Scribe: Mise-en-scène Vol. 25

SCRIBE

SCRIBE

Volume 25, May 2022

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.

LITERARY EDITOR

Immalie Rose E. Cafifge

LAYOUT ARTISTS

Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

Mikey Vincent T. Vicente

ILLUSTRATORS

Josh Aldrich B. Diola

Carl Hason T. Gerale

Jaziel Ann V. Seballos

Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

Mikey Vincent T. Vicente

COVER CONCEPT AND DESIGN

Carl Hason T. Gerale

Jaziel Ann V. Seballos

Set in Minion Pro and Gyahegi Style

“Sometimes misery befalls all at once, sometimes it’s in phases—in short flashbacks and heavy exits—but like the changing of the seasons, I will learn the same.” – Proud of Me (From Mise-en-scène musical)

My, my, who do we have here? A theater buff? A drama-lover? Are you here for the recital, dearest onlooker? If so, grant me this chance of a lifetime to hum cordial minstrelsy before I vanish into the bottomless depths of thespian art.

On a midnight unmeant for grander pursuits, a casual beach trip with friends, or a sunset picnic of wines and potlucks—has the question ‘why is life worth living?’ ever crossed your mind? In the most mundane acts that move you every day, have you ever thought about how many selves carried on war, only to find their demise in your hands?

I’m as perplexed as you are, dear reader, but one thing is certain: the ghosts of your past needed to descend at their last stop for you to continue what they’ve begun and find answers to your questions.

Perhaps, you may wonder if the purpose of your mortal coil dwells in the nooks and crannies of these theatrical pages. I cannot say for sure; however, may you descry a mirror and see yourself underneath the pivoting letters of anthems in smithereens. A script, a stage, and an act—this is your mise-en-scène: minute cuts of revues that makes you, you.

The pirouette of an anti-hero does not summon a curtain call, nor does the defeat of the almighty dragon. True beatitude has been kept hidden inside the sheathes the entire time, and it takes a slew of deaths to realize it. Fret not, for the addendum of an old self is only the beginning; but remember, you must heed when it learns to prance in a state of quiescence, or it will pull you to an Elysium of perdition.

When the stage’s spotlight illuminates with grief upon your forehead, tilt your head higher than the touchstone of lifeless dispositions, and know by sight that you triumphed over lost voices of yore.

There is much to uncover, yet I leave the rest to you. And so, take your vintage carnet and grasp the flamboyance of mise-en-scène! The actors have trodden the boards and the theater has been booked. It demands nothing but your presence. Unbosom the heart’s carol. Hearken the artist’s blues. Seize the metamorphosed sheets of the sacred Scribe.

To live is to die a thousand times. I don’t know which ghosts you dance with, but I dance with mine.

The prelude shall begin.

Lights, camera, and… action!

Keeper of the final curtain,

Of copper women and irrefutable truths

By naicha

Below, I watch how your eyes linger while the crowd cheers a toast to the man you love most and your dearest sister; how your hand trembles as you raise the glass, the flute clutched to your chest as you rewind the past.

The moment eldest daughters were born, we were taught this: we are the house’s breadwinners, molded to rebuke with iron fists. We were raised not to live, but to survive— to claw our way to the top so long as we stay alive.

It’s funny how he views himself as sly when his pocket is lined with dreams and dust— his charm laden with lies. From his immaculate reflection, flaws were bound to show. The moment fissures ruptured to fragments, you knew it was time to go.

Eliza, bless her heart; there she is! Suddenly, you understood: he is yours, but you will never be his.

The moment we were born, we were taught to share: our food, our bed, our love. Life as the eldest was never meant to be fair. Putting others eventually became a reflex, an art style we have perfected after decades of duty breathing down our necks.

Of copper women and irrefutable truths

By naicha

Eliza as the first priority, Peggy as the second. “But where does that leave me?” A third, defiant voice reckoned. Greed was quick to rear its ugly head; a wound was cut open, then we bled, and bled, and bled.

The moment we were born, we were taught to keep mum, to tuck our agony neatly behind the hems of our dresses, ‘til we are forced to succumb.

Yet late at night, left with no one but our thoughts, the apples present themselves to our feet: dollops of rubies—tempting us to ponder which ones we would keep.

As I shine brighter while you begin to fade, Life began to reveal a secret closely guarded for decades: Women like us— of bronze, copper, and stardust— need not be vilified simply because the world failed to leave us satisfied.

Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman

Hoy, Biboy!

!

Ni Drexel John N. Amit

Oh, Biboy! Ang aga mo naman atang gumising? Ay, oo nga pala! Ikaw pa ay magsasaing. Pagkatapos magsalang ay gagayak sa panaderya, bibili ng pandesal at kapeng panimpla.

Oh, Biboy! Nagmamadali ka atang lumabas ng kubeta? Mahuhuli ka na ba sa pagpasok sa eskwela? O sadyang ikaw lamang ay nagpapa-aga, upang may oras pang maigugugul sa librerya?

Oh, Biboy! Ampogi natin sa bagong plantsang uniporme ah! Ipares pa ang matingkad na ngiti at mga matang puno ng sigla. Nagbunga ata ang iyong agarang paghahanda! Nakikini-kinita ko ang hinaharap mong kasiya-siya!

Kaya alam mo, Biboy? Ako’y hanga sa’yo: sa sipag, tiyaga, at katatagan mo. Nawa’y patuloy kang maging huwaran, at lahat ng minimithi ay iyong makamtan.

Pero teka, Biboy, anong nangyari? Tila yata naiwakli mo ang iyong sarili. Saan napunta ang iyong pagpupunyagi? Maibabalik pa kaya ang dati?

Hoy, Biboy! Bilis na’t ika’y gumising! Hoy, Biboy! Ikaw pa ay magsasaing! Hoy, Biboy! Pumunta ka na ng panaderya! Hoy, Biboy! Bumili ka na ng kape’t magtimpla!

Dumulugok sa Tig-ilinit

Ni Bjørn

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Tatlo ka segundo nag-untat ang akon ginhawa. Sa ikaapat, wala gihapon may nag-ilig halin sa ‘kon kaundan. Alangan—kay indi ako ang kasumpung sang mga diyos sang de-armalayt. Magapadayon ila operasyon, samtang magatinir ako sa pulungkuan.

Ang mga landong nag-inupuray sa idalum sang tig-ilinit; athag ang dalag nga balhas sang isa ka soltero. Sul-ob ang lubog nga unipormi, nagabitay ang paniro sa iya abaga. Kag sa iya pagkapilason, maabot ko—pinasahi siya nga soldado.

Abi isugid, soldado, kung paano indi maglaylay ang uniporme sa akon lawas? Paano ginhurma kag ginpatig-a ang mga butkon mo nga madamol? Ukon nangin mapintas lang ang pagtuga sa akon? Kay sa magamay ko nga dagway, mga paghinulsol indi ko makamol-kamol.

Bang! Bang!

Dalagan, soldado, kay akon huna-hunaon kung ikasarang sang akon tiilan nga magpalagyo sa kaput sang kamatayon. Kung magaabot na ang akon lahog nga katapusan, ikasarang bala sang akon sag-ang ang singgitan nga gabagrong?

Daguob sa liwat—matinis, maabtik, makalitik. Samtang gatiyog sa banglid, nagalagas ka sang imo ginhawa. Ang kada tapak sang imo botas akon ginapiyungan—ginapamatian Kung bala magadungan ang musika kag mga bala nga galinapta.

Ah…ang kaamyon sang isa ka baganihan. Sa masami, wala na sang may ikalipay imo ginikanan. Panigurado, imo lang sulat ang ginahulat sang imo kahigugma. Sa matuod, ni isa wala ako sing may maprotektahan.

Dumulugok sa Tig-ilinit

Ni Bjørn

Bang!

Ginbaha ang kadudulman sang palakpak, kag napundir ang tig-ilinit sa akon pagtangla. Tion na para ihulog mo ang lahog nga nawong; ang kurinot sa imo agtang ipatapan agud madula.

Duko sa tuo kag sa wala, natapos na ang panugiron. Ah, sagad ka sa papati!—ina lang ang mahambal ko. Sa lain nga tig-ilinit, mangin sin-o ka naman? Sa lain nga banglid, ikaw bala mangin akon kapareho?

Nakakadlaw ako sa binuang nga handum. Indi man sa talawan ang akon corazon; Ugaling, may yara lang gid tig-ilinit nga mahapdi. May yara tig-ilinit nga indi magapabor sa akon.

Photo by Bjørn

A Review of [Un] Related Literature

By Joshua Martin P. Guanco

How can fingers translate thoughts when its tips are the mind’s peripheries?

How can static pulses be encoded with words, as if beauty personified or oblivion incarnate?

How can symbols— without spine, but of carbon— be immortalized while its progenitor expire?

How can flesh— feeble and minute— dwell perpetually on this rock, when it only translated thoughts through its fingertips?

,

Requiem for the Old House’’s Ghost

By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

The wintry wind of the night caressed my cheeks as my soles traced the path of the place that once reared me. Passing through its tottering door, walls splotched with the naivety of life bled ruins of bygones in these dust-covered halls. I braved gravity to reach the rooftop over a twirling stair on the brink of collapsing. The screeching of the rats hinted at an orphaned edifice—without a breath. This place has evolved profoundly.

