one another.

I’ve already gathered too much dust and cobwebs more than your collected items, buddy. This is my insistence for you to stay on.

Those miniscule details you previously shunned years ago? They appear with clarity this time. An image of a boy slicing a cake on his 7th birthday party tells about glee. The calendar’s sheets are left parching.

Fortune plants glued beside your running shoes and plastic armchairs are rendered motionless. On one hand, the radio hums a feeble tune of persistence. On the other hand, no creature capable of speech except yourself seems to interject.

In the backyard where there used to be pale afternoons of migrating birds in skein passing above, appear grumpy dogs glaring at you meaningfully as if your hands have not fed their mouths with tenderness once.

Maybe they must have forgotten how you sneaked out so you can play hide and seek with the neighbors whose bodies were recently found to no avail.

Only ghosts remain next to us, buddy. Take this as an omen blissful like a

dream sequence.

Meanwhile, my architecture of wood, metal, and cement had preserved its own sense of defiance versus complete reduction. This same structure has taught you larger-than-life youth and several midnight reveries. This same structure says in the family of things, solitude proves best to heal burnout.

Nonetheless, carry on. Even if these corners begin to disintegrate in the same moment the objects refuse recognition, further withstand those internal matters, buddy.

For this is another process of withdrawal. And I am hauling you back to the start.

Roots, causes, points of origin. Wandering through this bizarre folio encasing residential materials, poignant backstories, and refuge from composite angles in no other direction but inwards might not be that arduous.

Remember to remember, buddy. Perhaps take all of the time that you need.

For the thrill of inertia courses on loop.

This harbor guarding souvenirs with sentimental value,

Hezron G. Pios

Contents POE TRY Prinsipe ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 2 Nuestro Hogar �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 4 Unausweichlich ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 6 Past Midnight Phenomena (Three Poems) Siquijor �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 9 No Room ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������10 Flatline ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������11 Night Funerals ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������12 Midas Complex ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������13 A Flight to a City of Endless Roads ��������������������������������������������������14 Black ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������17 Hanggang Ngayon ������������������������������������������������������������������������������19 Cairo ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������21 Wood Carving: a monostich ��������������������������������������������������������������22 Of Hearth and Departures (Two Poems) Flying South ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������24 To Hiraeth ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������25 to the other half of the sky ����������������������������������������������������������������27 The Neighbor Across the Street ��������������������������������������������������������28 With Eyes Open ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������30 Us according to eidetic memory ��������������������������������������������������������31 Song of Old Nightingales by the Veranda ������������������������������������������33 Winter, or the Performance We Badly Dreamt of ������������������������������35

N ON -FICTIO N a new set of keys ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������38 In Case of Theatrics ����������������������������������������������������������������������������41 Journal Entry #0317 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������45

S HORT STO RIES The Arrow’s Make ������������������������������������������������������������������������������48 What is dead cannot be ����������������������������������������������������������������������69 Apples ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������70 Where I end and the Sea begins ��������������������������������������������������������75 Estrella ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������78

COM I CS Wrinkle ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������82 Home is... ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������84

S CRI BES & SCRIB B LERS ��������������������������������� 89 ACK N O WLEDGMENTS ������������������������������������� 96

POETRY

ART BY C EDR I C L ANCE MI LI TA R

Prinsipe WAN DY

ART BY C EDR I C L ANC E M . MI LI TA R

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Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang suot na baluti, walang kumikinang bakal na sa katawa’y nakatampi kundi isang ordinaryong kasuotang luma at maraming bakas ng kahirapan at mga bagnos ng punit na aking kinalakihan.

Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang kalasag na gamit pananggalang sa bawat sandata ng kalaban na kanilang kapit-kapit.

Walang pangharang sa mga bagay na nais kumitil sa aking buhay ngunit ako’y nananatiling nakatayo sabay sa pagdaloy ng aking dugong inaalay.

Ako’y isang prinsipe na walang makinang na kabayong sagisag ng kataasan sa isang kawal nitong sinisimbolo.

Walang kasama sa paglalakbay sa kabundukan kundi ang mga paa na aking karamay simula nang ako’y matutong manindigan.

Ako’y isang prinsipe sa sariling kong panaginip; naghahanap ng prinsesang makakasama sa kastilyong hinihihip ng hangin.

Mga kayamanan na para sa iba’y ‘di mahawak-hawakan dahil sa ako lang ang nakakaalam sa sarili kong kaharian.

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Nuestro Hogar (Our Home) MEL INA VAN O L I & KU RT T E E

A mattress on a dusty red floor El dĂ­a desde mi ventana se ve gris A warm December night Caminare por las calles disfrutando la vista de esta ciudad Bare streets and orange lights frame the loveless and hopeless En cada paso que doy siento que algo debo encontrar QuizĂĄs alguien diferente Is this how home should feel?

Acaso estoy en el lugar incorrecto?

Home should be a beach in Mar Del Plata All smiles and yerba mate Donde el amor nos rodee que alguien nos encuentre Where young cheeks are smudged with dulce de leche Es mi ciudad, es acogedora Pero mi corazĂłn desespera por un nuevo lugar Donde las comidas es el mejor lenguaje del amor y pienso en Filipinas Where I can see you dance to reggaeton!

Kiss your sleepy eyes while the cat plays at our feet and the dog naps!

No dejo de mirarlo, mis ojos se enfocan en el esta imagen es tan real Where waves and hearts follow the same song and your lap is my pillow Solo cierro mis ojos para pensar en ti, mientras tus manos acarician mi rostro Esto es sentirse como en casa 4

Home is not Manila El hogar no es Mar Del Plata Home is in your brown eyes El hogar es en sus brazos

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Unausweichlich JEPR OX G. L I N GAM EN

for Jing What very few memories I have of you, I let fall with psychomotor ease.

Fingertips on Toshiba keys the weight of my heart in Calibri (Body) crashing as swiftly as I said Unausweichlich that morning you told me you’d love me to stay around, a beautiful sound, lingering in my ear as I type my way through what was bound not to happen.

Like an apple falling into the sky or me not falling into you.

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PHO TO BY J H O N AL DR I N C AS I NAS

Past Midnight Phenomena Three Poems E L S I E CO S CO L LU E L A

ART BY C EDR I C L ANC E M . MI LI TA R

Siquijor Folks say they do not live there Anymore, witches stitching Rag figures of souls to slay, Or warlocks brewing potions Of bark and root three moons Before Jesus-God lies cold On a slab of stone.

They say they have grown weary Of chanting the same old incantations, Casting the same spells over loves Lost or betrayed, claiming justice For the helpless and oppressed, Or setting our small worlds back To its proper tilt and turn.

They say they have their own lives To live, burdens to bear: fields To till, seeds to sow, water jars To fill, and sons and daughters To tend and teach mysteries Of blood and bone, earth and sky, Wind, water and fire.

Folks say when you first set foot On the shores of Siquijor That those you seek do not live There anymore, but if you truly ache For righteous remedy, you might linger For a night: one might fly home With a magic brew for you.

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No Room It is not always true, what old folks say Of love that strays, that always in the end As all processions go, the wayward feet Are led back to the cathedral door— That until then, one must keep the faith Alive, the home clean and warm, The children safe, and the grieving heart Strong and tough as steel— For when all the prayers are done, all Vigil candles burned end to end And the truant heart comes knocking Home, you find there is no room For the stranger at the door.

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Flatline There was no bright ray of light, No departed kin in sight, nor saints And angels waiting in the night.

Only one last breath and your eyes Rise through the roof, over old Cathedral spires, familiar skylines, The pyramids, the long great wall, Golden canyons and raging rivers, Blue oceans and white mountain peaks, And the earth, slowly turning— And in the swelling space you ride On the rings of Jupiter, spin Towards the dancing stars, and lie On the shores of Orion, warm And weightless, apart from, a part Of one great heart throbbing, Galaxies gently breathing— There was no bright ray of light— Only the Breath of Creation restoring The beating of your heart.

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Night Funerals JOSHUA MART I N P. GUAN CO

He attends a funeral every night To his dismay and to his fright For the hearse moves so slow Towards the place he is to go He attends a funeral every night Just like what he does in broad daylight But it is not sadness that fills the air It is the words hurled without a care He attends a funeral every night Towards a place that was once bright A place where smiles used to live But now does not know how to forgive He attends a funeral every night To a house brimming with blight A door that opens to the fields of hurt A house that makes him feel like dirt He attends a funeral every night And always finds himself into a fight A funeral for someone who is alive A funeral for someone love-deprived

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Midas Complex ALVIN LE GAR I O

In this instance, extend your fingers.

Do as children do when grasping fireflies.

An extension of vanity, as you will.

Hold on to what you caught.

Clasp firmly, and then unfurl your palm.

Filth and froth from floating stars now lay dead.

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A Flight to a City of Endless Roads KEANU R AFI L

I’ll fly to you— boarding this 3:00 a.m. flight bound to a city of endless roads where you are in.

Packed with an empty pocket and a box of scented love letters, newly-picked daisies from our backyard are placed on my lap.

Bones shaking, fingers fidgeting; the clock’s hands have chosen to point at three and twelve only in seconds.

