KURIS 2016
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The human mind is primarily designed to fulfill whatever the body and the heart desire. It is through the dismissal of this instinct that civilization has reached its peak, and the failure of doing so that gave birth to its historical lows. Obsession captures the divide between morality and desire, and the fall that comes after when we fail to recognize its depth. Perhaps that is the edge of human life, the constant craving for something we can never have enough of. Perhaps that is why we risk the fall, no matter the length of the falling. Perhaps that is why you’ll take the leap yourself? Will you?
Words by Kyn Noel PestaĂąo Illustration by Zachary Borromeo
Kuris (v.) dinali-ang pagbadlis KU RIS (n.) a literary folio and festival Created and organized by Today’s CAROLINIAN, the official progressive student publication of the University of San Carlos, Kuris showcases the creative prowess of the Carolinian to write short stories, poems and essays -- to create literature that aims to entertain, to provoke and to mobilize. The literary pieces in this year’s portfolio tackle Obsession on various forms, and have been screened, edited and chosen based on their style, organization, mastery of language and relevance to the theme.
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FIRST PLACE (Literary)
THE LOVE OF A BOSOM FRIEND Eugene Dadol
Illustration by Jon Ahmed Durano My bosom friend and I share a different kind of love. For starters, she is vigorous and awfully pretty. Her glossy black hair is often pushed by a scarlet headband. The shape of her face is a perfect oval – one that is exact for a doll. Her smile is precisely attractive and I have always wanted to kiss her incredibly soft lips. She is extremely popular at school. Boys flaunt before her and girls worship her like a goddess. She can slay her arithmetic very well and write literature like she was born for it. The teachers admire her. We rarely talk. Mostly, we spend our time together in the ladies’ comfort room. We would fix ourselves together in unison and smile as we identically pulled off a beauty. She would stare at me with a ravishing awe and then we would exchange bittersweet smiles. Sometimes, she would look into my eyes during class hours. It was our little secret. Our eyes were exceptionally the same – black as raven’s wings. Other times, we would exchange looks in front of the glass windows. Being with her after class were the most special kinds of moments. We would spend the night in her bedroom doing dress-up and practicing fancy speeches like English girls. She would put on lovely pink pajamas and I would do the same. Often times, we would sing beautiful indie songs about loss and life in front of each other. This type of connection with her made me realize that I love her. It was not that kind of love like how my mother looks at father. It was greater than that. Ever since we were little girls, I have always wanted to be with her. It was my dream to hold her hands, embrace her with my arms and kiss her lips. Once, she told me she was also dying to do the same. One night, we were looking deeply into each other’s gaze when we heard the lovely music of our heartbeats. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. I wanted to kiss her at that instant.
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I leaned forward and she did the same. I closed my eyes knowing she closed hers too. We kissed – but I did not feel the softness of her lips. She somehow smelled and tasted like face powder. Maybe I smelled and tasted like face powder. She picked me up and wrapped her arms around me. I guess I did too. We stayed like this for some time when her mother suddenly knocked at the door and she dropped me. To her surprise, I was broken into smithereens. She picked my fragments up using her soft bare hands with such horrid haste. Her mother opened the door and saw blood on her hands. She was pulled away from the fragments bursting into a cry. She managed to grab a piece of me and held into it so tightly. Blood came rushing out of her palms until we both collapsed. It was painful seeing her that way; however, I was happy she held into me so tightly. During that time, I had come to a realization that she, too, love me. She love me the same way I love her. She woke up on her bed with a hint of derangement. When she realized I was nowhere to be found, she rushed to the bathroom mirror to find me. I was there. Both our right hands were bandaged. I looked at her. She was so beautiful. She looked at me. I was so beautiful. I kissed her and she kissed me. Hell, we both smelled and tasted like toothpaste. We know our love for each other is greater than how much my mother looks at father. Our relationship is far deeper, far bigger than any other love. It is a different kind of love only she, my bosom friend, and I share. It is a love so secret yet so beautiful. http://todayscarolinian.net
