kamoot tilad volume 1 issue 5
kamoot
ateneo literary association
tilad literary folio volume 1 issue 5
3,4: an kawat, pandulsi Leonor Bregala
5,6: shiver, macarons Frank Calma
8: butterflies Tyrone Pangan
9-10: that-which-should-not-be-uttered Penny
12: at walang pag-ibig Jusan Misolas
po etry
Leonor Bregala
Leonor Bregala
pandulsi
an kawat Ika asin ako Nagkawat; nagralapagan kaskas an hinangos. Dae ta ka naabot. Naenot kang naka-abot sa base. Tinapos mo an kawat ta Sa pagdalagan sa karigusan. Binubo mo an saimong pagal pang lawas kan malipot na tubig; Nagsabon nin magkapirang beses gamit an safeguard white; Kinaskas mong marhay An saimong mga ngipon kan colgate na may fluoride; asin nag-momog nin dagmang na astring-o-sol gold.
3,4
Rumdum ko Kadtong panahon Kan kita mag ilusyon pa, sinudya ta ka “ Bareta ko, mas muya mo daang pandulsi An batag kaysa sa mani…” An sabi mo “ ay dae yan totoo; maski hapoton mo pa si Nang Mia Ta sya midbid akong intero.” Dae na ako naghapot; Nagtubod ako saimo. Kaya sarong aldaw Matapos an engrandeng fiesta sato Iniluwas kong panhimagas an espesyal na dulsing maning pinahamis kan natural na tangguli. Sinaray ko ini Para saimo sana---Dae nungkang pina namit sa iba… Magpuon kaidto Pirmi ko nang tinatagama An saray saray na dulsing mani Sa kada pag abot mo Pagka tapos magkakan pamanggui Alagad ano daw ta sa paglipas kan panahon garo baga nagbago an saimong pagnamit… mas muya mo nang hulmakan an mga saradit na batag, lalo na itong mga sire senyoritang nababakal sa mga dalan pagdiklom nin banggui…
shiver Frank Calma
A shiver followed by a groan hushed by a muffling mouth as hands clasping and hearts beating fastly reverberates in the room as if it were the only ones that matter
macarons Frank Calma
Tinadaan taka ning macarons ta aram kong suno mo ‘to pero, hinabuan mo ta basog basog ka na sa Ferrero na tinao saimo kan amigo mo na nasabatan mo sa Centro
5,6
7,8 butterflies Tyrone Pangan
I long hoped for butterflies That would crowd my insides again. They scatter then flutter To every part of your soul, To the brain where they confuse, To the stomach where they fly freely, And to the heart that they tackle like a drum every now and then. But then and again, i saw them beside a bar, on the curb, wingless, smelling of booze and regret.
“It” has always been a TABOO for me. And since without any chance to surface, I figured that “it” was really not for me. I am good at burying things. But burying is not tantamount to forgetting. “It” just lies dormant somewhere beneath and then, F*CK! The volcano erupted.
that-which-shouldnot-be-uttered Penny
9,10
atpag-ibig walang Jusan Misolas
Nang gabing iyon, Natuklasan niya na walang ibig Sabihin ang pagsindi ng pataySindi na ilaw ng poste, Na wala itong ibig At walang pag-ibig.
1112
15-17: LA Rea Robles
19,20: tugon Jovi Cadores
21-30: they aren’t as sour as they used to be John Leir Castro
31-36: between love and death Patricia de Leon
37-44: seeking change Patricia de Leon
45-48: paper crane Ahj Eufracio
49-55: kigkig Ahj Eufracio
56: paghuna Toyang Segui
57-60: I hate him, yet I love him Veeyah PeĂąero and Pauline Zenit
pro se
LA Rea Robles
Biglang tumugtog yung pinapantasya mong lovesong habang nakatingin ka sa kanya, siya na isang nilalang na walang kamalay-malay na palagi na palang nasusundan ng iyong mga mata. Titigil ang mundo at lahat ng mga buhay na bagay ay gagalaw na parang mabagal na internet connection. Paunti-unting pipihit ang kanyang katawan patungo sa iyong direksyon, at sa sandaling makarating sa iyong isip na maaaring magsalubong ang inyong mga mata, ay siya namang bigla mong pag-iwas at pagtingin sa malayo na para bang biglang naging kapansin-pansin sa iyong paningin ang mga tahimik na bato sa daan. Hindi. Iiling-iling ka sa pangunguumbinsi sa sarili na hindi ka nasobrahan ng mga telenobela’t pinakikiusapan mo ang utak na tumahimik na upang hindi ka maging isang tauhan ng drama sa radyo. Ayaw mong maging katulad nila. Ayaw mong malagay sa ganitong eksena. Malas mo lang, dahil wala ka nang magagawa. Huli na. Unti-unti nang ginuguhit ng kwento ang kanyang sarili at ikaw ay madaling napapagalaw ng bawat pihit ng eksena. Mayroon kang puwang sa kuwento at lalamunin ka nito. Babagsak ang ulan ng rosas at tsokolate, babaha ng mga matamis na
15,16 linyang kinopya sa nabasang pocketbook. Hindi sinasadya ay naglalakad at nagbibihis ka na sa tiyak na paraan, lalong pinapalakas ang larawan ng tauhan sa kuwento na pilit mong iniiwasan. Nakatingin ka sa baba--sa mga batong tahimik na nagmamatyag sa kung ano man ang sunod mong gagawin. Bubulong siya sa mga kalapit na poste ng ilaw at tatawagin ang kanilang pansin upang matunghayan nila ang kakatuwang galaw ng mga bagay-bagay. Mag-uusap-usap sila— ang mga bato, ang mga poste ng ilaw, ang mga hindi nilalapitan dahil sa kanilang kakatuwang amoy, ang mga ibon na paminsanminsan ay makikibalita sa basurahan sa mainit na aspalto. Tinutunghayan nila ang iyong pagkabihag sa kuwentong nais mong takasan. Hindi. Ito naman talaga ang iyong gusto. Pabor sa iyo ang gawa-gawang huni ng mga ibon at ang pagtutog ng musika na ikaw lamang ang nakaririnig. Ito ang gusto mo, ngunit, may ngunit. Nais mong maiba. Nais mong malampasan ang kuwentong inilaan saiyo. Nais mong matigil ang malakas na pagkakahawak sa iyong leeg ng mga direktor ng buhay. Nais mong
magtago sa palipa-lipad na kupidong kahit kailan ay hindi ka naman talaga tinulungan dahil sariling sikap ang nagdala sa iyo sa damdaming kasalukuyang nararamdaman. Paano ka nagkaroon ng kuwento bago mo napagpasyahang gumawa ng isa? Tatanungin mo. Muli. Lagi ka na lamang atang magtatanong. Tatanungin mo ang iyong sarili kung padadala ka na lamang ba sa anod o sasalubungin mo ito. Titingin kang muli sa kanya. Pagmamasdan mo siya ng ilang sandali. Mag-iisip ka. Magpapasya. At bigla kang naglakad papalayo, inaasahang malimutan ng mga nananahimik na bato ang nahantungang delubyo.
