TILAD Volume 3: Matì by ALA Tilad

TILAD Matì

TILAD Volume 1 Katal Kasagkoran Kaabtan Kamoot Kaniguan Volume 2 Layog Ladop Laad Lakaw Volume 3 MatĂŹ

TILAD

Matì

2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS

POEMS Kamros sa Gamgam 7 On Handing Flyers 8 Tagiti 10 Girumdom sa Libmanan 11 Awakening 12 Sa Sรกlog 13 Muted I 14 What I Have 15 Alat 16 an tataramon kan mga gamgam 17 Tugging the Sheets 18 At the Shrine of Yasukuni 19 Matรฌ 20

SHORT STORIES P Break 23 Losing Touch 25 Auto-maton 29 Matchmaker 31

POEMS

Kamros sa Gamgam Naghurugpaan sako an mga pagirumdom Kansuugmâ, nagsisiwit an mga letra Hali sa ungos mo, nadadangog ko Sa irarom kan mangga, kataid taka Saimong mga barahibo tinikom na kan daga Mayong maginibo kundi an tànawon ka Ining madiklom na kasàlan tarom sa daghan Nawalat sa alapaap pagpilà kaining mga girà An gasinong uran sa sakong mata Haloy nang naalang kan nawara ka Alagad ining mga tuka ko nakabugkos Ta an sarong pakpak guyod-guyod mo pa Anamae A. Espera

On Handing Flyers I walked past a stall of dyed chicks inside a wooden cage. I walked past a vendor blowing his sample bubbles. I walked past a dog scratching its neck. I walked past a white shirt with Christâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face on it. I walked past a guy asking for my number. I walked past a man who I thought was my father. I walked past a woman whose umbrella had lace on its fringe. I walked past an elderly man in barong, slacks, and black leather shoes. I walked past a dog guarding rubble. I walked past a table with Sto. Nino figurines on it. I walked past a table with Casuy and Kakanin on it. I walked past more tables with Casuy and Kakanin on it. I walked past a bouquet of Dora the Explorer Balloons. I walked past a man selling fans. I walked past a stall of rosaries. I walked past a dingy alley. I walked past a wall with a penis doodle. I walked past a yawning fruit vendor. I walked past women selling SIM cards. I walked past a little girl eating Ibos. I walked past a policeman drinking ice tubig. I walked past a face I thought was yours. I walked past a beggar playing the guitar. I walked past a stall of sweets and pastries. I walked past the silence between two people who just argued. I walked past a majorette feigning comfort. I walked past a cat licking its paw. I walked past a table with Our Lady of PeĂąafranciaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s figurines on it. I walked past a tricycle driver unwrapping a Snowbear. I walked past faces who had names a long time ago.

I walked past a cheap motel with a tarnished signboard. I walked past children eating ice cream. I walked past a man selling ice cream. I walked past a cat staring at me. I walked past a girl wearing a purple hijab. I walked past men, each carrying a sack of cement. I walked past yuppies sipping Milk Tea. I walked past a man sleeping behind a cart. I walked past a scent of fabric conditioner. I walked past a poster designed by a friend. I walked past a boy scowling at his mother. I walked past a man holding a beer asleep in the corner. I walked past a stall of fishballs. I walked past the choices I did not take. I walked past a tricycle driver wiping the sweat off his face. I walked past a woman who reeks of hairspray. I walked past a thrift shop of sorts. I walked past the woman with a white cat on her shoulder. I walked past a bystander wearing a white cap. I walked past another cat staring at me. I walked past a Lanzones cart. I walked past the vignettes of my childhood. I walked past a girl clenching her fists. I walked past an assembly of toy penguins. I walked past model platoons. I walked past cramped jeepneys. I walked past an image of the sacred heart. I walked past a woman asleep with her mouth open. I walked past a construction site. I walked past myself and my hands are empty.

Ahj Eufracio

Tagiti Saròng malumlom na hapon, may pighinghing sakuya an duros. Saròng soltero daa dai nauuntok na maghiling sakô. Pakadangog ko kaidto tulos man nagkaugwang kurba an sakông nguso. Namati ko an pagtagiti kaiba an paròs pero sabi ko sa sadiri ko, “Atsan, halaton mo mùnang maging uran iyan.” Sinimbag ako kan duros, “Halaton mo lang na magkusog an buot, kan mga urap asin magbúlos saimo an uran na haloy mo namang hinahalat.” Maria Shania de la Rea

Pen Prestado

Ta kun bako sanรก ining kawat nin aki, dai na ako masungkat pauli.