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SECOND PLACE (Literary)
DAISY Aevryl Ong
Illustration by Justine Patrice Bacareza Her facial features were small and sharp, save for her cheeks. Had her cheekbones and hollows been more prominent, she’d be looking more like an uptight school principal than a chipmunk. He found it rather charming. He thought about her very often. It didn’t help that she lived right across the street, but he didn’t mind. He’d steal glances from his window. As long as he was given opportunities to be near her, he’d gladly take them and indulge in her presence for as long as he could. Just the other day, she was out tending to her hydrangeas proudly displayed in her front yard. He had come over to talk about a gardening problem he was having, and the way her redwood hair fluttered and kissed the planes of her collarbones made him temporarily lose his hearing. Flustered and with a hand behind his neck, he asked if she could come with him and show him herself how to remedy the garden situation. She taught him some basics of keeping his roses alive and well. She slipped a pair of gardening gloves over her slender hands and crouching down, she motioned for him to do the same. Her scent slunk its way up his nose and clung to his memory. Lavender. He’d
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SHORT STORY purchased a multitude of lavender-scented air fresheners since then, but they could never mimic her scent. That day, they spent an hour and a half going over instructions. He didn’t mind. He possessed no green thumb, but hiring someone else to do the work would mean being less able to see her. He would constantly call on her help for his garden, and her eyebrows would crinkle together after every time. He didn’t mind. Everything was like that for the following months. She’d help him on his yard whenever he asked, although a ghost of a frown would pass through her expression more often as she repeatedly explained the things needed to be done. Well, she was having another big argument with her older brother which started two days ago over the phone; he’d heard all of it. That must be why she’d been keeping their conversations curter. He’d bring her the medicine that her brother had mentioned he forgot to buy for their mother. He didn’t mind. She’d started declining his requests for help every now and then. It was understandable; her mother had just been brought to the hospital and she had to look after her. He traced with his eyes the worry etched in lines on her face. He’d stop by the store later and buy her the biscuit tin she’d been raving in her emails to her coworkers about recently. He didnt mind. He would get her anything she wanted. He didn’t mind. A neighbour who lived a few houses down decided to bring her a pot of daisies one day. He’d done some research on those flowers and decided that she was aptly named. Dasies were a tough sort of flower surviving in the world for so long. Just like her with all the recent family problems she’s been going through recently. Their neighbour turned to leave and Daisy called out his name as she waved goodbye. Silas. He closed the curtain he was standing behind. His knuckles met the wall. He felt a small pang in his chest, but he didn’t mind. He clicked more pictures of her from his window. Her arms were gracefully floating in the air as she danced to a tune he knew not the sound of. A smile played on her lips and her hair formed an enchanting red halo around her head. She wasn’t looking directly at the camera. He didn’t mind. She looked so beautiful. That Silas guy had returned to bring her to the hospital as he had many times already. He drove her away in his car and returned half past nine. The both of them looked like they had the time of their lives. She had declined his offer again earlier today. The crack on the wall grew. He didn’t mind. “Sorry, but I can’t today. I have somewhere to be.” He peeked from behind his curtains as he saw for the nth time Silas taking Daisy away from him in his car. Something red and hot bubbled in his chest. It boiled over when the both of them had returned and Silas gave her something more than a kiss. Black, spindly fingers had already blossomed in multiple webs on the wall next to his window. Red spindly fingers had blossomed in multiple webs around Silas’s chest. Because he did mind.