With stoic grace, the moon bathed me in its light as if it yearned to blanket my thoughts. Stretching to the terrace, I roved at the paint-stained balustrades and the solid ground that once carried these pirouetting feet like a sentinel. Everything was at my fingertips in this space. Yet, at that moment, it was devoured by air, leaving me bare.

Relished memories and old dreams protruded from every nook and cranny: the kids speeding through the halls pretending to be superheroes, the walls that relished the family’s joys in frames, and the rooftop where I basked in the moonlight as the wind sang the trees to sleep. This familiar haven encased little promises, little slips, and little phases one wished to tell.

The nostalgia rushed in as I laid my eyes on the doorstep where warm, tight hugs once awaited me whenever I earned five stars on my tests or when I was simply having a tough day—the gentle hands that touched without wounding. Still, I cannot fathom how my old, frail body could have held so much love and hope. This misty air missed the soap-film bubbles I once blew in the wide grass while reveling in the moments before they burst. Oh, how I can go on a day boasting about those trivial wins!

Requiem for the Old House’’s Ghost

By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

Buried in my rapt musing, I searched for the discarded tires that lay beneath the layers of soot and mud. They once carried me through the bumpy alleys—leaving me bruised but unbound.

I died in the clutches of guilt, which formed claws and tugged my mind incessantly. I died on the mighty edge of youth while the birds cried. I died in the passion of naive lips caressed by deceit. At this point, I have learned to build my own tombs.

At the stroke of midnight, I felt myself fade from afar. Being here struck some turmoil within, reminding me of my spirit that had been laid to rest.

The chaos is what makes it—above and beyond what my heart could ever hold. It houses memoirs of youth; it both fears and celebrates its demise, mocking destiny.

Tonight is another new moon bound to shift phases and will end when the universe decides to do so. What life uncovers, time will soon recover.

So let there be no arias of misery, neither repressed spirits draped over the casket of history nor whimpering harps of regret.

As the ominous clouds shrouded the pitch black sky and the wind whipped my unbound hair in deafening gusts, my soles traced the path towards a renewed phase—heavy from the farewell’s touch parting between my skin.

Step Print

By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno

Eyes of quicksilver pierce through the sludge of a dirty grin—I smile grotesque. But under my featherless weight, your presence drops mercury. Gradually. Like two different earths meeting at the same gravity. Like the nicotine fumes welling up in my throat. Like my patina-scraped heels skidding over lethal doses of petroleum and dye.

The vapor lamps bounce the green off of a leather settee to an unoccupied ottoman. It relishes in its creases. It dances along to metal screams as the curtains trail the hand clutching a cigarette under the table. But the smoke and LEDs engulf me whole.

In prayer, in cacophony, I am an aphrodisiac for the heathens.

And every synagogue I’ve romanced has kept my tongue wet in the confession of my delusions. Spinning enough yarn to twist a tale of another you—my mechanical startle response. It’s an unresolved dogma building a dim chime that rings across the bell towers. You sing along to its novena. I run to the fire exit.

Still, I’ve learned to drink gasoline instead of burning my shoes at a bus stop. Allow it to relinquish the view from the cliffside and then throw it to sea.

But I died again today in vignette clips from a step print film—unbeknownst to me, blue is not a color for the highway.

There is no groan from the leg pressed dead under mine.

The settee remains in superposition.

My mouth is dry.

Art by Jaziel Ann V. Seballos

Ang Intermisyon ng Mandudula

Ni Mari

EKSENA 1: INT. KAPEHAN - UMAGA

Lumutang ang halimuyak ng kape sa hangin habang pabalik-balik ang mga taong may tig-iisang hawak na paper cup sa kapehan. Sa gitna ng matrabahong araw, makikita sa isang sulok ang isang estudyanteng naghahandang simulan ang kanyang sanaysay. Binuksan nito ang kanyang laptop at mariing napatitig dito.

MITHI Ayoko na.

“Ayoko na,” bulong ni Mithi sa kanyang sarili habang binubura ang mga walang kabuluhang salita sa kanyang laptop. Kung bakit napagpasyahan niyang tumambay sa kapehan ay dahil usap-usapang mabisa itong pampagana ng utak upang mas matulin ang pagsusulat. Ngunit anong tangka niya mang makapag-isip ng ideya, ilang oras na ang nakalipas ay blangko pa rin ang mga pahinang hawak-hawak ng dalaga. Wala siyang ibang natamo kundi ang paglagok ng tatlong tasa ng kape at isang dokumento sa Microsoft Word na walang laman.

“Hindi na lang ako mag-reretiro,” reklamo nito sabay buntong-hininga.

Ilang araw na ang nakalipas at magulo pa rin ang kanyang isipan. Naghahanda na ito para sa kanyang panghuling yuko pagkatapos ang matagumpay na 25-taong karerang puno ng mga parangal sa larangan ng pagdudula.

EKSENA 2: EXT. BAYBAYIN - PAGLUBOG NG ARAW

Sa ilalim ng gabing kalangitan, masusulyapan ang isang mag-amang tahimik na nakahiga sa buhangin. Sa kabila ng gulong dala ng mga taong naghahabulan at nagtatampisaw sa tabing dagat,ito ang bagay na pinakamalapit sa langit para sa kanilang dalawa.

Palipat-lipat ang tingin ni Mithi sa pagitan ng kanyang kompyuter at sa mag-amang nakahiga malapit sa kanya. Makalipas ang ilang araw, natagpuan na naman nito ang kanyang sarili sa tabing baybayin ng kanyang tirahan.

Ito ang kanyang proseso ng pagsusulat: ginagalugad nito ang kanyang probinsya—nagbabakasakaling makahanap ng inspirasyon para sa kanyang susunod na obra maestra.

Hindi siya kailanman nawawalan ng ideya hangga’t nasa labas siya ng bahay. Nasasaksihan niya ang lahat ng mga pangyayari sa kanyang arawaraw na pakikipagsapalaran: mga kabataang naglalaro ng Chinese garter, mga nagngingitiang taga-tinda ng taho, at maging ang away ng mga basagulero sa kalye—patunay na ang mga pangyayari sa kanyang bayan ang mga pangunahing paksa ng kanyang matagumpay na karera.

Hindi pa lubos na kuntento sa kanyang naisulat, nagpasya na si Mithi na umuwi na lamang upang pakalmahin ang kanyang isipan bagama’t labis itong nangangamba na hindi niya matatapos ang dula sa oras.

EKSENA 3: EXT. PARKE - DAPIT-UMAGA

MITHI (habang nakatutok sa isinusulat) Kumakaluskos ang mga dahon. Malamig ang hangin. Ayaw kong tumakbo at nagugutom ako…

Nakasimangot niyang ibinalik ang telepono sa kanyang bulsa nang mapagtantong mga muni-muni niya na ang kanyang naisusulat. Tila siya’y mababaliw na. Maya’t maya’y tumunog ulit ito at isang text mula sa kanyang ahente ang kanyang natanggap. Nagpapaalala itong ilang oras na lang ang natitira upang tapusin ang kanyang sulatin. Halos sinubukan na niya ang lahat ng ideya para ipagpatuloy ang kanyang pagsulat, ngunit hindi pa rin ito umuusad.

Dismayang napauwi si Mithi at ibinagsak ang sarili sa kanyang kama. Ang tahimik na bahay ang pinakahuling lugar na gusto niyang mapag-iwanan dahil dito dumadalaw ang pinakanatatakutan nito: ang rumaragasang mga kaisipan.

Walang anu-anong napuno ng takot, gunita, at mga palaisipan si Mithi. Muli siyang hinabol ng mga guniguni ng nakalipas: ang unang napanood na dula na isang lokal na produksyon ng Hamlet kasama ang kanyang ina, ang pagtanggap ng kanyang unang typewriter, ang unang panalo ng parangal para sa kanyang debut play, ang paghihiwalay ng kanyang mga magulang, at ang kanyang unang pagkakataong magmahal. Ang lahat ng ito ay patuloy na bumabagabag sa kanya.

Dulot ng bugso ng damdamin, hindi na namalayan ni Mithi na napaupo na ito sa harap ng kanyang kompyuter habang sunod-sunod ang taas-baba ng mga daliri sa teklada.

EKSENA 4: INT. KWARTO - HAPON

“Kakaiba ito ah,” ani Mithi sa kanyang sarili. Kailanma’y hindi niya naranasang maudyukan ng mga ideya sa loob ng isang masikip at ordinaryong kwarto— taliwas sa kanyang karaniwang proseso ng pagsusulat. Marahil, baka oras na ito para sa pagbabago.

INA

Bilisan mo! Mahuhuli na tayo. Sa tunog ng boses ng kanyang ina, naalimpungatan ang batang babae mula sa pagpapasariwa ng kanyang sarili at pag-aayos ng kanyang mabulaklak na damit. Nasasabik itong mapanood ang Hamlet ni William Shakespeare sa malapit na teatro kasama ang kanyang ina. Labas sa kaalaman nito na dito rin mismo magsisimula ang kanyang mga pangarap.

BATA Papunta na ako!

Patuloy ang pagdagsa ng mga salita habang tinitipa ni Mithi ang kwento ng kanyang buhay. Ito na ‘yon. Ang kanyang . retirement piece: isang coming-of-age na salaysay tungkol sa isang makikipagsapalarang bata na mahilig gumawa ng mga kwentong hango sa kanyang paglalakbay—tulad ng kanyang sarili. Sa tagal ng panahong paghahanap ni Mithi ng inspirasyon mula sa ibang mga bagay, kanyang napagtanto na ang pinakadakilang inspirasyon ay ang mismong sarili.