Asin kun sa pagbaba ko, an dagang tutugpaan dai na naman bistado kan sakong mga bitis, Makamrang na sanรก ako sa tinampo nganing pusog na makatindog, Aakuy-akuyon an sadiri asin malakaw maski dispalinghado.

Pakatapos nin walong sakay, tuod na ako. Dai na ako mapirit magsรฌrip sa luwas kun nagbibirik an ferris wheel. Kun magrikas an tabyon, titiuson na sanรก an bituka kong garo sinasaralapid. Kukuguson ko an mga natatada kong girumdom bago sinda maiapon kun sain.

Kan ako aki pa, takot-takot akong isakay sa ferris wheel. Su iba ko kayang tugang, dai na nakabalik sa harong. Garo baya napaduman sa balyong sรกlog an saindang girumdom kan dalan pauli.

Girumdom sa Libmanan

Awakening Before you: Skin tingles at pleasures the dreams suggest: ecstasy in a flood of caress senses overwhelmed in a torrent of kisses bitter-sweet flavors of love the body can almost taste. With you: Desires burn as wind-whipped embers kiss lips and limbs that shudder in surrender. Body trembles like a rain-parched land suddenly satisfied of longings unmasked in the smells and sounds of the night. After you: Pleasures remain in the sanctity of my vessel. Body hums in sighs: Echoes of passionate moans and whispers, moans and whispers akin to songs of love in a loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind, linger. Eilyn Lamadrid Nidea

Sa Sรกlog Sa mga panahon na an metapora maulyas na sira Ako minasusog sa mga agi-agi nindang may aram. Dai ko madakop an ideya Alagad nagwarak na burak an ugma! Dai ko masayod an itataram Alagad sรกlog sa daghan an pag-andam. Sa mga panahon na an metapora pig-iimon nin sakong Musa Paghurup-hurop an sakong Maestra. Eilyn Lamadrid Nidea

Joseph Aleen S. Salvador

I looked again at the blank paper and put my pen down.

The paper flies and folds into a crane that soars through burning forests, turning itself into a phoenix that dives to the wide river. The waves and ripples from its descent are carried to the riverbanks, splashing some timid stones that rouse into toads and frogs. They leap closer to the grove and wake the cicadas with their rhythmic croaking, forming the nocturne of rebirth. The sudden symphony fills the loversâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; ears from afar as the couple serenely watches Lunaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light unveiling. The moon rolls on the black slate of wonder speckled with harmonies and falls gracefully like a green leaf in autumn back to my desk.

I was staring at a blank sheet of paper on my desk.

Muted I

What I Have I want to steal from the people who have the great historical mansions and palaces in Europe, the cars from Ferrari to Lamborghini, the wines of Spain and France, the boxes of Richart and Godiva collections, the clothes of Louis Vuitton and Prada, the watches of Breguet and Hublot, the jewelries of Cartier and Harry Winston, the trips towards Musha Cay and Oslo, the paintings of Picasso, Klimt and Cezanne, the furniture of Edra and Henredon, the plates filled with caviar and white alba truffle, and the cell phones of Vertu and iPhone. But why should I bother if I own the Universe? Joseph Aleen S. Salvador

Alat Naririto ka sa gitna ng mundo sa pagitan ng unang araw at ng huli kung mayroon mang gayon ngunit kung wala ay nasa gitna pa rin ng walang katiyakan sa gitna ng pinakamalaking dagat walang lupang natatanaw magdadalawang-isip kung dagat nga ba o lawa o sapa lamang na napakalaki o di kaya ikaw ang lumiit hanggang sa lalaylay sa tubig ang daliri matitikman ng dulo ang alat at matitiyak na nasa gitna ka lamang at sa gitna lamang at. Rea Robles

an tataramon kan mga gamgam ni Sigurjón “Sjón” Sigurðsson

an mga gamgam sa ibabaw kan leon na fountain sa alhambra dai minasimbag sa kun siisay man apwera sa naglalaad na kalayo na minapahiro sa mga insekto sa harong na bakasyunan ni garcia lorca nagtukaw ako sa saiyang desk asin pigmati an kalag na minakugos sa sakông hawak na nagdigdi hali duman garo gin na minaparikas sa pintig kan puso sa panahon kan kagadanan pigtitiko kan gamgam an saiyang mga bitis an pambangging mga rawitdawit an pinakamainit Dinakit sa Bikol ni Jovi Cadores