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SORTING BONES Ramon Kenneth Tiu
Illustration by Ramon Kristoffer Tiu
What are you obsessed with? Everyone has an addiction of sorts. Demons that haunt the mind and unknown voices that reverberate in the skull, tearing at consciousness until its demands are delivered. A form of insatiable hunger, an eternal lust over something, anything. Everyone has an obsession. Except for me. Obsession comes in many forms. This, I have determined from careful observation of people around me. Some people desire for something material, may it be the profound attachment to an object or perhaps the incessant craving for more of something. Others are engulfed in something abstract like an idea, a thought that lingers in the consciousness. Unwittingly, they continuously feed it as it propagates and corrupts the mind. Overthinking, some may call it. And there are those who are obsessed over the feeling of something like the euphoria of drugs, the ecstatic pain and pleasure of sex, or perhaps the feeling of not feeling at all. Numbness, in my book, is a feeling as well. A person is no more than a slave to their own desires and obsessions, driven by animalistic urges. Everyone has an obsession. Everyone but me. I have none. “I think you’re wrong.” His voice cut my thought. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. I don’t think you don’t have any obsession or whatsoever.” “Why do you say that?” I challenged him. “I just think that obsession is not necessarily something we are fully aware of. Like some obsessions are actually subconscious. You wouldn’t know you’re addicted to something until you realize you’ve already spent a fortune on it. You just can’t tell you have an obsession over something. Yet.” I looked at him, annoyed, not because he was wrong, but because he seemed like he knew myself better than I did. I couldn’t be obsessed over something. It’s impossible. For 18 years, I have never felt even remotely interested in anything. Literally. I have been born with a condition that makes me incapable of giving reaction proportional to the
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situation, or at least a reaction considered normal by society’s standards. Simply put, I never get excited. My inability to feel excitement has hindered me from being engrossed in anything. It’s easy to think that I live my life in perpetual boredom but that’s not necessarily true. I have never felt excitement in the first place so I wouldn’t know how boredom feels even if it hits me. I try to live my life under the pretense of enthusiasm which I have only known as a concept from my constant observation of other people. I try to act how normal people “act” in their everyday lives but everything I do feels the same; it feels nothing. This has led to my rather unconventional perception of morality. Usually, a person’s sense of right or wrong is founded on his feelings and empathy. Lacking that, I am never able to comprehend the difference between “good” and “evil.” To me, they are no different from each other. “What?” He said defensively. His soothing green emerald eyes, staring at me innocently. His chest, visible outside the blankets. “You’re a strange person.” I said dryly. “That makes the both of us.” He retorted. “How about you?” I said, trying to change the topic. “What is your obsession?” He stared at me, stifling a laugh like he was on the verge on ridiculing me. “Why would you ask that? Isn’t it quite obvious? I like killing people.” In hindsight, that was pretty much a given considering what we have been doing for the past five months. I’ve met him back in June. He was a popular guy. Energetic, kind, and cheerful – a lot of people would congregate around him. We were quite the opposite really. I’ve always been quiet and lethargic while he was the quintessential people person. I guess no one, even I, could have expected him to be an experienced serial killer. I’ve found out about him late in June. It was getting dark and I was passing by some woods on my way home when I smelled a faint trace of blood. I’ve seen many dead bodies before so I’m quite acquainted to this smell. I went deep into the thicket, half
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expecting to see my father. Instead I saw him holding a sledgehammer dripping with blood. Fireflies floated around him, glowing a luminous green that matched his eyes. A lifeless body lay on the ground. “Don’t scream.” He said in a hushed tone. There was no enmity in his voice. It nearly sounded as if he was pleading. I stood there for a while, my face a little skeptical. “Did you kill her?” I asked the obvious. He looked at me, arching an eyebrow. He turned to the sledgehammer in his hand. “Well… yeah.” He said awkwardly. “Why?” “I just felt like it. You seem pretty calm for someone who just saw a murder.” “You seem pretty calm for a murderer yourself.” “Touché” “So are you going to kill me?” I asked off hand. “What?” My question seemed to surprise him. “Oh. Well I don’t really like killing more than one person in a day. Unless, of course if, it’s necessary. Are you going to call the cops?” “No. I don’t really like being involved with the police.” “Oh.” He crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and furrowed his brows as if in deep contemplation. “Well I guess there’s really no reason for me to kill you.” “Oh.” He was an odd one, I’ve decided. My father wouldn’t have let any witnesses slip away. “Do you need help in cleaning up?” He stared at me, way more confused than before. My disinterest didn’t bothered him for too long.
