VOLUME 22
1
SCRIBE Volume 22, February 2019 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 E D I T O R
Alvin Brian S. Legario L AYO U T A RT I S T S
Alfredo Jr. R. Bayon-on Glen Jed J. Descutido Alexandra V. Bachoco ILLUSTR ATOR S
Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Carl Hason T. Gerale Anna Theresa S. Parayno Alyssa April H. Ravadilla COVER CON CEP T AN D D ESI GN
Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa
Foreword Ahoy there, mariner! I see you’ve been sailing through this ruffled path for quite some time now. Perhaps you require some assistance? Well, if that’s the case, as your self-employed sailing master, it is my duty to help you remedy the frustration that is now amidst us. My counsel, should you consider it, is to change your course. I know this idea might sound wild, but hear me out. Have you ever hoisted your sails yet deliberately decided not to raise anchor? I feel you’ve been wanting to follow your own destination for a while now, but haven’t fully committed to the idea that it is not the waves you bow to. That is okay, for as long as I am here, you will not be burdened with lifting your anchors alone. Beyond making sure of the fluidity of your ship’s course, I am also here to confer my knowledge (how little it may be) on the ins and outs of the history of sailing. Allow me to steer unto you the said wisdom accumulated and gung ho’d by seafarers more seasoned than you and I. Since the sixteenth century, we’ve been using boats to quell distances, and we did not get there by simply hacking at wood. We had to hone the art of boat crafting and sea navigation in order to complete the voyages we’re destined to travel. Fortunately, these skills have been accumulated both orally and on print; and in this instance, I will be your instrument in recalling this ancient yet necessary data. Direct your attention to the sky, captain, more specifically towards that seagull. Seeing one every now and then is not a queer sight to behold but perceiving a whole flock is an entirely new story. Word of advice, if birds suddenly heave and change direction, be wary. The tides will have a dramatic shift. Take this hint (even if it means going with the waves) and change your course immediately. Now, now. I can see the distress on your face. But didn’t you say to go the opposite way where the tides go? Aye, I did. But this does not mean you should not go back when the situation calls for it. Understanding freedom is one thing, but being complacent is another.
However, if you do stumble upon darker tides, perhaps a truly unavoidable maelstrom—keep calm and brace for battle. There will be no deluge too ferocious nor winds too gallant to down your mighty vessel. The tempest will howl and rage, but that is okay because to that we say—have at thee! Next, take this manuscript of the sea bestowed upon you by the flora and fauna of the deep and allow it to impart to you positive words, vivid illustrations, and encouraging tales that you may draw strength from in your sea-laden voyage. And finally, before I shall retire to my quarters, let me yield unto you my two final shillings: Whenever you feel the waves are colder than usual, look to the stars, for you will navigate towards a horizon where the waters are shaded with warmer hues. Mayhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but soon. Till then, keep going against the current! Farewell, captain.
Your enigmatic Sailing Master,
Alvin Brian S. Legario
CONTENTS POE TRY Aahon Pa, Umahon Lang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Sandy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 decay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Warrior, Warrior (Three Poems) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 i. Styx . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 ii. Skamandros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 iii. Lethe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 The Ghost of Room M13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silent Cry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Desolation & Recuperation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His Art is Dying . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Headvoice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ELSEWHERE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . .
11 13 15 16 18 19
Kahel na Langit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Perihelion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Katunggali . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 HQ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Queen of the Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Sa Likod ng Isipan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Which Option? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Banaag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
450 years earlier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pump boat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Phenomenon of Floating after Rob Gonsalves . . . . . . . . . Chasing Comets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
35 37 40 42
Obscurity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hint Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i. Of Bamboos and Metals ii. Coup d’ etat iii. Operating room Journal #334 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wherever The Tide Goes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Terror of The Midday Marsh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
44 45
FIC TION
46 57 63
C OM IC S Just Passing Through . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 On Their Pawprint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 A Risk to Take . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
S CRI B ES AND SC RIBBLE RS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
99
POETRY
ART BY C AR L H AS O N G E RA LE
Aahon Pa, Umahon Lang KR ISTINE BAYAD O G
Iapak ang mga paa sa dalampasigan at damhin ang kiliti ng buhanging sumasabay sa iyong bawat pagyapak. Lasapin ang sandali. Ilublob ang sarili sa naghihintay na tubig-dagat at namnamin ang maalat nitong lasa sa iyong balat. Lunurin ang sarili sa sandaling panahon at hayaang lumutang palayo ang mga alaalang idinulot ng nagdaang kahapon. Lumangoy papalayo sa marka ng baybayin at tunguhin ang kalagitnaan ng dagat hanggang sa hindi mo na matarok ang kanyang pinakailalim. Sumisid, lumangoy, umahon —labanan ang mga alon. Sumisid pang muli at salatin ang pagkakataon. Lumangoy pabalik mula sa iyong sinimulan —pabalik sa dalampasigan. Lumangoy hanggang sa sumabay na ang mga alon. Sabay tutungo sa iyong paroroonan. Umahon ka. Muling tanawin ang mundo Sa isang bagong pagkakataon. Aahon pa, umahon lang.
2
Sandy ANDR EA NICO L E FAR O L
I remember myself reflecting dancing flames Sweating in the cold evening air Gripped by a man shouting in merriment Of music and voices in cacophony till I felt empty. I remember flying Of being airborne in the salty air The feeling of endless possibilities Until I broke the ocean’s film. I remember being carried by the waves Swallowing a little sea water Of being lost and floating aimlessly Under a blinding sun. I remember meeting a man On an island without a name He filled me with purpose But still, I could not stay. I remember being in a storm Of foam and crashing into limestones Of breaking into a thousand little pieces And settling on the ocean floor. I remember thinking about the man How I can never see him again For this little bottle in the ocean has shattered A message lost, and forever one with the sand.
3
decay L A N C E C H R I S T I A N J UA R E Z
through short breaths and the flailing of limbs, the rushing wind mimics voices ‘gainst ears— a beast gives chase. unblinking bloodshot eyes dart about shrouded branches and tangled foliage. bruised soles drag flesh from bone as arms tear through thorny vines endurance disintegrates and sanity erodes, leaving only instinct. pain blurs into an inferno engulfing what was once humane. he has become an animal, irate at the threat of demise. he stops and turns around predator meets prey.
4
5 PHOT O BY KAT H E RI N E C O
Warrior, Warrior Three Poems L EX D I WA AL O R O
ART BY ALY S S A AP R I L R AVA DI LL A
6
i. Styx Your mother, Thetis, drowned you into life The desperate mother, the beaten wife Submerged you, upside down, in River Styx and there! And then! Your fate became affixed For he who bathed inside the Stream of Hate emerges strong but lives a mortal’s fate Your mother knew that you were human still — that Death may someday grab you by the heel A sword, a spear, an arrow fired from bow could pierce the part of you of which she can’t let go Yet she persisted ‘gainst uneven odds She thought she once might trump the will of gods But Thetis knew what had been prophesized She saw your future with her vadic eyes She knew her futile act could not disturb the course to which the river’s current stirred She heaved you out, reborn and sanctified — so starts your life of charging ‘gainst the tides.
7
ii. Skamandros When Hektor killed him, anger roused a beast A ruthless warrior with a conscience ceased You loved him so, that could not be denied That’s why you wept when you heard he had died They say you turned to bronze with iron heart The day when death tore soul from soul apart Gods watched you weep beside the ocean tide The morning after drachmas co’ered his eyes Inside your tent, a poet said, you died from deep within; outside you seemed alive — Alive enough to rise and charge once more towards walled Troy to even out a score At godlike speed, you rushed to Doom itself towards what fate had put upon your shelf. You carried weapon, shield, and rage at hand Your soles imprinted anger ‘pon the sand The Trojans shook at the sound of your step as you reached the bank where Skamandros slept But then you roused Him with murder and blood You scattered corpses like a malevolent god! With every thrust of your sword, Trojans fell — their cadavers clogged the river to swell. The river choked on all the casualties that your broken heart slayed without mercy Skamandros turned a shade of Trojan-red With armor-clad bodies, His fish were fed He begged you, “Please, take your quarrel elsewhere! These dead bodies are more than I could bear.” But you wouldn’t stop ‘til your foes were wiped You enraged Skamandros into a fight.
8
Why the rage, Warrior? What’s left to prove? Do you fight for pride, vengeance, a murdered love or do you fight to keep the blues at bay to keep the memories of him away? But the rush of a fight cannot erase the pain you feel at the loss of his embrace. ‘Tis merely a ruse to displace the ache The war cries cover the rumbling of how you break. So, go, Warrior! Show your rage! Attack! For once the rage subsides, sadness floods back. Though you may beat the flow of some rivers, despair is a flood you cannot conquer. Though mortals can clog the path where waters go, one can never reverse a river’s flow.