17,18
tugon Jovi Cadores
Nakita ko si kupido na nagtatangkang pumana sa akin. Magaling akong umiwas. Hindi, mabilis kong nakuha ang maalikabok na bibliya sa altar at saka ipinangharang sa kanyang palaso. Hindi siya matitinag. Agad niyang kukunin ang huling palaso nang tumakbo ako papunta sa pintuan. Bakit nakakandado? Nasaan ang susi? Kailangan ko nang makaalis sa kinasasadlakan ko! Tatakbo ako, haharang ang hibla ng mga buhok sa aking paningin, saka natisod ng teddy bear na bigay mo. Sabi na nga ba! Walang maidudulot na maganda ang mga stuffed toys. Bukod sa nag-iipon ito ng alikabok kapag hindi binalot ng plastic o nagiging taguan ng ipinagbabawal na gamot sa airport, matitisod ka nito. Buti na lang nadapa ako, kung hindi ay matatamaan ako ng pesteng palaso. Saka ipinatugtog ang Like a Virgin. — Mamatay ka na, mamatay ka na! Tantanan mo na ako. Iba na lang ang abalahin mo! Himala, nagbabait-baitan ka. Bakit ka lumalapit? Wala naman akong ginawang masama sa iyo. At bakit mo pinatay ‘yung pusa? ‘Yung daga na lang. Sana piniringan mo na lang ang aking mga mata kasi kung hindi ko nasaksihan ang lahat,
mabait ka pa rin sana. At kahit anong pagpupumiglas mo, Like a Virgin pa rin ang tugtog. Hindi na natin matatakasan ang pagkakataon. ‘Yan ang tatandaan mo. Uso pa ba ang pagkakataon? Hindi na raw eh, pero nakikiride-in pa tayo. Paalisin mo na ‘yung batang sumasabit sa likod ng dyip. Baka mahulog pa iyan, bayaran pa ‘yan. Hayaan mo na ang mga poste ng kuryenteng mabulok dahil sa anay. Hayaan mo na ang umaalingasaw na basurahan sa tabi. May awa rin ang mga langaw. Hayaan mo na ang mga batong matipak ng kusa. Hayaan mo na rin ang nagkukumpulang mga ibon. Hayaan mo na dahil narito ang pagkakataon. Sige na, ipapatugtog na ang Toxic ni Britney. Masaya ka na? Sandali, bakit ko tinatanong kung masaya ka na, sarili ko nga ‘di ko matanong niyan? At isa pang sandali kasi ‘di pa rin nasasagutan yung mga tanong ko. Mamaya na iyang mga pagaalinlangan, may parte pa ako sa action movie. — Naalala mo pa ba yung parte kung saan natisod ako dahil sa stuffed toy? Siyempre masakit madapa. Gayunpaman, hahanapin ko pa rin ang susi sa sofa. Makikita ko sa ilalim nito ang isang kalibre 45. Kukunin ko ito, babangon at itututok sa ulo mo. Babarilin o hindi? Papatayin o hindi? Pagkalabit ng gatilyo, wala nang bala.
19,20
they aren’t as sour as they used to be John Leir Castro
Tramp kicked dirt around the scrounged, sun-tanned backyard soil before we left the house. It was the first I saw him dirty his paws that much. I would’ve cleaned them off, but we were in a hurry to get into the Mazda—Mom was shouting, double time! Double time? The heat probably made her cranky. I imagined her with military boots, marching back and forth in front of the van while my Dad watches her in amusement. “You won’t be getting any bone under here,” I thought out loud while picking Tramp up, “it’s not like there’s something buried in.” He wagged his tail and barked once. “I wasn’t talking to you, silly.” — I kept on wondering why my parents chose to brave the harshest tropic winds, if at all, and the mad aridity for a four-hour drive that particular summer (I felt extreme appreciation towards the inventor of air-conditioning). Why did they decide to pay my grandparents a visit? They only got an apparently urgent phone call the previous night from Dad’s Dad and then we were off to Whatever-land. It was five years ago, when I was eight, since I last saw Dad’s parents. Even though Dad was supposed to be the only son they had, they were mentioned very sparingly inside our household. It wasn’t that I had anything against them though, but they were so immaterial to my daily life that other times
21,22
I thought the old couple didn’t even exist—my parents were adults from scratch, never experienced childhood (that makes sense), and definitely had no parents of their own to shout, double time! “You’re awfully quiet, Adam.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “I know you’ve got questions.” I stayed silent. A hot and slightly damp breeze kissed my right cheek. Tramp, stop breathing on my face! “Your grandpa’s sick. He wants to see us.” Ah, that explains it. Mom looked ahead, wanting to say more. I caught her taking a glance up the rear-view mirror for a second. I stretched my legs. Sitting on the backseat have its advantages, I thought, all alone. And as if he knew what I was thinking, Tramp barked twice in disagreement. — I leaned my head on the window pane to my left. For a moment, eyes half-closed, I took in the images of reality’s fastforwarded film reel. All in a blur as our van drove past them, but I could guess— houses, apartments, shacks orange rust and brown roof and the occasional green
going up then there’s nothing but blue ah! it’s an overhead pass downward slope a walled-up gray, white-washed posters next are reeds, a farmland a patch of gray, I dunno, a carabao? then coconut trees, or perhaps palm ones there are different trees now they all look like mango trees, the ones I used to climb then The rumble of the fiber glass went drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr— fade to black — drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr I stepped out of the Mazda after Tramp leaped, bounded, leaving a trail of dust towards the girl my age smiling at us a few hundred meters away. She was sitting on the wooden stairs of my grandparents’ similarly furnished wooden house, her hand beckoning me to come closer. Her white dress complimented the blackness of her long hair, way past her shoulder blades and hanging closely just above the hips. I succumbed. “Hey.” Hello, Adam. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear before asking, how was your trip? I found the gesture appealing to a sense not included in the five taught in elementary. “Wait, we know each other?”
Well, we used to. We played together, here. You taught me how to kill flies and climb trees. “Uh, right.” I racked my mental cupboard. The memory of the girl was there, but somehow I sent it careening and crashing, a broken china. Irreparable. Or just vaguely, perhaps, like a photograph pulled off an album you collected yourself—you knew what it looked like, generally, but couldn’t tell any important detail if a friend asked. Follow me, Adam. She led me into the house. She wasn’t wearing any footwear, as she walked the soles of her feet alternately hid themselves as if embarrassed by my presence yet curious enough to peer again. From the room I could smell a familiar aroma—sour mangoes? Just a hint. I couldn’t see my pet anywhere, I noticed his tracks missing. The girl stood on halt in front of a looming picture, sepia, nailed on the northern wall. She didn’t look back. I didn’t know if she was simply staring at the picture or suddenly fell asleep, as if it was possible. I dared to hit a key. “What’s your name again?” drrrrrrrrrrrrr—screeeeeeeech With a jolt and a whimper (that was Tramp of course, not me) I was pulled back from the trenches of my subconscious. It was too sudden I could almost hear countless chinaware shattering inside my brain.