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“Well if you don’t mind…” He hesitated. Since then I’ve been helping him with his murders just as I have helped my father with his. I made sure the safety of his “work”. I would make plans for suitable locations, unsuspecting victims, even how and where to dispose the body. Eventually my father started to suspect we were up to something. My father would kill him should he find out. That’s why we had to kill my father first. He is different from my father. In fact, in spite of everything, he was quite a mystery to me. My father was decent and well-mannered in the eyes of the public. However, deep down, he was a cruel man. His murders were lustful and sadistic. I could see the malice burning in his eyes whenever he kills. His lips would curl into a wry smile as he glares down on his victim like the demon that he is. He becomes a whole new person when he kills. This guy, on the other hand, is always the same. His expression when he is with friends, his gleeful green eyes that shine when he attempts a joke, even his laugh when rattling away the silliest things… none of them seems lost when he takes away a life. There is no trace of hostility, of malice, or even cruelty as warm blood splatters on his bubbly grinning face. I asked him once why he enjoyed killing. He said he just loves the feeling of it. There is no elaborate meaning behind it. Although he also said that the idea of a life ending makes him sad. He made no sense. He talked about it being an obsession which eventually led to this late night conversation in my bed. He constantly stresses that obsession is something that no one can really understand. To him, obsession is at the core of every person, and it saves considerable time and effort when embraced rather than restrained. “Aren’t you going to kill me?” I blurted out loud. “What? He seemed more perplexed than usual. “Well you don’t really need a reason to kill and I don’t really have a reason to live. I don’t
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mind dying either. So how come you never try to kill me?” He stares at me. His tranquil green eyes, boring into mine for what felt like a lifetime. I can’t explain it but his eyes look different now. Different from when he is with friends. Different from when he kills. There is a whole sense of conviction in his gaze. And a sense of sincerity. I cannot read what he is thinking. I can never fathom what goes inside his head. But I want to know him. I want to understand him. More than anything else. He then smiles. “Nah. I don’t think so.” “Why not?” “Hmm. I guess you could say that I am more obsessed with you than the idea of killing you.” He said as he winked at me. “How about you? Are you obsessed with me too?” He smirks at me, the way he does whenever he teases. His bright green eyes, pulling me in ways I can never explain. Obsession is something that no one can ever have a grasp of. It comes in ways we least expect. Who knows what form it will take? Tangible. Intangible. Embracing it, not restraining it, is easier and more efficient. And if obsession is at the core of everyone, then I really don’t know myself. Well… perhaps I do now. Just a little. “Yeah.” I said, my face red and my heartbeat a little faster than usual. “I guess I am obsessed with you.”
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LINDA LINDA LINDA Keith Reymier Ayuman
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin Una’ng inom… Ikaduha’ng inom… Akong kape nibugnaw na. Dugay-dugay na lage naabot si Linda karon? Nangab-ot sa platito para unta sa mani, wa nabantayan nga hurot na. Alas siyete na sa gabie; asa na kaha si Linda? Kahinumdom pa ako sa akong mga gipangkawat sa luyo,labhanan niyang gatapok, mga humot niyang bulingon. Iyang mama akong pirmi huwaton mubiya sa balay, Ako mang li-li sa babaye’ng nagpapitik balik sa akong dughang wa pa’y angay. Taga gabii ko mo hinay-hinay og gawas sa gate sa balay, mo adto’s atbang kay manghimasa na ang paborito kong babaye. Hinay lang. Naa’y lapok pagbantay. Ang suga sa CR nisiga na. Hay salamat, wa ko nasayop sa akong pagli-li kay si Linda nanghimasa na gyud. Inig kahuhman ky diretso hawa, puno na ang gabie. Okay na tanan. Sulod sa kwarto manglock, di katuo sa nadawat naku’ng imahe sa huna huna. Linda, Linda, Linda, ngano’ng lahi man kaayo ka? Sa pagtutok naku sa bintana sa iyang kwarto, nahinumduman ko ang mga binuhatang di mao sa mga laking dal-on niya dinha kani-adto. Si Gerry, Henry, Albin ug si Nong Poloy, sila ug naa pa’y uba’ng pito. “Lahi siya mudala. Gwapa, but-an pero ang importante — lami,” ingon sa akong migo nga si Gerry usa ka gabie. “Ang ako lang dong. Di ka moingon sa imong mama,” mao’y hunghung sa akong papa, Albin ang angga niya kung wa mo kahibaw. “Kaming Nong Poloy? Usa ra among masulti. KUYAW.” Gipawng ni Henry ang iyang sigarilyo, dayu’ng inom og tubig. “Ngano nangutana man ka?” dungag niya samtang gatutok kanaku. Wa sab ko kahibaw. Ngano nangutana man ko nila? Ngano di man ko katagad niya? Gugma ni o biga nasad? Ngano sa tana’ng babaye siya pa man?
