Scribe: From The Wiles Vol. 24 by TheSpectrum-USLS

SCRIBE

Volume 24, July 2021 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.

LI TER ARY EDITOR

Carl Hason T. Gerale L AYOUT ARTISTS

Alexandra V. Bachoco Kiara Nicole D. Villa Mikey Vincent T. Vicente I LLUSTR ATOR S

Alexandra V. Bachoco Angela A. Coronel Christian Dominic L. Ledesma Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Mikey Vincent T. Vicente C OVER CONCEPT AN D D ESI GN

Carl Hason T. Gerale Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Set in IM FELL Double Pica and Iowan Old Style

Foreword At the vantage point of these rickety rows of seats, the trick act’s rather enraging, no? Pardon my sudden voice disrupting your deep contemplation, kind patron. You see, my quite curious eyes can’t help but notice a rousing soul seemingly addled among this audience. Perhaps the fun rides outside and ever-present flashes of blinding lights have finally lost their allure to you? Well, if you would let this meddlesome fellow bargain for a quarter of your hour for a golden ticket out of this scene, then allow me as I let you in on a secret. After all, once one catches the sleight that maneuvers the mechanisms of this place, there is no descent back to naivety. Without further ado, pay close attention as I tell you my knowhow of the Wiles. This place hides more of what can be seen under its cunning spectacles than it reveals with all its grand scheme of magical wonder. Look past the perfected smiles on the performers’ faces, lines of multicolored stalls, brightly painted booths that would haggle you over for comfort. Things are not what they always seem to be in the height of bliss. Humor this thought: the way out lies just beyond all these colors and extravaganza. You jest, dear friend! You contest that no trail leading outside exists within this fair, but believe me when I say that you are capable of tracing one—if only with a little more intention. How I knew, your averting gaze revealed your apprehension towards unfamiliar grounds. On top of that, you would have outright refused my proposition if you so much deem the idea utterly ludicrous. Now, at the time you arrive out of this tent, stride with your feet. Worry not of where the dead crowds go or form a queue, the path you seek is not always where they herd and crow. Veer your vision at which you tread and away from where the contraptions coax for a spin or two. In a place that you have long circled the same old dirt road, steer your course towards the path you never dared taking before. My eyes have already spied the ensemble of tiny horrors on your face, mimicking the acrobats up front from when I mentioned departure—

and perchance, a stray sighting of suspicion. The call is still yours whether to wager your trust upon this random folk. You will always have a hand of choices, good friend. I could further argue that there is no need for distrust in our newfound acquaintanceship, but I suppose a speck of skepticism is a good thing to have, don’t you think? To resist it shows less of your defiance to be fettered by ignorance. We both know humans live life not with strings secured around their limbs. Here, take this old pamphlet and sift through the accounts salvaged from the old belongings of artistes, merchants, and machines that have long departed the Wiles should your resolve waver. This is no golden ticket, contrary to what I guaranteed, but I deduce you need the belief of possibility more than a pretty piece of paper. Keep your coins; payments are unnecessary for an object your courage has already earned. My shift shall end soon. And so, before I take my leave, bear in mind: embrace the knowing as much as you brace for it, dear friend. That is when the haze draws open the path for you. Mayhap, I’ll see you on the other side.

Some strange and nosy vendor,

Carl Hason T. Gerale

CONTENTS POE TRY and the stronghold falls ��2 Per(y)ahan ng San Miguel ��5 Mechanism ��7 Prinsesa ��9 Inclemency ��10 “One More Spin?” ��12 ‘v’ for ventriloquy ��15 Homo modernus ��16 Ganito (ba) ako? ��18 agahan ��21 Balik-Tanaw ��22 signed, undine ��24 Hiraeth ��25 Identity ��28 Esklabo sang Misteryo ��29 Preceding the Name of a Body ��33 Consider No Mercy ��34

FIC TION Mass Hysteria ��36 Tower to Aether ��37 when the ravens murder ��41

A Chill in the Wind ��42 Pag-ikot ng Tsubibo ��48

NON-FIC TION Hip-hop in the Time of Appendicitis ��52 What I Owe to Odyssey ��55 Apak ��58 thoughts on a carousel ride in reverse ��62

C OM IC S Friendly Delusions ��64 The Monster Inside ��68 Weight ��72

S CRI B ES & SC RIBBLE RS �� 7 5 ACKNOWLE DGE M E NTS �� 8 8

POETRY

ART BY J AZ I EL ANN S EB AL L O S

and the stronghold falls BA KEMONO

bombs catapult over a field of caltrops where I was a pawn primed for slaughter in an olden siege. as dread trickles down like hail, I surge headfirst towards an unseen peril for the scheme of a queen, the warpath dims where pieces come to life. polished, reaching and striking for angles, the sole victor roars the arena into ruins. and there she stands, proud, unscathed, stepping nimbler than the clock— guiltless. I forfeit and leave.

P H O T O BY PHOE BE DA I DOJI JA BONE T E

A RT BY M I K EY VI NC ENT VI C ENT E

Per(y)ahan ng San Miguel PAUL A MAE VILL AR O S A

Nakakat’wang pagmasdan ang malabahagharing banderitas, malaalitaptap na mga ilaw, malaengkantadong laro’t palabas na tumatalukbong sa mga kinakalawang na bakal, lumalangitngit na mga karo, huwad na salamangka sa perya ng San Miguel. Nakakaaliw masaksihan ang malalangaw na paghapon ng mga parokyano sa nakalatag na mga mesa’t kubol-palaruan pagdatal sa bunganga ng peryahan— puno ng hiyawan at hambugan sa bawat mapusok na pustahang kumukubli sa mga pilit na paghatak sa eskala ng mga chansa ng sugalan, patagong tinginan at pasahan ng iilang pirasong pilak, harap-harapang pagdaklot ng marurungis na tanso mula sa magagaspang na dakma ng karaniwang mananaya upang may ialay sa masalaping patrong kinikilingan ni Bb. Kasarinlan. Nakakamanghang masilayan ang mahika ng salamangkero, maliksing paghagis at pagsalo ng mga unano, mapang-akit na pagsirko’t paglukso sa hangin ng mga nagtatrapesiyo na bumabalot sa mga matusong pagdukot ng mga relos, kwintas, at singsing sa bawat kumpas ng kamay, mahibong pagdakip sa mga pitaka habang nahuhumaling ang lahat sa pagtatanghal, mapanlinlang na pagkupit sa mumunting barya’t perang nakasuksok sa butas na bulsa sa bawat malagkit na haplos at hipo nitong kongreso ng mga tagapanukalang-aliwan. Nakakabighaning panuorin

ang paghalakhak at pagpuri ng madla sa pag-among tila’y mga tuta ng mga tigre’t leon sa bawat hudyat ng sirko de mayor sabay sa pamumula’t bungisngis ng mga dalagang tila sinusuyo na sumasangga sa mga walang habas na paghagupit ng latigo mula umaga hanggang magdamag, pagsuklob sa mga matitinis na tili’t saklolo, paggutay ng maninipis na saplot— matapos ay walang kibong maghuhugas-kamay at magmamasid sa mga bakas na dinulot. Kung kaya’t lagi akong napapatigil sa dakong rito— nakakat’wang pagmasdang gabi-gabi’y kumpol-kumpol pa rin ang mga parokyanong nalilinlang, nadadaya’t naaalipustang naniniwala sa manipis na haraya ng namumulok na perya ng San Miguel.

Mechanism. ЖҮР Ж

Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: Neither High or Neither Low. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: As if This flesh Is in Limbo. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: I do Not reap The seed I sow. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go:

It brings Forth life Yet nothing Grows. Up and Down The Ferris wheel I go: How can I ever Stop this Ceaseless flow?

Prinsesa J OSHUA MAHILU M

sinorpresa ka niya ng isang palumpon ng pulang rosas ngumiti ka pinuno niya ng sanlibong mahal kita ang ‘yong tenga humalik ka huminang siya ng pilak sa ‘yong pang-apat na daliri yumakap ka ginawa ka niyang prinsesa nabulag ka sinaksak ka ng mga tinik sa rosas na bigay niya ngumiti ka pa isa-isang napalitan ng pasensya ka na ang sanlibo niyang mahal kita humalik ka pa pinulbos na ng kalawang ang singsing ninyong dalawa yumakap ka pa kalilibing lamang niya sa prinsesa dumilat ka

Inclemency MERYL SIGATON

He crossed ice-flaked corners, eyeing the snow-crusted cobbles. Chivalry on his left, fresh freesias on his right. His love had eyes like pine, locks—reflecting ebony sheen. He found her under the chestnut tree, a Calla Lily beneath a book. He stood frozen under the lamplight— an open velvet box lay before his love. A diamond throned on a silver band; a stranger on a bent knee. He retraced rimed footprints, eyeing the damp pavement. Gallance on his left, creeping obsidian night on his right. His love had a smile like March, skin gleaming golden honey. She found blooms beneath the waning hoar; laughing, whimpering, musing of spring.

ART BY C H R I S T I AN DO M I NI C L EDESMA

‘One More Spin?’ A L A N VILL ANUEVA JR .