Anticipating— a tranquil voice from the radio is a familiar sound speaking a familiar line.

Ding, dong, ding, dong.

Time to walk back home.

The flight is cancelled.

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PHO TO BY N I C H O L FR ANC I S ANDU YAN

PHO TO BY N I C H O L FR ANC I S ANDU YAN

Black JEPR OX G. L I N GAM EN

for Jake why you held on for so long wrapped its answers around your throat a collar of spikes digging into your skin an animal hunger yanking out a scream from a dungeon in your gut where something, more than someone, died. there is no name for it, this question mark hooking your tongue, pulling you into a void black as the Jim Beam label swallowing your light. death is not the absence of life, death is the presence of everything we did not care to know, did not care to be, crashing like a wave of forgotten faces in a roll-call by unforgiving history you asked: “if I say pain is my absence will you fall face-first into map-like vomit as bitter as the lies you could keep inside no more, as misshapen as the lifelines of truth you’ve drawn?� all hope of redemption is as flat as my imagination editing your goodbye note, as bad as a bad joke you had no one to tell to not even your mock face in the mirror no matter how many smileys you put up to make up for the listless minutes escaping towards a world that hurts to call you its own

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there’s a cold body in an unfeeling casket, black as the tie so inept at strangling you white as the promise you carry in your breast beneath your immaculate suit— wait, it’s a straightjacket

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Hanggang Ngayon VICTOR I A M AR I AN B . B EL M I S

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na sa akin ay ibinigay mo bestida na kasing puti ng t-shirt na iyong paborito.

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, mga araw na ako’y hatid-sundo dahil ikaw ang hari at ako ang prinsesa mo.

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, mga araw at gabi na halos ‘di ka na natutulog sapagkat maginhawang buhay, para sa amin, lamang ang iyong gusto.

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw ng Lunes, aking kaarawan sa pag-uwi ay nadatnan ko ikaw na nakahiga sa kama, buto’t balat, ni hindi makatayo.

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na tayo’y nakatitig lamang sa puting pader, nangangarap, at sa akin ay ipinangako ikaw ay gagaling, hindi susuko.

Hanggang ngayon ‘di ko pa malimot, araw na sa akin ay ibinigay mo 19

huling titig, huling ngiti na habambuhay sa puso’y itatago.

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Cairo HEZR ON G. P I O S

Sometimes I illustrate you with fascinating terminologies during evenings in which surrealism devises your happiness although tinges seem pale to me unlike what you thought they would be, whenever blabbering cues inebriation. Maybe we will wake up singing to our own made-up anthem or we would edit a line or two of its dream pop lyrics.

Maybe skipping class should be your key to a fuller self-concept thus it’d be quite breathless to replace household rules plotted by figures who were here several generations ago. When I often catch you counting past errors, what does all those spite ever amount to, master? According to the fortune tellers live on the television, nothing seems to erase mistakes yet a road unpaved lies gleaming ahead especially for a Cancerian.

So, what else do I have to cross out of my list to get your attention quick?

Why don’t you teach me tricks on how to quit you like what your best friends did, asked the dog. You always return late, anyway. And the cat refuses to discuss such matters that could pin you down for a little much longer.

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Wood Carving: a monostich MAR IA ANG EL I CA M . AP E

Nene + Joey

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Of Hearth and Departures Two Poems

L EX D I WA AL O RO

P H O T O BY NI C H O L FR ANCI S A NDUYA N

Flying South Until the rain stops and the cold winds die Our stories will keep me warm along with the fire You’re out there somewhere, this much I know Keeping your wings dry from the hail and the Snow Note that I wish to be with you but I’m too scared to drown Although you never let any storms try to get you down Hurricanes (and even Balding Eagles) couldn’t stop The fire in your hearts that compels you to fly up South, last I heard, was the direction you were going Even this far north, I hear the trumpets for your homecoming Regretful as I might be to have stayed behind ‘Tis better for me to have dropped out of the ride Considering how I broke my wings under the pressure of the sky Even now that I have healed, I have forgotten how to fly Please, keep flying, though. Your journey gives me light So much so that when darkness lifts, I’ll be ready for flight Lift those flappers, dear geese, don’t lose that V-formation Lark about all you want but keep one eye on the horizon En route, you may find other geese, larks, and maybe even drones Whose feathers, talons and traveling mode complement your own Entice them with your quirks, invite them to your Nest Rejoining, I might be, as one of those homebound Owls next Adieu for now, you wayward birds! says a fowl stuck in monsoon, Fly safe and happy trails! These broken wings will see you soon

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To Hiraeth We can’t fit through the door anymore I swear all three of us fit before Now, we each have to go one by one Into our house but our home is gone The tiles are colder now—it’s funny Lava used to flow beneath our feet I guess the fire has been extinguished Blown by the wind, our paper home vanished Dear brothers, do you remember, though— When all those scratch papers turned to snow?

We brought the seasons under our roof These mem’ries flame deathless, they’re ice-proof We brought suns to fall and moons to kneel How invincible we used to feel Back in our home that stands on the past We ignored the fact that time flies fast The present has given us new eyes Paper’s just paper, tiles are just tiles The sun still rises, the moon still stands The past fades under today’s cold hands So here we stand on our house, our crypt Wond’ring how, through our fingers, time slipped Through the past our minds persist to roam But keep digging, boys, we’ll find our home

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ART BY M AR I A ES T ER FARI LLON

to the other half of the sky ANDR EA GAM B OA

the other half of the sea, (separating me) to the half that held my heart, your heart; a part of me. the sea, who holds me like no one else, she speaks, “the way home is in (do not look past, do not look back) your home is where your bones lay.�

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The Neighbor Across the Street KEANU R AFI L

You speak fluent Spanish, came from a dreadful town— San Joaquin, they say, running away from a chase where no one is after you— but yourself.

339—the numbers I memorized from your front door where you leave your umbrella of rain or shine, yellow like the rag on your doorstep.

Flattering each other’s front yard— our daily breakfast-to-bedtime dialogues.

A street away, framed by our own windows; a photograph of blooming dandelions.

My right hand holds a cup of cold coffee the one I made days ago as we talk from my room to your room across the street of virtual traffic and city lights.

My left hand holds an oddly-shaped frame of a picture of a city so dear you have already been to, but not with me, never with me.

My eyes, hurting from the sunlight gleaming across the window where I last kept that vision of you.

You, watering your plants—full of life.

My breath scented by whiskey and cola the one I drank the night where you closed your windows, scared of the storm that never came.

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My feet, frozen on a wooden-floored corner where I can catch your shadow once you open that window again, tinted by a blue curtain. but you did not, nor the lights went on.

My clothes smelled like yesterday’s overcooked pasta and of freshly-lit cigarettes that almost burnt my lips.

They stung my nose, but not as much as your absence did.

My body I divined, floating from centimeters to feet on thin air I seek for landing—out of reach.

The sooner I recognized I was left hanging by a neighbor across the street.

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With Eyes Open ALVIN LEGAR I O

I peek into the future, berated by absence. Cities shaded with crimson red and nameless riders drift in and out of the mist. Where is the Messiah? The angels are blockaded by walls of cigarette smoke, lighted by the Children of the Lost; the puppets unbounded by string, by reality. Marionettes of feeble minds mouthing out into the distance.

Their cries are echoed with distorted laughter. The children outcry misanthropy into the abyss. Dystopian roads which lead to nowhere have been enveloped by cigarette butts which leave me stranded on a sea of nicotine, rigorously avoiding the poison that has taken over my world. Green and gunk, dense and mucky, spittle of the Forgotten Children droop from the clouds. The floodgates of the Lost engulf the innocent.

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Us according to eidetic memory HEZR ON G. P I O S

guesswork My hands distort each time I spell your name on thin air. What does grief contain that making sense out of it seems too obscure? Theory number one: nonlinearity. Grief is a metropolis where a horse and a sellout walk into a bar and no head tilts back to condescend. Or, theory number two: Grief puts things out of hand therefore it leaves everyone awry. Thus categorization. Thus infinite seas divide seas further. dawn The surface of your teeth was black and bustling. Here we are again in the wrong kitchen, in the same tiled spot where I’m supposed to thrust a ketchup bottle into your mouth. There is no other way to turn this twist into something else genial. I know exactly how attachment works, sleepyhead. Get along with the rest of the crew and deliver your lines fast. Lights, camera, action! volcanic The fact of this disbelief must be larger than us. Until we learn about submitting our bodies into the fireplace may be considered revolutionary, then we’ll be past this bullshit altogether. I guess I can tell you now how angry I was the moment I decided to burst like confetti but you resolved to drown in your coffee mug instead. It was a voluntary course of action to spin me off once more. trance Hide your plastic-wrapped textbooks one by one and replace them with poetry, sleepyhead. In my dream, we are breathing ten thousand feet underwater and you’re teaching me semantics. I intended to move forwards but the afternoon windows scorched like the Revelation as if there was no other choice but to shake myself ten thousand times in order to flee from that dream. sequitur I’d love to see you dissolve like iodized salt in hot water for that’s 31

what you deserve after what transpired. Not much tenderness nor spite even seeks to bring you back to life. My summer rain ended just as when you taught the radio how to hate acid jazz. You’re to blame for this, sleepyhead. I’ve been the horse. You’ve been the sellout. None is walking away unscathed.