9
iii. Lethe Your mother’s wretched prophecy came true: Your name went down in songs; but you went down, too. While your legacy became immortal, your body perished beneath a Trojan steeple. A prince, true to the god he served, impaled the heel untouched by Styx’s gushing trails. Now, here, in River Lethe: an unusual sight: a warrior washed-upriver, uneager for a fight. Where has your rage and bloodlust gone to? Did it die from the arrow Paris drew? It is strange to see you willingly board Charon’s ferry and leave your life, your sword. After a lifetime of upstream battles, you leave your life inside foreign walls and let Hades claim your aching soul to rejoin the mate whom another prince stole. You ride the river, now, you do not counter — for you know he waits for you in yonder harbor.
10
The Ghost of Room M13 DOMINIC M AGB AN UA
The ghosts here have moved on, Have you? You hold onto things You should’ve let go long ago You will not meet her again here Even if you stay here forever Under the wooden doorway Time does not go backward You can not cut out the present road And reattach it to yesterday You should start wearing a watch Start being aware that your past Like a skeleton walking behind you Will tell you exactly what time it is But you do not care about time passing Life is all about her kisses Or the way she looked at you Or the breath she called your name Which are all now for someone else But by all means, continue being a shadow Say the words she would say Keep the lights on
11
Stay by the phone Or better yet haunt her home Tell her that to hell with her Great Wall of China What killed your love was her racism May she choke on her tikoy
12
Silent Cry JEEPER S CR EE P E R S
courage and something else—I summon within as fiercely as dragon-embattled knights pray for life as steadfastly as lilies wait for Winter’s end as hopefully as I wade through the space between us: twenty yards of sea gray floor and a lifetime of regrets over things unsaid and stubbornly clinging within within this heart lies a movie-reel reminder of you: colors like your beet-red blush, the gold filaments on your arms, the chocolate freckles on your cheeks; sounds like your sonic boom laugh, your jet-propulsion sneeze, your song bursts and potent Freudian slips lingering at the back of my mind they follow me to the next empty minute, the yet -to-be-understood lifetime that wanes like the moon, the June typhoon, or the doxology of summer cicadas saying there’s courage in holding back one’s tears, braving the pressure that builds up inside, getting used to the cold without you by my side though I know tears come to cowards as much as to heroes, I hold fast to my woes—these exquisite ribbons of pain suspending me in space, redefining the unbearable lightness of being so carnally in love, so spiritually in lust with you who can’t feel me through my words, my hemorrhaging poetics, my thirst, my muted sighs, my yawning scars, my idle hours my not touching you, my not kissing you, my not asking why I’m making my silent cry... (my silent cry) 13
PH O TO BY MA RTI N I FAL C O
14
Desolation & Recuperation MARTINI FALCO
I tried I tried dealing with pain, sadness, anger, regret— a turmoil It seemed I had to go through it all; A self-recovery should suffice, I say One moment it’s there, a moment it’s gone Battled under deprivation erratically In hopes that I might change the circumstances on my own— upon my crusted palms, in these 4 dark walls, in places that I love and in those that I just went to There are times where I’d tell myself to give up But the thought of “my momma raised no quitter” stood up and banished the notion in mind In the state of being unstable, I’ve come to terms to empower myself with radiant positiveness & hope that this too shall pass This Too Shall Pass
15
His Art is Dying CAR L HASON GE R AL E
The stool I used to depend all my weight on now wobbles on every delicate caress of the gentle afternoon breeze from the window left ajar. The bristles of my paint brushes taken by the wind as obedient as dandelions. The poetry I once wrote, replaced by a broken poem with the words of a man who knows no art. I wither as everything that breathes around me grow. Perhaps it was the easel left homed to the termites or my body dipped to black paint.
16
ART BY ALY S S A AP R I L RAVA DI LL A
17
Headvoice AVICII
Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me with voices echoing the song of ache It’s telling me to see the hanging tree It’s never been as bad as this, you see? I’ve never been this close to make-or-break Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me It’s like I’m drowning down a stormy sea or sinking down a grim and talking lake that’s telling me to see the hanging tree Why can’t I breathe? Please let me swim and flee for love of life and for my mother’s sake But, dear! My head is crashing down on me And now I’ve drained myself of energy A voice is telling me I’ll never wake It’s telling me to see the hanging tree This pressure seems too burdensome for me Its weight will cause my knees to fiercely shake Oh, dear! My head is crashing down on me It’s telling me to see the hanging tree
18
ELSEWHERE STAR L ENE PO RT I L L O
White does not wail sinister. It does not paint the yielding of the highrise, the pleas of the skeptic, nor the remains of the day. Instead, it beckons you with the promise of what is to come. I continued to stare in the face of Light, once distant, now too close for comfort. It has engulfed both verses and chapped afterthoughts of the Earth in the shade of ivory. The pale nothingness sinks out all there was left to stow above cupboards, yet all I could ponder was how even the end of the world was an imperfection. And then a crossfade. Ivory remains. Paradise was concealed between crevices of a treasure box left ajar. Not too long ago, it housed a globe, half-dried flowers, one Ugg boot, spectacle frames, a roller coaster ticket. It does no good to be listless; every shipwreck can be bottled. Who knows if to live is to be dead, and to be dead, to live?
19
Kahel na Langit JOSHUA MAHILU M
Tuwing kahel ang langit, natatakot ka man lang ba sa nagbabadyang kadiliman? Sa oras na lalamunin nito ang maliwanag na himpapawid? At mabilis na papalitan ang tanghali ng takipsilim? Kahel ang kulay ng langit bago dumilim. Tuwing kahel ang langit, nagpapaalam ka man lang ba sa liwanag? Nalulungkot tuwing lilisan sila? Tuwing huli silang dadampi sa asul na kalangitan? Muli man silang magpapakita sa umaga, ang yayakap sa iyo kinabukasan ay ibang liwanag na. Tuwing kahel ang langit, itinataas mo man lang ba ang iyong ulo upang mapagmasdan ang nakalutang na mga ginto? Ninanamnam ang huling sandaling makikita mo ang langit sa ganito nitong anyo? Paulit-ulit mang sumisikat at lumulubog ang araw, magkaiba ang tanawin sa dapit-hapon araw-araw.
20
PH O TO BY N I C H O L FR ANC I S ANDU YAN
21
Perihelion JOSHUA MART I N GUAN CO
I have always thought of catching sunlight— to envelop in my hands the tiny fragments of a thousand flares that ignite the celestials; to temporarily clench the radiance of novas that effervesce within its iron core; and to soak in solar catharsis: a testament in behalf of Icarus. I have always thought of catching sunlight— to encapsulate the surge of chloroplasts as they propel their hosts for photosynthesis; to take a sip on the chalice of hegemony and divinity that indoctrinated civilizations; and to feel the shards of time lacerating through the veins of my contrite corporeality.
22
I have always thought of catching sunlight— even for just mere seconds. Not to lather myself in golden refulgence, but to just ephemerally bask in the albedo of its blades that breathe vitality into the fabric even time and space cannot comprehend: fortitude.
23
Katunggali KYNAH R HEA FU E N T E S
Katawa’y nanginginig sa pag-ihip ng hanging nakakapanindig balahibo sa lamig. Anino sa uuga-ugang bangka’y lalong bumabaluktot sa bawat dumadagundong ingay ng kidlat at kulog. Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. Hanggang saan aabot ang pagsagwan ng lumang kawayan? kung sa tuwing pagpalo nito’y siya ring paghampas ng sandamakmak na malahiganteng along galit pa sa leon? Apat. Lima. Anim. Paano nga ba kalabanin ang tubig na akala mo’y taimtim, sa ilalim ng nakakasakal na dilim dulot ng langit na makulimlim? Pito. Walo. Siyam. Ilang sagwan pa nga ba ang kailangan, upang marating ang pwestong nakasanayan at maibenta ang pinaghirapang baldeng puno ng isda’t pasayan?
24
PH O TO BY MA RT I NI FAL C O
25
HQ STAR L ENE PORT I L L O
As I lean back to reflect on the remains of the day, I see it bent out of fragments we forget to savor: the crevice that sets sky and concrete apart, a heave, the bitterness we try to mask with last night’s pack of ashes, a sigh. We huddle under stars we cannot name under the pretense that we are nowhere less now. And so like gods, we drink to the lives we have yet to live.
26
PH O TO BY MI LL EN ANDR E G EL A
27
Queen of the Night HEKATE
She who blooms after dusk Inhales the energy beaming From the darkness and the moon. The Queen of the Night —Only fragrant in the gloom. She sways in the dark gracefully, Moving in sync with the waves. How hypnotic she is, As she prances and dances Spellbindingly; clutching at freedom. There is enchantment Rooted in the dark. Perhaps some type of magic— A powerful spell lingering, As she dances; exuding wonder. For beauty isn’t always In the light. Beauty— It is also the mystery, The strangeness, the ataraxia The night forever delivers. So, be still and fear not The dark, my friend. Feel the soft chill of the breeze Perfumed with magic. Close your eyes. And like her, Bloom.