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Gi unay lage niya tanan? Ngano ako wala man? Mga pangutana’ng gadagan-dagan sa akong utok. Utok sa minorde’ng wa na’g skwela’g tarong. Ikatulong inom… Hurot na akong kape. Dayu’ng barog ug li-li, wala pa’y tao. Naa’y tuktok sa akong kwarto, nisiga akong mga mata. “Kinsa na? Abot na diay ka, ma?” akong pangutana pagpadulong sa pultahan. Dayun naku’ng abli, akong nakit-an naa’y babae. Akong mama gahilak. “Dong, si Linda gisunog nila,” ingon ni mama, dayu’ng gakos kanaku. Wala ko katingog sa mga nadunggan naku’s iyang ba-ba. Akong dughan wa nagkadimao, tinuod ba ni? Ngano man? Dali ko’ng gibira sa akong mama padulong sa may grotto duol sa amoa. Didto nagatapok mga lalaking nagtingsi, nag tinutukay- nalipay sa ilang gibuhat. Sa pagtutok naku ni Linda nga nagkayo, ako nakahilak. Nahinumduman ko ang mga binuhatan niya’ng sakto ug dili angay kalimtan. Tighatod sa iyang mga igsuon, tiglaba para sa iyang pamilya, labi na sa burikat niya’ng inahan, tighatag og bayad taga-“sweldo”, ug labaw sa tanan, tig-amping sa mga napasagdaan sa ilang ginikanan. Si Gerry, Henry, Albin ug si Nong Poloy, sila ug naa pa’y uba’ng pito. Ang pito kay mga missionaryo’ng gaserbisyo sa amoa’ng barrio. “Dapat ni sunugon bayhana. Demonya kini. Wa’y lugar ang mga bigaon aning kalibutana,” ingon sa akong migo nga si Gerry kanaku. “Ang ako lang ‘dong. Di na ni niya usbon iyaha’ng mga binuhatan. Sa una pa ko nakabantay aning bataa,” maoy hunghung ni Albin, akong papa. “Kaming Nong Poloy? Usa ra among masulti. KUYAW.” gipawng ni Henry ang iyang sigarilyo dayung tunob. “Ngano ipabuhi man nato ang babaye’ng bigaon? Di ba, father?” dungag niya samtang nag katutokay sa usa ka missionaryo.
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Gasiga ang akong palangga atubangan sa akong mga mata. Di ko katoo nga basta-basta nalang mawala tanan sa usa ka gabii. Akong kalibutan, ang nakapawagtang sa katim-os sa akong huna-huna, usa ka gabii’ng nanglantaw pa ko sa mga lungag sa banyo kay ikaw naligo, kagahapon lang gatutok ko sa bintana samtang ikaw nanamin ug nagpagwapa, ako maghuwat taga alas sayis gapitik ang kasingkasing samtang ikaw gabaklay padulong balay. Tagabuntag ko mu tan-aw kanimo, manilhig sa atubangan, muhatod sa imong mga igsoon, muhan-ay sa mga hinayhay. Bahandi sa akong kinabuhi, ang akong luwas sa kasakit ang gipili nila’g patay. Ngano man? Para unsa? Para eskapo sa ilang pagkahipokrito? Sagol sa kalagot, kaguol ug kasakit ang akong nabati pagpalong sa kayo atong gabhiuna. Nakaluhod ko samtang ga tan-aw sa agiw na gipangsilhig sa mga katawhan sa barrio. “Pasensya kaayo dong. Mapasaylo pa ba ko nimo?” pangutana ni Albin, akong papa, naggunit pa sa lighter nga iya’ng gigamit pagsunog ni Linda. “Ngano man Pa? Ngano siya pa man? Di man si Ate ang abat. Si mama man.” “Ato-ato lang sa na. Sabyon sa na’to sila. Hinay hinay ta’g impake samtang wala pa sila kahibaw.”