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Song of Old Nightingales by the Veranda SETH PUL L O N A

It seems like the other day, we were young.

This is how you still remember me—nineteen; gullible and trustful.

Words are trapped like birds in my mouth: I’ve been wanting them to say to you.

It’s almost everyday that you’re in dismay when I’m not chirpy like you need me to.

So I asked you if you liked me prancing on those worn keys every time you sing your dawn chorus.

You said, yes, with the most jovial tone half a decade of my fragrant sound and your voice was a harmony smoothed by time.

And you leaned back to your chair, making love with the breeze of midsummer.

And my eyes dilated, is it really worth writing about?

I nodded to myself as an answer.

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ART BY G I L A I NEFA BLE

Winter, or the Performance We Badly Dreamt of HEZR ON G. P I O S

after Cole Swensen, after Kate Furler Snowflake I’m trying to keep you safe

but you’re in the part where I’m about to pass through you.

I like the protagonist, snowflake,

& I want you as the protagonist!

Do you get what I’m saying?

Our lifetimes should extend, should go against stage direction,

should be shapeless intention devoid of self-difference. In fact, snowflake, we’re meant for better roles. Note: all excess of ideation must revert to things imaginable e.g. lamppost, sunshower, muscovado1, incense, thesaurus.

From now on— only ad libitum will be used in acting to occupy a vacuum, okay?

Note: I am in the sequence where I’m about to tell you that

: we’ll see the audience in a 10-minute standing ovation : we’ll see ourselves see ourselves mocking ourselves on black mirror : we’ll see etcetera etcetera with their brittle O’s in pure astonishment

okay?

(The world in shock of our novelty)

(The world, like marble, spinning on wary fingertips) Hence we attempt to switch the channel as swift as we could because events had to be so precise in a matter of white noise2. See: comic relief.

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See: speculative. See: hyperboles in ledgers.

Just sing3 me a song I weep the most to.

Did you know hundreds upon hundreds of hands* dream of departure?

431-4560. If you haven’t made your mind up yet, here’s your first reminder**.

Snowman***

*Maybe it gets in the way how you see me as a figure of speech.

**Everyone believed you were glued to me back then but you kept on denying so hard.

1 2 3

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***Let’s go below zero and hide from the sun. Finally, summoning snow: a ruin we’ve both anticipated.

NON-FICTION

ART BY K EANU J O S E PH RA FI L

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a new set of keys AN D R EA N I CO L E C. FA RO L

I L LU S T R AT I O NS BY K EANU J OSE PH RA FI L

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I. When we first transferred to the new house, it was dark and chilly. We hauled our baggages and slept on mattresses sprawled on the floor. I remember looking up the ceilingless roof and wondering if we’d move out again because ghosts would terrorize us. I’d find out later that it would be the roaches that haunt the place. Perhaps, there was a fear of leaving home.

II. I asked myself if I was ever uncomfortable in that way. I surprised myself by saying yes. Like a repressed memory, I remembered a man with the store a few blocks from my house. He was a perfectly respectable man, a leader and religiously active. But to me, he was the creepy tito down the street. There were a lot of tiangges in our area and whenever my mother sent me on an errand, I always wished the other stores had what she wanted so I wouldn’t have to buy from his. I would run when I saw him walking down the path with his smile. But on days when I had to check his store for the item or he’d catch me playing in the alleys, I would have to endure the discomfort he gave me. He was touchy. He would ask for kisses which I’d have to comply so I can leave.

Sometimes, he invited me to come inside his house. I always said no.

I haven’t seen him for a long time now. He never did do anything to me that would bring him behind bars but the discomfort and fear he gave me that I would mask by smiling and playfully pulling away is something I’d carry with me. I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

He did come up in our childhood conversations. I guess I might never know if his behavior had malice behind it or he didn’t know what his actions made us kids feel. I‘m not even sure if I want to know. Maybe, this is why I did not mind leaving that home.

III. Moving away from my childhood home didn’t bother me. I did not experience a wave of nostalgia as we packed our bags. In fact, I think I 39

was more stressing out with what I was going to bring or leave. Saying our goodbyes to my grandparents and aunt, with whom I grew up with for 17 years, there were no tears, no hugs. We are not that kind of family.

I always attributed this lack of emotional farewell to the period that in which we moved. I was in college, the last time I talked in a nonawkward manner with my childhood playmates was probably when I was a high school sophomore. Half of the kids in my area went to the barangay’s schools while the other half (to which I belong) went to the schools in the city proper. So, when we begin to sprout in different parts of our young bodies, so did the gates stop clanging of sneaking kids, and the court in front of our house started to be filled by a new generation: toddlers that used to bother us when we played.

So there was it, I was already detached from the people of the place to be upset. Having to leave two of my four dogs, however, was the thing that made me upset.

I guess I just never actually had the feeling that I was leaving. I’m not sure if this means I am emotionally too healthy or I actually have a problem. Or maybe, I know that I can always come home.

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In Case of Theatrics HEZR ON G. P I O S

for Heideliza Pios Tito Satur once caught me in the midst of a heated superhero battle despite the contending rain outside. Out of familial concern, with an umbrella on his hand, he peered past our window, but to his dismay saw no missiles, no skyscrapers crumbling—only hands frantically wavering on midair and my mouth churning out movie-like sound effects.

Tito Satur later surmised that I was no ordinary child. Bunso is going to be an actor one day, he told mama. Good thing he never considered my eccentric movements quite alarming, though.

As a matter of fact, I was an eight-year old back then who was so engrossed with the invented worlds of my own disposition. Costly toys or action figures either bought from Jollibee or McDonald’s or birthdays presents sent to me by wealthy titas or distant relatives was not really my main thing since 1.) We can’t afford to buy the next ultimate thing endorsed on the television frequently, and 2. Why would I settle for something pre-packaged when I can customize on my own (not to mention the hundreds of versions inspired by the original)?

Perhaps you may have the privilege to pity me for a fullness of self-exile or a lack-of-interaction-with-the-other-street-kids sort of childhood.

But in my case, there was something more interesting and infinite beyond the materialism my youth entailed.

Each session mama would scold kuya after squandering an hour or two at the barangay basketball court, I could be found roaming around in the backyard minutes prior to it. Possibly daydreaming I had a twin brother or imagining a durable tree house perching atop the slender mahogany branches while immensely being blessed in gold by the afternoon.

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IL LU S T RAT I O N BY K EANU J O S EP H R AFI L

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Whenever I confirmed that tito Satur seemingly finished his daily clean-up at the pig pen a few yards away from the kitchen, I’ll think of myself as a telepath conversing with the nayon and her drift of idiks.

Sporadically, when I’m in the mood to interact, I’d feel like an irresistible star by default with several of my ate’s high school barkada because aside from having the perks of adorability, I had the knack to butt in with such wit during their wacky chitchats. Mana sa manang, ‘di ba?, ate would joke the group.

Until now, I am still wondering whether I just perfectly mimicked those “witty” remarks told shamelessly or I was only projecting myself again in the similar age as my sister’s peers. The habit soon became a practice which became a process for an intuitive seclusion.

Years ago, I had been a chunin whose regular abilities included running on water, skipping from tree to tree, and conjuring elemental ninjutsu when faced with merciless rivals. Years ago, I was a shaman in unknowable guises with the sole mission of encouraging discouraged folks to turn to their inner heroic selves; a guru for beginning fighters.

Years ago, I also led a union of interracial and interdimensional superpowered defenders of justice and of the weak. Years ago, I was an adept, intellectual detective, notably influenced by Conan, solving half-horror half-mystery cases bound exclusively to my elementary school.

These invariably had the same set of characters I fully knew so well or memorized barely by looks. To be a bearer of goodness, or at least to utterly feel good about myself, was the inherent bottomline. Years ago, I was merely a quarter of the Filipino poet I had never thought I could be.

Or maybe I’ve been fated to inhabit those roles with streaks of peculiarity in them all this time. For what this unusual flair presupposes have 43

been acts of solitude, commitment and eternal positivism; usual traits any fictional protagonist or a heart-tugging reality TV show winner must hold.

Because of a solitary practice, my hands, my voice and my eyes have morphed as something else more than their physiological value while I retained the imaginative nature of my past selves/personas.

Regarding things both nameable and ideal, I have this belief that I’d rather be in the moment than the one spectating it. Always the doer of the action, always the one anybody can cling to.

Whether it’s the pre-adolescent, once mistaken as potential actor Hezron performing a monologue or contending against distorted halimaws or the halimaws manifesting themselves again in the form of subliminal torture to the 19-year old me, the candor between these chasms has been consistently my interest for attention.

If tito Satur exhibited patience and curiosity by peering past the window despite rain in the backdrop, then I could also discover mundane moments worth passing to others as well. The way he narrated to mama remains as a dear reminder of him to me even after our transfer from Valladolid to Bacolod. Even after I considered the latter an irrefutable portion of my life story as well.

What we consider an action too miniscule, too involuntary, or too out of the blue can sometimes translate as the measurement of our character. To be as genial as tito Satur is a feat I must yet refine.