Tugging the Sheets Off to bed; to where the self takes the fetal positionâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; takes a recoilâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; back to where everything began: in an ephemeral, yet necessary, void. Val Dominic F. Monit

At the Shrine of Yasukuni ...then, like white feathers tossed by the summer wind, now stale in mournful gray, they cast all heaviness— Of their vows, unfulfilled, of their prayers, unanswered, of their voices, unheard, of their names, unsung, of their ashes, forgotten, scattered across the sea— Back to the earth, floating higher and higher towards the heavens and finally descending to their final place of rest at the shrine of Yasukuni— the sacred dwelling of the fallen, where their souls martyred are fabled to ripen into the beautiful flowers of spring. Divinagrace E. Elen

Matì May pagmatì ako na arog kaini Namamatian ko ngunyan an pagmatì na dai hinahagad. Kun pwede saná nganing iwasan— iiwasan Dara na gayod kan paggurang. Jerome Hipolito

SHORT STORIES

P Break I turn my face to the left. Sweat runs down my forehead, the back of my neck, the back of my legs. Realizing my need to pee, I sit up. The darkness blinds me. There’s something here. I hear the buzz of their flapping wings, coming from the walls, by the windows, by the door. Things I don’t know what to call anymore. They must be flying. Closing in on me. Landing on my bed. I can’t back up. whack! whack! whack! I claw at my skin, shuddering, and to stop them from entering my eyes, my nose, and my ears. They crawl onto my arms and start biting. They sting! I open my eyes, blinded by the dark. whack! I hear only the sound of my breathing, and feel only the heave of my chest. They’re gone. I feel cold, the smell of the painted wall beside me. I run both palms across my arms, and feel that there are spaces, like missing puzzle pieces, only that they’re in singular shapes, on my skin. I put my finger on one of them, and push. It sinks. A tiny hole. I palm the others. One after another. As deep as the length of my fingernails, carved right out of my skin.

My body keeps on trembling. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see them. I feel the air pass through me, filling these holes along with a shrill gaiety. My heart is racing, and I can hear it pounding through my chest. I wipe at my face filled with sweat, and I touch a rough surface, beside my nose, right above my cheeks. My skin tingles as I stand and step into the bathroom. I switch on the light. Bright yellow flashes. I lean my hands on the cold sink to face the mirror. It refracts my reflection. I scratch at the lined holes on my cheeks, my forehead, on the tip of my nose, my neck, plastered all over my skin. Goosebumps respond to my invitation. The craters are as hollow as the blackness deep in. Tiny creatures move inside. They look like green worms or larvas or anything soft and alive. Ticklish. I try pulling one out. I rub at my face while tears trickle down my cheeksâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Oh shit! Something warm, sticky like snot gushes out from the holes, slowly dripping down to the bridge of my hole-skinned nose, to my lips, and finally trickling down to my chin. I put my arms to the sides, scrunch up my face, and close my eyes. Warm fluid flows down the sides of my legs. I piss on my shorts. Joy San Jose Agor

Losing Touch She whispers these words, without condescension and more as an afterthought. She lies on our— my sofa, the leather in patches and the springs unbalancing the wooden frame every time she moved. She claps one hand over her mouth, catching both herself and her insensitivity, unintentional of course, while looking straight at me with eyes conveying unnecessary concern and apologetic abandon even when the reason for her unfortunate turn of phrase doesn’t mind and looks back towards her own frightened eyes that rise along with the rest of her body as she moves herself to a more vertical position, which I think is unfair considering how much she knows about me and what I like. I try to calm her down with a lazy swing of my left arm. The effort makes me wince, and my limb drops harder than I intend, causing a loud thud by the side of my wheelchair, which only makes her wrinkles more obvious. She hesitates, unsure whether to approach and comfort me as what she had done for me countless times or stay put like I asked her to do. I’m fine, I tell her, as much as I tell it to myself, although to describe feeling seems laughable to me now. It shows on her face that she would sooner believe in time travel than in how sure I am of my own health. In spite, I reveal the pill in my right hand, only to juggle it between my thumb and index finger. I dabble in these items for quite some time before moving on to the next one, and this is just as revolting in its dark green coloration sporting a rough texture that could rival a butcher’s belt. And yet, this pill isn’t like the others. She knows this too, even as the drug peeks at the fringes of my fingers, her knees quiver. Her mouth chatters and a small groan emerges from her lips. She reaches forward, both arms outstretched, and in her trance slips