Patapos na ang intermisyon ni Mithi, subalit dito pa lamang magsisimula ang kanyang paglaki higit pa sa pagiging isang mandudula. Ngayon, oras na para sa kanyang huling yuko.

Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola

Ghost Limbs

By Meryl C. Sigaton

Butterflies and luminous skies haze the meshed horizon of haute and murmur.

What pleasure should greet multitudes of pre-dinner boredom; must they dare spectate my condemnation?

Emerging from the velvet veil no red more brilliant, silk organza glisten the molting layers of my grief.

Applause.

She would arabesque by herself— raise a weathered leg up the highest shelf— cherished by the muses; while I am not the resident Giselle, neither local Odette, nor favorite Clara.

“You’re not tinted, not refractive, un-kaleidoscopic.” “You’re just this—just plain glass.”

Now I contrast to that limelight a chasm—a dry empty space. Your crescent pointes’ absence desiccate the waxed maple of this fragile paradise— you sleep instead, the world’s deepest, in overpriced oak; pacified by the anodyne gods: Advil, Alaxan, Medicol.

In futile mimicry, I flit away from your monolithic shade of flawless twirls to moaning ivory keys.

“Cease this passé.”

In the crimson obscurity of the unsunned theater, patience is in the living.

Ghost Limbs

By Meryl C. Sigaton

Bending my toes to the harp, the wine— pure musical ambrosia. To love it, even without the tolerance. Resolute in splendor; nevertheless, in beauty.

Brittle trembling bones and mica contort grin upon grin, unwinding myself from the rust of this meat-bone machinery— opposing to crumble to reservoirs of pain, enough to suffocate many months over.

“If you can’t trust the tutu, the leotard, then why face the mass?”

a minor C, a major D, and then a rest; So much stillness—an easing peace in this haywire hall.

Holding the stance like a pin betwixt prim fingers; clasping a while longer in the hot graces of the spotlight; a hairpin with no immaculate pendant, no blue jewel—and I whisper to myself, “Yes, I shall adorn you. I will dance with you again.”

Photo by Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera

Coda

Ni Bjørn

Ang padiit ng aking mga paa ay mayroong lihim na itinatago. Kasabay ng mga hakbang na hindi mapalagay ay ang bumibilis na ritmo ng aking puso.

Sino bang hindi mahihibang sa mga mata mong nag-iilaw ng tila prisma, kung sa tuwing ang pangalan ko’y iyong binabanggit, ako ay bulaklak sa tagsibol?

Sumasagitsit—umiinit— sa tuwing nagkakalapitan ang mga kamay. Yumayanig sa mga patlang ng aking paghinga ‘pag ang mga mata nati’y nagsasalitan.

Nais kong ipabatid ang aking inggit sa mga linyang iyong kinabisa. Dahil ang kurba ng iyong ngiti— ang hindi mo pag-imik—ay kabisado rin.

Ah, kailan pa ba hihinto ang walang dulong mga utos? Marahil ay hindi mo matukoy ang aking paggiliw sa mundo kong pilit na pinalabo.

Pero sigurado—ang tanging malinaw sa mga linya ng ilaw ay ikaw.

Kahit dumating ang dulo ng kwentong katha mo, magpapatuloy ang kumpas ng lihim ko.

Hiraya Manawari

Ni Esther Joyce M. Limbaña

Handa, hindi pa handa. Daan-daang palakpakan at hiyawan ang salubong, kasabay ang sapantahang hindi mabubuksan ang telon. Kakampi ang munting saglit na maglalantad sa bagong akda.

Bubungad, hindi bubungad. Bawat patak ng oras, ako’y nananalangin— sinasambit ang mga nanlalamig na pagsamong sana’y dinggin. May pag-aalinlangan man o wala—sansinukob—ika’y magsalita.

Hihintay, hindi hihintay. Kabisado ko na ang bawat salita ng aking mga hiraya. Binubulong sa hangin na ako’y piliin at tugunan. Hindi sigurado, ngunit sana’y makamtan.

Titimpi, hindi titimpi. Kahapisan man ang nanaig sa puntong ito, batid kong may naghihintay na entablado— isang yugtong tatanggap sa ‘kin nang walang agam-agam.

Uumpisa, hindi uumpisa. Kahagkan ko ang buwan na naghihintay sa umaga, marahuyong nag-aabang sa maikling panahon upang gawaran ang mga nakatalaga kong teatrong likha.

Pagmamasdan, hindi pagmamasdan. Nagniningning ang aking mga mata sa mundong dinadalangin— nakatitig sa tagpuang handa kong palagian. Gayunman, maghihintay pa rin hanggang takipsilim.

Aarte, hindi aarte. Naririnig ko na ang daan-daang palakpakan at hiyawan, kasabay ang sapantahang magbubukas ang telon. Paanyayang tugma nga ba ang aking tanghal sa tamang panahon?

Behind the Curtain

By Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

In situ Self Sculpting in the Postmodern Era

By The Pawn

It’s a mess. The widow’s peak is a few degrees off from perfection—a structural blasphemy to the Golden Ratio. The navel is half a coin’s breadth too deep. The phalanges aren’t anatomically accurate—seventeen, eighteen atoms too steep, and the liberated thumping—the arrhythmia—won’t please the museum clientele. This will not do.

Glean your tools and lean on the sculptor’s stool.

The Mirror is the Muse

Where is the mess? Why is it a mess?

The sculptor himself knows his own art best, far more than the most respected art connoisseurs. Only you can swerve the chisel blade with utmost truth when the sculptor is the sculpture—when the mirror is the muse.

Eureka! It’s the mind. It’s the heart. It’s the tall stack of cans.

As the Chisel Switches Sheathes

The centerpiece is ready. Slowly, from the leather scabbard, the chisel is delivered, then sheathed anew into your reluctant grip. As the moon beams collapse over your tainted marble skin and burn the unreachable blueprint on the floor, you begin to trust the impulses of a true artist. With a hammerfist trembling faintly on your temple, the chisel touches the art. Behold, the centerpiece—ready evermore.

Marble Youthanasia

Limestone dust fills the room as the crack on the skull reveals no signs of life–just tangled threads of copper lumped into a sphere of metal. Multicolored circles with smiles and hearts plague the interneurons. You try coaxing the crown with tender human touch, then a kiss, before caressing it to a close.

The rib cage hangs low—macabrely majestic, exposing the pulsating clockwork at the center. The cogs dissonantly grind against each other, creating clanks instead of whatever life should sound like. You twist the golden linchpin until the sculpture is in tune.

In situ Self Sculpting in the Postmodern Era

by The Pawn

Thump. Thump. Thump. Everything climaxes into a seething swell— the heartstrings have come back to life.

In the liver thrives a vineyard—where godless briars bear fruits of abhorrence. One thorn after another, the cutting edge culls the horror until the scene becomes tamed and the sculptor becomes sober.

As the chisel blade inches slowly towards the final adjustment, the mirror objects for the work is done. When the sculptor redefines his reflection, he buries his old self and revels in his newfound semblance.

The Glass Box

Then there you laid, an alluring mess in a glass box. Your widow’s peak—a mural of the alps touching the bosom of the moon; your navel—a snuggly beachside grotto; and your patternless heartbeat—an anthem to a collarless hound. As the phalanges unsheathe the chisel and draw it back into cold leather, everything became clear: the call was yours to make and yours to heed.

Eureka! Your worth lies beyond the applause from the museum clientele, unbound from this fragile glass frame.

Step off the sculpture’s stool; go ahead and clean your tools.

Art by Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

almost, felina

By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno

i. death comes break the shotgun— hit me point blank with soot, blood, and clay. eyes on trigger, tongue on barrel, for your bullet, i pray. dilute coffee, down gunpowder, sepia hinge milked gray. fervid climax, buff my fangs blunt, bite a tongue off-stage. silver medals, like cutlass—sends madmen to their graves. but a lamia, in her eighth hum, shan’t die the same way.

ii. death stays my veins stretch an epoch— enough rope to tie a noose. still, i cut my bones open and then spin my yarns loose to knit golden egos, needle-pricked fingers bruise. each stab, a hangman’s token, the shadowed tree of spruce.

almost, felina

By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno

a life, a lie, guano— seeps, digs deep; a recluse sings the hunchback’s requiem then breaks branches askew.

adrift along almosts, dead loss rings me a truce. second best is suicide; what i win is god’s abuse.

iii. death leaves gasoline banks, my murky fur burns— arching out a smoke briquette.

the lake of fire, all but moribund, Lazarus in a theater play.

a minor lead, mediocre and bent, muted chorus, i cannot say. holy water, i wring out my skin— of incantation beway.

almost mortal, “felina, up, front,” the auburn moon fails to wane.

silver shotgun and death’s consolation, but i shall never decay.

Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale

Photo by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman

Mga Palamangkutanon

Ni Immalie Rose E. Cafifge

Diin naghalin ang pinalian sang mga palaligban? Diin pakadto ang naga-ikis kag kitid nga dalanon? Gaano ako sa duog sang peligro?