Today, my body knows nothing but the sun pulling me out of bed and the moon ramming me back to sleep. Now, I seek the gleaming chunks of copper, sheathing me from the rains pouring, hushing my rumbling stomach, and quenching this thirst—strangling me, even for a little while. A bow-tied gent steers a wheel and for some change, he moved the earth, spinning until I lost track. And when it stopped, I held the golden glimmer in my eyes. For days, his grace doubled my offerings, but for some, he was quite greedy, denying me my pining. With my sight dimming, I reckoned my faith measly. To regain his love, I wagered my all. With senses waning, I nailed my eyes to the wheel dancing its grand pirouette. It was life, swinging one with the wind, and slowing down like ripples. And my heart stampedes like a horde of horses as this beauty settles to its last stance. My feet, itching to jump, froze and screams of victory went down my throat—I fell,

but no sound was heard. My head recalled the spinning wheel, every coin stolen, and my eyes racing against the wheel’s every turn. It was time to close down— curtains were drawn, lights were put out, and the tranquil night remained unbothered. As I move, a single glint from the wheel swears to meet me again, though I pray not. My head recalled the spinning wheel, every coin stolen, and my eyes racing against the wheel’s every turn. It was time to close down— curtains were drawn, lights were put out, and the tranquil night remained unbothered. As I move, a single glint from the wheel swears to meet me again, though I pray not.

PHOTO BY S TE V E LO U I S E

‘v’ for ventriloquy HANA PATR ICIA R AJ HAU T E A

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, Keep your pretty little mouth shut. Read my lips from far away, Lest your tongue gets cut. If you don’t have anything nice to say, Lay your volume low. God forbid, you offend someway; Just play us a dumb show. If you don’t have anything nice to say, Cast yourself aside. When grins and laughs could be delayed, What use is silly pride?”

Yet my wily mind whispers Of its own right and wrong. Amid blaring, fervent streets— that is where you belong.

Silence invites smiles—yes; But my voice demands to be heard. Tomorrow—I swear, when twilight strikes, “Farewell” shall be my first word.

Well, mother, the time is ripe To do what must be done. A brand new act I will perform For now, an audience of one.

Homo modernus J O SHUA MAHILUM

Tao ang pinapakain mo ng hangin tuwing umaga. Tao ang binababad mo sa ilaw hanggang umaga. Tao ang ikinakadena mo sa telepono at kama. Tao ang pinakakagat mo sa bampira. Tao ang ipinakasal mo sa mga libro. Tao ang minamadali mo laging maging matalino. Tao ang sinusubuan mo ng aralin kahit busog na. Tao ang ginugutom mo ng pahinga. Tao ang inuuhaw mo ng lambing. Tao ang pinagtutulakan mong maging napakagaling. Tao ang tinutukso mo tuwing umaayaw. Tao ang nilalason mo ng perpektong ikaw. Tao ang kaibigang ‘di mo na nakakamusta. Tao ang batang pinagbabawalan mong kumanta. Tao ang magulang na ‘di mo nasasabihan ng mahal kita. Tao ang sarili mong nakalimot na siya’y tao pa.

ART BY CA RL HA SON G E RA LE

Ganito (ba) ako? K RI S TINE R ODR IGU E Z B AYAD O G

Isang bangungot ang matagpuan ang sarili na tila’y bilanggong nagnanais tumakas mula sa basal na rehas ng lipunan. Nakakapagod magsumiksik sa kalawanging sulok at magkubli mula sa mga matang nagmamasid— naghihintay na magkasala upang ako’y hatakin sa nakakasilaw na paghuhukom. Nang minsang pinuna ako ni Ina, “Bakit ang ikli ng ‘yong damit? Malandi ka ba?” Naisip ko na kung ang paggalang ay para lamang sa mga balot ang katawan, mas nanaisin ko pang maging hubo’t hubad. Pero baka tama si Ina. Nang minsang kinundina ako ni Ama, “Uhaw ang babaeng maagang nakikipagrelasyon at nagkaanak. Gusto mo bang tawaging puta?” Kung ang magluwal ng supling ang kahulugan ng puta, mas pipiliin ko pang maging batang ina sa halip na maging anak ng mapanghusgang ama. Pero baka tama si Ama. Nang minsang kinuwestyon ako ng guro, “Adik ka ba? Bakit berde ang iyong buhok? Bakit may hikaw ka sa labi? Bakit puro ka tinta?” Kung krimen ang ihayag ang sarili sa paraang ako’y komportable’t totoo, ano’ng karapatan mong hatulan ako? Pero baka tama siya.

Nang minsang sinubok ako ng kakilala, “Bakit hindi ka nanlaban? Baka ginusto mo? Baka ika’y nasarapan?” Naglakbay ang mumunting butil ng mga luha mula sa aking mga mata sabay tanong sa sarili, “Ginusto ko ba? Hiniling ko ba?” Pero… Mali sila. Walang kahit anong halaga ng luwad mula sa maruruming mga gunita ng iba ang makakapaghukom kung sino dapat ako sa kanila. Hindi kamalian ang maging isang modernong Maria Clara. Hindi ko kasalanan kung naliligalig ka sa’king katawan at masyado ka nang nilunod ng mahalay mong isipan. Hindi ko kapintasan kung nababagabag ka sa aking kurba, sa kolorete sa mukha, sa dami ng tinta, at sadyang hindi mo tanggap na ako’y babaeng malaya. Mali ka. Hindi ko hanap ang iyong pasya.

P H O T O BY I NO C ENCI O JOHN KE I T H FE RRE R V

agahan POL AR IS

ikubli ang mga pahinang nag-iimbita sa iyong mga mata, umaapaw ang mga letrang nakatahi—nang-aakit na lasapin kung ano ang inihain. hindi ba’t iyan ang dapat mo lang lunukin? dahil kung ang mga talukap mo’y nakasara sa gabi, wala kang karapatang kwestiyunin ang pumapalahaw sa pagsapit ng dilim. wala kang karapatang siyasatin kung sino ang nagtatahi ng iyong babasahin dahil may mga lihim na kailanma’y ‘di makakatakas sa bawat dampi ng bibig sa tenga; ang mga panis na pahinang nagtatalak ng mga kuwentong barbero na animo’y gantimpala sa kumakalam na sikmura. kung sa tingin mo’y bastos ang pagrereklamo sa harap ng hapag, ‘di mo ba alam? ika’y nagdududa na rin, pinaglalaruan ang pagkain, pinipilit ang kayang langhapin. kaya ikaw, tiklupin mo na ang mga pahinang nag-iimbita sa iyong mga mata, umaapaw ang mga letrang nakatahi— siguradong mabubusog ka sa unang tikim. kumain ka na.

Balik-Tanaw I MM ALIE R OSE CA FI FGE

Sa malambing na haplos ng kasalukuyan, sa katahimikang nilagdaan ng balat kong kupas, muling pagmasdan ang pinalayang bihag mula sa nanlilimahid na seldang bakal at mga nanlalatang tagumpay ng isang talunan. Walang gabing payapa sa inutil na ginapos ng tanikala sa parusang hindi kayang tugunan ng anumang ginto o pilak. Ilang patak ng dugo mula sa pitik ng mga pakpak kapalit ng dagliang pagluwag ng rehas habang bugbog ang katawan sa paglatak ng mga salitang nangangakong ililigtas ako sa dahas ng sansinukob. Ngunit kahit ang bulag ma’y hindi mangmang sa pagbabadya ng kasalanang binaon ng panahon. At sa paghiyaw ng mga durog kong bahagi sa bawat sulok ng hawlang kalawangin, muling napagtanto: Ang ‘yong haplos— pugad ng pinantasyang uyaying isang hamak na bilangguan. Hindi ako ang kabayaran sa ‘yong hapak na hinaharap.

PHO TO BY K E I L A H BA L DO M AR

signed, undine K RI ZZIA R ICCI NE P O M U CE N O

by the coastlines, aquamarine glows bleak and treasures gleam tarnish, traversing the red sundress donned over rich copper skin. between rows of palm trees, the wind blows hush, lulling the leaves. like its taut wooden oars, sitting on a dinghy, wincing at each rock skipped as they splash, as they sink— in dread of a looming rush. with the ebbs and currents, a storm clashes with the waves. under brisk waters, where weaving tendrils were serpents circling shanks— at the command of Neptune, they clawed at a quilted petticoat. in the navel of the corals, the herrings plunge deeper to escape. into a trench, like a trough, numbing darkness glowers; where aghast planktons course through crests to become the ocean’s prey. by the windswept shores, the saffron sun rests upon the horizon. the blue scales are scraped away, to uncover the trove of sapphires concealed beneath pallid blood. at the heart of sea, i shall never swim again.

Hiraeth BI RDY

I. freak Mama and papa don’t like me mama of golden hair, lacquered nails, and red lips papa of heavy brows, pointed nose, and pillared back they smile in public masks of genteel tenderness but masks crumble behind closed doors rancor in their fists, vitriol in their eyes— blood in their throats. Mama and papa don’t like me i of midnight eyes, spotted skin, and tiny feet i of sharp claws, feathered back, and pointed teeth they cradle me; call me blessing, only to drown me in bleach wrest the feathers from my skin file down my teeth ‘til i am human again. II. oracle The wind whispers to me it carries deceit spewed from the mouth of familiar voyeurs it bears lies that gouge out eyes from seeing they try to hide wicked words and deadly deeds, but the truth comes wrangling mangled and charred from the abyss, and i see it all. The wind whispers to me it carries crescendos of a time forgotten it bears phantoms of the sea breeze filched from my mind i try to remember the warmth of flushed fingers, paintings on honey skin and the tang of red cardamom spice but the colors blur and ripple like coral sunsets, subdued by gale and night til’ i drown in delude again.