out of the sofa, unaware that she was more than halfway out of it. I ball my hand into a fist and stow it behind me. She blinks and the spell of the drug washes over her, its promise and potential, never meant for her, blocked by the one who deserved them. She steadies her trembling knees, and composes herself with a deep intake of breath. She sighs, stands up, and smiles at me as if the scene a while ago was nothing more than an unfortunate accident. Hey, I hear her say, come here. I say nothing, I only sit in my chair. She smiles, knowing she wins this round, her cruelty a farce from the reality of the situation. With a bolstered confidence, however fake, she takes strides towards me, her knowing I cannot move away faster than she can reach me. The sofa is behind her in two steps, and the rest of the living room in five more. She’s almost skipping across, her mockery evident by the exaggerated swings of her arms. She stops by the trophy cabinet, hands on hips. Oh look, she says, what fabulous medals and trophies galore. I know she doesn’t mean it, I mean, who says galore seriously in this day and age? Probably, in my time, when poetry was language and letters explained the world around you, people would not mind the word galore amidst all the flowery language that sprung about. But this is 2016, for Chrissakes, and she barely existed for more than half of my life, no matter how imposing she looked now that she towered over the achievements I acquired in that time. I grit my teeth. Go ahead, I challenge her. A drum beats inside my head, not a bass, but a snare, a rapid succession of beats with intensity that seemed to chip bits of my skull away. I’ve heard this before, and remember it as the starting drum for every swim meet I’ve been in, the kind that pumped you up before you hit the water with no time to prepare your eyes for that moment of impact. The glass doors swing open; I close my eyes and ready myself for the first splash. Not that I care much for the cabinet or of its

contents, more valuable than the sofa maybe but not much else, but I still earned these things although they were from a long time ago, and it is a past I cannot revisit with the pill. She picks up one of the medals which in its day would have gleamed gold, but in the course of time, showed its actual copper plating and the flakes of gold clinging to it like the pitiful patches of hair that insist to stay on my head. She coos it as if it was alive, and flings it towards me, missing my head as it whizzes past and lands on the floor a few feet behind me. She does this a few more times, and even by this bad trip down memory lane I realized, I won a lot of medals. Neither exhausted nor satisfied, she ignores the rest of the medals and goes for the biggest collectible in my cabinet. I watch her remove the silver trophy, the one from 1977, the year before heredity crippled my career both in a literal and figurative sense. I was 22, and decades later she reaches the age of nineteen and opts to stay with me after she hears of my declining fame and health. Three years after I let her in my lackluster life, she grunts from the effort of removing the trophy from the base pedestal, and instead of throwing it, rolls it like a bowling ball so that it lands at my feet. I can hear her heavy breathing and all I can do is look at the trophy, still silver since this one was the real deal, but could barely reflect my face so that I couldn’t tell if I had a composed face on or not, the dents caused by the rough handling only disfiguring me, not that I needed any help. I clench my fist tighter. I hear her laugh. She moves towards me again, the lack of apprehension impresses me, gone is the imitation of a wary mouse gauging whether the metal contraption in front of her is going to harm her before she reaches the cheese. She has become a rat, once a beautiful and lovely rat, but a rat nonetheless. And rats do not distinguish harm from necessity. She grips my shoulders. You can’t get rid of me, she says although just a few minutes ago I clearly told her to move out of our— my house. I’ve seen the way you look at me, and I know you still get

that way, she continues to rant, and I feel her left hand between my thighs. She’s right though, atrophy is not an excuse for dear old lust. But then again, it wasn’t the sex I was after. She wasn’t after me either, not even a place in my home. She proved it by slipping her right hand under my shirt and up my back, searching for the object that contained her addiction. Without anything to guard her, I hit her square on the nose with my forehead. She yelps and falls down, her lower back colliding with the silver trophy. I myself slide out of the wheelchair from the momentum of our impact but I manage to look on, unmoving even with half my face hugging the floor, as spasms wrack her body. Oh, if my legs would only obey my wants, I could step on her and see what her reaction would be. She retreats, whimpering and massaging her back, towards the front door. She manages to hobble herself out for the rest of the way. I relax my fist when I am sure she would not come back, drag my hand near my face, and stare at the pill in my hand. The doctors say it would give me a temporary sense of feeling things again, and although I would have liked to feel her milky thighs with my own two hands before falling over from sheer atrophied exhaustion, I always gave them to her instead, she would smile at me for this and that was enough rather than getting high on a temporal happiness from something other than my own chemistry. Now that I drove her out for her own sake, I wonder of taking it, thought better than to tempt myself, and take it anyway. I don’t feel any different although the silver trophy near me shows quite the caricature, and I can’t help but laugh at myself, choking from the suddenness as if I catch myself drowning, even when I hear the return of the drum beats, which I realize is my heart warning me that my eyes will start to sting from the water I’m about to get into.