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Journal Entry #0317 MARTINI FAL CO

It was early weeks of summer, hot afternoons, bottled iced teas and thoughts of places where I wanted to go. I woke up late in an empty room and with an empty stomach. I hurriedly showered to the smell of filth that my body has excreted from yesterday’s errands. I spent an hour prepping for that day’s adventure. My dad left early for work.

I was a tourist in that city. A very crowded city, I’d say. I bore the heat, the pollution, the smell of gases out from the vehicles around the area, and the never-ending blabs of people. I bore all of it and alone.

It was a hot day but I wore my denim jacket that I got from a friend thinking that it might rain. I went to this event where my dad’s working.

I was just dragged by my dad to go with him. I left him hanging out with a bunch of his people and other businessmen for his work.

A friend visited me in the area where my dad was working. We said our ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s, hugged one another then got to our Grab. We both sat in the backseat of the car — filled with long silence along the way to this new city nearby. I tried reaching out my hand to grab his but he hugged me instead. He somehow made this vacation an adventure.

Made it to the city. Was there to reconcile — to have closure. We’ve been “friends” for 7 months after not seeing each other in flesh. That day was unforgettable. He made it unforgettable. I spent the whole afternoon with him. Then we went to a museum, had burgers for lunch, shared stories and laughter.

I tried reaching out inside a bookstore, hoping I’d get the answer that I’ve been wanting to hear. So I handed him a book by Jenny Han, “P.S. I Still Love You” but I ended up receiving a “Don’t Even Think About It” book in return. That was it. I laughed with a bit of tear in my right eye.

You said it’s time to go home so we went to your bus stop. We waited 45

in line and with silence. When your bus came, we hugged one last time. Then it rained. See? My intuition was right.

Our ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s turned into a 7-letter-word, ‘goodbye.’ The last hug was warm.

Seeing you made me happy. Genuinely happy. Thank you for letting me explore your world and for loving me.

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SHORT STORIES

ART BY KAR EN PANG A NI BA N

The Arrow’s Make LY L E B AL AN A

I L LU S T R AT I O NS BY S ET H PULLONA

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I

I. Sindos

n the land of Sindos, there was a mortal named Kataragina. His deeds were great, drawing from the blood of his otherworldly ancestors, and the spirits of those who have passed were strong in him. He could have been a great warrior, with his strength of bone and mountain, or he could have been a mighty hunter, with senses as keen as the wind and river. Yet he chose to tend to talents that did not exactly align with his natural gifts. To keep pace with the peace in life, Kataragina became a farmer and a fisherman.

At first the Sindal mocked him. “Lo,” they said, first in whispers, then in voices, then in baying boasts that rang from village to village, “if we would have but a portion of Kataragina’s power, we would be as gods in this land. This land is nothing but trees, and hills, and rivers crossing over banks that have not seen blood in centuries. We were but half of his strength, we would have churned out stories that would be passed from generation to generation, stories that would sing of the sword and the shield. The land would be marked by the graves of our enemies! Sindos would rise with us!”

“Lo,” others whimpered, first in the secret places, then in their homes, then finally before the grumbling crowds that both hungered and thirsted, “if we would have but one of his senses, this Kataragina, we would be the best scouts and hunters in this land! This land, where the trees are closed off to all but the animals which have made them their home; this land, where the streams weave through rocks and underground passages! We would have weaved through this land like a needle through compliant cloth, and the thread that we leave would coax forth villages! Towns! Cities that would become mighty from feasts of boar and bird! Would he but lend us an eye, for which to count the beating of the birds’ wings? Would he but lend us a nose, to lend us the scent of the fading boar? Truly he is without compassion!”

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But the people of Sindos were mistaken. Kataragina was a very compassionate man indeed, for he understood that the land was not one to be conquered. It was not a book where great deeds were to be written on the bodies of their kin. It was not a larder where the strong would but draw what they required, provided by the lives of those who could not understand how to protect themselves. Kataragina loved the land, and he made sure that his presence would protect it, sustaining it for as long as he lived. And with that, he learned the ways of those that would live with it. His human nature would still take from nature, but he would do so with the least amount of damage to the environment possible. For him, was not the earth the mother of men? And would a mother tolerate petty arguments that would cut short the lives of her children? With the power granted to him by his lineage, he would become a warden of the woods, a steward of men who would not seek everlasting glory but the pleasures of building a future.

Kataragina’s farming was not harsh. He did not burn his way through the forest, but he picked out a tiny plain, studying the properties of the soil with his superior senses. He sniffed out the composition of the minerals with his nose, and measured the quality of particles with his hand. His eyes mapped out the extent of his chosen plot’s fertility, and his sharp ears alerted him to the animals which might, in haste, take from what he had chosen as his.

Once he had made the necessary preparations, he tilled his land with a huge forked branch, baring the flesh of the soil with deep furrows that stretched from end to end. He cast seeds of barley and fruit upon his land, and when they had grown into crops, he took sparingly and gave much. His choice of land and sapling made it so that his harvest was thrice as much as those of a much larger plot, which squandered the nature of the land with a focus on wasteful ease. Three years passed, and each year he kept the same amount of harvest with different products - for Kataragina understood the value of rotation, having seen it during his sojourns in the wood, where seasons and weather caused

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different plants to cycle in the undergrowth and flourish all the same.

When the people of Sindos saw what his work had wrought, they came to him and begged him for the secrets of his success. He pacified them, for he saw in their eyes that they thought him a terrible and vengeful man, with all his gifts of strength - they feared that he would strike them without much thought, and their lack of power would offer no resistance to a man thus scorned by being sought for supplication, when all that was given to him was scorn. He taught them all he knew, to be applied to their plots that showed most promise, with but one warning - that they not expand their holdings through blade and fire, unless it had become necessary through weight of numbers. At first the people followed his requirements through the agency of fear, for they still thought him a terrible and vengeful man, but as another year passed and they saw that what he had laid out was good, they found contentment in their hearts, and maintained a vigil of routine ever since.

Feeling that his work was done, Kataragina turned to another concern fishing. In his travels through the forests he had chanced upon the rivers of Sindos that gave themselves to underground caves and beyond, and within them plenty of fish sought the safety of the mawed underworld, blind yet free. Kataragina took stock of them, deciding that in their numbers they would make for a sustainable food source, where no young would be caught in an errant net, and where their populations would never be decimated by human greed, such was their place in their hidden places. He took for himself the same forked branch that he had used to plow his land, and cleaved it in twain, then fastened a string of dried vines on its end, and fastened a hook of fishbone at the end of that. He then cast this rod twice a day, taking eight fishes from the caves, enticing them to bite onto the hook with the intoxicating scent of the forest berries.

And so he lived that way, day and night, for quite some time.

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II. Xina In the land of Xina, there was a general with no equal. His name was Ping, but in reverence, almost everyone called him General Ping. He was the one who had never failed. His emperor, Quol Thin, he of the August Jade Palace, would call on his lesser minions to settle skirmishes, or campaigns against those perceived not to be equal with the empire, when an opponent proved to be more formidable than expected, or when heroes rallied their men to make last stands costly to the military machine of the Imperial Standard, General Ping would be roused from his cantonment to dispense of the enemy with his superior tactical brilliance.

Ten times Quol Thin commanded Ping to conquer, and ten times, Ping acquiesced. His deeds became legend. The tribute from the countries he had conquered sustained the luxurious nature of the state. Gold, silver, ore, horses and jewels flowed from the Southern Territories, while wheat, fruit, spa rocks, magnetic iron, and gunpowder came from the Western Territories. The products that they gained from decades of warfare came with no small amount of grief - even now the graveyards in Xina had become ten times their size, but those that remained to enjoy the fruits of empire-forging had no sore words to express to the Emperor and his grand dream.

For Xina’s destiny was merely not to become an illustrious state, but to become a bearer of the world, where the East and the West would recognize but one country as the ruler of all kings. Quol Thin had not reached the midday of his life, yet his ambitions had flared up like a dying sun, intoxicated by the successes of the General Ping. In his mind, certain thoughts rang. What were ten countries to one, with Ping as its spear? What would a hundred countries be to the one who had sundered ten? For the scholars of his academies had told him this; there were a hundred countries all over the known places. And, they also proclaimed, Xina was foremost of them all, and would be truly ascendant if they could thus usher the rest of those that remained out 52

of reach underneath the auspices of the Imperial Standard.

The country was content, and Quol Thin was content, but there was one that was restless within the country. General Ping himself, enabler of the strategies that could take ten countries, commander of awe that pried open prideful hearts to create a marching army without equal in pitched battle, purveyor of scientists and soothsayers that led him through the murkier decisions of his career, was not happy. He adored his emperor, and considered him to be a righteous exponent of the empire’s will, but he was tired of his work. He had tried to pour out his teachings to his chosen disciples, but none of them possessed the peculiar mixture that granted Ping his fortuitous success. One took from his teachings an iron will, another took sheer charm, still another constructed a sharp mind from all the experience laid out in his works, and the last one simply complemented natural talent with an arrogant and bloodthirsty mindset. None of them would hold up to his scrutiny alone, but together they might make something of themselves. But, 53

as Ping had foreseen through his penchant for predicting movements, they would not succeed in this effort. They did not want to continue the power of the Empire, but the prestige of their teacher’s position.