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INEVITABLY Tony Maeve Lim
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin Today’s different. It feels different. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I can feel the shift of the atmosphere, even in the deepest recesses of my body. Somersaults linger for a little bit longer than usual in my stomach, and I try to rub the uneasiness away, feeling the rough texture of my sweater. I stop. This won’t work. It just feels so different. Maybe it was the phone call. Or the stand off at work today. Hell, maybe it’s just because of the future knocking on my doorstep but I can’t bear the thought of opening my doors to it just yet. If I could afford to hold it off for a while, I would. My phone vibrates incessantly, announcing the arrival of my Uber driver. I grab my purse and hurry downstairs, trying to shrug my coat on while trying to lock the door. Maybe it’ll be a good night. The world can’t be that bad. Life can’t possibly be more off today. -When they told me I could forget my problems for a short time, I didn’t think of doing it this way. The occasional liquor helps—4, 5, 6 shots and all your thoughts go down the drain. Bye, bye, I wave at it, hoping that whatever drainage it went through had enough force to expel everything out. OUT. Where there’s just no possibility of coming back. But life’s just funny that way because the moment you open your eyes the next morning, they’re staring at you right in the face, soaking wet but intact. Still fucking complete. Am I even making sense right now? Maybe. He slaps the packet right in front of me and I bring myself back to reality. It’s hard, trying to focus on a figure when there’s too many strobe lights trying to blind you. I peek at him and asked, “Is this enough?” He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “This can last you a few days, http://todayscarolinian.net
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SHORT STORY honey. Don’t use it all in one go. The night’s still young and you are, too.” He winks at me. I rolled my eyes, stuffing the money inside his pocket. “Thanks, honey. Now go.” “Sure, firecracker. Enjoy.” He bows at me mockingly and disappears in the crowd. Now on for some fun. The others are busily dancing the night away, some are too wasted to even stand up, and some were way too ahead of me and had already started sniffing powder up their noses. I chopped a small amount of powder in lines, fixing them to a what I always thought of as a way of stalling. You never know when you change your mind, right? But I don’t tonight. As I said, it’s different. -1:23 AM Fuck yes. The elation of having everybody surrounding me and listening to my story about the stand off at work just gets me off so much, I literally laugh every few sentences. They laugh with me at the same time, clearly as elated as I am right now. The shrill laughter that escapes us every few minutes gave me enough reason to do more and so I do. 2:25 AM Ah, fuck. I forgot where I put my phone. But who gives a shit, right? I don’t need any disturbances from shitty ass people who might be looking for me. They can be left to wonder. I shout at the top of my lungs and drown myself in the lights and music, losing myself in the sea of people tonight, and I remember vaguely if I really was feeling all those discomfort from earlier. 3:16 AM Was I supposed to meet someone right now? Am I in the club from across the restaurant we ate in earlier? Or was this the one by the park? I’m coming down. I don’t wanna come down. I look for the packet, jostling anybody in my way, and start to chop the powder in little lines again. I take the rolled up bank note out and start. 3:57 AM WHAT THE HELL ARE SPIDERS EVEN DOING IN HERE?