“Sorry about that,” Dad tapped the wheel twice as if sending me a coded message, “tricky curve.” I waited for Mom to say something motherly reprimanding, but as things were she was busy driving her way through her own tricky curves, only with eyes firmly shut. “It’s okay.” I decided not to lean on the fiber glass again. — From the two I could remember Grandpa the most. He was already old then, definitely—a lanky frame, an almost toothless grin, and a wrinkled forehead, but we still got along nicely. He would teach me how to kill flies using the stick broom. I would pose like a samurai and strike not a single one, but Grandpa could hit tens with just a swipe. He would carry me on his shoulders until he was tired (he would start hunching and Dad would take over). He also taught me how to climb trees. They had more than a dozen mango trees planted just around their house and I’d always pick the green ones. For some reason I didn’t eat any and would instead place them in the living room. — “We’re here.” I stepped out of the Mazda after Tramp leaped, bounded, leaving a trail of dust towards the back of my grandparents’ wooden house. I scrunched my shoes, feeling the grit of the uneven soil while I survey the area of what seemed to be familiar land, but I wasn’t sure. It was barren. The mango trees were gone. Two of them wilted away, dried-up branches form-
ing sinister, bony hands. Most were stumps. One in particular left an irregular pit on the ground, shaped like a star. It was uprooted, the crackly trunk and its tentacled bottom lying helpless, forgotten. Hello Adam. She was sitting on one of the stumps. Her white dress complimented the blackness of her long hair, which flowed way past her shoulder blades and hanging closely just above the hips. I blinked. “You.” How was your trip? “Who—?” Her teeth flashed on a grin, white pillars guarding every secret she would tell me, she wouldn’t, she would—You already forgot about me? That’s not very nice. “Uh, right. Sorry. I should go though, Grandpa’s waiting.” Here, let me tell you something. Her hand beckoned me to come closer and I did. I leaned my ear in her direction. Faintly, I heard fiber glass whirring—drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr— Her lips touched my cheek—her breath was hot, damp, but unlike Tramp’s it smelled like young, sour mangoes. That was the secret she would tell me, but wouldn’t. I flared up, and without saying goodbye I moved like a comet out of orbit towards my grandparents’ wooden house.
— Some flies were loitering around the stairs—conniving, hatching diabolical plans. I tried stomping on them but was merely mocked by their swift escape. Overwhelmed by their sheer number, I realized the strength of the opposition. I couldn’t see any broom stick. The door to the wooden house—I wonder if this is made of mango wood, hardly surprising if it is—was half-opened. I pushed it to swallow me whole, my clammy hands leaving a mark on the varnish. Our baggage was left strewn all over the floor of the living room. I heard my parents’ hushed whispers, like flies conniving, in one of the two rooms to the left. The floorboards creaked— drrk, drrk, drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr A picture washed in sepia stared at me from the northern wall. I wanted to take a closer look, but a voice— “Adam, is that you, son?”—led me to take a detour. In one of the rooms lied a piece of wasteland, placed on top of a woven mat. I hardly recognized Grandpa’s voice. He was so wrinkly and brown and shrunk, he reminded me of dried mangoes. I sat beside him on the floor, legs locked on an awkward indian position. Flies were taking their stroll on the valley of his forehead and his bare feet, undeterred, a sign that the samurai was indeed gone. “What’s up, Grandpa?” He wasn’t staring at me—his eyes were fixed to the door of his
room behind me, or even past that—but he assured me of his capable hearing by giving me the familiar toothless grin. “Good, good.” I wonder. “Never better.” You’re not. My mouth entered drought. Words trickled as ungraciously as amber, but sweat spilled like mountain spring. From just in front of the house, I could hear Tramp barking, growling, barking, growling again… arf! grrrr arf! arf! grrrrrrrr ARF! drrrrrrrrrrrrrr “Can you fetch your Grandma for me, son?” — Are you looking for your dog? He’s here. She had been waiting for me on the same stump. Tramp bared his fangs at her, drrrrr! “Down, boy!” But he couldn’t be quelled so I quickly chased him away. And to her I said, “No, I’m looking for my Grandma.” Her fragrance attracted my nostrils (or the other way around?), and so were the flies, which were hovering not too far from the edges of her dress. It was as if she was soaked in sour mango puree, or born from the mango trees herself!
Her smile turned upside down. The world, too—Have you tried the living room yet?—and the plates and the cups and every silverware were put back to their rightful place. — From the two I could remember Grandma the least. She was always that old woman with gray hair in the background. Dead strands of keratin past her shoulders, just above the hips. A little shorter than Grandpa, I think, and a little fatter still, she would only stay close to the northern wall of the living room. Or rather, she never moved from her wooden frame. But she was nice. She had to be, because she was always smiling and she smelled like young, green mangoes.
29,30
between love and death Patricia de Leon
Death is the man watching from the park bench. He does not bear a scythe nor sport a gaudy old cloak. Death looks like an ordinary man donned in ordinary clothes, with his only odd quality being his exceptionally pale skin. He spends his time observing humans, watching how they interact and how they choose to spend their time before their inevitable ends. Humans are such fragile creatures, he thinks. They have to be handled carefully, break too easily, and is near impossible to fix once a crack forms. They talk and think too much but know too little. They cower at the prospect of meeting him yet don’t seem to enjoy life that much either. “I seriously don’t understand why you enjoy watching the mortals so much.” Death jumps slightly at the sudden voice beside him, groaning internally when he realizes who it is. He finds no need to look at the added company as he’s been tormented and harassed by the owner of said voice numerous times.
31,32 “I mean, they’re just like us, minus the ability to live forever. Where’s the appeal in that?” Death keeps silent, hoping maybe he would be left alone if he doesn’t participate in the conversation. “Really? You’re going with the silent treatment- again? Sheesh, for a guy who’s lived forever, you sure haven’t cultivated much originality, huh?” When Death remains wordless and still, his vision is blocked by a small feminine torso with hands rested on the hips. “Seriously, Grim, I’m here more for your sake than mine. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be graced by my presence?” Death sets his face in a light frown. “Please refrain from calling me that in the future, Cupid.” Cupid beams at the apparent response, the wings stretching out from her spine flapping excitedly and the quiver sitting between her wings shaking. “Finally, a response!” She grins, proceeding to hover in mid-air. “I thought I was going to have
to talk to myself, not that I mind. I’m quite an engaging conversationalist.” Death suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure.” “So,” She starts, turning back towards the bustling people who have no idea of their existence, much less their proximity. “What’s up with your obsession over the mortals?” “Isn’t there a human you have to shoot?” Death spits out, doing a poor job in concealing his annoyance. But at that, Cupid beams. “Ooh! Good idea!” Before Death can even ask, Cupid is drawing out an arrow from the quiver hanging from her back and settles it on the bow that materializes on her hand. She flexes her arm, pulling the arrow back, before taking aim on the first passerby that catches her attention. The man she finds is scarcely clothed for the chilling weather. He’s rubbing his hands and puffing out warm breaths into his palms when he stops and deposits himself on the bench across from them. He shoots a glance to his left and to his right, like he’s waiting for something. Then Cupid releases the arrow. The man’s chest jerks forward and his eyes widen as if a course of electricity just rode through his veins. He blinks furiously, trying to compose himself, when a woman with a lush coat draped across her shoulders walks past. When she enters the man’s line of vision, you can almost see the hearts in his eyes.