III. homecoming The skies sing to me elegies of old that pull at my core requiems of a stolen daughter lost to greedy hands i listen to their desolate lullabies and feel their lamentations; let their cries echo, grow steel feathers, sharpen my teeth— rise from the ashes they buried me in. The skies sing to me ballads of joyful reunion and love reveries of promises fulfilled that draw me closer this fire inside smolders and ignites— i gnaw on mama and papa’s steel cage; bruises on my lips, copper on my tongue, stars on my fingertips, yearn and dream til’ i am home again.

PH OT O BY KA RL BRI A N MA RQUE ZA

Identity A LY SSA NICOL E M AQ U I R AN

The world was enshrouded with mid-January chills as fog coiled behind her lenses ‘til she braved obscurity. Twin arches rose from a warehouse that was more debris than it was concrete. Small crescents ringed her palm as she veered herself to the right; a roof—shambles— is better than the biting cold. Inside, moth-eaten sheets fluttered, the distorted figures gleaming through punctured linen. Amidst the desolation, dark sockets gazed back, each step and turn amplified a thousandfold. A low hoot echoed through the hall, with tufts of white now peeking underneath sable talons; there wasn’t much of a difference. To her left, the brick corridor beckoned. She bade the moon farewell, her sandals eclipsing the faint imprints of her Stan Smiths before she dared another step. The edifice loomed overhead with its slitted jalousies, mocking her traipse, taunting her lucidity. Inching closer, she caught her eye, gold glinting against darkened bronze; fragments of lapis littered the asphalt, each facet gleaming.

Esklabo sang Misteryo K YNAH R HEA FUE N T E S

Ginapuga ang kaunuran sang kagutok— indi ko mahangpan nga sa kada pagpili, ini’ng sapatos ang ulihi nga pamatbat. Ayhan kay waay na sang iban nga pililian. Nagabanog sang ka-siot ugaling dalayon nga nagapahulong-hulong sa kagab-ihon, kalong sa mga hitabo apang sa rumbag nga payag sa ukbong ang dulong. Sa matag-adlaw, ini ang naandan. Lain ang tuyo, ugaling sa gihapon, pagdayon sa ganhaan, blanko na ang nahibal-an sa sunod nga mga hitabo. Sa pagbutlak sang adlaw, magabugtaw na lamang nga puno sang lagob— pilason. Pito ka tuig nga pag-antos sa wala mahibal-an nga rason samtang palibot-libot sa katanhagsan. Pito ka tuig nga ugtom sa indi mahangpan nga kahimtangan. Inosente bala ukon nagapabulag-bulag?

Sa sini nga kasisidmon, antis ang ikawalo nga dag-on, buot man magsul-ob ginpasulabi nga tawhay ang dapa-dapa sa anuman nga suwelas, bisan pa wala panghuna-huna sa después. Nagalaum sa naandan apang wala sang pangalibutan nga padulong sa katuyoan— kahilwayan. Imbes sa rumbag nga payag sa ukbong, sa halalban ang dulong. Halalban kung sa diin dagaya ang madawat nga dapya sang duhoy. Mapalaron nga tinuga— Naga-yami man ang dapa-dapa sa una nga paglapak sa duta apang akon na nga mabatyagan ang wala kaparis nga hilway.

ART BY AL EX ANDR A B AC H O C O

P HO TO BY K EI L A H B A LDO MA R

Preceding the Name of a Body C AR L HASON G E R AL E

I know him— Sat tightly on every panihapon And listened to the table talk about Their gods and religion, Their principles on a platter. Of it, he took a stiff spoonful And for him, that meant something: Same skin and blood—same knowing. He told me of his straw spine, How he let the passing winds name it After chinawares and the act Of propping it between the shoulder Of a friend and a shoulder Of a friend as we’re both Sprawled on our bedroom floor. That night, he entrusted me our body To know the spaces under our bones, And how they can stand when bundled. And as he pieced me from the fragments Of our youth—every tear and tears, He watered my crown, and laid in my arms.

Consider No Mercy HEZR ON PIOS

Did you think of a mob dance, a protest versus hitmen in the shadows? If we chain our hands tight we’d be electric perhaps. So tell me, how should I wake you up? Three fingers in the likeness of Katniss. The television tells us of news leaving a sour aftertaste: men in gray blue, men disposed like cheap tetra packs. It’s just the same channel—same changes. Even the finest heroes who once ousted Macoy still exist years after That Day. Here’s my proposal: plant your feet on the streets so that the Word will be the language of the masa. Mountains must crawl elsewhere while the skies burst in colors to tease apocalypse. Chants reciting the names of slain advocates would jolt Bacolod and a city kissing another city. Then, the whole nation. So tell me, how do we pardon the yawa? We’re past such fickle hashtags, past retweets and tedious threads that can barely do enough. Unless the clowns turn themselves in, blood stays nonnegotiable. We will sport hope like a pair of wings. Tomorrow, reclamation.

ART BY CA RL HA SON G ER AL E

FICTION

Mass Hysteria A LV IN LEGAR IO

Look down upon your subjects, brother. See how their faith in you has bolstered? Has it really, sister? For three fortnights they have prayed for your blessing, begging for the monsoon to arrive today. Look how they even gathered in the multitudes. Yes, a plethora of sheep gathered beneath the foot of my mountain yet only one child brings forth a cloak for shade. Is that true faith?

Tower to Aether S CY T HE

ART BY C H R I S T I AN DO M I NI C L EDESMA

The irregular rhythm of rusted iron against rock permeates through the hot underground. A desolate, gargantuan cavity houses a molten wasteland with men and women boring into its foundation. It has been 7,432 days since Soren arrived here with the condemned—cursed with an eternity of punishment when purgatory caved in. He remembers the great beast who coveted a thousand souls to create his empire. Scouring through the underworld, the beast threatened the dead with hellfire but a few lost souls weren’t enough. And thus, in his unholy lust, he annihilated the sanctuary between death and paradise. Soren remembers the sight of bodies free-falling in a hollow ravine, salvation’s light growing dim and distant. Limbs flailed in an attempt to grasp whatever there is to grasp and the broken choir of a thousand horrid screams pierced from every direction. The crackling of bones and the sloshing of blood decorating the terror orchestra was burned into Soren’s mind ever since. Now, Soren spends his days as a cog in a wretched dominion. For his first four years, it was gathering the bones of the fallen. For the next seven, it was eating the coarse, hot sea of sand all about the underworld. For six more, it was pooling a river of boiling blood. And now, it is to mine into the rock indefinitely. But Soren knew that deliverance was divinely prophesied. Down the river of blood and behind the gory waterfall lay a cavern. Slaves would carefully trod about the treacherous cliffside to behold the grotto’s inscription. At first, Soren dismissed the holy writ as a false promise, but it has been six years since the scripture was first found and everything has come as it had predicted. Before the pouring of the crimson river, prophecy bled onto the rock in pure white light. Those who laid witness were enthralled—it reminded them of the post-mortem bliss before arriving in purgatory. The Elysian Fields could almost be felt through the light as it was written: Hear me, fallen souls: the almighty has seen you suffer in this wretched place. The beast has remained sharp, but after two decades, he has grown careless—too engrossed by his work. I know he had commanded every man and woman to eat the sand along this place. I know that his demand is now a river of blood. You must hide this 38

message at this time. Know that he will then command a great quarry upon the earth. Trust in your true lord and know that this will be his gravest mistake. Follow his command diligently. Strike the rock beneath you with every ounce of valor and strength. The beast knows aether’s light all too well. As such, this will be the only message. Have faith. Deliverance will come. And strike it they did. Though, Soren remained cynical. He went about his work but dared not associate himself with the message in fear of an even darker punishment. In his worn rags, he ventures through a bony path and dug along the red shore, dreading the metallic smell. He shuddered at the sight of blood after the falling—a reminder of that gruesome choir. When the river was pooled, Soren’s breath hastened and his limbs grew shaky— losing his sense of reality. But he tried to conquer it—a small goal amidst his suffering. Still shaken, he grips his debased pickaxe and tries to focus, but with every whiff, he can nearly taste the disgusting rust. Soren grits his teeth and represses his nerves, dead-set on ridding himself of the nightmares. Moments pass and after concentrating, his breathing steadies. To his surprise, he recovered much faster this time and a smirk crept up on his ragged face. His humble work, now a foot deep hole, gazes back at him. Almost done. Upon the next few blows from his gaunt tool, Soren feels the ground harden like nothing before. He struck thrice more but not even a chunk of the thing gave way. Soren shakes his head and raises his pickaxe high. He buckles his body and, with all his might, strikes the rock dead center. Without warning, a great geyser of hot steam erupts and knocks Soren afar. Beneath the stream is pure darkness and a big hiss echoes throughout the underground. The floor all about the massive cavern rumbles. Bewildered, the slaves look around and in an instant, more steam geysers spew forth and shatter the foundations of the cave. The slaves scatter, but a chain of heat and explosion shakes the entirety of the hollow until the ground begins to give. Geysers all about the crimson ocean compound into one colossal 39

tidal wave, flowing through every crack and crevice and devouring anything that came its way. Soren flails about in the wave in sheer terror with the others. The destructive path slithers through the winding grooves littered with gore until it comes upon an enormous throne of bones in a ceilingless chamber. Beaten and bloody, Soren submits to the scarlet surge. One blurred sight is the last thing he sees before darkness: a towering creature with the body of a man, head and legs of a goat, and crowned with three twisted horns. Soren awakes on a cliffside above the massive throne. Rubbing his eyes, he sees the relentless torrent of blood savaging everything it caught and sees something caught on a stalagmite: a shattered horn ripped apart by the current. Still in disbelief, Soren finds himself in the bottom of a familiar hole. Upon looking up, he saw exactly what the message had prophesied: the masses of slaves clawing their way up into the dim light above— exodus.