Ang sugilanon: Sa yab-ok ako igabun-ag, kag sa yab-ok ako magabalik. Ang pamangkot: Pila ang balayran kung ibanhaw ang gikan sa minatay? Kaangay sa ginlubong nga bulawan—tubtob dos metros padalom. Abir, hamili bala ang uyang sang tiyempo sa ngaralngal sang mga huna-huna?

Sa akon paglingi sa pangpang nga akon ginakatin-katin, magaduaw ako sa lugar nga disunado; magasimhot sang hangin nga indi pamilyar sa ilong; magatampisaw sa lutak nga wala marka sang anuman nga tikang.

KAKAPOY—

Skwela. Agwanta. Kurisong. Obra. Nguy-ngoy.

Guya nga gabanaag sa punong sang disyerto; wala sing pangadtuan. Pagadal-on ayhan sang pagkutkot ang kasanagan? Isa ako ka dumuluong sa akon landong— nagabitbit bagahe nga puno sang palamangkutanon.

Makatilingala, apang diin ang mga tul-an sang akon unod humalin tuig 2018?

Diin makita ang ala-porselana nga panit, kung ang mapintas nga haplas sang nagligad ang nagalugos sa pagpamatbat sang subong? Sa ulot sang siyudad kag kabukiran, diin ako nagakabagay?

Mga Palamangkutanon

Ni Immalie Rose E. Cafifge

KAHILIDLAW—

Saot. Alaba. Kanaw. Odoy-odoy. Ngirit.

Wala sing eskriba nga nakataklad sa kabungyodan kung diin ang labhag sing dapa-dapa nakasulat sang elehiya para sa naghamyang nga kalawasan.

Makabayad bala ang bagras kag lap-ok sa dalanon nga akon ginlaktod?

Mas gustuhon ko magtingkaya pabalik sa akon ginsuguran. Sa pihak sang nagatunod nga adlaw, may paghidait bala nga gahulat sa lapyo nga nawong?

Diin ako halin? Diin ako pakadto? Gaano ako sa duog sang peligro?

Wala ako kabalo. Pagkatapos sang tanan nga bulubaliskad kag liko-liko, isa lang ang akon nadangtan: Wala na ako sing balikan.

Soirée

By Ivee E. Manguilimutan

i have tea parties with the skeleton in my closet.

pale white brittle bones sipping teacups, sensing forlorn. clad in frilly victorian dresses— pondering, why was i even born?

devoid of emotions, mr. skeleton shook with haste. a pile of bones trembling— he muttered, “not to live is such a waste.”

i spill tea and see truth, what do we have to live by if we keep fearing?

hollow eyes steel with resolve, he answers: “my dear, life favors those who are daring.”

tea parties won’t always be exclusive; skeletons are bones that once took a breath; the grim reaper sharpens his blade; until we are finally sentenced to death.

but the in-between of these subtle things, the ones we fear, the ones we dread, may also be the reason we choose to live instead.

Of the Unseeing Eyes

By Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

I’m sick of the irony— yet everyone sees my burning in pitch black of glitter and oil that drips from what has scathed me.

Whereas…

When mind denies reality of boundaries, fantasy stashes the brutish and the hideous. My desire surges as the figment breeds within, unconquered by an uttered verse—numbed of meaning. I muse these thoughts as I create my own prose: a vision.

My one dream…

This body of mine in feeble black and basic white flee from the glorious threat of fleeting time. I shall harness the force of the Arcadian night to seize the fugitive colors and sunlight. I ache for the play of prodded verbs: a redemption.

Turn to the trail of certainty…

For there exists no beauty unblemished. Life is a balance unlearned yet well-meant. A deep-seated ego contrived me to forge everything twice tall, and I toil for the price. A string of rhyme woven in deception: an illusion.

And be haunted by what might have been…

Hushed inside, but the truth still seeps in this disconcerting tenderness of existence and of extremes. I chase a life apart from my own in a drunken stupor. A dream left to starve and explode in the abyss— but even fragments have their own alternate world: a salvation. In this world where light cannot pervade…

The darkness shall soon engulf a life coveted but not possessed. I will burn anyway; and there will be no rest in the igniting fire.

This is my tale—my show: a prophetic pretense cloaked in disguise before my eyes.

Art by Mikey Vincent T. Vicente

Photo by Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera

Unsent Letters to Alfredo”

By JK

First letter to Alfredo:

They asked me, My Alfredo, if I like you, and what do I like about you? I kept silent. I let silence rule over the secret rooms and secret sessions with those who were curious. And I guess I should keep it this way, to keep them guessing.

What do I like about you?

Oh, my Alfredo, my heart knew. And though I am silent, I could let my pen and sheet speak.

Of how you are the sun, and your light takes over the darkest parts of me; you effortlessly make me brand new.

And since you are the sun, who can resist you? How can I ever resist you?

My Alfredo, I bet you don’t know; in my eyes, you are as perfect, and as beautiful, as the sunrise, sunset, and everything in between.

I could never resist you.

Alfredo, my sun, if I could tell you straight, I would. That if universe permitted and in the absence of my fears, I’d touch you endlessly, and it would be my pleasure to have my heart burned.

Yours, Marayah

Unsent Letters to Alfredo”

By JK Dearest,

Oh Alfredo, do you know what joy you bring when you’re with me? Your smiles somehow awaken the butterflies inside my soul. You make me laugh even with the simplest things you do. And what matters most is that you’re here in front of me—that you are near.

You are so near, my dear, but only in sight, for you are too far for my hopeless heart to reach. And it hurts me, oh Alfredo, it hurts me so bad that my heart aches but still, I am grateful that you are near.

I thank the heavens, my Alfredo, that I am still here, alive, and breathing the same air you breathe. If I had the guts, I would tell you now how I feel for you— that you make me happy, and that you are my cure. But you are laughing and this is perfect.

So I’ll just sit here and laugh with you and try my best to be as perfect as you are, and imagine we’re good for each other. What a fool of me, to love you this much that I want to ask:

How are we not more than friends?

Love, Marayah

Unsent Letters to Alfredo”

By JK

My Handsome Alfredo,

Lately I’ve been writing about love— And in my lifetime, I never believed that I would ever know love like this.

For a few years now, I’ve been turning you into words, making you the subject of every story, every poem, and every song. I like to imagine that you feel the same; that to you, we are more than what we are.

I have been hiding behind my words, playing with metaphors and similes, too afraid to say that I want you forever. Still I lay here in bed, hesitant to tell you about these unsent letters I keep in my cabinet.

My Alfredo, if I only had the time to let my pen bleed more, so I could write you more letters like this—then I would, and I’d pray that someday I’d find the way to your heart and give you these.

But for now, I still choose not to tell you.

Whatever we have is worth keeping. And I’d rather sit here and bleed your name on my sheet, than risk losing you.

For now, I am content to just write here— I love you, my Alfredo.

Ever hopeful, Marayah

Unsent Letters to Alfredo”

By JK Marayah,

My love—as passionate, as beautiful, and as perfect as a rose.

I named my daughter after you—my only love. Sometimes when she sleeps or when she laughs, I fool myself into thinking she looks like you.

The letters you did not send have reached my heart, from when your sister handed them to me two days after we lost you, when your illness took you away forever.

Marayah, I regret not telling you how I feel. For not telling you everyday that I do love you— more than you dreamed I would, more than just love and the shallow meanings they give it.

And I do hate, my love, that I did not tell you these when you were still here, and that I let you wonder wide awake each night, writing letters you never intended to send.

So if I could just have one day to be with you, my Marayah, I’d wish for time to stop.

But the only thing I can do is imagine.

I love you, Marayah. Always and forever. We’ll meet again soon, and on that day, I’ll smile, like the way I did when I could still hold your hands.

Marayah, when we meet, I’ll shine again for you.

All yours, Alfredo

Art by Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

Kalimutaw

Ni Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes

Indi ako ang takos nga balasulon— kung sa pagpamisok, ako ang handum nga tulukon, kag ang nanari-sari nga kata-kata sa akon ginapaupok; kung tanan nga atensyon akon na gin-angkon, kag akon dungog ang sumsuman sa kada purok; kung sa akon lang galibot ang kalibutan, kag ako lang ang buot sundan ka kapawa. Ina suno sa akon kaliwatan.

Amo ni dapat, indi na amo—tanan ini dapat sundon ko. Ano ang takos nga himuon, kung sa kada pagpa-uto tamyaw kag dayaw ang ingreso; bugal kag kaayawan ang manggad; kag pagatakpan sang (kuno abi) maanyag nga yuhom.

Akon lamang nabinag-binag— maiwat ang tamyaw sa gamay nga kadalag-an; apang isa ka kasal-anan, ang tinaghol sang kasimanwa indi mapunggan.

Nabuhi lang bala ako para sa kalipayan sang iban nga tawo? Nagtuhaw para mangin permanente nga topiko sang kadam-an? Ukon gin bun-ag bilang kalingawan sa entablado?

Indi na nakon pagpaligban, apang sa mga masunod nga tini-on, ang pasulabihon nga balatyagon: indi imo, indi ila, indi inyo—

AKON.