He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her, can’t stop looking, and his eyes follow her form until she looks over her shoulder and smiles sweetly at him. He looks stricken with panic for a moment before he finally just decides to smile back. Her smile widens before she turns back to continue walking. The man looks torn between following her, because he needs to know who she is, and staying when a beaming woman drops herself beside him and kisses his cheek. There’s a prominent look of guilt that crosses the man’s features, which the woman beside him doesn’t seem to notice. “Did you know that was going to happen?” Death asks, gaze still on the couple from across the street. Cupid watches intently as well, brows furrowed. She hovers over the bench, parking herself atop the backrest, and folds her wings behind her. “No.” They watch as the man throws his arms around the woman’s shoulders, and they leave as two separate hearts. “Do you regret shooting your arrow at him?” Cupid chews on her bottom lip, looking contemplative. There’s a silence before she speaks. “No.” Death nods imperceptibly. He understands. “I suppose love mourns just as death does.” The statement makes Cupid turn to look at Death. They share a thoughtful look. She’s never equated the loss of love to death before. She’s
always thought that death was a worse fate for humans than anything else, considering it’s a more permanent loss, but thinking about it now, Cupid realizes that love does deal with fatality, in its own subtle way. The death of love can take a years’ worth of grieving, and even then the memory of it never really goes away. Heartbreak is someone leaving your life just as death is losing someone forever. Cupid can’t help but chuckle as she shoots Death an amused smile. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought.” Death grimaces at that statement. The last thing he wants is to be compared to a frilly winged girl who talks too much. “Don’t ever say that.” Cupid laughs, high and sincere. “Oh please. Other than ripping out souls, I’m still way better than you.” She quips, eyes twinkling at him. “Although, you are kind of cute.” Death quirks a brow in surprise. Cute? Never in his existence has he ever been associated with the word cute. And he’s lived for a long time. Before he can ask what she’s talking about, she has dropped beside him, and has lifted a hand to trace a manicured finger down the side of his face. The act takes him by surprise as he jerks away, but this doesn’t seem to deter her. She leans in closer, following him, warm breath hitting his cheek. “We could be an awfully tragic pair. It could be fun.” Death regards her with a serious look. “We both know we’ll only end up trying to kill each other.”
Cupid pauses, then chuckles. “Truer words have never been said.” She relaxes back on the bench as a couple attached by their hands walk by. She smiles sadly. “Hey Grim?” Death almost berates her again, but decides against it. She probably won’t listen again anyway. “Yes?” “If you could choose to be human, would you?” Death sighs. This question. If Cupid only knew how much this very question has been turned and churned in his head. He wondered this when he extracted a string of soul from human flesh, with the steady beep of a machine ringing in the background and the sounds of mourning loud at his back. He wondered this when he summoned the souls of the victims of a freak accident, and walked across the wreckage like there weren’t corpses strewn everywhere. He wondered this as he quickly yanked out the soul of a suffering man whose chance to live has gone. “I would like to experience love.” He draws out, steady and straightforward. “That’s not what I asked though.” Death turns to her, eyes questioning. “Isn’t it?”
seeking change Patricia de Leon
Jay de Guzman is not a romantic person. But if you ask him what he thinks love is, he would pause for a moment. Then, he would smile. He would tell you that love is the laugh that he almost wants to record on his phone to set as a ringtone everytime he hears it. Love is the set of dimples that appear when those pretty pink lips stretch into a sweet smile. Love is the callous fingers that lace with his, damp palms settling into the space and pressing together as their sides shift closer, skin burning deliciously at the contact. Love is a soft cheek resting on his shoulder, slotting into the crook of his neck perfectly, like that one space was made for that one person, as he inhales the distinct scent of shampoo and cologne, and his brain promptly short-circuits. Jay smiles to himself, chest expanding at the memory of the smile reserved only for him, that smile that he can claim is his. — He enters the tiny flower shop, one that can barely contain more than five people, and runs his gaze across the array of flowers displayed by the window. It’s not a lot, mostly roses on
37,38 account of Valentine’s Day. He turns to the woman sitting at the desk and smiles cordially. “Excuse me, do you have white roses?” The woman smiles back, raising from her seat. “It’s Valentine’s Day, of course we have white roses. How many did you want?” “A dozen, please.” The woman quirks a curious brow, raking her gaze up and down Jay’s form. “That many, huh? She must be pretty special.” Jay laughs, high and light, as his heart soars into the clouds. “Yeah,” he grins, eyes glazing over. “Pretty special alright.” The woman then smiles knowingly at him before disappearing into the back room, supposedly to fetch Jay’s order. As he’s waiting, he deposits himself on one of the empty seats by the desk and takes out his phone. He stares back at the goofy smile and the impossibly brown eyes displayed on his screen, and melts. Suddenly, Jay wonders how those eyes would look like with lines on the corners from years filled with laughter, and that forehead lined with wrinkles and hidden behind strands of gray hair, but he stops himself before his imagination takes
over. They’ve been dating for two months- hardly long enough to start thinking about growing old together, regardless of how completely certain Jay is that there’s really no one else for him. The woman reappears before long, a beautifully arranged and wrapped bouquet of white roses in hand. Jay’s heartbeat speeds up as he takes the flowers in his hands, the weight of that day and what he’s about to do dropping on his shoulders. He pays accordingly then bids goodbye to the shop owner, missing the warm smile she directs at his back. — Okay. This is it. Moment of truth. No turning back. First step: knock on the gate. Jay expels a deep breath, fingers wound tight around the stems of the roses. Why is he nervous? He shouldn’t be nervous. They’ve been dating for two months; it’s not like they’ve never been on a date before. Well.. never a proper date, anyway. Okay, not helping. Before he can rethink, Jay quickly raises a fist and gently pounds on the metal gate three times. “Hello?” A girl with light brown hair swept to one shoulder pops out from the front door, grinning almost maniacally. “Jay! You’re early.” She remarks, rushing towards the gate to welcome him in, grin intact the entire time. Jay ducks his head, blushing profusely when the girl catches