This gave him none of the regret he had expected from his position.

There was a reason why General Ping was not one to be paraded around for the people of Xina, why he was sentenced for most of his life to be imprisoned behind a silken wear and a helmet that clasped round his head. For even though he was well versed in the culture of the country, and had lived out as one of the Xina, he was not of them by blood. For long ago, he had been but a lad in the far-off country of Sindos. He looked around him, in his youth, at the listless trees and the flowing rivers, and decided that here he would make a legend for himself. He would lead the armies of the Sindal outwards from the country to conquer the territories without, to take the gold from the Sinnar Spears and the silver from the Thamax people, and the horses from the confederates of the Widened Skeins. He would make a name for himself and for the people of Sindos. They would take the hundred countries of the world, and would live like kings forever.

But the Sindal rejected him. For though he was a man of infinite cunning, tempered by wisdom beyond his nascent, bellicose ways, his body was weak and pale. He was but a wisp before the wind, and though his plans bore weight, his own people simply saw a man given to senescence, destined for a quiet death. And so they mocked him with sharp words, and drove him on with sharp blows, and finally cast him away with their scorn.

He had sworn vengeance that day. He had promised that he would find a country that would aid him in conquering Sindos. They would see his face, and rue the very day they had rejected him. At least, that had been the plan.

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I. Sindos Kataragina had expected his fishing enterprise to be brought to a swift conclusion. But he had forgotten that even a man like him was but a child of the earth, and the waters would dull the reign of even the best of heroes. He was mighty in strength and unequaled in senses, but the rivers and streams of Sindos did not allow him to exercise his talents to the full. When he swam the rivers to see their depth, the waters pushed upon him on all sides; his limbs were seized by a slowing agent which he had never felt when he dashed against the will of the wind, and his breathing was stifled by the churning foam that his swimming inevitably stirred at the surface. And when he opened his eyes to try and take stock of the riverbed, the lack of light impeded his desires, and soon the water itself stung his eyeballs, forcing him to rise to regain his composure. Thus was his work slowed down to near nothingness.

A more impatient man would have decided to abandon this selfappointed duty and rest on his laurels, but Kataragina was not born from hubris. He had taken his unnatural burden in order to follow what he thought as right, and something as trivial as difficulty was infinitely less than the crime of surrendering to iniquity. He had his gifts, and he must use them to the full, even though the very labor with which he set out to do seemed to reject him at every turn.

One day, as he decided to rest, a large and friendly dog came upon him as he lay on the riverbank. He showed no fear, despite Kataragina being an imposing master of the forest, with a bow-like structure on his shoulder and the beginnings of a spear-tip clasped upon his hand, which, with ease, could be leveraged into a knife if circumstances so called. The dog trotted up to the exhausted man and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, as all dogs of its make were wont to do. This show of unwarranted benevolence caught Kataragina’s attention, and he then decided that this dog would take a share in his life.

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He fed the friendly dog on a diet of fish that he had experimentally acquired from different rivers and streams using a number of diverse methods. Some he would catch by net, woven from thin roots and twirled bark. Others he would catch using his traditional hook-andline method, with the capture assisted by the enticing lure of the forest berries. He made traps of wood and twine, testing them at different points of the rivers to find out which place fooled the most fish into his carefully constructed simulacrums. The dog’s belly was filled to bursting with the daily treats, but when it tired of the constant fare of fish-meal, Kataragina would introduce him to the joys of unleavened bread, which they devoured together when the currents swelled and the blind-fish became all but invincible from the devices of man.

Kataragina loved the dog with all of his heart. It was the first time that an animal approached him without malice or the trappings of enslavement. The dog approached him of its own free will, seemingly a child of the very woods itself, all slobbering tongue and wet, shiny fur. Though it would partake of its companion’s catch, the dog was not bound to him alone, and would wander away from him when the sun started to slip away from the intricate patchwork of the canopy overhead, melting into the night like so many days before him. But always, when heat returned to the world, the dog would return.

Kataragina named the dog Ganil, after one of his otherworldly ancestors. Ganil was a watchman without peer, but when he took to the vows of marriage, his vision slacked off, and on a day of fateful retribution the wheel of fate turned its terrible vows to his destruction.

A rampage of boars tore through his village as he slept, and though he was unharmed, the tide of porcine bodies trampled every other villager, including his beloved family. Thus did Ganil become a watchman of the wood, and thus did the dog Ganil gain its name.

The dog soon proved useful to Kataragina’s project when it, by some work of dog-derived logic, started to understand what he toiled after. For as sharp as Kataragina’s senses were, the dog’s was sharper, 57

and many a day had he been led through a path which he had seemingly tread into the ground, only to find that he had missed the beginnings of water sheltered beyond a sharp corner. With the dog’s help, the task which had seemed so hopeless began to show the inklings of possibility.

Bit by bit, his mental map of the forest increased. His navigation of the secret rivers became truer, and he started to delve into the caves with more confidence. Where bland rock and root once lay became a turnstile, an avenue, an arrow towards the next location. The forest, the caves, the rivers became less and less of a natural formation to him as he gained relevant information about them. He considered to leave markings into the places where he had been in order to make it easier for the Sindal to follow in his ways, but the creed that he had sworn held him fast. He decided that he would simply have to develop a system of thought- one that would allow those with knowledge of it the ability to traverse the forest and its rivers at will. This, he decided, would be his last work. This will be the one which he would present to the Sindal before he would retreat to a new life of his choosing, free at last from his mission to bring his abilities to full use.

II. Xina

An Account of the Ten Campaigns of the Renown Historian Li Po General Ping of the Auspicious Jade Palace rose to his position in the year 1080, where the dragons roamed the Eternal Heavens, freeing it from the year of the Demon Pig Xai Han. In this capacity, General Ping became the senior military advisor of the Empire of Xina. His word will and shall override dissent or priorities set by any official under the Imperial Standard. Only the Jade Throne itself shall hold sovereignty over the General Ping’s powers of diction and articulation.

General Ping, at his own behest, may take over any campaign of importance over the management of the officials assigned under the 58

Regular Army Imperial Standard. His authority is immediate and absolute, and it is the responsibility of the affected officials to adjust their roles in the shortest amount of time possible, without exceeding the approved time of 28 so drum beats, approximately a single day under the sun of Xina. Failure to comply is subject to summary execution.

General Ping, in all of his history as the General of the Auspicious Jade Palace, had never used this power outside of the command of the Jade Throne.

General Ping had been set into his work as a senior military advisor, and in turn, supreme commander of the Imperial Standard forces, ten times.

The subjugation of the land of Sinnar, where the Golden Spears shine The campaign against the people of Sinnar under the management of General Tai Mo was taking too long for the Jade Throne’s taste. Fed up with the excuses of Tai Mo, the Jade Throne ordered his swift execution and called upon his General to take hold of the campaign. The troops under Tai Mo were resentful of such a change, but to contradict the throne was to court death. Morale was low among the forces of Xina, while the Spears were determined to make them pay with blood and bodies for every foot gained.

General Ping took stock of Sinnar’s geography. The entire city-state was built upon a gold-rich mountain, with steep passages that were easily defensible with pole-arms. The city was closed off by a massive solid wall, and the Xina’s siege engines were too weak to penetrate the walls from their location at the bottom of the mountain.

In response to this, General Ping ordered his men to construct a humongous contraption of his own design that was to be filled with 59

water. After 191 so drum beats, this was achieved. The Sinnar did not attempt any sort of sortie at this time.

The contraption was then rolled onto the base of the mountain.

The resulting deluge ate away at a vulnerable portion of the mountain, causing the collapse of the entire landform in a matter of 7 so drum beats. The Sinnar were annihilated to the last man.

The subjugation of the Thamax, the proud people of war The campaign against the people of the Thamax was never a question of success. The Imperial Standard had more troops, better arms, and far better grasp of tactics. The problem was that the Thamax did not mind any of these. Their culture was centered around the worship of silver as their god, and as the nearby tribes coveted their god, they had developed into a nihilistic, fatalistic lot, believing that the only thing that mattered was the continuation of their god’s purity.

They believed that sullying their mines of non-Thamaxian hands would bring about the end of the world.

As a result of this situation, no executions were ordered. General Ping was commanded to find a way to subdue the Thamax in order to reduce the damage to the forces of the Imperial Standard, as their enemies fought like men possessed - and indeed, they might be.

General Ping assembled a wondrous war-costume and took a chariot to the battlefield. Presenting himself as a war-god, he told the Thamaxians that he was there to marry their god, and would therefore partake of it as any self-respecting spouse would. The high priests of the tribe accepted this proposal, and Ping left an unfortunate subordinate to serve as his avatar for future parleys.

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The annihilation of the Widened Skeins The Widened Skeins were a band of nomads that prowled the southmost deserts near Xina. Beyond this desert lay the countries where much good wine was sold, and the Jade Throne desired to trade for the wine. But the Skeins believed, rightfully so, that the Imperial Standard would take away the lands that belonged rightfully to them.