28
Sa Likod ng Isipan IVEE MANG U I L I M O TAN
Sa pagpikit ko ng aking mga mata, iyong mga haplos ay damang-dama, iyong mga munting halik, tila’y lasap ko pa, sa iyong bisig ako’y nakakulong, ni minsa’y hindi ninais makawala, sa iyong pagtitig, aking kalamna’y nalulusaw, iyong mga salitang, bawat titik saulado ng puso. ako’y nabihag ng isang anghel, nagpakawala ng pakpak, dinala sa langit, dinama ang hangin, lumutang sa ulap, kinausap ang araw, at natulog sa buwan. ngunit sa umaga’y pag mulat ng mata, hindi maipagkakailang, isang alaala lang pala.
29
I LLU S T RAT I O N BY DANI EL L E G U T I ER R EZ
Which Option? HEATH
Toblerone / Hershey’s Seaside / Cityscape Rial / Peso Fist fight / Virtual disconnection Flash floods / Armed robbery Feet bitten by snakes / Be a cult leader Itchy lemongrass / Sandstorm Taksi / Quiz Planet Abroad / Anak
31
PH O TO BY MA RTI N I FAL C O
32
Banaag KR ISTINE BAYAD O G
Alas kwatro. Nagapabilin nga bukas ang akon mga mata biskan wala ako sang may makit-an kundi ang kadulom. Sa piyak sang kahipos, ang lamang nga ginahanduraw amo ang palaabuton nga inadlaw. Alas singko. Nagaturuok na ang sulog sa likod balay apang wala pa sa gihapon nagabutlak ang Adlaw gikan sa sidlangan. Kung huna-hunaon, siguro ginkapoy na siya sa pagsugata sa magaabot nga kaagahon. Alas sais. Iya ginbinag-binag ang iya pugon kag siya nagtindog halin sa iya ginharian para bawtismuhan ang banaag sang bag-o nga aga anggid sa isa ka lapsag. Alas syete. Nagapabilin ako nga nagahigda samtang nagaamat-amat na huni ang mga kasapatan sa guha. Ang dulom, naislan na sang kasanag. Ang kahipos, nangin gahod.
33
Alas otso. Apat na ka oras ang nagligad apang ginabutong pa ko gihapon pabalik sang akon katuyo. Pero tama na. Tama na nga katamad. Tiyempo na para magbangon para sa bag-o nga kahigayunan.
450 years earlier CHAD MART I N N AT I V I D AD
A child threw a plastic bottle into the unsuspecting sea. White waves of froth braced the foreign element with a splash. Of course, you could not have heard it, buried by the humdrum of the ferry. There was also no crater; no stain from the contaminant. The bottle contained half an hourglass of distilled water. Upon impact, the liquid broke free, but the bottle had been absorbed by gravity, drifting, unto this day, by the port. The whole motion: in less than a second. The child: entertained for less.
35
But, what does it matter? After all, he was just a child launching a rocket unto a blue sky.
36
Pump boat CHAD MART I N N AT I V I D AD
Once, we sat by the shore. Two monobloc chairs facing the sea. The moon, though alone, glimmered softly at a distance. We lamped over the existence of flat-earthers. How they insist: our planet must be flat simply because a ship does not vanish from view—sailing into the horizon. We chuckled at the silliness of it, but refrained from debating. For we, both, had yet to witness an ark depart from our person. Nearby, a pump boat, tied to a palm, would bop over shallow water. You dared me to swim just right past that outrigger but I said no, like you, I am no swimmer. Like you, we step foot on distant islands, dip our feet on their beaches, then return home telling our friends how often we swam. Perhaps, you did somewhat that, the day after—when you made up your mind whether to fly abroad. To find yourself, you had told me, to secure fairer work. Somewhere, beneath the ocean, before the cliff of a trench, a fish convinced her finned-friend to plunge deeper into darker waters. Just keep swimming, she chanted—a mantra (in the form of song).
37
That chat we had transpired years ago. You are in a foreign country now: whiter beaches. If you were still here, I’d take back what I said. If you were here where I could speak to you like we used to, I’d challenge those flat-earthers. For I have seen a ship sail to the horizon and it disappeared from my view. A country, where I am not, had become that horizon. And you, darling, well you were that ship.
38
39 PH O TO BY C H AD M ART I N NAT I V I DAD
The Phenomenon of Floating after Rob Gonsalves HEATH
am I in a lake or outer space? our continents are sprawled above me: an enlarged globe which houses houses both sacrosanct and desecrated. the void saps the colors I own like superpowers. okay, then. I would like to swim my way back to childhood. I would like a party where happiness bestows flight, breathing, proper posture, a lightness. now fish me back to the rocks, pine trees eager for my return. I would like to swim back whether it might be colorless or too much.
40
PH O TO BY MI LLEN ANDR E G EL A
41
Chasing Comets ALVIN BR IAN L E GAR I O
I remember when we shared the stars. It was a few minutes shy from twilight when we settled on top of dew tipped blades of freshly cut grass, waiting for the celestials to appear one after the other. I was no stranger to this astral view and yet, enduring this with you, made the experience even more tantalizing. Perhaps we might even catch a comet tonight, I thought to myself, waiting for the world to dim. When the sun dipped into the horizon, the ambiance shifted into a lull. The atmosphere was no longer ransomed by abeyance, and your voice painted the sky different shades of black. Strokes of ebony and the abyss lead the hues on the canvas, complementing the slight tinge of the stars. Your voice, a chameleon among hymns, delved me deeper into the night. Each word that fell off your lips cascades. A cadence of symphonies, giving life to the heavenly panorama floating above. Symphony: your voice from which the universe thrives on. Grasping the winds that swayed men and trees alike. You dared me to reach for the star among the constellations. Without hesitation, I held you, overlooking the fireflies hovering in the breeze. Your eyes smiled as I nestled your head under my chin. Between Earth and the heavens above, I lay in tainted thoughts, immersed in a zen of uncertainty: If, one day, this plain will fade, the stars won’t forget, as we won’t forget them. I closed my eyes, knowing that tomorrow, the sky won’t have the same shade. Perhaps our gaze might envelop the same canvas again one day, ‘till then we’re better off chasing comets.
42
FICTION
ART BY ANDR EA DANI EL L E G A MBOA
43
Obscurity MAR IA JASMEN R U I Z
“
Why are you so forgetful?” he asked.
“See, I only keep sensical things and meaningful experiences in my memories,” she replied. “Is that why you forgot about me?” he went on. In her silence, he realized the answer long before they were put into words. Finally, she asked: “Who are you, again?”
44
Hint Fiction CHAD MART I N N AT I V I D AD
Of Bamboos and Metals The cashier reached beneath the countertop—eyes, on me. I refused, expecting a retort. Instead, she gave this knowing smile. Like me, she’s also trying.
Coup d’état Grass storm out of a crack. My dog pees on a pillar. Neither supports the regime of architecture.
Operating room Fear, then darkness. Specks of light, then gratitude. Some people have dared into space, and flown back— encountering a fresh supply of time.