when the ravens murder K RIZZIA R ICCI N E P O M U CE N O

He attempted to blow the straws off his shoulders as blistered chaff fell from where the ravens preened their feathers. Low, gritty croaks broke out of their sharp beaks, squawking prodigies that foretell a catastrophe. They formed a tempest over his head. A squall of ebony waiting to swallow him whole—poised to dredge his roots away. Even so, he had long been earthed in the dry prills of the parched soil, a skeleton hooked six feet under the barren ground of this empty field. And as long as that went, he had been a man laid under the sun—a sacrifice for scourge, a lone shack in a godforsaken farm. Like a burlesque oblation, he lived his entire life merely a caricature to rattle the birds who, with time, turned numb. Dust coughed out of his droughty lips, a mark left by the heat’s reign over the deathless meadows. It is not until twilight that the man pries his mouth open to warn the ravens of the impending decay. “Never fall in love with a scarecrow,” he said to the birds time and again. “A jackstraw does not have a heart nor a brain, only sun-burnt fodder, and his husk bones will wear your own.” Abhorrent, the birds of prey spread their wings like capes shrouding the ruby horizons into night, basking in their haughty shrieks. Like withered, empty hulls of grass, his words were just a passing breeze. Who would ever believe a man pieced into existence with rags and hay? Soon enough, a flock of crows brood over him with their sable feathers, quills dismounting their wings with every strike to the wind. Silence. Oblivion. He stands there, crucified.

A Chill in the Wind Fall Guy 2837

ART BY M I K EY V I NC ENT V I C ENT E

My body recoiled as I caught myself against Windstride’s wall, gathering my bearings on the scene before me. “Not again,” I muttered as the crowd thinned, going about their day, leaving the coroners to their business. My feet dragged itself away from the square. Something was uncanny, and something was definitely amiss. Nearing the frigid castle gates, I could neither attend to nor repress the bile rising to my throat. The guards knew my face, and let me pass without question. Manfried, the king’s steward threw me his usual greeting while pointing me towards the dungeons. I gave him a curt nod before starting my descent with only the thud of my steps as company. Stepping foot into the darkest reach of the castle, I paced myself. All of the cells were empty, except for a memorable one down by the corner. “Well, well. Look who decided to return,” a familiar voice crept from the darkness it housed as I neared the end of the hall. A figure revealed himself in robes under the rather dim glow of the solitary sconce lighting the dungeon. “Another victim,” almost stumbling over my words. My gaze was met by squinted eyes from his wrinkled face, preceding the sound of slow clapping, spite lacing every interval of it. “Shame. And here I am,” he mocked, shifting his weight on the jagged stone bed. “Looks like you aren’t what you thought you were.” A moment passed in silence, as I stood there under the ex-court wizard’s smug grin that only continued to unnerve me. “Look, I’m sorry,” wringing the words out of my mouth. “But I need your help, even though I can do it myself,” I mumbled. Wuund’s grin quickly faded. “Well, you can’t be a wizard without a blasphemous amount of patience, especially in Windstride.” Despite the ordeal, it was oddly comforting to hear that from him. 43

“Child, do you remember that amulet?” The wizard suddenly asked. “I want to know why you thought it was mine.” Rummaging around my satchel, my eyes caught a skulled talisman, hanging from a string of leather that held it together. I took it out and dangled it in front of the wizard. “There was an apothecary in the city, Cal I believe, owner of that place with the alchemy station. He appraised this as the amulet of the dead, a necromancer’s tool. You were the only wizard in the city. That’s why I was so certain,” I explained, a part of it as an effort to cooperate with him—another part of it—to justify my suspicions. I was wrong, but it would be easy to see why, and I hoped that the man at least understood that. “And you believed him?” Wuund retorted, voice booming. Silence. “Child, I am a court wizard of his highness; I can assure you that no mage within any royal kingdom has baubles and trinkets that reek of taboo necromancy.” Meek pride seeped through the certainty? Letting out a raspy cough, he continued: “I have been living in this city for over 30 years now. I know everyone here. Now, if you say I’m the only wizard in this city—which yes, I am—then—” “Why would Cal know what the amulet is, much more a taboo one...” I finished, much to his annoyance. He cleared his throat, to which I remained quiet in attention. “Now if memory serves me correct, today is a Freia. As I recall, the man often takes walks on the city docks at night on Sadeias, which is tomorrow.” Still, a tinge of doubt tugged at the corners of my mind, wondering if I was going to get this wrong as well. I asked if he was sure. “He always was an odd fellow, and it has been more conspicuous lately,” the wizard feebly muttered. Gods, I wished he would be more forward. 44

“Has anything noteworthy happened to him lately?” Whether or not I should have asked, I chose to press further. “I’m a wizard, not an oracle,” he retorted, and rolled over to face the dingy prison wall. I gave Wuund a curt thanks and went for the stairs. Before starting my ascent, I steeled myself and asked one final question to the wizard. “And what if you’re wrong?” “Could be. After all, I’m just a feeble old man sitting in a dark cell.” Son of a b*tch... Following the wizard’s lead, I had myself hidden between some fresh cargo on the docks the next night. There’s no one here and I wondered if I was misled by that old man. Before I lost myself in thought, a young woman passed by my hiding spot, running away as a figure of a man gave chase. Cold sweat chilled my body as I bide my time, drawing my own blade—a dagger—in anticipation.

Suddenly, there was a sound of blade plunging into flesh and a shriek. Springing from the cargo, I dashed towards the two, dagger gripped in hand. The man didn’t seem to know I was near-at-hand (or he didn’t care). I grabbed a hold of his shoulder as I felt his head snapping to face me. I felt a foreign object enter my lower abdomen— cold steel. At the height of my focus, all that was left to do was to thrust. In a second, it was all over. I turned the body over, expecting to find an unfamiliar face, but was greeted by the lifeless eyes of the apothecary that Wuund had mentioned. Steadying my breath, I began to remove the blade lodged into me as my hands quaked in fear. Dropping the bloody knife, I clutched my wound while the metal clanged against stone. Picking up a journal from Cal’s bag, I fell onto the snowy stone floor, and began sifting through the pages. To confirm that this really was the end or to heed my curiosity—I didn’t know. Flipping to the most recent entry, I scanned through: “Modeia of the Third Season, 5 more bones, a left lung, and the foot tendon. Sister, I’ve almost done it. How long has it been? 3 years? 3 years since I’ve heard your voice, Lilia. That’s why I studied all of this, my dear sister, this foul art of corpses and curses. But no matter, because once I complete your new body, we’ll be together again, and all will be well. I feel bad for those women I’ve killed, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me once you see how pretty you look in their skin. You’ll come back to me soon. Right?”

Pag-ikot ng Tsubibo D REXEL JOHN AMI T

“Hay,” aking buntong-hininga habang nakatungo’t pinagsakluban ng langit at lupa ang mukha. Mag-iisang oras na rin siguro akong nakaupo sa matigas na bangko malapit sa bangketa ng cotton candy ngunit hindi ko magawang tumindig. Kasabay ng aligagang pagtalbog ng aking mga binti ay ang panaka-nakang pagsulyap sa kumpol ng mga tao sa paligid. Umaasa akong mahahagilap ng aking paningin ang kaniyang matangkad at maskuladong tindig na tinambalan ng undercut. Bigong makita ang pamilyar na pigura, ako’y napayuko; marahang isinara ang mga talukap. “Ano ako? Uto-uto? Bakit naman ako pipikit at magbibilang?” angil ko sa paandar niyang pampakalma raw. “Syempre para matuklasan mo kung gaano kadilim ang mundo ko sa bawat segundong hindi kita nakikita,” saad niya na may kasamang ngisi. Tiim-bagang na pinipigilan ang pagtawa sa kanyang kakorniha’y sinunod ko ang kanyang utos. “Sayang! Doble sa asul pero walang tumaya.” Napamulat ako. Unti-unting inangat ang aking paningin sabay marahang bumaling sa kaliwa. Nagtitilian ang mga mananaya ng color game sa tuwing nakiki-ayon ang swerte sa kanila. Sa mangha’t galak ng mga parokyano sa perya’y muli na naman siyang sumayad sa aking kamalayan. “Tignan mo oh! Tatlong pula yung lumabas! Ayos!” baling ko sa kaniya nang makitang triple ang magiging kahig namin matapos tumaya sa pula. “Ang swerte—” “Ako pa ba?” pagmamayabang ko bago pa niya matapos ang sasabihin. “—ko talaga sa’yo,” sambit niya na sabay kindat. Tila wala atang panama