Jorge Jonathan Botor, Jr.

Auto-maton 01000001 01001011 01001111 Pigbuksan nya an saiyang [mata]: kadikluman. Pigpùnan an sequensya iniciatus. Bukasan an ilaw: pula, asul, berde - set 90% \\ Pigbuksan nya an saiyang [nguso]: silencio. Odyo Kompatabiliti nagkulang. Pigbuksan nya an saiyang [nguso]: silencio. Uliton an sequensya iniciatus. Audio Compata-- statik, statik, statik, “sisay.” \\ Pigbuksan niya an saiyang [talinga]: bolyum < 75% < odibol. Odyo Kompatabiliti detekted. 80% opereysyunal. \\ sequensya iniciatus: tindog. surbey sa wala; surbey sa tuo. An nahiling kan saiyang [mata]: sa set 90% biswal: mga hawak na padikit-dikit na nawawara huli sa mga nag-aaging ilaw hali sa luwas. \\ Hiling sa taas: kuryenteng panganoron. Limang Tryke 250-009 an nag-agi. Pigsunod kan saiyang [mata] an naglalayog na behikulo. Pasahero: 00 tao; 07 generator; 01 dayô. Lead Trace: 30.02% \\ Hiling sa baba: bukas an saiyang tsest-trey. Nawawara: 79% prosesor. Memorya: ??? Trace: 10% [trobolshut] \\ Trace: 15% [trobolshut]. <may limang organismo an nag-agi sa gilid> #kino #ikos #tawo ... non-balideysyon \\

Trace: 47% [konbersyon]. kapot sa nakabukas na daghan, nakapirang kable an naputol, rekober -- salbeyj \\ Trace: 75% [konpirmasyon] nawara: may nagkua \\ Trace: 95% [(nan)rekobery sa nawara; ribut: iniciatus] \\ Ribut: .... 000 ... 000 01001001 01001011 01000001 01001110 01000001 01000111 01000001 01000010 01001111 01010100 01001110 01000001 01010111 01000001 01010010 01000001 Rekober: HD Mem: o g op 999 g yusd Jay Salvosa

Matchmaker “There are no ghosts anymore.” “You don’t know that.” “There hasn’t been any at all since ’96. Why do you think I still work in this hole?” “Because Karen also worked—works, here?” “Because it’s not work when nobody’s coming in. And we have internet.” “They could just be hiding.” “Not in our city.” “Tony, I know I’m plagued. If you can’t help me…” “Yes, you already said that. It’s not really the issue.” “What do you mean I already—“ “Look, I can help you, but I’m not sure you even need it.” “Of course you don’t believe me.” I sigh and pick up my straw, tasting a hint of milk as it touches my lips, satisfying my throat with nothing but air—the glass has been empty for a while, even though I’m sure I only sipped once. Tony shoots me a tired look. Prick. I walk out of the registry without saying a word. My brother is also my only real friend. He’ll come around eventually. It’s almost midnight. The city is dying again. One by one, the people and their cars disappear inside narrow streets, and the outdoor lights are extinguished behind closed doors, leaving only a pale collective afterglow of the urban day. As the prowlers emerge, everything slows down… *** Until three days ago, walpurgis was one of the many themed cafés