Thus they mobilized their cataphracts to intercept the caravans that Xina sent.

Xina had some knowledge of the art of horses, but never like this.

The horses tore through their troops like the Huiming River when the summer rains settled, while their spears glanced away at the superior armor of the horses.

Once more General Ping was summoned. He berated the general assigned to the task, a young official called Bei Fi, and ordered those who were willing to give their life for Xina to creep along the plains at night, wearing uniforms that have been rolled over in sand to camouflage their progress.

Once within the camp, General Ping, through a signal of torches, ordered an attack. Without the momentum gained from cataphract charge, the Skeins fell. So bitter was the company sent to carry out this offensive that they left no survivor, man nor animal.

The alliance with Telmont The Kingdom of Telmont was rich in superior metals, that Xina knew. If the Jade Throne were to gain a chance at subjugating more territories beyond the small countries, they would have to deal with Telmont. Their sale of weapons would effectively fortify the position of any country that felt threatened by Xina. Stopping them was a top priority of the Auspicious Jade Palace, but the Jade Throne knew that 61

they risked losing face before such a moderately powerful opponent, with its own share of alliances.

General Ping provided the answer. He had somehow learned about the culture of Telmont and knew how they operated, and so he went under the guise of a diplomat to broker a treaty with the Lord of Telmont. He appealed to the Lord’s vanity, telling him that the Jade Throne sought to parley with an equal and join an alliance with the Telmont Kingdom.

The flattered Lord practically signed away his leverage, dooming the western conquests.

The destruction of the Serpent’s Clan Before Xina was able to turn its attention to the western reaches, the Lord of Telmont had but one request - they help the Kingdom eliminate a very slippery foe. The Serpent’s Clan was a terrorist cell,

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the very first of its kind in the world in terms of capacity. They operated a rogue state in the woods of Inpad, where its borders with Sindos were shaky at best. There they carried out attacks of increasing brutality and complexity.

The General Ping’s solution was fire. He cut, then burned, a nearly perfect square line around the suspected abode of the Serpent’s Clan.

Then when this was done, he set the vegetation within the square on fire. Within the square, and above the crackling of the massive amounts of wooden tinder, screams could be heard, and the sizzling hiss of immolated flesh was carried out of the conflagration, along with a powerful stench that spoke of the dead.

When this deed was done, Telmont granted Xina 1,250 premium metals and ores.

The Campaign of the Western Alliance The greatest challenge against the expansion of Xina was the rise of the so-called Western Alliance. The countries and states west of Xina had seen how their gargantuan neighbor had acted against the agencies of almost every sovereign entity south of their holdings, and they did not wish to share the fate of those that had gone before into oblivion. After the Meeting of the Five Kings, they combined their armies, their resources, and their holdings into a huge resistance force that would cover all of their front flanks. The kingdoms of Korza, Jamuc, Antelia, Fels, and Tiurta stood together, an army of combined arms that united the unique characteristics of each force over a mostly plain battlefield.

The Five Kings expected Xina, in their pride, to attack head on, where they would then stand a proper chance of defeating them in outright combat. However, the General Ping once more summoned the

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cunning within him. He had his armies take the wood that remained from Inpad and construct a hidden fleet of ships, fit to hold at least five armies of the Imperial Standard. The rest he disguised as an army many more times its size, parading it within sight of the Alliance troops.

A captain from the Kingdom of Fels, one Artu Belc, believed that Xina did not show enough of its fabled military strength. He proposed his theory to his commanding officer, but he was rebuked and sent back to the front to prepare for the purported Xina advance. But in direct defiance of official orders, he rallied his personal cohort of riflemen and raced home towards Fels in order to gain more forces and to add strength to the coast, where only the home guard was located.

The General Ping carried out his order. The false army provoked the main Alliance army into a full-on confrontation, and when the troops mobilized for a confrontation, they melted into the nearby towns and cities, making the Army devolve into several hunting parties, believing they had routed a cowardly foe. The five armies attacked the coast of Fels.

Here the General Ping encountered his most severe fight. Artu Belc was no esteemed commander, but he knew the lay of the coast and his men were masters of the rifle. The scouting ships that he sent out to secure a beachhead were all shot to death by accurate fire out of range of the imperial longbows, and their siege weapons could never hit the mobile rangers that bobbed in and out of the coastline. For three days the ships were suspended out at sea, floating in a stalemate that was starting to prove dangerous to morale, and to General Ping’s head.

But he executed his most astonishing gambit yet. General Ping depopulated a single ship, the Fumiyang, and placed all of its spare boats behind it, intending to ram it through shallow water as far as it would be taken. With such a huge obstacle, the rangers’ fire could not penetrate it, and going closer would put them at range within the 64

bows. As soon as the Fumiyang ran aground, Artu Belc saw it for how it was and surrendered. The Five Kings Alliance was no more.

I. Sindos Kataragina’s hand curled around the bloody scroll, shaking with rage. He had drawn it from the arrow that had struck Ganil dead, streaking as it did from the sky like a killing meteor.

All he had seen here were boasts, boasts of a faraway oppressor that would take it upon themselves to take the world for their own to benefit but the superior few. He wondered why the arrow would be fired there, as there would be no need to intimidate the world of their power- events like these were well-known, though not to the detail that the records had espoused.

And then he realized it. This was not empty propaganda. This was a threat.

He stood up from the ground that he had cherished for so long, which he had tilled gently with a forked branch. He wiped away the tears from his face, the liquid dripping to the ground and slipping back to the rivers which he had plied with one half of that forked branch.

He held the bloody scroll in his strength, watching the arrow that had robbed Ganil of life. His friend lay there, frozen in the throes of death, fangs and tongue scattered like crazy from its mouth, its coat soaked through and through with blood. Its fur now shone with the scarlet joy of blood.

He picked up the body of his dead dog, and started to skin it. He would wrap the hide round the shaft, and fire it back to whomever sent it. Of this he was sure. He swore that it would indeed return. By his

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name, by Kataragina, he would swear it.

III. Sinnar The arrow tore past the Xinan battle standard planted there years ago. It toppled to the ground, raising dust.

IV. Thamax The arrow tore through the avatar of the Xinan war god, removing his heart from his body. Upon his death, the Thamax declared their god divorced and spent the next two hours butchering the Xinan outpost.

V. Widening Skeins The arrow tore through the shrubbery that hid the graves of the Skeins from view. They were now revealed to the sun, their memory to the world restored.

VI. Telmont The arrow flew past the eyes of a doubtful prince, son of the King of Telmont. It bored a hole through a nearby Xinan flag. The prince’s eyes flashed. He reached into his coat to caress the dagger that he had hidden for so long.

10 drum beats later, there was a new king in Telmont.

VII. Serpent’s Clan The blood of Ganil splattered upon the razed lands of Inpad. Grass started to grow where the drops settled.

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VIII. The Five Kings Alliance The news spread fast to the Western Alliance. General Ping was dead! Xina was in disarray! Already their troops in Fels were pulling out.

All the peoples rejoiced, believing that their salvation had not been anything less than divine.

II. Xina The panicked Jade Guard found General Ping, dead from an arrow wrapped in a dog’s fur, where blood had dried before his own had splashed it red anew. In his death-grasp was a letter. When it was read for investigation, it said: I, General Ping, sought out my homeland, Sindos, with the aid of a magical arrow I had brought from the land so long ago. In it I placed my achievements, and I sent it out in the hope that the Sindal would at least be proud of me.

I, General Ping, received their reply. And as I fade in the floor of my quarters, I smell its unnatural scent.

My room finally smells of home.

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PHO TO BY J H O N AL DR I N C AS I NAS

What is dead cannot be STAR L EN E JOY B . P O RT ILLO

T

he water surges on, though there were no more dishes left to clean. She remains rooted: one hand frozen above the faucet knob, while the other grips the windowsill that frames her in.

Her mind wanders beyond the stainless glass window, outside to a lone tree, half-bowed, its arms raised in a fuse of prayer and total surrender.

It hums her back to age five: Mother leaning by the threshold, arms crossed as she gazes at Father reading the girl’s favorite fairytale, Jack and the Beanstalk. Every night started with the same old Once Upon a Time, but she falls soundly asleep before The End. Father never got to read her The End though, so the girl never knew what happened. All she felt she needed to know was that the beans were magic, and it could take her to castle clouds where Mother said that Father would be watching.

The closest thing she got to plant was a mango tree. Day in, night out, the girl tended to her only chance of a stairway, in the hope that just like the beanstalk, it would lead her straight to what she heeds as treasure.

It has been ten years now, and the water from the faucet continues to hiss. The girl is rooted still as another man Mother wanted her to call Father stood behind her, jabbing his privates and hands slithering all over her. The girl’s eyes, dried out from years of tears, are still glued to the same old childhood tree. It has never managed to touch the sky, but it sure was enough to muffle her screams.

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Apples JAM I E B E N T I N GA N A N

T

he paring knife had been poised in the air hovering over the apple for a fair few moments when he suddenly got up and took it from me.

“Careful,” he said, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

I sat back and handed him the apple. I watched him carefully peel the fruit, the skin pared away in one long continuous trailing piece.