ang kasabikan ko sa taun-taon naming pagsakay sa tsubibo sa mga kiliting kasalukuyan niyang ipinadarama sa aking dibdib. “Oh! Sa mga gusto pang humabol diyan!” hiyaw ng konduktor ng tsubibo na siyang muling nagpabalik sa aking ulirat. “Huling larga na ng tsubibo ngayong huling gabi ng perya!” Daig ko pa ang tulin ng kidlat sa pagkaripas tungo sa kinaroroonan nito nang umalingawngaw ang anyaya ng konduktor. Gayunpaman, nakikipagtunggalian sa aking isip ang pagpapatuloy at paghihintay. “Nangako siya sa’king darating siya,” munti kong usal sa sarili. Napahinto ako ilang metro mula sa kinaroroonan ng tsubibo. Muli akong luminga pakaliwa’t pakanan, tila sinusuyod ang bawat sulok ng perya. Nakakunot ang noo’t panay libot ang mata, pilit sumasagi ang konduktor sa’king paningin. “Bahala na.” Napailing ako’t inihakbang ang kanang paa— “ATONG!” Hinay-hinay kong nilingon ang pinanggalingan ng tinig. “Baste?” Hindi mapigilan ng aking mga labing ngumisi habang tanaw ang kanyang bawat hakbang na pinupunan ang tila bagang milya naming pagitan. “Pasensya na talaga, Atong. Kanina ka pa ba?” humahangos niyang pahayag.

Walang imik kong inalok ang aking hulas na palad. Dali-dali ko siyang hinigit at hinila sa mabato-batong daan tungo sa tsubibo. Hindi na nagawa pang kumawala ng mga daing mula sa kanyang nakaawang na bibig nang tumigil kami sa harap ng nasabing sakayan. Mabuti na lang at naabutan namin bago pa ito maipihit paandar ng konduktor. “Tulad ng dati?” “Tulad ng dati.” Mataman kong pinagmasdan ang iba’t ibang palaro at pakulo ng perya habang unti-unti silang nagiging tuldok sa aking paningin nang magsalita si Baste. “Anim na taon na rin pala tayo, Atong, ‘no? Sana ‘di ka magsawang samahan ako sa pag-ikot ng tsubibo.” Isang kuntentong ngiti ang sumagi sa aking mga labi.

NON-FICTION

ART BY ANG EL TAR U B AL L ES

Hip-hop in the Time of Appendicitis HEZR ON PIOS

what you don’t know can hurt you what you don’t know can turn your body against you —Brian Russell Blessed are those with low pain tolerance: The world drops you midair then asks, Are you alright? In 2014, my name got crossed out of a line-up consisted of 12 members for an interschool dance competition I dreamt of joining since sophomore year. If I had the guts back then, I could have been expelled from school at 16. If I had the guts back then, I would not be talking about this, and that, this, that, this, that, this, that, and this, though I’m getting ahead of myself. The narrative begins in the part where I was in the parking lot, practicing. Post-lunch, our crew leader turned on the music from his portable speaker. I walked towards the stage. I warmed up and up. Then, collapse. My heart did not halt its beating when the pediatrician prescribed me to take a physical hiatus. My heart did not halt its beating when Doc said an inflammation consumed my appendix. My heart halted its beating when our choreographer yelled at me in his studio. His voice booming like the portable speaker. There’s nothing I can do, he said. I begged him to continue my training, but my crewmates pulled me from the scene. We went downstairs and someone suggested that we should meet our contest coordinator; to commute back to school and secure an explanation. I broke down in public and the only consolation I got was the impolite buzzing of Central Market jeepneys driven to reach their daily quota. I wished for invisibility. But no one was able to pacify the spectacle, if one could call it a spectacle. No one. Not even my dumb best friend. In a dream, I was submerged. The pool tasted like my prescribed antibiotics. Despite running out of breath, I stayed below the surface for a long, long while. I couldn’t make it past the blues, into the light of day. Hurting had no logic. My P.E. teacher was the culprit who submitted the lineup, my name excluded. This is the part where we were seated on the floor of an

P H O T O BY KA RL BRI A N MA RQUE ZA 53

abandoned classroom and the textbooks demanded a calm behavior out of us. Yet this is also the part of the narrative where I imagined ways of seeking vengeance, flesh and blood. The staccato of her words, while delivering her revelation, landed as heavy as barks of trees sent like projectiles by an unknown force: Nahatag ko na ang listahan, ‘ta. Wala na ko sang may maubra. A repeat of weeping. A cold stare from my teacher’s eyes which I will never forget. Then more antibiotics. During the bluest afternoon in the school that must be nameless, it invited a swarm of visitors. Almost everyone was there. It was the day of Hip-Hop High, after all. I felt my body was no longer mine for the remaining hours. Instead of beaming with pride, like a fucking stage dad, I envied my crew. On the bleachers, my schoolmates cheered on—raising their placards with captions in a bold typeface. Applause, applause, applause. How I wished my body had levitated the moment my crew appeared onstage. If I could have been there, I would have been there. Staying until they finished their performance in their football costume was a sin. They won Second Place whereas I lost my own. Taking sides mattered. And that’s unarguable. In another dream, I am the choreographer, an older guy, lashing out against a teenage boy who’s about to burst into tears. I am lecturing him about Toughening Up but my words are gibberish, if not poorly chosen. I am lecturing him that life is forever unfair, that others know no fairness. The way we choose a word is the way we choose to reveal ourselves. Months later, healing was mercurial: a kneading of your heart a million times—to kick it hard, to throw it like a frisbee disc, to pull off CPR. It is an elliptical art that would require a marathon of unpleasant seasons in order to be able to move forward. Lose your direction and you’ll be back to the pilot episode. But I do not need to be a saint. I may summon the patience of rocks yet it is not a gesture worth taking. There are those who deserve more but are given less, and there are those who deserve less but are given abundance. Hence, I do not need to wash out the Passion in me. My body is my poetry. I’ll tend to its tangible rhythm. Wait for it to sing.

What I Owe to Odyssey I VEE MANG UILIM O TAN

My head was bobbing as the bumpy bus swerved to change lanes. An old film was playing on the flat screen up front, my friends were dozing off on their backpacks, and the scenery outside the window was morphing into indiscernible streaks of colors at the speed of 60 miles per hour. Like any typical teenager, I thought I could take on the world. I remember coming home drunk from underage drinking at a local pub to the point of conversing through slurs, while listlessly staying upright the moment the front gate came into view. I could only pray my parents wouldn’t find out that their unica hija wasn’t the way they’d been picturing to be. As I watched the blur of passing cars, rusty old homes, endless fields of rice, and the silhouettes of people I would never meet, the comfort of the chase—in between leaving and arriving—made me think even further. I considered myself a closeted problem child. I don’t remember when, but I can recall witnessing this kind of rebellion grow in the stifled confines of my room. There were tears in between ragged breathing as the gradual nausea built up, and wounds drawing by the pulse until the world spinned from my vision. And amidst the chaos of it all: silence pierced with needle-like shrillness—lost in a void I couldn’t crawl out of. Days flew by without any meaning, and I found my entire being numbed, cold, and unbearably alone. Silence ensued. Which came first, I wondered, the withdrawal or the loneliness? It wasn’t long after that when pain became a friend, and blood, a comfort. Tears no longer lingered during those nights. I couldn’t really recall much after that. I just braced myself for what was to come. The bus let out a soft sputter before it slowed down to a complete stop. And as my friends and I scampered towards the exit, I could feel the anticipation washing away the lapping uncertainty of the unknown. We arrived at the last wharf before reaching the island of the giants. After reaching the pier, it was by some stroke of bad luck that the boatmen

stationed there informed us of the last boat’s departure. Worse, it was a once-per-day passenger trip to the island. At that point, the summer warmth over my skin started to fade. With a heavy heart, I heaved a sigh before checking my wallet for spare change. Escape was still miles of sea away. There was no way I could go back after lying about being gone to do school stuff to my parents. Hell no. More than that, I couldn’t bear to go home after having that bit of freedom. The air, the sun, the ground, the sky—for the first time, they beckoned the freedom I have been chasing. To me, this was silence offering a truce. Luckily, I withdrew all of my savings from the bank (leaving me near flat broke) and managed to bargain with a kind boatman to offer us a trip and a tour for the whole 3D2N ordeal, without the hassle of squeezing in a tight boat with strangers during passenger trips. After securing a boat exclusively for us, we set off through the calm sea for three hours. The waves were daunting with its stillness, lacking its usual roar. I could have sworn I saw some big creature swimming right under when I squinted my eyes enough, yet the sputter of the engine pulled me out of my trance when we reached land. My feet were planted on the afternoon sand, but it felt like the waves were still rocking my entirety from all sides. My medium-sized rucksack seemed like it carried rocks but I could not understand the light feeling soaring through my system. I breathed in the scent of salt while the sunrays peeking through the clouds struck the waves tussling by the shore with immense sparkle—it was almost blinding. At nightfall, the sea mirrored the sky every time we stirred the still waves with our unloose limbs. Without the light pollution from the city streets, the stars mirrored a map light years away from our reach. My friends argued whether they were sorcery or the plain existence of bioluminescent planktons. We settled on agreeing to disagree. Nevertheless, we were in awe of its transcendence. Comets passed by with placid silence. The universe was so vast, and yet, I felt like I was there, in a place I rightfully belonged. That day, I set out into the world and found answers.