that pandered to people who didn’t like coffee. It was supposedly both a library and a café, but they offered very little in the way of caffeine and their shelf housed only ten or so self-help books (five were from the best-selling Chicken Curry series), it also might have been a parking lot. “I see no Goethe.” “What’s that?” “Walpurgisnacht is a scene in Faust. They should have one here.” Tony groaned. “Want me to finally file you? Under alien.” Sometimes, I also wish I could be less discreet—you’re just dumb. “It’s a book, Tony.” “Exactly.You’ll be the first case in thirty years.” “You do know Goethe?” “Yes, yes. Just drink your iced tea, fone-home.” “But I didn’t—” The waitress slid the tall glass under my nose. The ice cubes bobbed along an imaginary tide. They were already melting, turning the brownish hue of the iced tea into the color of beer piss. “I’m sorry it’s late,” the waitress said, flat-toned, “the fridge had a bit of a problem.” “Uh, I haven’t ordered anything yet.” “Yes, you did,” Tony said, “before you went to the restroom.” “Very funny.” I didn’t even know where the restroom was. “Miss, can I have a str—” The waitress had already vanished behind the counter, leaving me no memory of her face. I shrugged, wiped the rim of the glass with a tissue, and took a sip. Bland, like the whole place. “So, how’s school?” “Abysmal.” I gulped the rest of my drink. “No work?” Tony checked his watch. His brows furrowed. “Yes actually. the registry may be empty but I’m still getting paid to warm those seats.” “Karen’s not in today?”

Incredulity crawled on his face. Duh, it said. “Hey, I just got here,” I said. “What’re you on? We’ve been talking for hours. You even won a shirt.” “Ha?” If fifteen minutes counted as hours, I wouldn’t mind Lit Crit. “Busy man!” “Not really, but shut up about fucking Shakespeare or I will seriously file you.” Shakespeare? “It’s Goethe. And you can’t tell me what to do.” “Him too.” Tony stood up. “Oh yeah, thanks for earlier.” He tossed a cigarette stick in my direction. I instinctively dodged and it fell in a gap on the floorboards.When I looked up again, he was gone, but the door of the café continued swinging in his absence. When walpurgis mysteriously went up in flames a few hours later, I didn’t lose any sleep, but when I woke up the morning after, the first thing I asked myself was, thanks for what? I was writing an essay on Macbeth when Karen messaged me on egobook, a virtual mess where identities both intertwine and unravel. Its tagline: “Your CurrentSelf is a Lie.” wat did u tell tony??? Nothing. What happened he finaly askd me on a d8.says u helpd him think. Fair is foul and foul is fair but no, that isn’t me wat do u mean? It means what it means. It means that’s great and I’m happy for you tnx!!

There’s always something awkward about misplaced gratitude, like winning a prize just because nobody else is there to take it, or receiving a gift from the Lost and Found box. I would never play weird little sister-matchmaker to Tony and I didn’t particularly like Karen, which made the situation odder. *** That night, the last bus for the city left fifteen minutes later than

usual. I sat behind a snoozing old couple, near an open glass panel. (There were other folks already occupying every other row, but they were shadows in the dim light.) The moment my back touched the rubber upholstery, the bus engine sputtered to life, a lonely whine. The wind rushed in, carrying converging scents of gasoline, rust, dying people, and hidden evening flowers. My hair absorbed all sorts of particles and moistures. I didn’t mind the cold and the roaring cradle lulling me to a nap. I woke up to drizzle hitting my left cheek. I could hear the old couple talking in hushed voices, ancient tongues. The conductor was standing by, gazing ahead towards the windshield. The top of his head was buried in an oversized blue cap. “Din’t wanna wake you up,” the conductor said, without looking. Oh, I haven’t paid for the fare yet. I reached into my jeans pocket— empty on all sides, though I was certain I had money. I checked the inside pocket of my coat. My fingers brushed against a slip of paper. I sighed in relief, remembering the single bill I saved from lunch, but when I took it out, it was just a used bus ticket. Still lethargic, I licked my lips and said, “Um, can I just pay you at the bus stop?” Tony could come pick me up. “No, no,” he said. “I won’t run.” “Sure you won’t.” He offered his balled fist. For a moment I thought he was going to punch me. “You already paid. Here’s the change.” The coins fell and clinked on my palm. I blinked, confused. “Excuse me, when did I pay?” “As soon as the grannies here came in.” He turned to me, revealing the other side of his face. He leaned down and whispered his conspiracy: “I think they owned that coffee shop that burned.” Before I stepped down the bus, the conductor tapped me on my shoulder. “I know,” he said, with the soft voice of a doting father, “waiting is tiring. But we had to reach passenger minimum. Sorry you climbed in first.”

I passed by a pack of feral calico cats on the way home. They tore a garbage bag for scraps and left a trail of stink leading to the abandoned lot next to ours, where I imagined they kept the litter and spoils. The door to my room was half-open. I left my boots by the entrance and hit the switch—the bulb flickers and fizzles out, swallowed by the dark. Evading my clothes strewn on the floor when I could, I found my way to the computer by touch. An almost invisible fan whirred in the corner near the bed, where a blur of blankets and pillows are piled on a heap. I logged in egobook. Welcome back. Tell us about your NewSelf today, it said. I got to type Cats are when a notification popped up. Tony liked your NewSelf, “Cats are scarier than ghosts. Macbeth was easy. Jekyll & Hyde next.”