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My friend tells me there aren’t but maybe she’s too wasted to notice. I’m breathing too hard. I need to go out. But what if cops are outside? What if somebody tipped them off that I’ve been doing drugs inside this fucking cramped space? Somebody’s wiping water off my forehead. Who in their right mind spilled some over me? And who the fuck is sitting on my chest? I look down but everyone’s just hovering over me. I can faintly hear somebody saying “get the fuck out” to someone else, though. They’re reassuring each other it’s okay. But it isn’t. I just wanna close my eyes. The lights are making it harder to see through anything. Just then, I feel somebody’s hands clamped on both of my wrists. Why is she shaking them? Am I shaking them? I can barely even form anything coherent. Everything is just a mess. A tangle of wires that I can’t even begin to unravel. A messy flight of words being thrown at each other, actions being done, but nothing good is happening at the very least. I still can’t breathe. Whose phone is that? It’s vibrating too much. I’m vibrating too much along with it. 4:12 AM Is this the end? Did I literally just waste my life away? I can feel myself shutting down. I can’t see anything. I can finally feel the breeze but I still can’t breathe. I can hear panic and hysteria. How do I know that? I knew today was going to be different. I didn’t expect it to be this way. 4:15 AM Nothing. http://todayscarolinian.net
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BINTIOMA’S SONG Mary May Bugnos
Illustration by Justine Patrice Bacareza In a wild country where eyes were value scales, there was an undiscovered diamond trapped in a golden orb. I often hear the prisoner sing that soulful and disturbing siren’s lullaby, but none ever seem to stop it—I noticed. Its song went for days, weeks and years. I don’t know, I never heard it stop. Its song bought miserable lost souls on its wall, digging, scratching, searching for unwarranted treasures. I once asked it what it want and it replied, “I want to be beautiful.” Those words left its lips like a newborn mantra. A forbidden mantra that attracted the unexpected visitor on its door. I remembered how Morals screamed at me to prevent the prophesized creation, but I was a ghost, translucent, and invisible. A silent watcher from the nescient sideline. I knew that this would happen. A quiet voice mulled at the back of my head. The temptation was too great, so alluring, promising, and dangerous And so I watched, as It dragged its feet at the cursed door. Unlocking the untouched seal with hands as bare as its goal And that’s it. It opened the forbidden box. The sweet deceitful promise of Pandora’s jar enveloped it, changed its temple and covered its soul. I saw it laugh. It rang like a sweet vengeance through my ears. “You have it, Bintioma” I whispered “But please,” a drowned scream echoed “..don’t let it devour you”
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POETRY
THIRD PLACE (Literary)
OPHELIA Jaime Antonio Rosello Illustration by Jon Ahmed Durano You were a flower bud, Different from all the rest that sprung out of the mud. The most wonderful blossom to ever bloom; An ironic manifestation of your doom; You were a flower bud, Whose scarlet petals unfurled ever so slightly. A delicate maturity that resonates with the pace of time. A flower bud whose radiating center begins to peak out glimmering brightly A flower bud of whom the harps of heaven chime. You were the most beautiful blossom to have ever bloomed. Whom, with my unfeeling hands, I have doomed Too eager were you to show me your beauty to me. So, I picked you so no one else could see. You were once the most beautiful flower to have ever bloomed. Now, you are but forgotten in life’s unforgiving loom A mere wilting stock by the roadside. Like the other truly beautiful things, idolized, glorified, then cast aside.
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KURIS 2016 (Literary and Art Folio)
December 2016
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FIXATION Jan Joshua Velasco
Illustration by Shari Llamis My primal instincts are kicking in— Acknowledging it is a sin In my calm, collected exterior Is the thought of finding pleasure When your cheeks raise your glasses As you smile with glee It’s like time ceases As I think of what could be Badly, How I wanted you Calmly, How I seem to you Your silhouette is burned in my head Desperation, I want to amend My fixation, I’m longing to make Proximity, just what it’ll take You’ll never know how I feel My desires are tightly sealed Your perception, virtually nil Inside this façade, a burning will
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KURIS 2016 (Literary and Art Folio)
December 2016
POETRY
MICROSCOPIC Jeremiah Ablaza
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin
This is my first gasp. Mouth open wide. I can still feel you inside, Crawling under my skin. Microscopic. Eyelash on your cheek. I can still feel you inside – Under and on my cheek. I was so precise. This was my first mistake, You made me hide, keep secrets, Mouth open wide. Always out of air, Always out of sleep. You made me gasp first, Then you made me breathe. Now I want not to run away. Let us keep making mistakes. Let us hide, they can’t find us Mouths open wide. Telescopic. Someplace far away, Someplace where we are small, Someplace we can stay. Someplace we can gasp Over and over. Someplace we can breathe Keeping our cover.