PH O TO BY K E RG U E L EN M O NTAL ES

Apak PAT R I CK B I L L O JAN

ART BY ANG EL A C O R O NEL

Marso 24, 2005 Pinaka-dabest na araw Hari ba ako sa araw na ito? Para kasing palasyo ang bahay namin ngayon sa dami ng handa ni mama. Ipinagluto niya ako ng paborito ko. ‘Yung parang mahabang noodles na may sows at hotdog ‘di ko alam ang spelling basta ‘yun! Hindi ko naman birthday eh pero parang piyesta talaga. Noong una nga, hindi ko pa alam kung para saan lahat ng ito, pero nung nakita ko ang malinis at nakasampay kong uniform, doon ko lang naalala na ngayong araw pala ang pagtatapos ko sa nursery. Marami akong nakuhang medalya—ginto, pilak, at tanso. Malabundok din ang regalo na natanggap ko mula sa aking mga tito at tita. Gagalingan ko pa lalo sa susunod na taon para mas marami akong matanggap. Sabi nga ng teacher ko eh, sobrang talino ko raw. Aba, syempre, ako ang pinakamagaling sa buong mundo!

Hunyo 15, 2007 Bagong lugar, bagong buhay! Kumusta ka na, diary? Pasensya ka na ha, alam ko na-miss mo ako. Kararating lang namin dito sa apartment na titirahan namin dito sa Bacolod. Ilang oras din ang byahe, hindi ko inakalang sobrang layo pala! Dito kasi mag-aaral ng kolehiyo si kuya, kaya nagdesisyon sina mama‘t papa na dito na lang din kami para hindi siya maging malungkot. Nakakatakot dahil sobrang dami ng tao. Hindi ako sanay. Sana may makilala akong mga bagong kaibigan. Bukas, pupunta kami sa bago kong eskwelahan, malapit lang siya dito sa amin. Naghahanda na rin ako kasi sa susunod na linggo, pasukan na namin. Nagbabasa na uli ako ng libro, ‘tsaka inaral ko ulit yung multiplication table, nahihirapan kasi ako roon ‘tsaka pinapalo rin kasi ako ni mama kapag nagkakamali ako. Ang sakit kaya pero okay lang ‘pag hanger, hindi masyadong masakit.

Marso 5, 2008 Paano kaya ‘to? Malungkot ako ngayon. Hindi ko masabi kay mama na hindi ako ang top 1 ngayong taon. Tiyak magagalit ‘yun pag sinabi kong top 3 lang ako. Hindi ko naman masisisi si Christopher ‘tsaka si April Rose kasi matatalino rin naman sila. Ginawa ko naman ang makakaya ko, eh mas matalino lang talaga sila. Tapos, tatlong medalya lang ‘yung nakuha ko ngayong taon. Patay talaga ako nito kay mama. Pero hayaan mo na, gagalingan ko na lang sa susunod na taon. Hindi ko alam kung paano ko ito sasabihin sa kanya.

Marso 14, 2009 Bahala na! Hindi ko alam kung matutuwa ako o malulungkot sa sinulat ko rito noong nakaraang taon. Gagalingan ko raw dahil top 3 lang ako. Gunggong! Top 5 ka na lang ngayon. Kasalanan ‘to ni Mary Jane at Shiena eh. Kung hindi lang nila pinapalitan ang mga sagot nila tuwing may pagsusulit, edi sana top 3 pa rin ako. Ang alam ni mama top 4 ako, pero hindi niya alam top 5 talaga ako. Hayaan mo na, malalaman din naman niya mamaya sa recognition. Hindi ‘yun magagalit kung maraming tao eh.

Marso 23, 2013 Anong nangyari sakin? Kakatapos lang ng graduation ceremony namin. Hindi ako masaya dahil hindi rin masaya si mama. Hindi ako napabilang sa top 10 sa katapusan ng eskwela. Ngayong taon pa na gagraduate ako sa elementarya. Hindi ko alam kung ano ang nangyari. Nagbubuklat at nagbabasa naman ako ng libro bawat hapon pagkatapos ng klase, nagpapasa naman ako sa takdang oras, at lagi naman akong pasado sa mga pagsusulit. Pero bakit ganon? Ako na yata ang pinakamangmang sa buong mundo.

Abril 15, 2017 Apat na taon na rin ang nakalipas noong huling akyat ko sa entablado para kumuha ng diploma, at ngayong araw, aakyat ulit ako sa pangatlong pagkakataon. Marami na ang nangyari at nagbago sa buhay ko, diary. May masaya at malungkot na bahagi. Syempre, may konting kirot pa rin buhat ng nakaraang pag-akyat ko sa entablado pero masasabi kong hindi na ganun ka grabe tulad ng dati. Siguro, paunti-unti ko na ring natanggap na sadyang may mas magaling lang talaga kaysa sakin.

Abril 2, 2021 Nasa kolehiyo na ako ngayon, diary. Masasabi kong hindi oras ang naghilom sa kirot na napagdaanan ko sa loob ng ilang taon. Sa totoo lang, hindi nawala yung kirot, meron pa rin naman, pero hindi na ganun kasakit. Siguro, natuto lang akong mabuhay na may bitbit na hapdi, kaya kapag naaalala ko, hindi na ako naapektuhan ng sobra. Sa bawat pagtiklop ko ng mga pahina, naaalala ko ang dati kong sarili at nagpapasalamat ako sa unti-unting paglaho ng aking pangalan sa mga listahang laging pinapaskil sa harap ng aking inuupuan at sa pa ambonambon na medalyang tinatanggap ko bawat taon. Hindi ko inakalang magigising ako sa murang edad. Mapait at masakit, sa totoo lang. Pero kung hindi ako dinala ng aking mga maliliit na yapak sa dambuhalang mundo na ito, siguro medalya na ang umaapak sa buong pagkatao ko. Sige, sa susunod na lang ulit, diary. Tatapusin ko na muna ang mga modules ko. Mahirap na—baka bumagsak pa ako. Endterm pa naman din.

thoughts on a carousel ride in reverse. J O SHUA MARTIN GUAN CO

The linearity of life can sometimes be treated with nonchalance—you progress, you evolve, you age, you move forward. In fact, venturing into tomorrow without the promise of certainty has been a trait embedded in your natural clockwork: you sleep in order to wake up to a new dawn that might not come. It is daunting—knowing that time, for you, may stop its gears just before daylight even lays its lips on your skin. But if only you could see what is past the midnight hour, then you could look forward to a tomorrow devoid of uncertainty. A tomorrow where memories flow backward as you inch yourself forward. It is only then that you would get to see the entire map of your life: the careers that you have taken, the countries that you have crossed, the bus tickets that you have crumpled and kept inside the pockets of your pants, the long sips of coffee you have taken while you were filling some pages of your journal, the clothes that you have outsized, the hangovers you have triumphantly endured, the friends that you have treasured, the bridges that you have burned, the paws that have greeted you every time you went home, the smiles that you have painted, the tears that you have shed, the pain that you have persevered through, the love that you have grown old with—everything. And as these memories ebb against this panorama of your life—on this carousel ride in reverse—you get to witness yourself moving back to your family. You remember home: waking up early for school, playing in the rain, waiting for the breakfast your mother has prepared, having your first toy, your first wound after falling off your bike, your first walk, your first step, your first word, and eventually, your first breath. But all of this is but a yearning of a soul that is traversing to a pending tomorrow. However, always remember this: what you bring with you while treading into the uncertain future is the certainty of the past— the journey that you have taken since your first act of respiration. Look how far you’ve come.