sight of the bouquet in his hand and squeals. “Oh, they’re beautiful-“ That’s all that registers in Jay’s head before the front door swings open and there are those eyes he’s been fantasizing about all day, the smile that makes his breath hitch, dimples tightening at the sight of him, and everything feels so breathlessly new. “Nick!” The girl calls, and the boy standing by the door barely acknowledges her. They didn’t see each other yesterday, considering Nick had a club meeting and Jay had some errands to run at home. The moment almost feels like the day they met, when it seemed like the sunlight poured down just to brighten the brown in Nick’s eyes, and when all Jay did was smile and Nick knew he was screwed. The girl, Annie, mumbles an excuse to leave and exits the scene as inconspicuously as she can, the grin never leaving her face. Annie is the only person who knows about them, the only person who’s okay with it, and as annoying and as bothersome as she can be most of the time, they love her for being so accepting. Acceptance is difficult to come by when you’re in a relationship like theirs. Finally, they’re alone. Well, as alone as they can be with Annie watching through the window. Jay clears his throat. “I, uh- I brought you this.” He mutters,
a blush blooming on his cheeks as he raises the bouquet to Nick’s eye level. “I wasn’t sure if flowers were your thing, but I wanted to get you something. And what’s Valentine’s Day without flowers, right?” Nick’s breath catches in his throat, jaw slacking and brows shooting up, as he slowly lifts his hand to receive the bouquet. He wasn’t expecting a gift, much less flowers. But then he silently berates himself because it’s Valentine’s Day. Of course he’s going to receive a gift. Jay almost relaxes till he notices the sudden way Nick’s face falls slightly. Jay frowns. “You hate it.” Nick’s head snaps up. “What?” “Of course you do. Why else would you look like I just handed you a dead cat. I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten you flowers. I’m such an idiot-“ “Jay.” Nick laughs. “Calm down.” He holds the bouquet to his chest and claps Jay on the shoulder, eyes softening the way it does around the other boy. “It’s not you. The roses are lovely, believe me. It’s just..” Nick surrenders his gaze, cheeks tinting pink as he withdraws his hand from Jay’s shoulder. “..I didn’t get you anything.” Just like that, Jay lights up. “Oh, is that all? Well, you don’t have to worry about that. You can get me a gift next Valentine’s.” Jay winks- he winks, and Nick wants to burst out in laughter because that was ridiculously adorable, and because he isn’t sure how to internalize the giddiness he feels at the mention of
another Valentine’s Day together. Jay seems surprised at his own boldness as his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, lips stretched in a grin, before turning back at Jay. “Are you ready to go?” “Wait, let me just put this in a vase real quick.” Nick hurries back inside the house, and Jay is reassured that Nick really does love the flowers when a collective shriek reverberates from the house and a flushed looking Nick ambles out the front door seconds later. “You alright?” Jay chuckles, chest still soaring at Nick’s blatant enthusiasm over his gift. “What? Oh, yeah. Totally.” Nick responds, out of breath. He wants to say ‘alright’ is too mild of a word to define his current emotions. ‘Over the moon’ is kind of close. Perfect. I’m actually perfect because you’re here and you’re just perfect. “Okay then.” Jay smiles, slipping his fingers between Nick’s. They’ve held hands before, but always in the comfort of their houses. Never out in public. A thrill runs up Nick’s spine as their elbows knock together, and he grips Jay’s hand. Then Jay lifts their intertwined hands to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of Nick’s hand, and Nick’s breath stutters. The skin on his hand prickles with the memory of Jay’s lips. It’s his first kiss. It’s not on the lips, and maybe that
doesn’t count as a first kiss to most people, but the fact that it leaves him equally breathless is enough for Nick. Nick falls asleep with the fantasy of lips smiling against his, but this is so much better. He had once believed that romance was an unattainable concept for people like him, that no one would ever even want to kiss him that way. To have that disproved gives him hope. It’s Jay that will forever be imprinted at the back of his hand, that he’ll tell people stole his heart with one simple gesture. Nick meets Jay’s eyes, tries to convey every ounce of emotion that surfaced from that one kiss, and bites back the lump forming in his throat. There’s no way he’s going to cry, not in front of this person, not when they were about to go out for their first proper date. “Hey,” Jay chimes, voice soothing as he runs a comforting hand up and down Nick’s arm, his brows furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?” And then Nick laughs, loud and high and directed at the heavens, because that’s just the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all week. He’s fine- wonderful, actually, and he’s tearing up and being asked what’s wrong. Like anything in that moment could even be considered wrong. And, as confused as he may be, Jay can’t help but laugh along. — They leave Nick’s house with their fingers laced together, and
arrive at the restaurant with their hands swaying at their sides. They exchange more than one knowing smile throughout the course of their meal. And they struggle to ignore the heavy stares directed at them for being two males sharing a meal on Valentine’s Day. They try to act friendly, like holding the other’s hand is a thought that has never crossed their minds. Nick wonders if this is going to be his future, going out to eat with his significant other and pretending they’re just friends. Only being allowed to show affection in the safety of his own home, and being judged for the mere act of loving. He loses his train of thought when his phone, which is sitting beside his plate, vibrates. He flicks his gaze to the screen. Jay I miss your hand in mine. Nick looks up, frowning at the way Jay’s lips are upturned in a sad smile. He’s almost tempted to grab Jay’s hand from across the table and screw anyone who disapproves. He wants to scream, shout at every single one who hasn’t even bothered to be subtle with their whispers as they judged and hurled insults under their breaths. But he doesn’t. He can’t, and he hates that he can’t. His heart lurches in pain as he types in a reply. Nick Me too.