45
Journal #334 L O R R AI N E L AB O S
I L LU S T R AT I O NS BY ALY S S A AP R I L RAVA DI LL A
46
May 5, 24 [4:02 AM] Deep down, we’ve always known humanity itself would end humanity—but we never expected it to be like this. Our world has come a long way ever since the historical success of the first nuclear fusion, enabling the planet to have its own never-ending supply of energy. A replication of the sun, some say. From there onwards, we have been continuously upgrading everything in our path. Scientists and engineers alike were doubling their efforts, remedying even the tiniest problems that were slowly rising. We even restarted the timeclock—signalling the new age, the Era of Energy. We were at our peak. But humanity is unique—the dangerous kind of unique. We kept going, never stopping until we deemed everything was perfect. But it never has and never will be. Still, we kept going. Acting like gods, washing away every bit of tarnish this world has seen. They mingled with our DNAs; their attention shifted to biological tests, trials, and experiments. Commoners like me never knew what was coming. Apparently, a group of scientists attempted to decrease the aging process of humans, but something went terribly wrong and now we’re here. I’m here. Writing this journal in hopes of someone out there surviving this wrath we’ve brought upon ourselves. Someone’s knocking. I’ll be back. -Dan
47
May 6, 24 [11:13 PM] Katrina arrived yesterday morning, crying hysterically because our mom had gone missing. Her boyfriend Lance, followed this morning. I wasn’t very clear about my first entry explanation in this journal, wasn’t I? Remember that group of scientists? They had a successful outcome in terms of wanting to live forever. The drug was given to those who had the luxury and access to government connections. Once the body is able to adjust to the drug, it becomes embedded in the DNA helix and immune system, and a single cough could transfer its effects to a new host. It became a wonderful epidemic— an airborne narcotic capable of halting a person’s natural ability to meet death. Every single one was affected and every single one rejoiced. But, we miscalculated the underlying effects. It was true, people didn’t die—but you see, people actually won’t die. People who were supposed to fall into the arms of death continued living. A person with a disease like cancer would continue living with cancer for the rest of his life, a person with a sunken bullet in his brain would continue living with abnormal automotive motions, painfully agonizing along the way. It was hell. The mortality rate dropped to zero which means every single day, the Earth became littered with half-dead people. Their numbers quickly rose to a billion in a single week, hospitals have long shut down and those who were still healthy enough chose to stay inside until the government had a solution. You may think this wasn’t as bad as it seems but seeing your loved ones, your friends, suffer endlessly—absolute hell. I consoled Katrina a while ago; I told her maybe our mom just decided to visit dad in the quarantine area. But I know mom’s tuberculosis has worsened, and she just won’t let me and Katrina live with someone she’s about to become. -Dan
48
May 9, 24 [5:09 PM] Still no sign of mom. I saw a little boy on the street convulsing; I don’t know what to do. I’ll update as soon as possible. -Dan
May 11, 24 [9:16 AM] I woke up to an odd, old creaking sound from the outside. I knew that certain sound all too well, I can basically feel its melody send goosebumps throughout my whole body. Someone must be sitting on our beaten swing from my childhood days. Wait, the sound is bugging the hell out of me. I’m going out. -Dan
May 11, 24 [10:25 AM] It was… mom. I really do wish I didn’t let my curiosity get the best of me. I shouldn’t have gone outside. Mom, she was—I don’t know. Here I was, thinking the last few weeks on that hospital was hell, this? This is much worse. She doesn’t even look like herself anymore. Her eyes, the once warmest swirls of hazel I have ever seen, are now void of anything. Sunken, like a perfect ghoul. I touched her arms and she didn’t wince, not even when my fingers began to dig right into her skin. She just stared at Katrina and me whenever we asked about her whereabouts and what the hell had happened. It’s difficult to imagine this was the person who sung us lullabies whenever we thought there were monsters below our beds. I wish… no, it’s too immoral. I just hope this nightmare ends. -Dan 49
May 12, 24 [12:55 AM] We decided to go visit dad. God it was hard to swerve past those people on the street. It’s still a few minutes till we reach the camp. My whole body hurts from carrying mom. -Dan
May 12, 24 [1:18 PM] My parents just informed us that they have been married for 36 long years. And that although their marriage was rocky at most times, they were at their happiest when they were with each other. After the sudden outburst of memories, dad gave me his ring and mom gave hers to Katrina. I have no idea why. Mom’s looking worse than dad now… -Dan
May 13, 24 [9:04 PM] We decided to lessen our parents’ burden. I hope a precise and quick slice to their neck ends their misery. I’m sorry mama and papa. -Dan
May 22, 24 [7:00 AM] Nothing worked. We did everything. They won’t die. -Dan
50
June 15, 24 [6:17 PM] Sorry I haven’t been updating. Last week we’ve received an announcement from the government: there’s a safe secluded place down in Atlack City. It’s a four-day trip from here. If we were to take the journey, it would mean we’d spiral into an endless black hole of problems. But the three of us realized there’s nothing left for us here. Katrina, Lance, and I decided to take risks. I don’t even care whether this is the right decision or not. I just want to go somewhere far away. -Dan
June 18, 24 [6:17 PM] We’re halfway there. The streets are littered with people moaning in agony. We decided to shut the blinds in our van. -Dan
June 19, 24 [2:50 AM] I just witnessed something disturbing. It was downright horrifying. People started to decompose. The smell—holy shit. The smell. Dear God, what is happening? Their skin is melting right off their bones. I can’t even write this without trembling—I can’t. It’s like wax. And their faces, the look on their faces. Someone looked at me and asked for help. I’m sorry... I’m sorry I couldn’t... holy shit. God help us. -Dan
51
June 21, 24 [7:05 AM] The haven is nowhere to be seen. Lance went for a food run yesterday. He still hasn’t come back yet. Katrina’s still crying. People are still shedding their skin off. It isn’t going to stop, is it? It’s like they have been dipped in boiling oil until their skin turn into a sickly hue of orange and red. I doubt it’s even skin anymore. Scabs full of pus are constantly oozing from the fresh wounds. I could still hear the ringing of their screams and wails. Everything is hopeless fucked up. -Dan
June 25, 24 [4:17 PM] Lance just got back. Apparently, he was held up in an abandoned grocery store due to some unforeseen… circumstances. Katrina and I just took it as the truth. What else could we do? After settling in the few supplies he brought in, he suggested playing mind games he learned from uni to take our minds off what’s happening outside. At least someone from among us is trying to alleviate the situation. I’m happy that Katrina is into it. I’m not, however. I can never erase those people’s looks in my mind. -Dan
52
July 3, 24 [10:15 AM] I had a pet parrot named Eugene once. Eugene was such a talkative fella: always blabbering and mimicking words I doubt he even understood. I wonder if he’s okay. I haven’t even seen a bird since everything turned into… whatever this is. We’re staying at a rundown building in the main city. A quick look down the gigantic windows and you’ll see the remains of humani— fuck, they’re still alive. -Dan
July 4, 24 [5:05 AM] Woke up a bit early today. Kat tugged on my sleeve while urging me to stay still and listen. Everything is quiet. I’ve never been more terrified. -Dan
July 5, 24 [8:32 PM] It’s still silent out there. We’re tempted to go outside and investigate. The dead bodies are nowhere to be found, not even a single trace of their torment. Even worse: our supplies are about to run out. I think I heard shuffling and murmurs outside the room we are staying in, but I just might be hallucinating. I’m so confused. I want to go home. -Dan
53
July 5, 24 [8:32 PM] There’s blood… from my cough. -Dan
August 23, 24 [5:39 PM] When my parents asked me what I wanted to study when I grow up, I instantly chose medicine. I’ve always dreamt of becoming a doctor one day. Guess that dream’s way over now, right? Mom and dad also told me how simple life was when they were little kids just roaming around the country. Sure the advancements in technology were somewhat limited, but hey, at least people were contented with what they already had. I wish I was given the chance to live in that generation. Now, everything is shitty. I don’t know why I’m still writing this. Maybe because I’m hoping someone out there truly does survive and read these scribbles a desperate stranger did. -Dan
54
September 8, 24 [8:17 AM] Katrina and Lance are out trying to find supplies. They’re desperate to build a radio in order to contact someone anyone really. And as for me, I’ve been feeling a little drowsy lately. I’ll be right back. My shoulder has been itching badly since yesterday. -Dan
September 15, 24 [10:11 AM] Supplies have run out. I think it’s my turn to do a food run. I seriously hope nothing ill’s going to happen when I go out. Will this ever end? -Dan
September 16, 24 [1:09 AM] All the stores are fucking empty. It’s as if a vacuum sucked everything at every single station out there. This is making me think about how it’s possible that a bunch of people are still out there, surviving. If that’s the case, I hope they find us. -Dan
September 24, 24 [3:00 AM] I don’t know how long we’re going to last. Someone out there, please send hel—
55
January 1, 1 Code 718, Order of the High Alcords: Termination of unsuitable individuals - complete. New Earth will now be repopulated with individuals of desired characteristics. Maximum physique and IQ level is a must. The Supreme Class composed of 100,000 chosen individuals will be able to continue living after the disinfection is complete. The antidote has also been released yesterday at 15:00. Those who have survived earned themselves a place in New Earth. Permission to utilize Journal #334 of Danniel Al C. Holt approved. Classified information within the book will be transferred, recorded, and studied for viable evidence. Rebuilding the nation will proceed next. Commencement at 17:00, Sunday, January 1st of year 1. Welcome to the New Age. -Dr. Hugh Y. Owen
56
Wherever The Tides Go ALV I N B R I AN L E GAR IO
I L LU S T R AT I O NS BY ANNA T H ER ESA PA RAYNO
57
O
nce upon a time, there was a poet who was very fond of books. His affection for them led him to travel all around his homeland to purchase or at least study what he could not bargain for. This was his day-to-day routine. He would go to bed excited for the ‘morrow, looking forward to another day of finding new bounded leaves to add to his already swelling collection. One day, he realized he had frequented every nook and cranny in his homeland. He revisited every place again in search for a new book, tome, scroll, journal, fiction, and nonfiction. But to no avail. After a lengthy time of routine traveling, he finally compiled every book he could find in the four corners of his country. He thought that if no new remarkable information was being recorded, then maybe everything was already discovered. Fearing this, he immediately went home and looked for maps depicting places untraversed by his two feet. After a thorough and complete scan, he concluded that there is but only one place he has never truly treaded and with this in mind, he looked to the open sea. Right there and then he decided he wanted to have a taste of the open waters, previously unknown territory to him and his people. The next day, he bought a boat; a simple fishing vessel reinforced with hardwood and planned an adventure out to sea for four days. By this time, his adrenaline was pumping. The last time he felt this excited was when he realized that a certain book he fancied was only the first novel of a trilogy. The adrenaline-fueled poet started packing his supplies, eager to start his voyage, wanting to leave as soon as he could. With nothing but six loaves of bread, ten bottles of water, the clothing on his back, a pencil, a knife, a notebook, an unread book on fishing, a mind full of curiosity, and a heart full of hope, he took to the sea to be immersed in aquatic flora and fauna. He wanted to return a new man with knowledge unknown to his world written by him on paper, and with this mission; he moved forward. He pushed his boat off the dock and rowed fast until he saw land far