Basal na rehas

Ni Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog Tila nakakabingi ang katahimikan ngunit mas gusto ko ito: mapayapa. Dahil sa payapang katayuan, may kalayaan—bagay na hindi b asta-bastang nakakamit ninuman. Parang kailan lang, bilanggo ako ng aking isip at damdamin; bihag ng mahalay na nakaraan na para bang hindi ka tinutulutang makahinga. Wala nang pahinga. Pikit-matang nilalabanan ang mahigpit na simbuyong wakasan ang sariling buhay. Pero kung kailan handa nang bitawan ang tali, saka pa hahandugan ng maling pag-asa. Misteryo o milagro ba ito ng kung sinong diyos? Kung naririnig mo ako, ‘wag mo akong handugan ng maling pag-asa. Masyado na akong sanay sa basal na rehas ng buhay. Kaya kung pagkukunwari lamang ang kalayaang iyong ibibigay, mas mainam pang ako ay iyong talikuran.

Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar

Haunted

By Joshua Martin P. Guanco

It always appears in the corner of my eye. With ill intentions so sharp, it yearns that I die. The specter hovers above me; my body paralyzed. Asphyxia is administered—leisurely inching to my demise.

Unforgiving shackles linger in every rhythm I respire. A poltergeist so cold that every sunrise and sunset is dire. Like a chokehold pressed on my neck, halting desire. Dousing my heart and setting my mind afire.

This haunting is a circle—almost perpetual. Never has it been unreal, nor even ethereal.

It is insinuated by this self as a cruel betrayal. It ebbs and it flows as if it is tidal.

It is a phantasm that juxtaposes every night over my bed. It blankets me in a lush void that subdues me with dread.

And all that is left are these soliloquies—and all things unsaid. Phrases that this phantom and I will keep forever haunted.

When Stars Burn Out

By Jaziel Ann V. Seballos

Musings of a Curious Creative

By Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea

Say, have you ever been to a museum before?

What was it like?

The first time you went, were you giddy at the thought of what you’d find inside? Of all the hidden treasures and trinkets crafted by brilliant human minds?

Amid the struck of awe, were you uncertain of which masterpiece to scrutinize first? Where did your feet end up taking you? Toward the shining, elegant marble statue of a celestial beast in flight or the vibrant, impressionist painting of what looked like a fruit basket?

Following that decision, did you take your time and drag your feet, unravelling its greatest secrets from afar? Maybe you tried nearing it as swiftly as possible to get the best possible view of the varying strokes and blatant subtleties?

Now, did the dashing young men of the Renaissance actually wink from the corner of your eye, or could it really have been a trick of the light?

Well, how long did you stare at them to be sure? Were they trying to tell you something? Was it something you’d already known?

Whenever you moved onto the next artwork of your affection, did you linger on it in a dedicated attempt to admire its aesthetic, its complexity? Or was the beckoning finger of the neighboring canvas too powerful a temptation?

Here’s a good one: was it your eyes or your instinct that led you all the way to the end of the vast gallery? The comforting hand of a close companion, for some? Why did you have company—or why didn’t you?

Musings of a Curious Creative

By Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea

With all the brilliantly bizarre creativity in visual form, there had to be something you paused to laugh at, right? A particularly phallic-shaped stroke concealed in the corner of a painting or unrealistic body standards in the shape of poorly drawn proportions? Do you ever think they snicker quietly about us too?

What do you think the worn-out women in the frames were whispering about as you ambled towards the exit? Did they peer at you with eyes of disdain, scoffing at how you tilted your head gazing at them? Perhaps the pottery vases came to your defense, arguing that it was in pursuit of appreciation?

Tell me—how did it feel to be surrounded by the magnificence of art in all corners? In the midst of it all, was it a sense of satisfaction and quiet calm that connected you to their creators? Was it the elation and excitement that there was much to be explored?

As you finally stepped out, did you notice anything different? Was the sky a little bluer than it had been? Was everyone oddly kinder than you remembered? Was it all that you imagined it to be?

What was it like?

Ah, how I’d like to know.

Photos by Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman

scars of the theatrics

By scythe

rumor says the theater is haunted.

the shuffle of the torn curtains painted ashen figures behind the spotlight’s flare. frantic hands aided production backstage but were unsung.

choirs had too many voices; lights flickered figures in peripherals— an uncanny aura declares itself.

rumor says there’s always more show.

the glow stays past rehearsals and performances. gusts of wind sweep the crevices of the place, creating makeshift whistles and melodies; while moonlight intermittently breaks past the blackened drapes— a spotlight on that old, familiar stage.

rumor says the finale climaxed in spectacle.

a charming tale of a lady maneuvering through the stirring tension amid two men competing for her favor. her playful winks and smirks danced around sweet nothings, oblivious to the heavy air between the rivals— wolves baring their claws and teeth, unshackled and mad.

scars of the theatrics

By scythe

violence erupted, igniting an inferno as one animal struck first. but after an exchange of blows, both were engulfed in the roaring flames. a raging hue shadowed a woman on her knees. a smoldering fire loomed overhead— crackling louder than expected. rumor says not everything died. rumor says it was arson.

one could spot the once dark marks along the walls and the charred scars of the floor. a single match backstage was all it took. in the midst of its ascending crescendo, the theater became a graveyard but remained a stage for the liveliest performances. and though it survived, rumor says not everything died.

Art by Josh Aldrich B. Diola

On the Precipice of Damnation

By paradoxica

To the almost-villain:

Your sister was like sunshine. She heaved me up from the depths of whatever pit I buried myself in.

She took the hand of an outcast—a monster, and smiled as she did it.

In her eyes weren’t pity, but compassion. It was humanity— something I wasn’t used to, but I so greatly craved.

Your sister was my sunshine.

I would have given the world to her.

I would have pulled my heart from the cage it is in, and offered it to her had she asked.

I would have died for her—happily— but I guess that’s out of the question now.

It’s all because they decided to take her. “How can you just take sunshine like that?”

I didn’t understand—I won’t ever understand. How could they? How dare they! How can they stomach to spill the blood of someone so young—so pure?

I should be seeing her smile.

I should be hearing her tiny giggles when she sees a dog wearing a tie in the supermarket.

I should be feeling her soft hands tugging away at my sleeves as she pulls me towards the candy aisle.

I should be taking in her flushed cheeks whenever I catch her playing house with one of her stuffed animals.

I should be watching her struggle as she tries to put her hair up in a perfect ponytail, like all her other friends.

I should be with her, yet I am not.

On the Precipice of Damnation

By paradoxica

Now here I stand, in a flatland, surrounded by people dressed in black— mourning the loss of someone who should still be in my arms. I should be with her, and so should you.

Of course it was just a joke. I knew it was a joke— but I also knew you didn’t want it to be just a joke. I knew you wanted them to suffer. I knew you wanted them to bleed as she did—die as she did. I knew you wanted to feel the blade of your knife tear through their skin.

Be it be brought about by the poison of alcohol running through your veins, or the need to crush the darker side of you; I knew how much you were hurting when you realized you could never bring yourself to hurt them: Not when you know it wouldn’t be what she would want. Not when you know how much it would break her heart. Not when you know that seeing you like that would destroy her. I understand that your morality means nothing to you now, but you were her hero.

So it’s okay.

As I hear their screams for mercy— as I feel how easy it is to drive a blade across their necks— as I write this letter with crimson-stained hands, I say to you:

“It’s okay.”

You don’t have to. Not anymore. I understand.

On The Wayward Path

By Lz

Several blunders, errors, and regrets; adversity comes, posing its threat. Those that rise from ashes emerge with tempered minds; and clarity comes to those who were once blind.

Familiarity: the sweet feeling of tranquility and peace; I’d gone through the dull days, yet I did so with ease. Companions await my morning greeting; the sounds of laughter, joy—and for once—meaning.

Through brief moments of discerning truth from lie; camaraderie only came because I complied. A pawn to follow at their beck and call; they gave the word, I offered my all.

The routine prevailed with almost no reprieve; stopping to rest would be an invitation to leave. Individuality was a concept unwelcome; they would give me kindness, albeit seldom.

Days, weeks, years had gone by; I was convinced that we were allies. Sooner or later, my days of growth began; but the words they kept telling me—I’d never understand.

In a final act of longing for their support; they offered doubt, disbelief—an absence of rapport. Fear and frailty consumed my mind; finally, I spoke up—deciding it was time. Liberation came at the cost of compliance; a lesson I’ve learned well from many acts of defiance. Today, I awake—alone, cold, and on uncertain terrain. Though connections are divided, freedom is gained.

Today, I awake—alone, cold, and unguided. Though freedom is gained, connections are divided. Sometimes, I see familiar faces come through; yet now they are nothing but strangers I once knew.

Liberation surfaced at the cost of compliance; a lesson I’ve learned well from many acts of defiance. Today, I awake—alone, cold, and on uncertain terrain. Though connections are divided, freedom is gained.

Photo by Keilah N. Baldomar

At the Docks, You Shall Rest

By Alan S. Villanueva Jr.

“Where do seas and oceans wander til they scare you out of this nautical crusade?” This I ponder while, on their palms, my ferry tours— forward… onward… without my first mate.

Your eyes of hazel were the sun’s shimmer, whose warmth none could ever forsake; behind them was a heart that would not wither, yet the truth remains: every light shall eventually fade.

Oh, how I’ll miss you dearly, young sir! With your captain, you sailed to the clock’s every sway: my navigator when fog hovers, but my ship has docked, and behind you must stay.

Though you’ve sworn the morn’s humor, down the lowest, darkest depths—horrors await: such that would shatter you into slivers and tatters; from then on, life only dug your grave.

Still, aboard, you clung with fervor, even as poison became your air and every day has been torture: “To be spared,” was your simple prayer.