This is how he will hurt me: only once but it will be carefully deliberately done over a long continuous period. And I will have handed myself over to him, my heart a bright red apple to his knife.

“I’m always careful when I hurt myself.”

We both smiled.

He handed me a slice of the apple and waited till I took a bite before he did the same. He said he didn’t really like apples, but we ate them anyway because he knew I liked them.

--First, he told me that she broke his heart. And then he told me she was beautiful, but that beauty was just a bonus. I could tell even then that the air of nonchalance was fake. It couldn’t hide the layer of awe he had wrapped around this memory of her. But he’d prefaced the story with his heartbreak, and so I heard that first and remembered the latter only vaguely. I was beautiful and unafraid of another beautiful woman who lay safely tucked away in the past.

I should have known to listen harder.

I should have known to hear past his disdain and hear the echo of his still pining for her. She cast a long shadow and I could have been just anybody standing underneath it. I was just a stand-in, a substitute.

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PHO TO S BY M ART I NI FAL C O

--How does a house with just two people in it feel so crowded?

I would cook dinner for two but it felt like a secret taste-tester was lurking in the shadows, judging my food.

“She baked, you know.”

No darling, I didn’t know. And if we had had an oven, you would have known that I baked too. I make pizza from scratch, by the way.

--We were eating apples in the kitchen when he suddenly brought her up.

“I saw her at the seminar. I didn’t know she was going to be there.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I didn’t want to talk to her but she approached me and I didn’t want to be a jerk . . . ” “Why don’t you just get back together?”

My voice rose with emotion. His face twisted in an expression of sadness.

“Why are you so eager to give me back to her? I’m with you now. I don’t want to go back to her.”

Darling, you never left her. I wasn’t giving you back; you never even made it to me.

I held him in my arms. I used his body to hold myself up.

I left him after that.

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I wish.

I stayed four more years.

I actually left once, after a year of being together. After three days, I came back. He had kept the light on for me. Surely, I thought, the shadow must be gone. He was my home and I was going to settle in.

I didn’t know that her shadow was just going to get longer.

--I had just bought a bag of apples when he told me he was leaving. We had been fighting more often then, but it still caught me off guard.

He gave me his reasons. He’d made a mistake, he didn’t want to hurt me anymore. So many years later and he finally wanted to stop hurting 73

me.

I still wanted to save us though. Us being who exactly? Me and this man who obviously loved someone else.

I knew, and yet here I was, pushing him to keep my heart in his hands.

But this time his fists were clenched. My heart turned brown in the air.

“Why don’t you just get back together with her? She still loves you.”

I wasn’t even angry when I said this. It was just something I had known.

“Why should I? She broke my heart.”

And you broke mine, but here I am.

--It’s been a while, but I still don’t like to eat apples.

I can’t stand the thought of bringing apples into my home.

Somewhere another girl is standing under a shadow, and here I live alone.

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Where I end and the Sea begins ALV I N L EGA RIO

“

Captain!” Lydia shouted while running towards my direction.

Whether she knew she was a mere stumble away from falling to her death or simply did not care, I did not know.

As she ran towards me I could not help but notice her long wavy hair dancing in the wind looking even more beautiful as the sunlight reflected against each strand of mahogany. Her hazel eyes reflecting each memory we had, smiling with her curving lips.

She threw herself into “my arms and, as if instinctively, I caught her with ease.

“You caught me!” she said laughing.

“Of course My Lydia, I will always catch you,” I replied, barely holding back the tears as I spun her twice and finally settled her on the grass.

“Oh, thank God you’re here. I almost thought you’d leave without saying goodbye. Come, today I will show you the eyes of the Island and my namesake, St. Lydia’s waterfall. We can...”

“This will be my last day in the village.”

I cut her short. Lydia has to know the truth.

“Oh. I see.” she replied.

Although Lydia’s eyes shifted ever so slightly, her smile was still present, masking her emotions. Was that agony? Relief? Anger? I do not know.

We sat in the grass for a moment, on top of the cliff overlooking the island where time slips through. Every care in the world dissipates with the shores crashing on the sand in the distant below. They speak that birds of paradise flock here during winter to find their partner.

Such a place does not need to be tarnished.

“Are your supplies sufficient? I wouldn’t want you to run out of food 75

in the middle of the sea. We can pass by the market before you leave, I wouldn’t mind. I’m sure Erin would hate for you to leave without saying goodbye.” she said, breaking the silence.

“They are are more than enough. Thank you.” I replied, breaking her.

Lydia could not bear it any longer. Droplets of tears ran down her cheeks, and with them memories we shall never have again.

“Perhaps you’ll come back again someday?” she asked softly.

“Perhaps.”

She knew that perhaps meant no, and no meant the end of what we shared. The final nail in the coffin for her acceptance to a reality that I will never come back.

I cannot do it. I cannot tell her the truth. I should let her have these memories, at least that I can give.

“Maybe in another life we can meet again? In a different time, and a different place, maybe we could go to the waterfall,” Lydia said as I watched the sun set in silence. Flashes of images of what could have been rushed my mind.

I held her, and for a moment the birds of paradise would come home to a place absence of pain, until the sun began to set.

“Shall I take you back to your estate?”

“No. I would very much like to admire the breeze for a moment,” she replied, closing her eyes, as the soft summer breeze crept up her skin, kissing her gently.

“All my life I’ve been longing to see the shades. The warmth of yellow, the lust of purple, the hope of blue. Never in my lifetime would I have thought that in a span of a few days, a person could have made me feel what the colors are.”

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“Lydia... Goodbye,” and with that I left. I had to.

“Till we meet again, Captain,” she wonderfully screamed at the top of her lungs.

I looked back one last time: and I saw Lydia one last time, her hair calmly dancing this time, the sun rays reflecting on them, the girl that opened my eyes, only for me to shut them close again. The girl who the sun worships, goodbye.

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Estrella I R I S D E N I S E R I V E RA

W

hen I was 7, I found out my Lolo had the strange habit of walking around town well after dark. My bedtime was at 8pm sharp so I never noticed it before. I always thought Lolo was a strange man of little words. Once, he sat me on his lap and asked me if I remembered “her”. I did not understand what he meant at the time.

The night I found out, I woke up from a nightmare. It was near midnight and I could hear Mama and Lolo talking outside. I peeked through the crack of the bedroom door and saw Mama giving Lolo his coat.

“You’re getting too old for this, Pa,” I heard her say.

Lolo just smiled and tipped his hat off to her before walking out the door. He was about 70 then. I remember him walking funny—in small, shaky steps.

Mama saw me peeking through the crack and I scampered to go back to bed. When she called my name, I pretended to be asleep. I heard her laugh so I opened an eye. I sat back up and apologized.

“Pangga, there’s no need to be sorry. Do you want to know where your Lolo went?”

I nodded my head yes. She ushered me to the window and asked me what star caught my eye the most.

“That one,” I said, pointing at the biggest and brightest star just over the diwata hills.

Mama proceeded to tell me the story of how Lolo walks through the town and into the gubat ng mga diwata. She said there was a small path, a shortcut to the top of the hills. Apparently, Lolo liked to sit there and talk to the stars. I laughed loudly but Mama shushed me with a small smile.

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I L LU S T R AT I O N BY S ET H PULLONA

“You know, Pangga, sometimes I wish the stars could talk to your Lolo, too,” Mama said looking back out the window. I looked out, too. The biggest and brightest star looked so close to the top of the hills. I imagined Lolo holding the ball of light in his hands and kissing it good night.

“Can I go with Lolo tomorrow night?,” I asked Mama. She laughed again and told me maybe I could when I grew older.

By the time I turned 10, I moved to the city, and I never got to go with Lolo to the diwata hills. The city was beautiful and sometimes I would pretend the street lights were stars. If I tried hard enough, I could see the same big and bright star from my childhood just a little to the east.

Lolo passed away two weeks ago. He was buried at the top of the diwata hills that he loved so much. I returned to the village to visit him. I had a sleeping bag and a few canned goods ready. Near midnight, I walked through the town and through the gubat ng mga diwata. It should have been frightening but there was a sense of calm that filled me while walking through those woods. Like fairies guiding me.

When I reached the top and saw his tombstone, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. It was next to another tombstone, decades older than his. I recognized Lola Estrella’s name instantly. I asked permission from the diwatas to pick a few wildflowers and laid them on my grandparents’ graves.

I set up my sleeping bag and looked at the small village just a little to the west of the hill. The street lights look like stars. I laid my head on a rolled-up shirt and looked at the night sky. The moon was full so there were few stars that could outshine it, but a big and bright one twinkled just beside it. If I angled my head just the right way, it would look like they were touching. As if the moon were kissing the star goodnight.

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COMICS

ART BY M AR I A ANG EL I C A AP E & MA RT I NI FA LCO

Wrinkle

BY S E T H P U L L O N A

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83

Home is..