58
into the distance. The assurance of seeing something to turn back to made him felt safe. After an hour of rowing, his skin started to feel the winds having a drastic change seeing the yellow banner he placed earlier flapping incredulously. This signaled him to decide that it would be the best time to let the winds take charge of his voyage. Promptly, he stood up and untwined the knot that was keeping the mast and slowly lowered the sail. He looked back one last time and saw that, although he was relatively further from before, he could still see the docks where he left off. Completely rid of angst, he laid back, crossed his arms at the back of his head, and soaked in the atmosphere. The sun; slowly setting in the horizon, colored the sea a hue of dark green and indigo. The sea, delivering waves from distant lands created a symphony that was eerily peaceful. “This is paradise incarnate,” the poet said as he bit into a loaf of bread and washed it down with fresh water. As he finished his meal, he felt an instantaneous shift in the strength of the winds. But this was no cause for concern he thought, as he saw a flock of seagulls floating above the blue atmosphere in the opposite direction. “I haven’t seen birds those sizable in almost forever,” the poet said, admiring the elongated yellow bills, sleek necks and the white crisp feathers of the fowl. “They seem to be migrating. But spring hasn’t come to Grandora yet. Perhaps they are flying away from something? That’s more probable but what could that something be?” the poet asked himself quizzically. Not wanting to find out, he hurriedly bundled his belongings. He then realized that lowering the sails might lessen the control the upcoming gust will have on his boat. As he prepared to lower them: it happened. The shift in strength of the winds was now noticeable. What was once a light tug brought upon by the breeze slowly turned into a durable gale. Realizing this was too vigorous for his knowledge of seafaring,
59
the poet’s calmness casually descended into dismay. He took this as a sign to begin rowing back to land, but even with the sails down, the boat was already out of his control, ambling into directions the poet was not intending. This caused his feeling of dismay climax into panic. To gain control back of his vessel, he brought out the ores and desperately rowed as hard as he could, but this brought him little to no success. He tried to determine where the patch of land he docked from earlier was. But what was once a sizeable rock in the distance was now a barely noticeable speck. He had no time to dread though as his little craft commenced to bounce to and fro: the waves playing a little game of catch, and his boat— the ball. Wet and exhausted, he laid down on the rocking boat and closed his eyes. “I should have never left home” was the final thought that lingered in his head before slowly drifting into sleep. On daybreak, he woke up to calm blue waters. The serenity was complimented by the sun whose rays infused the sky with shades of orange, blue, and white. There appears to be a certain beauty to my situation, the poet thought. As he broke bread for rations, had an epiphany: beyond the books he studied intensively, he had no real experience in sailing. After the 60
adrenaline of buying a boat, tackling the unknown head-first, and getting tossed around in the open sea subsided, he realized that this was the most reckless decision he had ever made. He barely knew where the equipment on his boat was located and which part of the vessel does which. His sense of direction was subpar, his fishing skills were little to none, and his knots were chaotic. Tragically for him, he had read a hand-full of books on sailing, fishing, and knot tying, but it was different than actual experience. What he was good at was writing and reading. But with no one to write and speak to, his talents were bleak at best out at sea. He sat down and held his knees to his chest. He was a poet without an audience, a captain to a boat he hardly knew how to maneuver, adrift both out at sea and in thought. The poet’s day-to-day routine was simple. Wake up, sleep, eat and drink (scarcely), write, and sleep. Occasionally, he would fend off sharks circling his boat, but beyond that, he was locked in a trance. This continued on for eight days. On the 8th day of being stranded out at sea, he recorded what little supplies he had left: -a stale loaf of bread -half a bottle of water -the clothing on his back -the lead tip of a pencil -a blunt knife -a drenched notebook -a slightly used book on fishing -a mind full of remorse -and a heart filled to the brim with ambiguity. His chances of survival were slim to none, he figured. If he could not find land soon, the last chapter of his life would be written at the tip of a boat. With that in mind, his determination to survive grew. But that
61
and his supplies were fading. Realizing this, he decided that it was the best time to learn how to fish while his willpower was at its peak. When he bought the boat, the previous owner threw with it a few fishing tackles, a bucket, and two fishing rods provided in the boat’s lower compartment. After searching around his vessel, he located the alcove and found all the equipment: slightly aged but still expendable. He scanned through the pages of the book he brought along about fishing, and while doing this, began trying to fish. He nipped a chosen tackle at the hook of one of the fishing rods, whipped it back, and then lashed it gracefully in front of him. Or that’s how he imagined it would. In reality: he awkwardly knotted the remaining tackle as he lost the others in quick succession, he thrashed his rod back, and gently threw it forward—careful not to get caught again. He sat still for hours, and not a single fish nibbled. The line occasionally bobbed and bounced but it was from his restlessness due to his frustration. He decided to place the rod sturdily at the side of his boat, and rest his eyes. Hunger and desperation were getting to him. Just as he was about to plunge into slumber, he felt something, though this time not on the line but on the boat. The vessel was slowly rocking side to side. He reeled his line in and tried to balance his boat. After a while, the rocking subsided. Relieved, he sat down—wiping the sweat about to cascade on his forehead, he believed that the thing that caused the motion left. And then he heard it: light tapping on the port side of his boat. Concluding this as only his imagination, he continued or at least tried to go back to fishing. He threw his line and waited. Not long after, he heard tapping once more. Curious, and sure it was no longer his mind playing tricks on him, he decided to cautiously check the side of the boat. What he saw left him dumb-founded. At the side of his ship, floating and waving on the water, he saw a metal cylindrical tube with a circular glass at the end. Out of pure curiosity, he extended his hand towards the cylinder. Oddly enough, the cylinder seemed to do the same, slowly edging its way towards him. In all the years the poet has lived, he has never felt this dazed before. In the middle of the sea, something queer was in front of him and all he could utter under 62
his voice was: “Incredible.” Like magic words to an antique lamp, the cylinder instantaneously dove down into the sea. The poet, forgetting about his hunger, scampered around the boat; looking port and starboard to try and spot the mysterious object that was in front of him, mere seconds before. He shifted his gaze to all directions, but only saw the endless vast sea and his reflection. The latter caught his attention. What was once a slew of slick jet-black hair was now an uncombed patch of straw. “Not even a bird would lay its nest in this impious excuse for hair,” the poet said as he stared deeper into the gaunt figure. His eyes, what was once an explosion of pecans and caramel, have now turned heavy from sleepless nights. He ran his hand across his chin and felt his stubble. “Amongst the starvation, the hallucinations, dehydration, and the heat, at least I know I have the capacity to grow a beard,” he said jokingly as he turned his body and faced the sun. “How long have you been out here mi’ boy?” a deep husky voice asked. Passing it off as another deception of the mind, the poet answered unfazed “Eight? Maybe nine days? I not entirely sure anymore.” “That’s an awfully long time. How’d a lad like you get himself in this sorta’ predicament?” “The usual tale of the daring and the dumb of course. A little adrenaline here. A little reckless spending there. Next thing I knew I was marooned at sea.” The voice let out a snicker. “Basing on yer composure, I can conclude that you’re not a water vagabond. You’re prolly one of those land folk I reckon. Want me to take you back to pastures a lil bit… ugh… less blue?” it asked. 63
“What are you going on about? How can I take myself back if I don’t even know how to sail hmmm?” the poet asked, vexed. “Instead of asking myself eccentric questions like that, I should probably check my line. There probably isn’t anything on it, but it’s worth a try. You know what they say after all: to the bold go the spoils,” the poet exclaimed. He rose up to investigate his line. “Just as I thought. Empty,” the poet exclaimed, unsurprisingly as he laid down his pole back. Deciding to at least get an idea of where he was geographically, he observed his surroundings. “In front of me is a great big deal of nothing. To my left, still a great big deal of nothing. To my right, oh look! Nothing. And behind me is—” just as he was about to explain in great detail what was behind him, he suddenly jerked, causing his boat to shift and rock left to right. Rubbing his eyes, he verified what was in front of him. What was facing him was an old man, sitting coolly in cross position on what seemed to be a yellow square metal lid, idle on the water. “You’re not an illusion. Are you?” the poet asked, wide-eyed, coy, and dazed. “Ding ding ding! You got that right Einstein,” the old man exclaimed as he rested his chin on his right hand. “Wha— Who— Whe— Why?” the poet asked promptly, his mind interrupting with each word. The poet, now on all fours, realized his disposition. He immediately combed his hair with his hand, dusted off what remained of his clothing, and stood up rather awkwardly, causing the boat to rock once again. He did these in rapid succession. “I am Anden, a poet and scholar from Rockover,” he said chivalrously, extending his hand while giving a more detailed look at the old man. He looked to be in his sixties—wrinkly, lanky, and short—had a bald spot in the patch of his gray hair, green eyes, a fuzzy beard, and a beer belly. He sported a black blazer, a funny looking hat, white foldedfrom-the-bottom pants, and black lenses supported by horizontal lines 64
edging on his ears. “Cap’n Duran. The one and only of the famed Theseus, the swiftest and deadliest submarine of the nine seas. Pleased to meet ya,” the old man said, receiving Anden’s hand-shake. “Bet you haven’t had a proper chow nor a mighty drink in a while, haven’t ya?” “No sir— I mean Captain.” “Just as I thought. You just wait a second now, ya hear?” Captain Duran said politely. Anden, confused but hungry, did not question the sincerity of the old man. The Captain, now standing up, revealed what seemed to be a circular metal wheel. He gave it a lengthy swirl, revealing a hatch. He jumped in and after a few minutes, resurfaced. He offered Anden a jug of water, bread, and some fruits. Anden gratefully accepted and started eating. Amidst the ever-turbulent waters, the orange hue of the sun, and an old man, he wept in joy as he devoured his food. In exchange, he told the Captain the tale of how he arrived in his situation.