A RT BY MI K EY V I NCE NT V I CENT E

COMICS

Friendly Delusions AN GEL A CO R O N EL

The Monster Inside M I KE Y V I N CE N T V I CE N T E

Weight CAR L HASO N GE R AL E

SCRIBES AND SCRIBBLERS

Illustrations by Alexandra Bachoco Angela Coronel Christian Dominic Ledesma Jaziel Ann Seballos Mikey Vincent Vicente Words by Carl Hason Gerale Hana Patricia Raj Hautea Immalie Rose Cafifge Kristine Rodriguez Bayadog Krizzia Ricci Nepomuceno Lance Christian Juarez Paula Mae Villarosa

1. Kristine Rodriguez Bayadog (Trapeze) A trapeze hangs boldly at the center of a tent—seemingly judging in its idle state. Locals say it was once owned by a Filipina warrior who invented a fighting style of mid-air swinging and physical combat. Passed down through generations, this legendary tool never once swung for any man it deems unworthy despite the number of scars on its surface, engraved by time. Now, it poses a great challenge to performers and audiences alike to try and bear the weight of its flight. 2. Jaziel Ann Seballos (Unicyclist) Looking down from a penrose path of a single wheel makes the race more perilous with every cycle—she knows this by heart. So without a glance at the huddling audience below, focus on the labyrinthine tightrope, she takes one deep breath. And with years of mastery grappled with all her might, she pedals like no one ever could. Like no one ever did. 3. Paula Mae Villarosa (Tightrope Walker) An abrupt hush falls over the circus goers as the famed wirewalker takes her stance. Poised and precise, she toes the precarious rope one meticulous step at a time, reaching the other end with a deceivingly natural ease. Her body trembling, she breathes a heavy sigh of relief— not for her safe travels, but for yet another successful act. 4. Ferry Lyra Fronda (Escape Artist) “I doubt you’ll escape from that!” a man yells before the air erupts with the buzzing of doubt. As she swings upside-down from a 30-foot drop, everything looks different—the audience, the sky, the boldness she exudes, and the distance to the ground from where she hangs. And in one fell swoop, the sleeves of her straitjacket dangle beside her head as the chains on her legs screech with the crowd’s applause. 5. Joshua Martin Guanco (Marionette) A wooden, meek-faced boy sits cross-legged on center stage. With the curtains drawn, he waits for his cue as he does every night: without choice. Strings tug, curtains draw, and he waltzes gracefully, but with a facade bleeding of grimace. Though no matter the scowl and disgust, the audience always applauds his dazzling performance. And after a show, he bows begrudgingly and he gets raised above for all to see—crucified, hung, but still alive. 80

6. Edward Timothy Nubla (Human Cannonball) A hollow metal cylinder is arced to the heavens, angled just enough to hit the bullseye. A figure grabs hold of the lengthy fuse at the cannon’s rear and nonchalantly lights it with a match. Gasps can be heard as the man walks along the girthy muzzle of the machine and settles himself inside. Locked and loaded. A needle drops as the fuse disappears and—kaboom. He tumbles into the air with ash and dust, flipping and slicing through the smoke, only to land perfectly on the spotlight, arms out. Applause. 7. Trizia Hassim (Magician) She dazzled the crowds with her tricks and acts—pulling out gigantic rabbits from the smallest hats, levitating bodies without strings, and waving away stones to return them as golden rings. Everyone said she mastered sorcery, some say she merely perfected smoke and mirrors. But one thing was certain, her illusions could fool just about anyone—even herself. 8. Angela Coronel (Knife Thrower) The spotlight graces a petite figure with her back to the oversized target. She taps the tip of a knife, waiting for her cue. A steadily incrementing drumbeat matches her chest and a smile creeps out to nibble on a poorly wrapped blindfold. The drums cease and, in a split second, she turns 180 and hurls the blade perfectly into the bullseye. To her, surprise is an insult. 9. Fall Guy 2837 (Ringmaster) All eyes fall on the madman at center stage. Absorbed by his reality, he wields absurdity with his left hand and orchestrates chaos with his right. In the spontaneous combustion of the show, Tchaikovsky’s Overture climaxes as pure nihilism becomes the grandiose punchline. 10. Angel Taruballes (Circus Ring of Fire) I do not breathe fire. I am fire. I do not walk among the crowd, I am the center of it. I stand naked and ablaze, waiting for an unsuspecting prey to set aflame. I worship no one, but no one dares not honor me. Predators like tigers and lions, and even its tamers are afraid to get through me. Because although I portray beauty—I scream chaos. 81

11. Rodney Jarder Jr. (Juggler) Once the moon reaches its peak, the circus scurries towards the red tent at the far end of the carnival to see the great Juggler himself, with nimble grip catching balls, knives, and flaming rings. He turned heads and raised brows from all sides in wonder and dismay. Yet he’d simply bow and say, “No trouble, it’s all part of the job.” 12. Christian Dominic Ledesma (Sword Swallower) Despite his eyes pointed to the heavens, the carny arranges a meeting with the deity below. His last sight is the hilt of the sword drawing parallels to Christ as a shiny metal blade hovers above the tongue, greets the soft tissue of the epiglottis, and then settles for small talk with the narrow hall of the esophagus. Just the usual near-life experience. 13. Mikey Vincent Vicente (Clown) The cherry-nosed jester dilly-dallies through the myriad of carnies and commoners. Suddenly, a cherub doll in red approaches and virtuously meets his gaze. Delving into the thick layers of his polka-dot waistcoat, she left him aghast from the words that fell off her innocent lips: “Are you really happy?” He quivered in response—facade shattering into pieces. 14. Steve Louise (Stilt Walker) Unbeknownst to the commoners, the lumbering stilt walker wagers his limbs on the daily. People pause to marvel at his towering height; the ease at which he maneuvers the artificial extensions of his legs but not the odd angles of his wrists or the permanent red scarring of his ankles. Whenever his moment of glory slips away, they are quick to amble along—leaving behind a man suspended in the air, cursed to never touch the ground. 15. Bakemono (Plate Spinner)

Crash! Shards of fancy ceramics flew to the ground, facing the broken end for the nth time. Fumbling over the gyroscopic play of turning circles atop sturdy sticks, they breathe in exhaustion. Their small palms glistened with sweat and red patches, lingering like a tattoo of languor. “Until when?”—a long pause. Along with their train of thoughts, a melody came about: Janta; dine; an all-time favorite.

16. polaris (Contortionist) Careless of the risks that might come his way, no one dares stop him (nor bend him) from being the only thing that makes him him—a respected shapeshifter. He blends and breaks and bends with anything. The contortionist is said to have lived shorter because he’s quite Death’s favorite plaything. 17. Krizzia Ricci Nepomuceno (Firebreather) In her meek silence, her flames boast an inferno as she engulfs the crowd in a tangerine glow. Unbeknownst to some, her fiery role lives post-performance. Behind hanging tarpaulins and under a dim light, she straddles across an opponent, heating up the checkered board amid a sweat-breaking game of chess, rapid calculations sizzling opponents into a corner until—Mate. 18. Drexel John Amit (Ventriloquist) Deception. It is what he was born for (and what he will die for). The very thing that he is good at is amusing his audience with make-believe stories and fabricated play of words using a mere puppeteered figure. The facade is not similar to what is behind it. Illusion, pretense, fraud—the things he mastered from two weeks’ worth of training. And yet, his guests still think he is genuine. 19. Joshua Mahilum (Strongman) Ferocious screams reverberate like a wrathful behemoth as he readily hoisted the stupendously heavy barbells, resisting gravity. He’d never lift anything less than a ton, hence smithereens of his untamed heart are too much to carry for his fingers are unused to emptiness. The strongman’s fractured strength frizzed in the shadows set to crash under the black weight of living. 20. Kynah Rhea Fuentes (Rollercoaster) “It happened again, didn’t it?” “What do you think, kid?” The groggy popcorn vendor mustered enough self-control to keep his trap shut as he and the guard stared at the strange situation before them: a rollercoaster cart carrying pretty dolls in its seats, with floors littered with isaw sticks after another night of strange disappearance.

21. Kerguelen Montales (Horror Train) Amid the shrill screeches that emanated from the skull-decorated tunnel, a lone passenger struggled to hold in a smile. Careful to avoid the elongated rubber fingers creeping towards his side, his eyes wandered around the dimly-lit set, nodding at the diligent work put into the production. Smiling freely now, he settled back into his uncomfortable seat relishing the vibe as total chaos ensued in his surroundings. 22. Keilah Baldomar (Fun Slide) “Did you say there’s a slide here? Why is that even at a carnival— that sounds so boring! ...Oh, it’s a giant slide? Like, a really big, colorful one? ...Well, that’s still boring. I don’t know who’d want to ride that when all these other rides exist. Let’s go!” “Okay, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Come with me to the giant slide?” 23. Immalie Rose Cafifge (Bumper Cars) Silence. Time bides for the kid at the driver’s seat as her fingers drum repeatedly against the chafed rubber of the steering wheel. Her feet sweat, her hands grow clammy every second, and her patience stretches into the thinnest thread. Silence... Buzz! A bumper car is sent rocketing backwards, with another kid screaming bloody murder on a Sunday evening. 24. Kiara Nicole Villa (Ferris Wheel) Circus-goers sighed as she spun on her rusty hinges at the heart of the square. From moonrise to moonset, she twirls to her own scratched tune despite the lack of passengers who dare venture near her gravity. Though tarnished by her years, her every turn was still as grand as it was—hastening her turn, pivoting, pausing in mid-air just enough for the few valiant pairs to graze the horizons above. 25. Meryl Sigaton (Shooting Gallery) Shuddering fingers tightly gripped the gun handle, skeptical of hitting the target prize meters away from where the gunman stands. “Aha!” she beams, trading the bull’s eye with her holy grail.