BY KEAN U JO SE P H RA F IL

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85

86

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SCR BES & SCRIBBLERS

IL LUSTRATIO N S BY: KE ANU JOSE P H RA FIL L ANCE MI L I TA R WORDS BY: H E ZR ON P I OS I R I S R I VE RA ALVI N L E G ARIO

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FIND THE OBJECTS LISTED BELOW:

1

Luna Moth

7

Telephone

13 Trekker boots

2

Katana

8

Rococo portrait

14 Lava lamp

3

Viking ship

9

Porcelain teacup

15 Pincushion cactus

4

Parasol

10 Crystal Ball

5

80’s Afro Wig

11 Chess board

6

Chandelier

12 Coffee mug

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FIND THE OBJECTS LISTED BELOW:

16 Unicorn head

21 Pillow

26 Moon

17

Jetpack

22

Butterfly

27 Floor rug

18

Bean bag chair

23

Umbrella

28 Gramophone

19 PSP

24

Lamp

20 Mason Jar

25 Chameleon

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1. Lex Diwa P. Aloro - A forest sprite in the guise of a luna moth. This cuddly predator is also capable of blurring reality e.g. appearing as a giant bat.

2. Kurt Tee - Bloodbath and glory are the expertise of this crystal katana.

It used to be wielded by one of the Four Great Emperors of Brunei.

3. Alvin Legario - A Viking ship replica made out of bird bones by legendary Scandinavian artist, Brian Xell. Previous caretakers claimed that they’ve seen it levitating as if powered by the materials it’s made of.

4. Iris Denise Rivera - This Victorian-era parasol was presumed as Queen Antonia’s favorite parasol to the point that a part of her soul already inhabited it.

5. Shara Mae Pelayo - An 80s Afro-wig which spiked in sales after Cyndi Lauper exhibited a variant of it during a sold-out concert in Italy; catapulting love in hues and colors for the world to appreciate.

6. Nichol Francis Anduyan - Every time a person shouts “Four!”, this candle-style chandelier is said to swing frantically around the room controlled by a faceless blonde poltergeist.

7. Maria Angelica M. Ape - A non-contemporary wired telephone that incessantly rings when the homeowners are out in the club and sipping that bub.

8. Jowan Guides - A Rococo portrait that cries blood every time an outdoor creature e.g. toads, rattlesnakes, rhinoceros enter the safety perimeters.

9. Victoria Marian B. Belmis - Is a gold-lined and slightly chipped porcelain teacup that Ernest Hemingway allegedly used to discreetly

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drink absinthe from while writing A Farewell to Arms.

10. Wandy - This crystal ball heirloom went missing for three long centuries after an ousting was predicted by the Oracle of Menestheus.

It also holds the key to a secured treasure place buried in the Chilean mountains.

11. Andrea Gamboa - A chess board bought from the Wonderland has mystical powers such as animating its pieces and enlarging to become a dance floor.

12. Andrea Farol - The anti-gravity NASA coffee mug in which Neil Armstrong placed maroon sediments from the moon’s craters.

13. Joshua Guanco - A pair of muddy trekker boots worn by a Silaynon veteran who fought in the Bloodless War of the Angels.

14. Lyle Balana - Orion’s treasured galaxy lava lamp. Legend says that if you play Disco Fever while the lamp is on, Orion delivers a custom-made leather belt at your doorstep.

15. Lance Militar - A small Pincushion cactus that was diligently watered every three days until it was discovered that it was made of plastic.

16. Keanu Rafil - This unicorn head mount brought from Sagay was a mythical creature worshipped in the ancient times especially by the Babaylan. Records say that it could suddenly turn rainwater into brewed coffee in a blink of an eye.

17. Hezron G. Pios - An advanced jetpack embezzled from the Black Museum by Leonardo Da Vinci through time travel. This material was mass produced to escape the incoming zombie apocalypse.

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18. Starlene Joy B. Portillo - A bean bag chair made of faux lime green fur purchased from an auction of Mamma Mia memorabilia. Also the birthplace of soc-med icons namely Chandler and Mookie.

19. Jed Descutido - A rusty PSP with warped recordings and proof of mad chupacabras at the Rebelde Camp five years ago. Historians believe this could reveal the actual dirty hands behind the beastly attacks.

20. Seth Pullona - A mason jar filled with a fusion of mud, clay, straw, and red paint which were stolen off the set of Olivier de Sagazan’s Transfiguration. The jar is rumored to emit a shill cry when opened.

21. Elsie Coscolluela - A pillow rumored to possess the prowess of a shaman.

22. Karen Panganiban - This monarch butterfly notorious for its attraction to Korean music only emerges from its cocoon once every fifty years.

23. Melina Vanoli - This rugged umbrella was featured in one of Van Gogh’s impressionist masterpieces while undergoing on a secret project later dubbed by several art critics as the “Sunny, Sunny Day.” 24. Martini Falco - This mushroom-designed lamp buzzed to attract all species of cats, single-and-taken-for-granted campus crushes, and weekend dance floor kings and queens was smuggled from an underground factory in Japan.

25. Jhon Aldrin Casinas - Is a three-eyed elemental whose eye for photography is jaw-dropping. Currently takes the form of a chameleon.

26. Jeprox Lingamen - The god of black holes staring intently out from the windows. Can speedily transform either as shadows or celestial bodies i.e. crescent moon.

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27. Jamie Bentinganan - Almost lifelike, this terrifying tiger floor rug is made to ironically punctuate immediate awareness on animal abuse and environmental preservation. At night, this becomes animated and attacks potential thieves of the house.

28. Maria Ester Farillon - A bronze-laden gramophone that mysteriously hastens the bloom of nearby flowers.

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CKNOWLEDGMENTS Star, for your thought-provoking and evocative writing prompts, keen interest the Literary Editor’s works, and shared gusto for journalism and literature.

Thank you for being his first readership, his truest critic, and his partner in crime despite your belief in the theory of rise and fall.

Drei, for heartily shapeshifting as a go-to, reliable compass in discovering this atlas of narratives. This folio would have just been directionless detours if it weren’t for your arrow pinpointing towards North and surveillance on my progress.

Jedi & Jow, for your aesthetic configuration of materials collected herein shaped with such rigor and inventiveness. Nonetheless, The Spectrum shall be in gratitude of your prowess nonstop.

Jedi & Shara, for immortalizing the unspoken itch of returning or staying someplace homely through your pixel art-themed, spectacular train ride.

Greatness is yours, you two.

Ir, for the Cancerian collaborations plotted over iced coffee, mocha blasts, plates of nachos, dead ends and dead air, and creative writing dialogues muted only by honking vehicles. Your (cheeky) humor behind the riveting parts is well-kept.

Chad Box, for your brotherly presence during on the spot musings on concepts larger than ourselves; two poets in earnest conversations. Surprisingly, it did not deter the Earth’s axis.

Keanu, Wen-Wen, Lancé, Setoy, Tini & Gel for examining the details and animating the written text through your spellbinding illustrations (Scribes & Scribblers).

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Ikoy, Tini, Bernelle, for captivating human moments through your photographs displayed in this folio.

To our mamas, papas and loved ones, for teaching first and foremost your sons and daughters formative lessons on determining their own version of home before marching into the brave new world.

And to all our contributors, for not burying your homesickness and ultimately willing yourselves down this memory lane of keepsakes, sensitive bonds, and familiar dwellings more than their intricate designs.

Thank you very much for absorbing this hiatus to remember and reflect before oblivion catch upon us fully. Consider this folio all yours.

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THES PECTRUM FOUNDED 1956

facebook.com/thespectrumusls · thespectrum.usls@gmail.com Andrea Nicole C. Farol

Katherine E. Co

Robert H. Jerge III

Iris Denise N. Rivera

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MANAGING EDITOR

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR

NEWSPAPER EDITOR Christiana Claudia G. Gancayco ASST. NEWSPAPER EDITOR Starlene Joy B. Portillo MAGAZINE EDITOR Chad Martin Z. Natividad ASST. MAGAZINE EDITOR Joshua Martin P. Guanco ONLINE EDITOR David Willem L. Molenaar LITERARY EDITOR Hezron G. Pios ASST. LITERARY EDITOR Lyle John L. Balana HEALTH AND LIFESTYLE EDITOR Maria Angelica M. Ape ASST. HEALTH AND LIFESTYLE EDITOR Ian Kristoffer V. Ga PHOTOS AND VIDEOS EDITOR Nichol Francis T. Anduyan LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Jowan Dave G. Guides ASST. LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Glen Jed J. Descutido

NEWSPAPER WRITERS

Adrienne Carl S. Calvo

PHOTOJOURNALISTS

Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa

Nicci Bernelle D. Aguilar Ena Louise P. Apelo Martini M. Falco Mariano O. Javier

ONLINE WRITERS

VIDEOGRAPHERS

MAGAZINE WRITERS

Charlene Marie D. Lim Maria Angeline M. Mayor Ida Sarena M. Gabaya SPORTS WRITERS

Stephine Paul M. Dungca FILIPINO WRITERS

Victoria Marian B. Belmis Jyan Martella G. Opena WEB ADMINISTRATOR

Keanu Kent B. Gargar

Kyle Jyrax d. Sevilla LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS ARTISTS

Shara Mae L. Pelayo ILLUSTRATORS

Katrina Y. Nemenzo Karen D. Panganiban Seth V. Pullona Cedric Lance M. Militar EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Keanu Joseph P. Rafil PUBLICATION MODERATOR

Jean Lee C. Patindol

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