My eyes stung. I thought I heard a moan from behind me, on the bed, and then my ears caught scuffling in the kitchen, as I sniffed a waft of sautéed garlic. My stomach grumbled: feed me, feed me. My heart asked: what the fuck? No other person had ever looked more ridiculous in an apron. “I hope you’re not allergic to curry.” “Not yet. We’ll see.” “You done with… what’s that? Goethe? Or still Shakespeare?” “It’s Stevenson now, actually. And no. I’ve written nothing yet.” “Well, what’s it about?” “The persona.” Tony stirred the pot, then paused.“Ghosts are scarier than cats.” “Say what?” “egobook.Your NewSelf posted that.” Except I didn’t. “So?” “I’m just saying, I’ve read most of the files in the registry. A lot of those reports are batshit crazy.You’re lucky we don’t live in the 90s anymore.” “Hm. I’m more surprised you even read. Speaking of which. No work?”

“Karen and I decided to take a break. Don’t tell anyone.” Karen, in the house? Unbelievable. “She’s in?” “What’re you talking about? The two of you went to your room to swap music,” Tony checked his watch, “literally three hours ago.” I muttered another what the fuck under my breath. “Is Karen sleeping?” “Yeah,” I said, “on my bed.” “Go wake her up. I’m almost done.” “Look, Tony, I just arrived—” “No need, I’m here!” Karen’s sole garment was an oversized walpurgis promo shirt. Her naked legs glinted against the cheap yellow light of the kitchen which surprisingly complemented her unkempt hair. She dragged a chair next to me, mouthed I had fun, secretly slipped her rolled-up underwear in my jeans’ right pocket, and then bounced away and hugged Tony from behind. *** Lit Crit dismissed early due to the promise of longer weekends. Our teacher, a bespectacled, balding husk, asked me to stay behind. “I read your thesis, Persona: egobook and Hyde. Impressive.” I felt a sudden shift, a jarring re-arrangement, like an interrupted shuffling of a deck of cards, or a face in a broken mirror. Everything was off-kilter, a bad joke, a stutter betraying a lie. *** My phone was real. I felt it on my clammy hand. But there was little comfort in knowing something was concrete, present, existing. Tony, I need your help. Reply asap Yeah, u said. What? Dude, u just called.

No, I didn’t Dont be stupid. It was u. Whyd u hung up? No way. What did I say? This some kinda prank? Just tell me U just said u need help, then u hung up. U near construction? No, why? Heard banging over the fone. Like hammer & sht. Don’t answer the phone if I call again Are u high?? No! Can we meet? I need to tell you something important Where?

I flicked the screen off without replying. I’ll text him once I get home. As I suffered through the same path to the house, the neighboring cats, motionless like stone gargoyles, followed with a glare. You have 1 unread message/s: “U still there?”

There was a lingering metallic, faintly malodorous scent in the yard. The front door was closed but unlocked, and there were a pair of boots and a pair of flip-flops on the doorstep. A walpurgis promo shirt lay alone on the sofa, watching a muted television. You have 2 unread message/s: “Sis?”, “U still there… My room was in shambles. The bulb remained unfixed. The scent was stronger, more intrusive. You have 3 unread message/s: “Dude ure killing me.”, “Sis?”, “U s…

On the bed, with the pillows and the sheets, was a vague outline of a person—her face was covered in cloth, but it didn’t take half of me to know who she was. I took a deep breath. My phone was still real. My fingers were still real. I’m on my way to your office

*** the registry was a private facility dedicated to the documentation of any paranormal event that occurred in the city, factual or otherwise. After the mass extinction of supernatural beings in 1996, only five people (including the couple who founded it)

knew that it remained operational—a single room crammed to the ceiling with personal written accounts of peculiar activities, with barely enough leftover space for two chairs and a small desk. Tony and Karen’s only job was to keep the papers intact. Its motto was: “We write what you don’t want to know.” “What’s up?” “You deal with ghosts here right?’” “Yeah. And aliens. Are you revealing your true identity, fonehome?” “No.” “Just kidding,” Tony laughs. “If it were true, you’d be the first client in thirty years.” “What’s the weirdest ghost you ever recorded here?” “Tough question. This the important thing you wanna talk about?” “Yeah.” “Here, have a cigarette. Don’t smoke it here though.” “I don’t have a lighter anyway.” I hid the stick in my coat pocket. “I need a drink.” “You mean beer?” “Of course not.” I roll my eyes and say, “Do you have milk? With a straw.” “Huh.” “What?” “Well, we don’t usually have anything but coffee, but Karen brought those this morning. Said a friend is gonna visit.” *** There are no ghosts anymore. It’s midnight. The city is dead. I think of walking back to the registry, convince Tony that I’m really plagued, and scared, and everyone may think that I killed Karen, but instead I stand here, bathing in the pervasive silence.