paper crane Ahj Eufracio
One cold Sunday night, when everything but the moonlight was black, I began writing a wordless poem— I was staring at the ceiling. There were neither glow-in-thedark star stickers nor photographs of people I love. But there was a paper crane hanging— as if belonging to a child. I was no longer a child. The paper crane reminded me of your fingers transforming a yellow sheet of paper into a crane that was trying to wade not across the river, but in midair, forever. I averted my eyes when the paper crane took your shape. Slowly, I sat first then stood up, walking towards the wooden cabinet where recollections live. I fumbled for a wooden box. I opened the box where the letters you gave me nestled. Each letter had a title that I could not decipher for I know neither Hiragana nor Katakana. I did not bother to wake the letters up. They were asleep. They waited. And waited. I waited. It was almost 11 o’clock in the evening. It was too cold to stop my hands from trembling. Or was it the cold, I asked myself. I returned to bed feeling a wreckage of a ship stuck inside my chest. I pulled the blanket to cover my body. I closed my
45,46 eyes to cover my soul. The night sank deep into the ocean of silence. Silence was supposedly my lullaby. That night, it wasn’t. I rose from my bed. I walked towards the switch and turned on the lights. I rummaged for Eggers’ heartbreaking work among the books randomly piled, which I found really funny at first. Thirty-seven minutes strode and reading was not helping. I placed Eggers back to where he was resting. I put my sweater on and went downstairs to fetch myself a glass of warm milk. On my way to the kitchen, I saw my dog. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps and he stared at me. I was about to say a word but it did not came out. I just stared back at him, moved a little closer, and gave him a rubdown. He replied to this by wagging his tail. After a few minutes with my dog, I prepared my milk. I went outside to say hello to a friend— the night sky. She stared back at me with hundreds of eyes twinkling. She was smiling. Her crescent bliss showed the silhouettes of the Santol, Guava, Coconut, and Talisay trees standing on our backyard. Suddenly, I noticed a creature hovering above the Talisay. If it was a bird or a bat, I was not certain. But I was sure of one thing— it was not the paper crane. All the same, I
was still wishing that you were here. The glass filled with warm milk was empty. Staring at the glass, I smiled, and heaved a deep sigh. I looked back at the night sky while humming Star’s Time can never kill a true heart at the back of my mind. I wanted to sing it out loud but words did not come out. I turned around to walk back inside the house. I washed the emptied glass. Little did I know that I turned the faucet on in a way that it spewed water out at an enormous rate. I was too late to recognize it because my sweater was already wet. As soon as I dried myself, I changed to my pajamas. Barefooted, I could feel the cold tiles. I fumbled for a pair of slippers using my feet. I felt rubber and wore it. It was not mine. It was your pair. I sat on the chair beside my bed and opened my laptop. Instead of surfing the Internet, I just decided to watch The Gold Rush. I was not a fan of Charlie Chaplin. I am a fan of his Bowler hat though. I was not able to finish the movie. I yawned— Golden bubbles floated their way towards my direction. One by one, the bubbles burst only to become tiny roses. I was both certain and dubious that I was dreaming. It always felt like that whenever I am inside such trance. As the roses moved closer, more golden bubbles appeared out of nowhere until all I could see were tiny roses erasing the space that was once surrounding me. Suddenly, I found myself amidst an open field with giant paper cranes and a wooden chair where you were seated. Both your arms and legs were crossed. You were wearing a pair of leather sandals, striped walking shorts, a black shirt, and Charlie Chaplin’s Bowler hat. I wanted to talk but I could not part my lips. I wanted to groan but each time I try, my throat felt pain. I tried to walk towards your
direction but I could not even move my toe fingers. I started crying without a sound. You were just staring at me. Perhaps, you were not even staring at all. I felt invisible. The paper cranes started to float towards my direction. I was trembling. The ground shook and you began laughing. Charlie Chaplin’s cane appeared on your right. You grabbed it while both your eyes and laughter were pinned on me. You pointed at me using the cane and your laughter became someone else’s as if a monster was living inside you. I found myself struggling to wake up. My left hand automatically grabbed my cellphone. It was almost five in the morning. I was panting. It was only a dream but the tears were real. I wiped it with my blanket. I was not looking at the paper crane hanging from the ceiling. I could feel it nonetheless. I stood up and walked my way towards the loveseat at the left corner of the room. I opened the Dwell Asia Magazine atop the coffee table after turning the lamp on. My eyes felt too heavy for reading. I only scanned the photos. I was tasked to design the interior of a friend’s coffee shop. It was my first project for the year. It was the thirty-seventh month that you were away from home. You said you will be back soon. I know that you will. It was Monday, almost dawn. When everything but my hair was turning blue, I finished a wordless poem.
kigkig Ahj Eufracio
Pag nahihiling taka, nagigiromdoman ko si kikig na nagpupulok-pulok sa gilid kang tinampo. Nakasulot na ako nin uniporme, naglalakaw. Na-Lunes-lunes, huri na naman si pogi. Dai na naman ako makaka-kanta nin from Isarog through Bicol Land to lofty Mayon Peak sa Gym. Dangan, pag tungod ko sa may poste sa Dimasalang, nakigkig ako kang naghihikol-hikol na kikig sa gilid. Maray nalang ngani ta mayo ka duman. Dai mo nahiling kung gurano ako kakurubanon. Sabi ngani kaiyan, aanuhon pa an muscles kung nagkaburutasan ko na an kapot ko nin huli ta kurubanon ako. Baka pati puso mo, mabutasan ko. Hara-halawig pa an lalakawon ko. Hugak naman ako mag traysikel. Magastos pa man akong singko pesos. Ibabakal ko na sana yan nin Mais Con Yelo sa Ateneo Avenue sa atsan. Bago pa ako makarayo, pig-tanaw ko giraray si kikig. Kung kasunod taka kansobago, ano daw kung pigpusngakan mo ako? O tibaad dai ka man labot. Tibaad ako man lang ang nagpapara-pasakit kan buhay ko kaka-isip. Naglalakaw akong duruko. Mayo man nakahiling sako alagad pagmati ko, nakabugtak ang mata mo sa lanob kan mga ha-
49,50 rong na pig-aagihan ko, asin sa mga poste na sagkod sa ngonyan dai pa pigriribayan kan gubyerno. Nagtingag ako habang nagtutugtog sa payo ko ang— Ha-ha-ha, ha-ah-hi… “Baduyon ka padi!” Nagsawong-sawong ang boses ni Sierda sa pamayo ko. Paralatik ito pero may punto man, minsan. Dai ako nauugma sa dagum kan panganoron. Garo baga nansusudo-sudo. Garo kinukulyaban ako na, “Brad, dai na magasa!” O tibaad tinatalaw lang talaga ako dahil sa kikig— dahil sa kigkig. Yaon na ako sa may Sta. Cruz Proper kang nagpuon magtagiti. Nasa bag an payong ko kairiba kan AML, binder, pahamot, My Gel 0.5, saka… sako na sana ito. May duwang ido na nag-iirilusyonan sa gilid kang waiting shed. Manlain-lain man na estudyante an naghahalat nin traysikel. Igwa nin koleyala na pwerte an pag-alaw sa ayam na sige ang ikot sa pamitisan niya. Igwa nin hayskulana saka taga sci-hi na nag-iistoryahan. In short, dakol kami na huri na sa klase. Pahingurag na naman an sasabaton kong mga de-ridang ka-ulangan sa P. Santos. Pero kung ako an hahaputon, maogmang-makahugak pero mas maogma an maglaog arualdaw lalo pa na aram ko na
pag ruluwasan, ma-sabit na naman ako ka Labao hasta mahihiling taka. “Ano na yang olor mo Villare! Dawa nasa kanto pa sana kita kang Ateneo Avenue, mapaparong ka na kayan ni Charlene maski nasa laog pa siya kang Kolehiyo.” Mababanatan nanaman ako kaini na Labao pero dai bale. Kung iyo man iyan ang karibay kang arualdaw na pag-abang ko saimo sa may Kolehiyo, gasino naman an latik kang mga barkada ko. Kung papano ako pinakubanan kang kikig, arog man kaidto ang pagmati pag aram kong pirang lakaw na sana an rayo ko saimo. Pero mayo akong balak na mag-istorya sa mga barkada ko tungkol sa kikig. Kuntento na ako na para lang ito satuyang duwa, dawa ngani dai ka man talaga nag-aaram. Nakalampas na ako sa harong na may naka-kadenang Doberman. Remate nanaman ako ki Ma’am. Ano daw kung saimo, huri naman ako? Ano daw— “Nice padi! Mauugma ka.” Sabat sakuya ni Puno paka-abotabot ko sa classroom. “Ano yan padi?” Nakahiling ako ki Ma’am Star habang nagngongorob-ngorob. Masakit ng ma-chapteran nanaman. “Sabi ni Kaka, kasali si Charlene sa ma M.E.” Sumpay ni Labao. Bigla na sanang garo ako napapakasilyas. Nanrilipot ang kamot ko. Nakahiling lang ako ki Labao. “Garo ka baga namongnan!” Banat ni Sierda. Purusngakan nanaman si tolo. Nakahiling na samuya si Ma’am Star. “Mga hamag kamo dai kamo kayan!” Pahinghing kong pigsabi.