65
“Well now. That’s a mighty great story you got there lad. Your resiliency is commendable,” the Captain said. “Well, I believe you found what you were looking for.” “And what’s that Captain?” “You were seeking knowledge right? Let me fill yer noggin with something mindblowing. You see, you are what we call, land dwellers. A long time ago, a great flood engulfed what was known then as the present world. This was caused by ice caps and what not, by the way. The remaining survivors gathered and had two choices. To stay on land, or to adapt and create a civilization at the bottom of the sea. My people chose the latter.” The poet, now in shock, asked angrily. “Why— Why don’t we know about this? Why isn’t this written in any book?” “May it be yer leaders of state din’t want to lose their people now? Bugs me. But what I do know is that this is alotta take in. Hop on board and I will bring ye back to yer ho—” “No,” Anden interrupted. “The questions in my mind are endless. I can’t-won’t come home until I have answers. Pardon my intrusion, but perhaps you can take me with you? I’m a quick learner and I work really hard. Honest,” he said, placing his right hand on his chest. “Well. I dunno lad. I’ve been out on me own for god knows how long. Maybe having a crew member won’t… er… go as well as you planned. The least I can do is bring ya ho—” “I understand. If that’s the case, then I shall remain on the Hemmingway then. I appreciate your help captain. Farewell, and good tidings,” Anden replied. “The Hemmingway?” 66
“I named my boat after my favorite author.” Captain Duran belched out a laugh, and replied: “Ya know lad, you remind me of meself. Guess being alone this long has caused me to have a difficult time trusting people, and I reckon I have to start somewhere. Come to think of it, if I hadn’t surfaced to refuel me air, you woulda been shark bait by now. Ye pretty much owe me yer life. Hopefully this is enough reason to quell yer thoughts of any mutiny business aye?” “Aye Captain. Indeed it is,” Anden answered almost immediately. “I reckon maybe it’s time for me to stop going solo,” the Captain said, rubbing his beard. “Are you sure about this lad? I’m all for it but once we go down. We go down.” Anden, looking at the horizon; the sun calmly dipping into the infinite blue of the tides, turned to the Captain and replied “I’m sure. I really am.” “It’s settled then,” Captain Duran said firmly. “Welcome aboard the formidable Theseus.”
67
The Terror of The Midday Marsh LY L E J O H N B A L A N A
I L LU S T R AT I O NS BY C AR L H AS O N G E RA LE
68
A
gent Kintz scratched at his head again. His well-manicured nails, cupped over the pale, wrinkled length of ever-twitching fingers, plied his corn-colored locks with little direction save for instinct. He only really scratched his head when he was confused, or angry, or scared—frontwards when confused, scrambling when angry, splayed and electric when scared. But for now, his fingers were a comb, a sieve, a song—done in the interests of activity, and nothing more. Before him was a wall of pure glass, slick from the blessed water wetting it from base to top. Smeared over that were crushed gloves of soggy garlic, flanked by chaotic splashes of rice, freshly scattered from a sack that spread what remained all over the floor before the glass him. Behind him was a wall of stakes, each attached to a primer that would launch the sharpened pieces of wood simultaneously at the presence of certain triggers—the breaking of the glass, the disruption of the wall behind the stakes, the loss of life of Kintz himself. Behind
69
the glass was a room layered in every inch with silver, polished so well that the slightest hint of light threw blinding arcs reflecting all across the enclosed box. Inside that room was a single wooden chair. And on that chair, wearing wooden shoes and staring right at him from across the glass, was a vampire. At least, that’s what he thought it was. It was beautiful, in the sort of way that made men and women doubt themselves without closer inspection of the object of their desire. Its long, yellow fangs were hidden beneath cherry-red lips that defaulted to an insolent smirk, and it kept its smooth, long arms crossed over its chest. Its feet tapped incessantly against the silver layer of the floor, like a foot searching for thin ice over a frozen lake. Yet its eyes, sunk and haggard, betrayed a hint of fear. The eyes looked past the glass, the man, the stakes, and beyond, into a time and place that crushed the darkness out of this creature of the night. Kintz let his hand fall away from his head. He needed to be more professional about this. “Again. You say you were from another Earth?” “If that is what you call your world, then yes.” The mouth spoke, the eyes remained fixed on him, but they did not really see him. “I came from a world very much unlike you. Nurturing, damp, rough. A fine bulwark for a fine race.” “And why did you come here?” “Because of him. Because of The Terror of the Midday Marsh.” Kintz almost let out a snort. That was precious, even cheesy. A name that would not be out of place in a drive-thru theater, cranked out by a B-movie company missing their Dalton Trumbo.
70
“You seem to know this terror well.” The vampire did not respond. Its feet kept tapping, tapping on the silver floor, never really stopping. It had been doing that ever since he had gotten into the room. And its eyes—it’s wonderful, scary red eyes, had been staring past him without pause. Kintz cleared his throat. “I’m gonna need an answer on that, please.” The vampire shook its head slightly, clearing invisible cobwebs from its raven-haired head. “Everyone knows the Terror. Everyone should know the Terror. He dwells in the spot of marsh that never knows darkness, and he sits within his little shade of daylight. He sits, and all night he sings, and he makes our blood run cold.” Kintz let out a small, ragged whistle through his teeth. The vampire was making no sense. “So he’s a human? Is that it? Why couldn’t you just have dragged him out and killed him?” The vampire’s tapping paused for a moment, and its vacant, distant
71
stare switched to a glare that drained his mouth of spit. For one, tiny moment, Kintz did not feel in control. And despite everything in the room, along with the murderous stare of the creature, he secretly felt glad that there was one final solution if everything else were to fail. It could never leave this room alive. But it was only for a moment, and then the vampire reverted to old habits. “We have hunted your kind to extinction in the old world,” the vampire said slowly, carefully, “with all manner of tools. But the Terror of the Midday Marsh is different. He sings. He enlivens all he touches. He resists our cunning and our power. He burns what he pleases, and he will not be denied.” Agent Kintz cocked his head slightly. This Terror guy had quite the resume. If he were still alive, and it seemed like he was, seeing as this vampire fled all the way to another dimension just to escape, he would have liked to recruit him. Such useful agents on the field could solve a lot of problems, a lot of headaches. All the bad guys in the world would have to watch out. “So, what does he look like? Does he have any interests? Perhaps he is afraid of the night?” “The night is his slave, and he is master of everything he seeks.” The vampire’s smirk was still there, but it wasn’t a smirk anymore. It was a remnant of its soul, hanging on for dear life in the vapid void of its face. “We could not defeat it, however, we tried until we came
72
upon the ancient scriptures of our race. We prayed to the moon for guidance, and cursed the sun with the power of sacrifice until we had what we hoped to have. A weapon.” “A weapon? What weapon was this?” There was no response. “What weapon was this? Respond, please.” The vampire tapped its shoe-clad feet, its posture stiff and erect, its soul long lost to the terror. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally spoke. “We thought we beat it. We thought the Terror was lost to the strength of the moon. But he roared, and he raged, and he smote us all with a power that slew even our most sacred nights.” The vampire started taking off its shoes. Its porcelain feet flashed out of the brown varnish, inviting for the split second they spent whole before both of them were driven into the silver. The vampire burned, then and there, still tapping its feet until they sloughed away into melted piles of flesh, like the rest of its ilk in the poorly described tragedy that it waxed about the Terror of the Midday Marsh. But before its throat dissolved into ash, it gurgled— “Even now I sang his song! Even now he stands behind you!”