Your legs endured as each glimmer grew grimmer, with faith that stars will again trail the way, where your tiny toes had wandered and now, my sail weeps for the sweet child I failed.

For you, the sun indeed knocked closer, beckoning you to lay— slip and drift as the sapphire sky’s sailor, robbing me of my trusted aide.

Despite the rain’s splatter, aboard, we cruise as the waves cease to sway; the frail lad who foolishly yearned for tender waters was drowned in this life’s waves.

coup d’état

By Ivee E. Manguilimotan

it’s all in the head, they say. the monsters that lurk in the scathing silence, burning flesh and bones alike— obeying hell’s bidding. a hint of rebellion presupposes bloodshed, with screams of agony composing an anthem. the keepers rejoice the horrors in the inferno, oblivious to the revolution that only time can quell. the prisoners, too, have sold their souls. a plea to the heavens for the monsters to fall.

Photo by Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete

Sa susunod na pahina

By Heinz

Sarado.

Ang bawat pahina na kay tagal kong pinaglaanan ng panahon. Sa bawat paggalaw ng aking mga braso’t isipan, hindi ko mawari kung kailan pa ang huling pagsara.

Bukas. Ang aking diwa sa mga palaisipang hindi ko binigyan ng halaga. Siyasatin mo man ang ilaw sa tabi ko’y nariyan gabi-gabi; iisa lamang ang magiging tugon nito.

Sarado. Ang pangungusap na hindi ko mabuo-buo. Madilim ang paligid at tila malayo pa ang ilaw sa paroon. Tigil. Tigil. Iyan parati ang hadlang sa aking paglalakbay.

Bukas. Imahe ng sining na aking ninanais ay akin nang naipinta. Dako roon ay piraso ng kasanayan na matagal ko nang ginapang. Hindi tiyak, pero malapit na ang saradong matagal ko nang inaasam.

Sarado. Paambon-ambon na naman ang mahika na binabahagi ng aking isipan. Sa bawat pagtangka ng aking tinta ay siya ring pagnipis ng linya ng mga ideya. Hakbang. Hakbang. Isang salita at isang tugma.

Sa susunod na pahina

By Heinz

Sarado.

Sa wakas ang mga pahina na matagal kong pinaglaanan ng panahon. Sa bawat paggalaw ng aking mga braso’t isipan, hindi ko mawari kung kailan ulit ang bagong pagbukas.

Art by Carl Hason T. Gerale

Jezebel, Darling

By Sparrow

The day I kissed her was the day I won a silver ribbon and a bruise on my cheek.

My fingers were stained with vibrant ochre—a facsimile of the sunset in the disappointing seascape I entered for the painting competition. I thought I was creating a perfect halcyon. With sweeping yellows, strokes of pink, and brushes of white, I tore my heart open to enliven a vague childhood memory—hoping to evoke the same bittersweet nostalgia I sometimes choke on.

It wasn’t enough.

My right cheek throbbed as I slogged underneath the beating sun while my mother hurled mind-numbing insults at me. Her words were always the same; her derision, wholly unoriginal.

Jezebel, I ask you for one thing and you can’t even give it to me.

Jezebel, are you fucking brain-dead?

Jezebel, do you think I wanted you?

I tuned her out, drowning in a deluge of confusion. Ms. Marie told me to paint a memory; that the judges were suckers for a sob story—a reminder of the youth they’ve lost. Yet, I still got second place. Was it my technique, then? Was I complacent? That can’t be. My artwork has always been perfect. Precise.

“Jezebel!” Mother’s shrill voice pierced through the whirlwind in my head. “Are you listening? I’m cutting your art classes. It’s not doing you any good, anyway.”

My stomach dropped like lead at her words, lugging nausea and pain far worse than any bruise on my skin.

“No!”

Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air.

“I’m sorry, mother. You’re right, I failed today but the classes help—and it can continue helping. Recommendations from Ms. Marie can get me into a good art school.

Please, one more chance, and I’ll make you proud,” I pleaded, softening my voice as if an inferno wasn’t burning in my chest.

Mother’s beady eyes glared at me before she harrumphed and continued forward with her beak-like nose high in the air.

Jezebel, Darling

By Sparr Jezebel, Darling

By Sparrow ow

“Looks like you can think. I’ll send you to class and you can explain to your teacher your failure. Be grateful.” I bowed my head and gritted my teeth, forcing maelstroms of fury to ebb away.

At least I would be seeing Ms. Marie today.

The studio was cold, messy, with a myriad of textiles and materials cramping the space. I loved it. Whatever fiery monstrosity that clambered up my chest was snuffed out by the sight of my muse.

Ms. Marie, draped in effervescent red, stood in the middle of passionate chaos whilst holding a palette and a brush. Her dark hair had streaks of green and orange, a reflection of the orchard on the canvas in front of her. Acrylics and oils were beside her easel, haphazardly covered and already ruined.

“Ah, Jezebel! How did it go, darling?” She called out, the frown marring her brow fading away as her verdant eyes met mine.

I chuckled bitterly and said nothing, trudging to a stool nearby and sitting down—content with watching her.

Noticing my response, she gently set her tools down and approached carefully. Her eyes were studying the swirls of blue and purple that bloomed on my cheek. I wonder if she liked the hue.

She hummed under her breath as her calloused hand brushed my face. Unlike the room, it was warm and unfurled a different kind of heat at my core.

“I did what you told me to do,” I murmured. “I bared myself, just a bit, and I got silver.”

“Well, those pompous dicks don’t know what they’re doing. Your painting was beautiful.”

“Beautiful didn’t win me first place.”

“And first place is what truly matters?”

“Isn’t it?” I questioned. “To be recognized? To be lauded? To be loved?”

Jezebel, Darling

By Sparrow

She continued to hum, drawing her rough fingers away. Stand, she commanded me, before directing me in front of her peaceful landscape. She took my hand in hers—calloused, balmy, and alive. Her floral perfume wafted into my nostrils, drowning my senses in heady intoxication of the forbidden.

Her painting was as enticing as she was. It was aglow with splashes of nature’s shades, drawing viewers to a memory they’ve never been to—one that they will always ache for yet never have.

“Destroy it,” she hissed, her saccharine tones turning cold and unforgiving as she transformed into passion’s savage mistress.

I whipped my head to her in confusion and was met with flinty expectation. Whatever demon I hoped to bury in her comfort enkindled at her cool demeanor. But would I disappoint her too? No.

With trembling hands, I picked up the brush and dipped it in crimson. Words laced with venom slew behind me, wrenching ugliness onto the canvas. She jeered of my failure; of my mother’s hate; of my father’s abandonment. I felt myself get possessed by a frenzy. I slashed carnage and vitriol into her piece—vomiting resentment and vexation until her idyllic scene sunk into the background of my animus.

After I finished, my body tumultuously shook and heaved for air in front of the butchered masterpiece. Salt tracks stung my bruise and blood dripped from my lip. I glanced at my tormentor expecting disgust, but was met with a kind smile.

With a crazed boldness, I pressed my lips to hers, only to taste the cloying sweetness of iron fuelling my intent to crash in a glorious blaze. Whatever perfection I’d carved into myself it was nothing compared to her damning laugh. I would scorch and smolder and eventually flicker out, but to taste her would be worth it.

She grabbed my face with tender paint-stained hands, tilting it to my infernal creation.

“See, darling? Whatever perfect saint your mother created is false. See the gore of garnet, the sable void, the envious chartreuse, and sickly pale canary?” she whispered in my ear, low and rough.

“That ruin is you.”

A Great Disguise

By Mikey Vincent T. Vicente

Curtain Call

By Joshua Martin P. Guanco

This is for those who embrace the night.

This is for those who believe in their might.

The spotlight is yours—it’s now shining bright.

Know that nobody’s watching, so let go of that fright.

This is for those with the audience of a sole company. This is for those with dreams stronger than an army. It is time to bathe in the applause of gold and glory.

To bask in the radiance of your own success story.

This is for those who have outgrown their fears.

This is for those who have spent more than years.

This is for those who have faced a thousand leers—

Yet managed to hear even the slightest, faintest of cheers.

This is for the dreamers: the passionate and courageous. This is for those nobodies who are now victorious.

Gone are the blood, sweat, and tears, except the unwavering spirit. This is your life now; go out and live it.

vaguely

By Depravity

i. Salieri these thoughts— phantom white; my memories steeped in the coalescent pool of my own breathing regret; my woes, living, and wailing— akin to faceless faces, taking my shape, though bereft of detail, blurred and corroded by my lack of grounding. I am amorphous in my despair, and brittle during moments of hope.

ii. Radobaan a cuirass of protruding bone fashioned from both alien, and mine, sprawl across my frame; in poor attempt to safekeep an already failing heart; frailty, veiled behind the illusion of the grotesque, the thirst for warmth, shielded by a curtain of jagged fangs, and assorted claws. A pulsating darkness, it slumbers beneath scavenged death— I am less, and more; I am an amalgamation of

vaguely

By: Depravity

my least, and most, a coalescence of everything, and nothing at all.

iii. Halvanhelev

manifest yourself through my veins, and come into being, using my tendons and blood—oh sword that cleaves heaven, and sunders earth, become an extention of my own suffering, riddled with traces of my crippled pride, sculpted from mauve silver, and scarlet gold; cut through my facades, as effortless as you cut through the beginning of time, staining the bleak courts of a jaded sky with the blood of a false god that has fallen senile in his indifference.

iv. unmake

Solidified air hammers against my chest as I push my physical limits to the extreme; disregarding sanity, brushing off blaring reminders of my declining health—all of that, to catch a mouthful of breath. Wave after wave of uneasiness assaults my senses, threatening to rip out my spine from my chest, and force my blood to churn, and implode from within. There is no god in my head’s calloused halls. I scream at absolutely nothing, clawing at an intangible umbra that invades my body through my nostrils; I am truly unwell, but I am at ease knowing that the excruciating ordeal will soon come to an end when I blackout eventually. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, as I bite off, and chew pieces of my lips to stave off a hunger I cannot ignore. I am here, but I feel that I am no longer a part of this world— disjointed; probably, I never have been.