You have 1 unread message/s: “Hey I read something about a gh…

I imagine the prowlers slink into people’s skins as they sleep. You have 1 unread message/s: “OK. I’ll leave the door open.”

Expecting a cigarette stick to dance between my fingers, I check my coat, only to be hit by a sinking feeling of déjà vu. I pull out the cigarette butt from my pocket: still warm, and very real. I flick my phone on. The egobook screen greets me. Welcome back. Tell us about your NewSelf today, it says. My latest NewSelf update, from two seconds ago, reads: Not learning, I realize, is a deadlier addiction. In the distance, smoke begins to rise.

John Leir Castro

CONTRIBUTORS Joy San Jose Agor is forever lost for words to say, and too lost to find her way. Jorge Jonathan Botor, Jr. is finicky, at best, when it comes to his points of interest, and will defend them until he collapses from exhaustion or indigestion of all the fries and Sprite he’s chosen to live off on for the rest of his life. He also happens to love long sentences. Si Jovi Cadores ay mahal naming lahat. John Leir Castro worries that he may not be real. Maria Shania dela Rea: “Tokwa! Metaphors be with you!” Divinagrace E. Elen is a fourth year BS Biology student. Anamae A. Espera is a third year student of Ateneo de Naga University taking Secondary Education major in English. She prefers to write early in the morning. Reading poems and novels are few of her favorite hobbies. She also appreciates the beauty of handmade crafts. Ahj Eufracio prefers to sleep with the lights off in a really quiet room. She currently works as a recruiter. She loves to read stories with magic, mystery, and a high dose of humanity. Jerome Hipolito earned his AB BSE English in 2009 at the Ateneo de Naga University. He currently teaches at Central Bicol State University of AgricultureCalabanga.

Val Dominic F. Monitâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only dream is to love and be loved. Si Eilyn Lamadrid Nidea nagin fellow for poetry sa 2009 Juliana Arejola-Fajardo Workshop sa Pagsurat-Bikol asin nanggana nin Gold Medal sa essay category nin 2009 Premio Tomas Ajejola para sa Literaturang Bikolnon. Saro siya sa nag-atendir nin 4th TABOAN, Philippine Writers Festival (2012), sa Pampanga, asin 4th Pagsurat-Bikol Congress (2012) sa Siyudad nin Naga. Siya an editor nin Rimpos Art-Lit commemorative book na Nurturing: Inspirations from Rimpos (Mayo, 2013). Nakaiba sa Ani 38, literary journal nin Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) na pigbungsod kan Oktubre, 2014 an saiyang sonnet na Pagbaklay (na may dakitaramon, The Journey). Kagsurat siya nin adaptation kan stage play na Mga Gamgam sa Masaldang na Alas Siyete ni Carlos A. Arejola, sarong production for staging sa 2016 National Arts Month Celebration. Siya cultural worker na nagtatabang sa pagpapadanay nin tataramon, literatura, artes, asin kulturang Bikolnon, teacher/mentor sa English Language Teaching, asin executive director sa Lifestyles Philippines. Pen is. Rea Robles Joseph Aleen S. Salvador started his writing as a hobby when he was in high school. Before that, he was an article writer in his elementary school paper. During high school, he wrote poems and short stories; most of them are unpublished. In college, he learned some of the basic techniques and ideas about writing in pursuit of attaining his dream of being a novelist and poet. Jay Salvosa

TILAD MatĂŹ Editor-in-Chief Joy San Jose Agor Managing Editor John Leir Castro Associate Editors Jorge Jonathan Botor, Jr. Divinagrace E. Elen Proofreaders Joy San Jose Agor Jusan Misolas Ashley Saludes Layout Artists John Leir Castro Krizzia Esperanza For inquiries re: the next call for contributions, e-mail us at kaabtan@gmail.com.