73
Kintz froze. The smell of barbequed flesh sneaked into the room— the glass wasn’t as airtight as he previously thought. He checked his faint reflection on the dirty glass, ignoring the screaming, roasting vampire.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the wall of stakes. Kintz breathed a sigh of relief. How foolish of him to believe a mad vampire! It probably went crazy, unable to comprehend that a simple human could have beaten a whole world of them, whatever method the crazy bastard used. He pressed the hidden receiver surgically implanted over his left jawbone. “Kintz to Tango. Disengage room nuclear safeties. And check the air seals, it’s compromised.”
74
COMICS
ART BY ANNA T H ER ES A PA RAYNO
75
Just Passing Through BY A LY S S A A P R I L R AVA D I L L A
76
77
On Their Pawprints BY C A R L H A S O N G E R A L E
78
79
A Risk to Take BY A N N A T H E R E S A PA R AY N O
80
81
82
83
SCRIBES & SCRIBBLERS
IL LUSTRATIO NS BY: ANDR E A DANI E L L E G AM BOA CAR L H ASON G E R AL E ANNA TH E R E SA PAR AYN O ALYSSA AP R I L R AVADI LL A WORDS BY: ALVI N BR I AN L E G AR I O CH AD MARTI N NATI VI DA D KR I STI NE BAYADOG L OR R AI NE L ABOS JOSH UA MARTI N G UANCO
84
27. Ma ngro v e Tre e
1 4 . Mil otic
1 1 . Ax o l o t l
12. Si a m e se Fi gh ti n g Fi s h
1 . North er n P u fferfish
1 9 . Vap oreon
9. M a na te e
2 5 . Al b i n o Ax o l o t l
7 . GoP ro Un der water
4. M e ssa ge i n a Bo t t l e
2 2 . L ion fish 3. Nautilus
5. R o ya l B lu e Ta n g 6 . Mer man
15. G ra n u l a t e d S e a S t a r
8. Seaweed
87
20 . Ca nno nba l l Je l lyf i s h 2. Bottl en ose Dol p h in
16. Sw o rdfi s h
1 3 . Tu n a Fi s h
88
2 6 . C hri s t m a s I s l a n d R e d C ra b
2 1 . Emp eror Pen g u in
2 4 . F l y i n g Du tc h man
89
1 8 . Ky o g re
1 7 . L ion ’s Man e Jel l y fish
2 8 . G l a u c u s At l a n t i c u s
90
2 3 . Meg al odon 10. L e vi a th a n
2 9 . T he N a u t i l u s, Cap t. Nemo’s S u b marin e
3 0 . C t hu l hu
1. Lorraine Labos (Northern Pufferfish) - This cheeky little aquatic pin cushion, unlike other fauna of the sea, chooses to get caught in the snares of its would-be captors. It does this not for excitement nor attention, but for pure chaotic personal bliss. Like most Tetraodontidae—if captured against its own accord—it inflates into a poisonous mass of toxins. If this does not work, she will try to murder you with cuteness. 2. Lyle John Balana (Bottlenose Dolphin) - In the distance, the Bottlenose Dolphin observes in silence as the prey of the sea scamper to-and-fro, avoiding nets and nuisances alike. “Those who only thrive in their particular habitat will never know genuine independence,” it reflects, aloof. 3. Alvin Brian Legario (Nautilus) - Considered as living fossils, these animals have been around even before the dinosaurs. Due to that, they have witnessed both beautiful and catastrophic phenomena that any poet or historian would envy. Unfortunately (or luckily), they have poor memories, so every event that unveils before them appears as though it were the first time—making them the most unbiased and innocent spectators of the world. 4. Chad Martin Natividad (Message in a Bottle) - Along the shoreline—edging its way towards an endless horizon—is a parchment encapsulated in what seems to be an ancient Black Label bottle. Those who are fortunate enough to stumble upon this bottle and read the confines will forever unlock the secrets of the art of flight. 5. Maria Jasmen Ruiz (Royal Blue Tang) - The Royal Blue Tang does not actually have recurrent memory loss. In reality, its ability to recall is selective—remembering only the fondest of memories. This has proven troublesome due to the fact that repressing mistakes prevents one to learn from them, thus, making them gullible to basic baits and traps.
92
6. Martini Falco (Merman) - In its free time, this merman—contrary to popular belief—does not sit atop rocks luring mariners to the sea. Although having an impeccable command of his voice, he’d rather spend his time among the company of his companions, occasionally spewing vicious jests along the way. When pushed to the brink, although having a naturally serene composure, he will bring battle to those who usher harm to his friends. He does not kill, though. He slays. 7. Nichol Francis Anduyan (A GoPro Underwater) - What was once in the hands of photography enthusiasts and narcissists alike now takes comfort underwater among filth and froth in an overused canal. A thousand years later, those so-called “selfie-takers” are nothing but a memory. However, the GoPro remains—thriving under the nuzzling embrace of solitude in a now luscious valley. 8. Danielle Gutierrez (Seaweed) - Contrary to its terrestrial cousins, seaweed is a type of weed that people would want around. About seventy percent of the world’s oxygen comes from the swaying plant. Thinking of going vegetarian? Studies show that fried seaweed mimics the taste of bacon! If you’re already one, use this info as another card to play when converting your carnivorous friends. 9. Katherine Co (Manatee) - Also known as sea cow, the Manatee is notorious for being easily caught by other predators. With that in mind, the whole species evolved so that their permanent, resting face is that of utter disappointment. Fun trivia: they almost made it to the music video of Catallena by Kpop group Orange Caramel when the director misheard “manatee” instead of “sushi” as the video’s concept theme. 10. Millen Andre Gela (Leviathan) - Primordial texts have clothed the leviathan as a serpentine monster that ushered oblivion to countless ships and lives. Ancient accounts claim that it has been slain by Divinity itself—eventually being fed to Hebrews all over
93
the earth. Yet, contemporary history tends to interject, explaining that the leviathan is still alive and has even adopted a jovial personality: preferring to take picturesque portraits of ships and mortals that it once abhorred from the depths of the antique Mediterranean. 11. Anna Theresa Parayno (Axolotl) - The Axolotl effortlessly shimmies through a hole in the net it was entangled in. Although losing a leg in the process, it happily smiles; knowing it’ll have a brand new limb in forty days. This virtuoso of regeneration can regrow portions of its body both internal and external, but when pressed to eat endless mounds of food, these whimsical sea critters won’t be able to rejuvenate a new stomach. Nonetheless, this does not stop them from consuming cuisines both foreign and local. 12. Alyssa April Ravadilla (Siamese Fighting Fish) - For hundreds of years, the Siamese fighting fish have solely been bred for one thing: battle. Due to this, it is natural for them to have such a competitive angst. This aggression is what fuels their otherwise harmonious demeanor. This one, in particular, seeing other fish easily captured by fishermen, became blinded by competition, decidedly swimming into the back pockets of its poachers, feeling victorious. 13. Andrea Danielle Gamboa (Tuna Fish) - Tunas are far from a casual catch. Their speed and size challenge hunters to be prepped, fit and creative at fishing. Thus, they’ve started the advocacy: setting standards for how fishes should be courted at sea. 14. Carl Hason Gerale (Milotic) - Milotic is the Water-type evolution of the pokemon, Feebas. With its rainbow-palleted scales and cream-covered complexion, this serpentine pokemon is regarded as the most beautiful pokemon of all time. Unspecified in the Pokedex—if given a pencil, they can create illustrations as beautiful as itself. It also prefers to live in seclusion, but once approached by friendly pokemon, it breaks free of its shell and evolves into its third evolution, the Carlotic. This one, in particular, was raised with a Chancey (which he remains best friends with to this day).