SCRIBES AND SCRIBBL

Illusrations by Josh Aldrich B. Diola Perlyn Joy L. Suganob Mikey Vincent T. Vicente

Words by Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea Immalie Rose E. Cafifge Ferry Lyra B. Fronda Zaldy Mar L. Lavada Jr. Ej Nell Voen A. Florendo Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno Gabriel M. Lezama Adrianne H. Saplagio

ERS

1.

Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog (Camcorder)

Click. Whirr. Flash. The red light is strobing. The camera is rolling. Remember, the eyes only see what you limn in the refurbished brass cylinder. Frame your commercial faux-charm fired by your gleaming Versailles blue-gold eyes. Everything would appear in pixels in no time. Acts captured in a glass— memory is born. Okay, we’re good.

2.

Karl Brian T. Marqueza (Film Lights)

The sleek silver angle-poise light incepted from the sturdy boom was in style— albeit austere. It dappled a mosaic of light, directing its saccharine beam. The scene was so dashing that it started to fuse with everything subsisting, glittering, and reverberating. Ecstatic and chaotic, the photons are liberated where gravity has no way of making them fall.

3. scythe (Microphone)

“Aughstyero. Wharmyleon. MmMmMm. Augheom aum. Kkkkkkkk. JHAaughhhhhhh. Awk owaghe. Yea. Owouwe.” Hidden pieces of wisdom can only be obtained if one pays close attention to the mesmerizing sounds of foam being shoved down one’s pharynx.

4.

Ivee E. Manguilimotan (Makeup Kit)

Of maidens and warriors she is familiar, for she is both. With a swipe of crimson on her lips, a touch of mauve on the apples of her cheeks, and a slew of prismatic hues on her eyelids, she builds herself a new identity and a new story at the whim of her stained fingertips. Ever shifting and ever searching, she paints her face with delicate shields that have never once failed to defend her.

5. kallisto (Spotlight)

The faintest tremor. A singular bead of iridescent sweat. Quicker puffs of hot breath. Thus were the only subtle giveaways of this long-practiced practitioner as he flung his arms outwards to the thundering applause. While the unforgiving glare of the heavy spotlight blinded his fellow thespians, it was no match for the grinning madman.

6. The Pawn (Clapboard)

Clack. His own eyes widened as the sound emanating from him brought the whole room to a grinding halt. This was the 20th time they were repeating the scene, and with previous errors in mind, there was nothing left but confidence and determination. This would definitely be the final time they would rehearse this. He smiled in anticipation as he produced that ever-familiar pang one last time.

7. Lz (Tripod)

The panorama captured in my vantage point flashes through the prisms ferreting into the depths of the figures. Crash! A dramatic whack yanked one of my legs out from underneath me. The proclivity to fold was trounced by my virtuosity to keep it all stable for my cherished baggage. This is what I do: always the silent witness in the battleground.

8.

Patrick N. Billojan (Light Reflector)

What am I but a vessel? A prism of ivory hues bouncing back and forth to crown a monarch. A sliver of flesh stretched to echo a dim silhouette above peers. But now, dressed in white silver, white noise, and white overtures beyond the curtains, I stand with my chin raised and flaunt my lights across the stage.

9. Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes (Producer)

Oh God, not her again. Whispers laced with malice echoed as the producer walked by, back straight as a pin and chin raised stubbornly high. Brushing past the insignificant murmurs, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder extra aggressively for the haters before heading to do what she does best: keeping the production alive.

10.

Alan S. Villanueva Jr. (Construction Crew Member)

People’s eyes are glued to their phones as he passes by—indifferent, unaffected, and uncaring. He grips his trusted toolbox tightly in his hand, the rattling contents providing him with a sense of security; a sense of home. He smiles despite the distance, knowing that his hands shaped the massive skyscrapers that towered over society. He smiles, knowing that his very essence is immortalized in his work.

11. Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno (Key Grip)

Framed in the foliage of briars and myrrhs, of skylines and contrails, she beholds the panorama of all things: the suburban mailmen, the sorority schemes, and the atrocities of the metro’s underbelly. An omniscient witness—the border to the fourth, a voiceless phantom, and most of all, an amnesiac with free will.

12. Carl Hason Gerale (Art Director)

Before him was a painting; “A masterpiece by a young upstart,” as his associates say. With a blank canvas on hand, it only takes a few simple strokes to recreate the striking artwork in detail. They stare in astonishment as the artist smiles and gives himself a pat on the back.

“Ahhh, their reactions are just as amusing as last week’s.”

13. Bjørn (Runner)

Scurrying along the stygian byways, prosaic colloquy, and bustle make my hours drip: a war on track. The wreathed mayhem on the towering limelights left no traces, but vision conjures as my blood curdles on command. I am attuned to succumbing to the faintest cues. They have built a willful wretched performer waiting for stillness. Applaud for me too, will you?

14. Anna Maria J. Villanueva (The Screenwriter)

She does not know the power she holds at her fingertips. The clack-clack-clack of her keyboard in the silent midnight air births and destroys entire realities aching to exist amid the fickle appetite of a voyeuristic audience. Nevertheless, she continues. God and Devil to her own personal Eden in the cosmos of her mind—searching for the perfect collision of words that creates life.

15. Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman (Film Editor)

Click, click. The soft, distinct sound of his mouse echo quietly across the room as he controls the perspective of the masses, illuminated only by the light of the screen. He pauses to take in all the probable possibilities he can achieve with only a few seconds as he weaves stories from thousands of captured, fleeting moments. Should we show the people the beauty of life or the agony it entails? What is it going to be today?

16. Joshua Martin P. Guanco (Set Dresser)

He revels the weight of silken textiles and hollow wood slats—the gadget of an injured handyman. His hands were heavy with guilt, hidden behind calluses and wounds. He created the sky first, and then the mountains. But on a whim, at God’s command, he tore everything down and built a throne of fire.

17. Depravity (Line Producer)

Control (n.) is defined by the contours of a man’s will; it is when he raises his fingers to touch the moon. Controlled (v.), to wax and wane the rising tides; here, he owns everything within the light beams. He is calm as a heavenly body but bluntly reaps the liaison of reality and the stage—he has mastered the art of gravity.

18. Immalie Rose E. Cafifge (Maria Nunez from West Side Story)

From flitting over the slopes, cays, and palm breezes, an opioid it was to breathe the urban air around the skyscrapers stabbed on the horizon. For her, surrendering chastity to the breaches of the Great Migration was an act of youthful esprit. But as there is beauty in her dignified naivety, she’s as likely to commit great follies.

19.

Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete (Angelica Schuyler from Hamilton)

Under the chandelier’s pristine glint, her incandescent hope tarries west of the sun. I wonder, does she remember the night she swore to take the bullet for her beloved sibling? And when she does, is undying love deeper than the regret of an eldest sister? Perhaps, the answer remains a fervent ‘YES.’

20. Daisy St. Patience (Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd)

Hush, my love; don’t cry, for this is not a lullaby. You are a quintessential brainiac like your spirit, unrelenting pursuit of what it yearns to be, yet menacingly close to delirium. Face the blank wall of nescience for solace is a standing séance. Baked body drifting, you are a sweet freefall from the bloody lure.

21.

Guts (Sweeney Todd)

The blood running through his veins hums with a scarlet song that beckons the razor’s edge to take its deserved piece. Gleaming in the moonlight, his only friend swings its final arc to the crescendo of vengeance’s beating drum. With a swift and graceful stroke, he etches his promise into a stranger’s jugular and satiates his hunger with the melody that keeps him alive.

22. Meryl C. Sigaton (Anya from Anastasia)

“Dancing bears. Painted wings. Things I almost remember.” – Once Upon a December With eyes closed, her slender physique churns with the unfamiliar tune of these empty halls—prancing to the trail of a forgotten morrow. Her bare feet led curiosity past the clandestine voile as flaccid porcelain sheets draped on the marble floors. At long last, the ‘almost’ is at the tip of her fingers.

23.

Esther Joyce M. Limbaña (Sophie Sheridan from Mamma Mia!)

An upfront beacon of light that you’re not afraid to avoid. Your pride and defenses crumble against the sun-drunken hair stirred by the light summer air, her seawater smell laced with salt and pomegranate, and her chime-like rippling or sometimes rock-grinding surf voice. Her nonchalance would make you feel like a leaf in its softest fall.

24. Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera (Elle Woods from Legally Blonde)

A rose-colored cloud catwalks court-bound in customized couture; case files and Cosmopolitan centerfolds cling unto her Calvin Klein, clipped into place by cosmetic clutter. Pink, pampered, but never short of wit, she once rubbed shoulders with valedictorians at the gates of Harvard. Her only edge? She has no Plan B.