Gusto ko na habo na gusto na habo. Gamit ang mga muro sa tuo kong kamot, pigtuturutubtob ko an lamesa kang tukawan ko siring kan pagkurabkutab kang daghan ko. Nakahiling ako sa salog. Padikit-dikit na nagiging duot ang salog kan classroom ko. Aban-aban, nareparo ko, mayo na sa kataid ko si Puno. Mayo naman si Labao, si Sierda, asin si iba mi pang kaklase. Mayo naman si Ma’am Star sa inutan. Sa totoo lang, pati si mga tukawan mayo na. Bigla gayod naging tao ang Santos Hall sabay naglakaw-lakaw. Madali lang— pati si bag ko mayo na! Ako nalang saka tukawan ko ang tada. Bahala ka kung matubod ka sa sasabihon ko pero bako iniyong pangitorogan. Nasa tahaw ako nin kaduotan. Mayo nin mga harong o puno na nakapalibot. Si madagum na panganoron, naging añol. Nagbuhat ako sa pagkakatukaw. Aram ko bako na ining Ateneo de Naga— o baka iyo. Naglakaw ako pasiring sa— sa totoo lang dai ko aram kung pasaen ako. Alagad nagpadagos man giraray ako maglakaw. Aban-aban, may nadangog ako na— “Jaime!” —nagkukurahaw kang pangaran ko. Nakigkig nanaman ako. Nagpundo ako sa paglakaw. Pagsalingoy ko, may sarong lalake na nakatindog. Mga tolong gigis ang langkaw niya sako. Kalalawgon niya si Al Pacino kang ini joven pa. “Sisay ka?” Hapot ko. “Si Santos Hall.” Simbag niya. “Ha?” Napanganga ako. “Si Santos Hall nyako.” Dangan pig-ignit niya ang saiyang surusulot na kamisetang puti. Bigla na sanang naglinog. Napadalagan ako sa kataid ni San-
tos Hall. Sa dai karayuan, nahiling ko ang daga na pigkakalot pero mayo man akong nahiling na nagkakalot. Tibaad tawong lipod. Hali sa irarom kang daga, may nagluwas na tukawan. Si tukawan ko man sana. Pag-hiling ko utro kay Santos Hall, naging Flat screen TV na ang saiyang kamiseta. Nagpundo na ang linog. “Tukawi na diyan noy.” Sa TV, nahiling ko ang classroom mi. Naglelesson si Ma’am Star. Pwerte ang pa-tango-tango ni Chuck. Oops! May naggagantsilyo nin dungo. Dai ko na ngangaranan. Naka pwesto pati sa pinaka-likodan. Mientras tanto, ang sagin-sagin na pasurat-surat na iyan ni Gomez, pig-ddrawing nanaman kaiyan ang duwa o tolo sa mga kaklase mi dangan, gigibuhan dialogue. Ang paka-tukaw ni boy-labo 100 nanaman yan sa quiz. Na-isip ko, tano daw ta yaon ako digdi? “Nag-aano baya ako digdi?” Pighahapot ko ning tultol si Santos Hall alagad ang simbag niya, kung bakong tango, katoninongan. Pagkatapos ko magdalan, saka man nagtaram si Santos Hall. “Ang lugar na ini ang ka-intirohan kang mga libreng espasyo kang Santos Hall sa kinaban nindo. Ako ang kalag— bako ni Fr. Pedro Santos— kundi kang Santos Hall. Aram ko na amigo mo si Mauro Labao, Guillermo Sierda, asin si Karlo Tristan Puno. Aram ko ang tungkol sa kikig.” Aram niya ang tungkol sa kikig. Aram niya ang tungkol saimo. Dai ako naka-girong. Si Santos Hall ang kalag kang Santos Hall. Ano daw ang gustong sabihon kaini. Tibaad may kalag man ang Dimasalang kaya pagmati ko, may mga mata na nakahiling sakuya pag naglalakaw ako duman maski mayo man ibang tao. Nag-aasa lang talaga ako na saimo ang mga mata na ito maski bako man. Tibaad kang nakigkig ako, nakubanan
man si kikig sako. Tibaad ang pagtakig ko sa pag-aantisipar sa pag-abot mo, namamatean mo man maski dai mo ako gayong bistado. Tibaad— Padikit-dikit na nawawara si kalag na Santos Hall. Sa utrong pagkimat kang mata ko, napara na kang eraser ni Ma’am Star ang payo ni Santos Hall. Ang daing kasagkoran na lugar na pano ning duot, naging blackboard, lanob, mga tukawan— naging mga tao. Garo mayo sanang nangyari. Dai nauuntok ang nguso ni Labao kaka-ngorob-ngorob ning manlain-lain na istorya. Napagal ako kaka-tukaw. Pig-unat ko ang duwa kong tabay. Malilipot pa giraray ang palad ko. Pag arog kaini, mas napaparikas ang orasan mag alas-kolehiyo. — Nagbabalyo ka pasiring Cathedral. Kaibahan mo si apat mong barkada. Ang saro sainda, pinsan ni Labao. Kung iisipon, kadakulon paagi para lalo pa kitang magkabistaduhan. Kung paghuhurop-huropan, patulan ko lang ang plano ni Labao, haloy na gayod kitang nag-jajamming. “Dai ko aram padi. Kinakabahan ako.” Simbag ko sa mga plano ni Labao. “Para babarkadahon! Dai mo man iilusyonan tulos.” Natatabuga ako pirmi ni Labao pag abot sa arog kaining mga bagay. Aram ko man na mayo akong mahahaman ta mayo man akong ginigibo. Natutunaw pirmi ang natatada kong liga pag yaon ka na. Maski ngani pinabisto na ako saimo ni Kaka, pinsan ni Labao, hanggang huyom sana ako. Magaratakan na lamang ang mga ngipon ko kakapugol na magbukas ang nguso ko ta tibaad may sala akong maitaram. Naririsa na pati ni Sierda
na kada mahirilingan kita sa mata, nagiging sementado ang malaman kong panga. Sa maribay na semana, Multiple-encounter na. Tibaad pati buong hawak ko, maging sementado. Tolong aldaw man yan kung iisipon. Kaipuhan kong mag inom ning duwang litro ning kusog-boot. Si inot na litro, para sa mga barkada kong bistado ko na ang dalagan kang payo. Si panduwang litro, para makahiling akong diretso sa mga mata mo. 1 February 2002 “Padi! Nasa LG-12 si Charlene.” Dali-dali akong binutong ni Sierda pasiring sa kataid ming classroom. Mabutas na kuta ako. Nag-abot pa si duwa. Tolo laban sa saro. Tablado. “Hi Charlene!” Si Labao ang inot na nagtino saiya. Nagkaway naman si duwa. Dai ako naka-inom ning duwang litro ning kusog-boot. “Oi! Mau, Gil, Karl, Jam.” Nakangirit si Charlene. Tama ang dangog ko? Pig-banggit niya ang gaha ko? (Oh god) “Jam? Jam— Ahhhhm… jaram kita pagkatapos!” Ako na nagkikibig-kibig na ang kamot, ako na ginagaranot na ning malipot, ako ang nagtaram. Ako ang nagtaram! “Sure!” Simbag ni Charlene, sabay nagtirikwilan si tolo. Dai na palan kaipuhan ang duwang litro. Nagiromdoman ko nanaman si kikig na nagpupulok-pulok sa gilid kang tinampo.