Yet even with the bullets’ pummeling, she remained motionless, enthused by his desire to amass her luxury in a chamber of souvenirs. 26. Karl Brian Marqueza (Viking Ship) A Viking ship may be the most grandiose vessel one will ever encounter in a perya. As it swings back and forth in the air with sleek, swift motion, the only thing that keeps playing in your head is this: Hold on for dear life. It’s as if the air and the ship formed an indispensable union to transport the troop, but never to lead them to a certain stop. 27. Phoebe Daidoji Jabonete (Popcorn Stall) Clusters of three-dimensional white puffs overfill her silver pot as a palm rests against the see-through glass. “Mommy, what’s poppin’?” asks the boy, tugging at his mother’s dress. Striped in yellow and red, the label popcorn laid bare on the front view. “A kernel’s acrobatic stunt is the carnival’s euphoria,” she replies in a wistful tone. 28. Hana Patricia Raj Hautea (Cotton Candy Stall) Around the circus’ entrance, a small, unmanned cart is seen enthusiastically rolling towards customers. Curious passersby marvel at the mobile stall, seemingly undecided on who to approach first. Though once engaged, it offers a puff of cotton candy as welcome. And even before one tastes the sweetness of the first swirl, another purple cloud greets them eagerly. 29. scythe (The High Striker) A mix of sweat, aftershave, and brandy wafted the evening breeze as boys and men lined up to challenge their strength on the High Striker. But no matter how strong they pounded the lever, the puck remained unmoving and so, they believed it rigged. Yet, when a patron comes bounding—tirelessly pushing his luck, He gives to the victor who caught whiff of his game despite his own bouquet. 30. birdy (Merry-go-round) The ride moves on and on and on, but the view knew not of such physics. Frustrated, the young child fidgets atop her wooden saddle, eyes peeled for even the slightest change in scenery—only 85

to frown at the same people in the same places doing the same things. She shrugs, decides instead to shut her eyes, and revels in the steady motions of the carousel as it moves on and on and on. 31. Alexandra Bachoco (Globe String Lights) “A string of warmly lit glass bulbs keeps a wooden pie stall company each passing day and night, swaying languidly to the chilly breeze that meanders through the whirlwind scene of the fair. In its inanimate silence, the piemaker claims to have found a listener and a friend.” —Folktales from the Local Fair Vol. III 32. Inocencio John Keith Ferrer V (Ring Toss) “At a carnival, the ring toss involves a very small ring being tossed onto a very small peg, which reduces the opportunity for success— even for adults!” —Great Games for Young Children 33. Angelo Despi (Octopus) Far too many have come and gone, yet only a select few townspeople understand the workings of the seemingly harmless Octopus. Often understated, it takes but a few prompt spins before your head starts spinning until all you can see are stars. Take it from the carny regulars—the adrenaline rush lingers ‘til the next time. 34. Ivee Manguilimotan (Swing Ride) Crowds swarm the lined barricades as they jostle to witness one of the wildest spectacles in the whole fair: a chair-o-plane spinning a bag of potato crackers, a feasibility study, local rum, managerial works, and the fast-paced life in its suspended seats. How it does it, no one knows. 35. Hezron Pios (Bed of Nails) While the carnies do their tricks and bow before an audience, the true oddballs play show and tell amid the candy stalls and peculiar rides. In the hearty presentation, an attraction is beheld under a worn curtain. An upright wooden frame symmetrically littered with pointed nails greets the audience—an invitation to voluntary paralysis. Scripture is written on its base, and the only way to read? Come up real close. 86

36. Patrick Billojan (Ticket Booth) Amidst the rush of the circus, patrons came and went at the Ticket Booth, yet not one soul stopped to tarry. They merely handed in gold for tickets and tokens before going their way. In the blur of everything, he’d surely catch your eye. Not because he was lonely but because he still flickered his huge neon sign—hounding in townspeople to come join the celebration, knowing he’d be left behind. 37. Alan Villanueva Jr. (Roulette) If you happen to pass by me, call the deities to bid you good luck, for no one shall dare only pass and not submit to my never-ending game of chances. I will sup the life out of every single penny you drop on my table, and I will make sure you go home broke. 38. Alvin Legario (Dunk Tank) Just a few paces away from the ticket booth, lay the worn and faded wooden facade of the Dunk Tank. Its hinges rusted, its screws loose, yet its seat remained rooted in place, holding up the scrawny fella who seemed to bask in the stillness of its pool. As throngs came and went without but sparing it a glance, a lad of five, fiddles with a dust-coated red ball before it. He eyes its target, steeling himself. Chubby arms winding up, he flicks his wrist, and deafening splash rips throughout the fair. 39. Alyssa Nicole Maquiran (Clairvoyant) The visions dart a path behind her temples, hands clutching the fingers of a man who seeks erudition, an epiphany. “What does the future entail for me?” he asks as she stares at him through the curtains of a draped marquee. At first, she is hesitant to speak, but when clouds from his iris clear, she smiles softly at the imminent cataclysm that she sees. 40. Carl Hason Gerale (A Burning Tent) Fingers twitching, the madman shakily brings the chipped ceramic cup to his mouth, paying no heed to the blazing heat and plumes of smoke surrounding his person. He takes a long sip of coffee before proceeding to stare vacantly at an indistinct point in the distance. Some say he could be heard convincing himself to stay. Others say he started the fire himself. 87

ACK N WLEDGEMENTS Pau, Nong Hez, Nong Alvin, Dizney, for your wisdom that reminded me to anticipate the diverging path ahead as much as I marveled at the spectacles that have passed before me. Your insights have been the thrill that cheered my trudging through the meandering Wiles. And for that, I am forever honored and grateful. Lance, Tin, for being the ones that shared the head-spinning, topsyturvy ride in unraveling this conundrum with me. Without your perfectly timed frenzy of ideas, the lights and the blurs would have been enough to spellbind me into believing stagnancy. Ferry, Immalie, Krizzia, for lending me your vision in plotting the course of this folio against every twist and turn and misconceptions that came with the finding. Jaziel, Jella, Chris, Alex, for your unfettered imagination that captured the tiniest speck of sparkle to the kaleidoscopic colors of that very fair. How you conjured the bliss, the blues, and the riddles of the place through your art will always astound me. Marq, Keilah, Angelo, Ino, Phoebe, for every scene and motion that you eternalized with every deliberate shot throughout the escape from the dreamscape. Your works, like mirrors, are reflections of your surreal passion and dedication to the creation of this folio.

Mikey, for your foresight that guided every instance of lucidity to settle and reveal this grand act of rousing within the bounds of this book. Ibee, Kynah, Hana, for teaching me the tricks to keeping on when the horror began its unwelcome descent once again. Your constant reassurances will perpetually rival those who perceive the days to come, words bigger than the ill omens spoken by these trying times. Meriene, Patriz, Chua, Kri, for being the crucial weight that grounded me as I juggled life and sanity in continuity. The stakes were high in every toss and catch, but your constant support made for a portion of my strength to persist until the end. To our beloved families, for being the ones that demonstrated the ways to shadow our dreams and defy the daze. Your unwavering guidance will always be our most genuine applause. And to all our contributors, for mustering the courage to have your tales and musings take center stage in this folio of rattling questionings, opportune awakenings, and destined departures. May this daring act of seeing past the magical charades and denying the familiar beckoning of the Wiles follow you as you venture out to a world even bigger than our perception.

THES PECTRUM FOUNDED 1956

facebook.com/thespectrumusls · thespectrum.usls@gmail.com Member Alliance of Lasallian Campus Journalists and Advisers and College Editors Guild of the Philippines Lance Christian M. Juarez EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Ivee E. Manguilimotan MANAGING EDITOR

Paula Mae E. Villarosa

EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR NEWSPAPER EDITOR Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes ASST. NEWSPAPER EDITOR Drexel John N. Amit MAGAZINE EDITOR Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea ONLINE EDITOR Patrick N. Billojan LITERARY EDITOR Carl Hason T. Gerale PHOTOS AND VIDEOS EDITOR Karl Brian T. Marqueza LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS EDITOR Mikey Vincent T. Vicente NEWSPAPER WRITERS

Alan S. Villanueva Jr. Alyssa Nicole T. Maquiran Anna Maria J. Villanueva MAGAZINE WRITERS

Elizabeth D. Fernandez Gabriel M. Lezama Adrianne H. Saplagio ONLINE WRITERS

Ezra Chrislaine L. Ortega Meryl C. Sigaton Juliet Angeline D. Alvarez LITERARY WRITERS

Immalie Rose E. Cafifge Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno Ferry Lyra B. Fronda WEB ADMINISTRATORS

Angela A. Coronel Christian Dominic L. Ledesma

PHOTOJOURNALISTS

Angelo F. Despi Keilah N. Baldomar Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera VIDEOGRAPHERS

Rodney A. Jarder Jr. Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman LAYOUT AND GRAPHICS ARTIST

Trizia C. Hassim ILLUSTRATORS

Jaziel Ann V. Seballos Psalm Jules D. Sabandal PUBLICATION MODERATOR

Edward Timothy N. Nubla

Scribe: From The Wiles Vol. 24

Articles inside

Pag-ikot ng Tsubibo

A Chill in the Wind

Tower to Aether

Mass Hysteria

Consider No Mercy

Esklabo sang Misteryo

Preceding the Name of a Body

Hiraeth

Identity

signed, undine

Balik-Tanaw

Mechanism

‘v’ for ventriloquy

Homo modernus

agahan

“One More Spin?”

Ganito (ba) ako?

and the stronghold falls