25.

JK (Eponine from Les Misérables)

Ah, cruel fate—forcing a woman to break her own heart in exchange for the happiness of her oblivious love, their love like daggers thrust into her being. Her devotion is unwavering, but she is consumed by her emotions. She eventually sees her life drain from her as she stains the ground red. She gives him her everything, but his heart belongs to someone else. The heavens are weeping.

26. Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea (Vitruvian Man by Leonardo Da Vinci)

Celestial and astral bodies aligned during The Man’s creation. Perfection crowned His curls as every geometric precision of His limbs presented nature’s architectural prowess in achieving divinity in flesh. He displayed humanity’s acme with every angle and turn—and with pride befitting a king—the potential of sublime glory.

27.

Sparrow (Ophelia by John Everett Millais)

Submerged in icy waters, shrouded by flora of beautiful greens, reveling in the foreign buoyancy of her garments, immersed in her highest element, unbothered by the odd stray leaf that wandered onto her exposed skin, untroubled by tomorrow’s concerns, convinced there was no greater moment than this exact moment.

28.

Jaziel Ann Seballos (The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh)

I’ve painted the living and the dead—all the Zinnias, all of my shells, all the sides of the infinite cosmos. Yet somewhere in the blues birthed by my linen sheets and the pale beige of my nurse’s blouse, I yearn for a paintbrush hilt. My missing muse, after all, was the Mausole itself.

29.

paradoxica (The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali)

An amused smile: “You look absolutely deflated. Like a gassed-out balloon, if you will. Or a cute dog that flopped to the ground. Tell me—why are you laying on the floor like that?”

A half-hearted response: “Do you want the real answer or should I make something up?”

A deadpan look. A candid shrug: “I just saw it and thought it was cool.”

30. Ferry Lyra Fronda (The Scream by Edvard Munch)

‘Tis the one-man rapture: my ashen skull, a sister’s ribbon, and the sunless golden hour. The lunatics were right: it’s anything but human, anything but heaven-sent, anything but unreal. Should I scream now, it will be heard for centuries to come— my calvary, immortalized in strokes of ochre and vermillion.

31. Keilah N. Baldomar (Café Terrace at Night by Vincent van Gogh)

She sat still on her pedestal as the lights flickered on. Darting her gaze around, she locked eyes with several onlookers, who only glanced at her first but soon found themselves encapsulated with her beauty. A man whispered to his lover: ‘This one reminds me of the time when you’d call me for dinner somewhere, and we’d talk for hours about anything.’ She smiled, knowing that her existence invoked unforgettable memories from before.

32. Perlyn Joy L. Suganob (Girl with a Pearl Earring by Johannes Vermeer)

Her black glass eyes seem to veer away or turn towards you. Had her lips—a polished bright scarlet—already committed an unpardonable error, or are they about to pronounce the greatest sentence of all? In yellow lake and ultramarine, her oriental turban snatches the tiniest sights of familiarity into an envelope, all to remain as a mid-sentence swivel.

33. naicha (Sunshine in the living room by Peter Vilhem Ilsted)

In a sparse room that smells of daybreak sits a young girl, quiet and contemplative. Do not mistake her demureness for weakness nor her silence for naivete. You do not see what she does as she peers into the looking glass bathed in golden light; a luminescent corona of the sun’s rays lies on her head, crowning her the queen of her realm. Tranquil and serene, she commands the air as she commands herself—with beauty and peace.

34. Josh Aldrich B. Diola (Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel)

The dead silence of a skyscape romance is a Lothario’s purgatory, but where he lies bare and contorted from beneath the church bells is the enactment of man’s first disobedience. In utero, in morte, in the terrestrial morality of heaven, he revels in nothing but the beauty of sin—the dissonant transgression of becoming god.

35. Drexel John N. Amit (Spoliarium by Juan Luna)

The alewives have soaked the bloodbath in their stola; the collaterals of the Roman nirvana have been lined up; and the widowmakers are back slouching on the dais. Everyone has done their part. But alas, the Tiberian tides never ran red, for the macabre menagerie lets not a single drop go astray.

Acknowledgements

To Kynah, Hana, Patrick, for showing the direction and the steps as I jive on the wooden floors of poetry; for your patience and constant pulling whenever I fail to dance on two feet. You didn’t just give me a window of opportunity; you placed doors before me, and I am forever grateful for that.

To Ivee, Kristine, for being my aching pocket’s bed of roses. My fingers cannot count the number of times you have saved me from financial ruin.

To Meryl, Mikey, for joining the Midnight Drama Club and sitting on the bench with me. In a life full of melodramatic expositions, your prudence and comfort are my sanities.

To Perlyn, Jaziel, Hason, for seeing mise-en-scène through the eyes of an artisan god. Your creative abilities and majestic hands have etched a spectrum of cement-stained colors across the entire folio.

To Krizzia, Lance, Alyssa, for lifting the prop boxes, hanging the painting frames, lending the tools, and for sculpting the rough edges of this folio. Regardless of how fully packed your luggage was, you never hesitated to ask if I needed more assistance in carrying mine.

To Karl, Jobe, Keilah, Phoebe, Dea, your leniency for static motions paved the way for the immortalized carvings on the wall. What you laid bare will never be forgotten.

To Voen, Zaldy, Ferry, Paula, at some point in life’s history, it was your unwavering devotion that I carried with me as I leave the place where your art flourished. This past self and the self to come will remember your works as a memorial only time can provide.

To Drexel, Anna, Alan, Christian, Elizabeth, Gabriel, Addy, for the appetent yes! heedless of the faint whispers of cants. Howsoever the travails brought by the nonstop Z-paths to the top, you perversely persevered with passion.

To Angela, Eazel, Zack, for taking the leap of faith that no matter what was at stake, you took the risk, bearing the misgivings of the brush’s tip you held. It took one tick of a clock; one swing of a conducting wand; one hit of Beethoven’s nocturne note to be versed by the sublime handicrafts you brought to stage.

To Jerianne, Dhannalee, Khen, for reviving the demised momentum of the artists. Oh, chanteuses of Buglas, your ballads shall remain holy in the hollows of mise-en-scène .

To Arish, Joyce, Josh, Crystal, Kurt, for breathing life for the dramatis personae of the museum’s grandiose, giving justice to the damned. Misfortunes were hard to conquer, but your conviction knocked the nemesis out.

To Franz, Reenan, MJ, for sculpting the performers of the great magnum opus— the musical. I could never weave the faces, lines, and acts without your God-given prowess.

To Kadenang Tibag, say, how many times does a castaway trip over its own hem? As countless as the times it gets up and tries over and over again. In my seemingly never-ending detours and falls due to my own scarcity, my frail hands will always be grateful for your constant support and consolation.

To our contributors, for auditioning to be part of the most-awaited musical of the Scribe. Your verses have sung with the songbirds of the night; free, at long last.

To our families, for cheering on each of our individual journeys, and for being the pillar that stands up for us when we need them the most.

To Sir Mikee, for keeping the cup from spilling over the deepest void we tried too hard to avoid. It was only one of the year’s twists and turns, but you made it all possible with one phone call. And nothing is as significant as the story’s unexpected plot twist.

To God, for the times my skin was numbed from the raindrops that pour on sleepless nights, you did not cease to embody the form of a compass that led the process of the folio and its production beyond the finish line. And then I knew: everything did have a purpose.

And to you, for persevering despite the never-ending tug-of-war with your dead selves, and for still looking for obscure reasons to keep going. This is for those who never give up and find themselves in the most extraordinary and unimaginable places they have or have never been. In the hopes of discovering an uncharted remedy for the aching bosom, may you take a break from the edge of the pedestal that society has placed you on to finally master the artistries of your life story.

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Member Alliance of Lasallian Campus Journalists and Advisers and College Editors Guild of the Philippines

Kynah Rhea B. Fuentes

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Hana Patricia Raj E. Hautea ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Ivee E. Manguilimotan MANAGING EDITOR

Patrick N. Billojan EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Angela A. Coronel

NEWSPAPER EDITOR Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno ASST. NEWSPAPER EDITOR Alyssa Nicole T. Maquiran MAGAZINE EDITOR Lance Christian M. Juarez

ONLINE EDITOR Meryl C. Sigaton LITERARY EDITOR Immalie Rose E. Cafifge

OIC FOR PHOTOS & VIDEOS Keilah N. Baldomar LAYOUT & GRAPHICS EDITOR Mikey Vincent T. Vicente ASST. LAYOUT & GRAPHICS EDITOR Perlyn Joy L. Suganob

NEWSPAPER WRITERS

Alan S. Villanueva Jr.

Anna Maria J. Vilanueva

Drexel John N. Amit

PHOTOJOURNALISTS

Phoebe Daidoji Q. Jabonete

Karl Brian T. Marqueza

Ma. Micah Dearielle V. Trajera

Kyle Jobe B. De Guzman Gabriel M. Lezama

Elizabeth D. Fernandez

Adrianne H. Saplagio

ONLINE WRITER

Esther Joyce M. Limbaña

Ferry Lyra B. Fronda

EJ Nell Voen A. Florendo

Zaldy Mar L. Lavada Jr.

Michael V. Baylosis

ILLUSTRATORS

Josh Aldrich B. Diola

Carl Hason T. Gerale

Jaziel Ann V. Seballos

Christian Dominic L. Ledesma

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Ma. Kristine Joy R. Bayadog