94
15. Starlene Portillo (Granulated Sea Star) - This specific Starfish was found clinging on the forehead of a Beluga. The mammal had been bullied a few days earlier by insensitive fishes for its weight. Noticing the distraught, the starfish stamped itself on the creature as an unspoken reminder that all bodies are beautiful. 16. Joshua Mahilum (Swordfish) - Likened to the Greek god Hermes due to its swift sprinting motion, the Swordfish acts as the guardian of the sea, quelling fights and defending those who are in need. When pressed into a seemingly insurmountable dilemma, it channels the fighter within, unleashing a truly unstoppable force. 17. Kynah Rhea Fuentes (Lion’s Mane Jellyfish) - Under the cover of twilight and the tides, a Lion’s Mane Jellyfish envelops the motion of the waves; bobbing to and fro in complete solace. Carefree in nature, this tranquil sea creature remains reserved in the presence of its peers. However, do not be fooled. Underneath the composure of a simple jellyfish lies the passion and intensity of a lion. 18. Joshua Martin Guanco (Kyogre) - Kyogre is a legendary pokemon that is said to be the personification of the sea itself. As a pastime, it wrestles with its legendary counterpart, Groudon, the personification of land. Unspecified in the Pokedex—the ancient being loves to share its wisdom to humans who he deems worthy. Sometimes, he would telekinetically inject knowledge into doctors who have made scientific discoveries. Among them was the psychiatrist, Carl Jung, and German physician, Alois Alzheimer. 19. Ivee Manguilimotan (Vaporeon) - Vaporeon is the Water-type evolution of the pokemon, Eevee. Unspecified in the Pokedex—they have an amazing sense of initiative, often jumping out of the Pokeball whenever their friends are in danger (or when it’s a fine time to pull off a healthy prank). This one, in particular, happens to be in the possession of a trainer from Bacolod.
95
20. Kristine Bayadog (Cannonball Jellyfish) - In the virgin shores of what was once primordial Manila, a jellyfisherman caught this sentient shroud of jelly in what seemed to be a quest for food. Upon inspecting his net, the fisherman felt he wasn’t in the mood for a cnidarian feast, so, he released the invertebrate back into the ocean. The jellyfish, mistaking the gesture as an act of kindness, developed feelings for the man. Since then, she voluntarily lets herself be captured, hoping that she could one day repay the kindness she mistook. 21. Hekate (Emperor Penguin) - A NatGeo photographer once captured on film a peculiar habit from the wingless bird: across a number of days, a female penguin was observed doing odd taps and slides behind a snow mound, far from its huddle. It was almost like the bird was trying out new steps. Soon after, the one who filmed the phenomenon quit to become a director. His first production was entitled “The Emperor’s New Groove.” 22. Lex Diwa Aloro (Lionfish) - Lionfish are like the porcupine of the deep: it seems like a good idea to approach them (at first) until you get stung by one of their spikes/spines. A 4th grader claimed that her pet Lionfish was adopted and raised by her other fish. Its name—Simba. 23. Lance Christian Juarez (Megalodon) - One of three remaining archaic aqueous beings roaming the four corners of the sea. “That’s two Megalodons too many,” it announced when it began hunting down the rest. 24. Dominic Magbanua (Flying Dutchman) - The Flying Dutchman met its unknown end in the 17th century. As punishment for a supposed guilty crime, legends say the ship and its crew was cursed to never make port, forever doomed to sail the seas as a glowing apparition. It sank when it angered the Chinese goddess of Nian Gao during a fateful Chinese New Year.
96
25. Andrea Nicole Farol (Albino Axolotl) - The canine of the sea, coincidentally named after the canine Aztec deity Xolotl, is captured on camera devouring a tremendous amount of what seems to be french fries after a successful hunt. While doing so, It bops its head in line with the tune of ‘As If It’s Your Last’ playing far away in the distance. 26. Heath (Christmas Island Red Crab) - Christmas Island Red Crabs are notorious for their annual migration to the sea. They hike over obstacles and dodge speeding cars, faithfully following a path they’ve set for themselves to conquer. In a way, their constant voyage reminds us that sacrifices are always worth taking in order to reach the dreams that have seized our hearts. 27. Avicii (Mangrove Tree) - A lone Mangrove tree stands idle, protecting the shoreline and sea creatures amidst ruin and rubble. Riddled on it are moss green leaves engraved with odes, a collection that will last for a century and more. Unlike other beings that reside in water, this one does not seek a home. Instead, it shelters others—a sanctuary to the creatures that seek refuge and poetry alike. Ironically, it cannot protect itself. 28. Jeepers Creepers (Glaucus Atlanticus) - Along the deep blue waters floats a cerulean creature often dubbed as the ‘Blue Angel’ of the sea due its fantasy-like characteristics, alluring shades, and extraordinarily unique physique. This tiny spectacle of an organism shimmers in a wholesome hue of silver—a faultless spotlight to highlight its own, mesmerizing self. But beware, for in its bewitching comes a defense mechanism that could kill even those a thousand times larger than itself. 29. Alfredo Bayon-on (The Nautilus, Capt. Nemo’s Submarine) - Behind every hellacious captain stands (or in this instance, floats) an equally mythical ship. The Nautilus, the indomitable powerhouse that was the pride and joy of Capt. Nemo, was capable of withstanding the crushing depths of the merciless sea. Capable and seemingly invulnerable,
97
it skirmishes with giant squids, colossal whales and many more monsters at the bottom of the ocean. This submarine—prepped for both exploration and comfort—carries no flag and answers to no law because, in the seven seas, he is the law. 30. Jed Descutido (Cthulhu) - During the day, it is known as the Celestial Fiend, but at night, its true colors come forth. Cthulhu, the benevolent being that resides underneath the realm of aquatic mortals, silently munches on his midnight snack as he edits short films and write scripts in his pastime. Aside from being an aspiring director and the Lord of the dark depths, he also puts himself through college: taking up Electronics Engineering.
98
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
99
Marian, for being my deepest ocean and most shallow shore, you gave me eyes on days I sailed blindly upon a maelstrom. Wherever the wind takes my sails, you will always be the greatest adventure I will and have taken. Chad, for helping me collect the scattered seashells on mahogany beaches, that if not for you, I would still be trying to piece out remnants of a shipwreck. Joshua G., for assisting me with grounding the waves within the confines of this folio, and being the most efficient paper-holder as well as being the avantgarde leader, guiding and foreseeing each and every step of not only the Scribe but of the whole publication. Rainne, Tine, for being the ones who made me remember to admire the froth as much as the sea water that carries them. Fredu, Jed, for masterfully crafting and guiding the ebb and flow of the ocean’s currents unto the pages of this folio. Andie, Carl, Pi, Ling, for the ones that collected the reflection of stars and reformed them into constellations that embodied, enabled, and encapsulated the nuance of each leaf within this book. Tini, Alfed, Kyle, for projecting stagnant waters into waves formidable enough to shatter the trances of uncontinuity.
100
Parents, for providing our first paddles as we took our initial strokes in the oceans of life. And to the contributors, the few who chose to answer the calling of the changing tides, the few who gathered the personal bottled ships drifting from their sea of consciousness; remember that wherever the tides may take you— to places rich with both enlightenment and bewilderment—know that what transcribed between the pages of this folio will forever be remembered as an act of bravery and courage. You are the beginning and the end of this folio. Thank you.
101
102
THES PECTRUM FOUNDED 1956
facebook.com/thespectrumusls · thespectrum.usls@gmail.com
Joshua Martin P. Guanco EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Katherine E. Co ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Victoria Marian B. Belmis MANAGING EDITOR
Robert H. Jerge III EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR NEWSPAPER EDITOR Starlene Joy B. Portillo ASST. NEWSPAPER EDITOR Ivee E. Manguilimotan MAGAZINE EDITOR Hezron G. Pios ONLINE PUBLICATIONS & PHOTOS AND VIDEOS EDITOR Martini M. Falco ASST. ONLINE EDITOR Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes ASST. PHOTOS AND VIDEOS EDITOR Millen Andre E. Gela LITERARY EDITOR Alvin Brian S. Legario LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Glen Jed J. Descutido ASST. LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Alfredo Jr. R. Bayon-on
NEWSPAPER WRITERS
PHOTOJOURNALISTS
Joshua L. Mahilum Ma. Angeline M. Mayor
Nicci Bernelle D. Aguilar Gerico T. Guanco Karl Brian T. Marqueza Alyssa April H. Ravadilla
MAGAZINE WRITERS
Disney Marie L. Espartero Lance Christian M. Juarez
VIDEOGRAPHERS
Alfed Edrian D. Ama Kyle Jyrax D. Sevilla
ONLINE WRITERS
Charlene Marie D. Lim Ida Sarena M. Gabaya
LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS ARTIST
Alexandra V. Bachoco
LITERARY WRITERS
ILLUSTRATORS
Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog Lorraine M. Labos
Andrea Danielle A. Gamboa Carl Hason T. Gerale Anna Theresa S. Parayno
WEB ADMINISTRATOR
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
Keanu Kent B. Gargar
Chad Martin Z. Natividad
PUBLICATION MODERATOR
Jean Lee C. Patindol
103
104