paghuna Toyang Segui
Sa gabos nin aldaw na nag-agi asin sa gabos na eskinitang inagihan mo, arin duman an pinakanagigirumdoman mo? Wara na an kalayo sa puro kan sigarilyo asin ubos na an arak na piglaklak mo kadtong nagsimbag ka: “Mayo man baga.” Nagkua pa ako nin sarong bote nin arak asin pigpadagos man nanggad an ulayan; Sa gabos nin mga tawong nakasabatan mo, ugwa ka man nagiromdoman? Kiisay ka nasuya, nagayunan? Ugwa ka man namootan? Pigsindihan mo tulos nin posporo an sigarilyo asin nagtaram: “Mayo Man.” Sa beinte-unong taon mo digdi sa kinaban, ugwa ka mang kinasuyahan, nakulugan, ugwa ka mang tawong kinaogmahan? Pigsindihan mo an pan-tolo mong sigarilyo asin nagtaram: “Ata, mayo man.”
56
Suyaduhon na akong maray asin napapagal na sa katataram. Piggadan mo an kalayo sa puro kan sigarilyo mo, pig-ayos gabos nin mga baso asin nagtindog, nagtaram: “Mayo man.” Pighalat ko an bilog na banggui, pighiling ka sa pagturog mo, pigalagaan kan tamong tanganing dae ka lamukon. Naghalat,
I hate him, yet I love him Veeyah Peñero and Pauline Zenit
I hate him. I hate everything about him—his snorty laugh that abnormally hitches a pitch higher, his crooked teeth when he smiles, his hairy arms and beast like hands that send unwanted goose bumps all over my body. Have you ever had that dreadful feeling when you meet a person for the very first time, and you just know that you’re going to hate everything about that person before even knowing them? It’s that gut feeling. It’s completely, and absolutely dreadful. You single him out from the rest. You can’t help it. He’s like that highlighted text in a droning non-illustrated school book. Your peripheral vision automatically zooms in, and you magnify every single fault he makes. It’s unavoidable. You. Just. Hate. Him. That. Much. “Oh hey, morning!” he greets you. You force yourself to look up so that he won’t suspect your ardent dislike for him.
“Morning,” you greet him back, but your eyes betray you when you suddenly find the floor a lot more attractive than his unfortunately alive physical body. You. Just. Hate. Him. That. Much. The way he talks. The way he moves. The way he walks, laughs, and smiles. The way he ignorantly touches the wall to check if the paint is wet. The way he pathetically pinches his nose when he’s uncomfortable. He just gets in to your nerves. Never bothering to say what he needs to say. Never having courage. Never fights back even after making up a song of him and his pile of mistakes. A weakling. A coward. You hate him. Yes. You do. You should. Why shouldn’t you? He never bothers to help anyone. Doesn’t have the guts to speak up when you expect him to. Never looks at you. Never pays attention to anything you say or do. He’s disrespectful. Never gives a damn about anything. Never gives a damn about you. You hate him. He doesn’t care, but you do. It’s unfair. He doesn’t care if you hate him. He just smiles and goes on with his life. He doesn’t care about how you feel about him. I see now. I hate him because he doesn’t care if I hate him. And I know he most probably wouldn’t care if I love him. —
I love him. I love every single thing about him—the way his adorable, snorty laugh caresses my ears, and his arms and hands perfectly shows off his masculinity. I love how his adorable crooked teeth do wonders to his smile, and the way his boyish voice entices me out of my small, comfortable shell. His voice is like a perfect trio of toast, butter, and strawberry jam, slowly sending my body into sweet ecstasy. Have you ever had that transcendent downpour of knowledge that when you meet someone for the first time, you are instantly certain that you’re going to love everything about him? It’s that gut feeling. It’s absolutely, definitely breathtaking. You single him out above the rest, putting him up on an unreachable pedestal. You can’t help it! Your eyes suddenly acquire an autofocus feature with an optical zoom of 20x, and you are aware of everything he says and does. It’s inevitable. You. Just. Love. Him. That. Much. “Oh, hey! Morning!” He greets with that unmistakable endearing voice of his. “Morning to you too!” You greet him back, your face quickly getting crimson in a period of 2.4 seconds - as fast as a Bugatti Veyron reaches 60kph on startup. Your inner girl reaches for the handkerchief and covers your mouth. You don’t even notice the beautiful flowers in his presence. You. Just. Love. Him. That. Much.
The way he talks. The way he moves. The way he walks, laughs, and smiles. The way he innocently touches the wall to check if the paint is wet. The way he pinches his nose when shy. I love him. He just gets to you. Always keeps quiet when he knows there’s nothing good to say. Always patient and never rash. Never sees the good in biting back petty bullies. So gentle. So calm. You love him. Yes. You do. You should. Why shouldn’t you? He doesn’t help people for self-satisfaction. Doesn’t bite back even if you hit him below the belt. Looks out for everyone. He loves everyone. He respects every person’s personal space. Never gives a damn about those who hate him. He’s that person you want to push off a bridge so that you could catch him afterwards. You love him. You know he doesn’t care, but it’s okay. It’s fine. He knows you love him, but doesn’t take advantage of it. He just smiles and goes on with his life. I see now. I love him because I don’t mind if he doesn’t care that I love him. You realize there truly is nothing at all for you to hate, in him, there’s a million other things for you to love.
visuals photography K.M. Esperanza
artworks
Don Ramos, 7 Vina Pe単aserada, 11