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POETRY
SPACE VAGABOND Jarrhey De la Peña
Illustration by Jon Ahmed Durano Being on Earth, I suggest, Is not much different Than having departed from it In thirst for meaning, Yearning for awe and reverence, I stare at the never-ending And I am oblivious to nothingness With planets named after gods, With stars whose metaphor we know much of, I asked and sought for the infinite For if I am any bit of an artist, My life is painted by my impulse Trying to appease this vague feeling, Trying to capture the gist of being For I detest hollowness in existing With galaxies flowing through my veins, With stardust in my eyes, I am a slave to the sound: “Life ought not to be meaningless.” A strange craving it must be To unearth answers of greater heights, To extend my eyes beyond the line of sight Yet who knew the stars I worship Can collapse and swallow me in emptiness, Resulting to the shudder of my stance,
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Following the fluster seen in my countenance, Taking my lust for satisfaction Then turning it into addiction So I let the Sun and Moon chatter For maybe I am meant to be a mediator, But they are distant from each other, Seems like I am just inept hereafter In the attempt to experience tranquility, I am agitated at the end of day Though wired for pleasure, Maybe I will settle to be the Sun— Who gives light though far But how do I control my compulsion? I may be without gravity But my heart is heavy, In the construction of my soul Comes my destiny to fall My tears and moon dust mingling in space, Idealism meets disappointment; Staring at the boundless, I am devoid Being away from Earth, I say, Is just another analogy Of how I live in the society
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KURIS 2016 (Literary and Art Folio)
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PARA SA AKONG AMAHAN Aristokratong Duok
Illustration by Geralden Morre Nakita tika karun, nakapiyong ug bugnaw Gahi nga kamot, tiil, ug hulagway Puti ug klarong may nahupay nga kinabuhi Dili sama sa una nga makita nako imong ngisi Naa ko dinhi para limpyuhan tika Limpyuhan sa mga kasakit ug kaantos Kining tubig akong ibuhos, ug tubo nga pangsuyop Mawala naka ug unta makalimtan naka, sa pagdagan sa panahon Naglagot man ko sa ilaha ug sa imoha Ug samot sa akong kaugalingon, Dili man nako mapugong ang kining gibalati nako karun Unta matumong nalang kini sa paglimot Kasakit! Amahan na amigo, ngano wala naka? Ngano wala man nimo na kaya? Ngano dili nalang sigarilyo, beer, o di kaha rugby? Kung kahibaw nalang ko sa drogas ka mahulog. Bitag sa kasakit akong nabati karun Pero alas! Nalipay nako kay naay naabot Kaliguan pud nako siya http://todayscarolinian.net
Dili tubig sa kalimpyo, kundi sa dugo nga kasakit Salamat Andong, ug gihatag nimo ni siya Nakapiyong, gahi, ug bugnaw Hala sige, ipahigda na siya Kay ako nalay bahala sa iyaha Five thousand ba Andong? Kuhaa dira sa lamesa, naa panay pakapin Pakapin para sa gasolina, ug pan sa imong nagutom nga tiyan Ug pakapin nga bayad sa imong konsensya na nabuhat Ikaw mupatay, patay napud diay ka Ni walay pulis o di kaha presidente ang nakapugong sa imoha Pero samot, wala puy nakapugong sa akoa para sa imoha Kay kahibaw ko, Ginoo ko nga makabuot ug makahimog hustisya Hustisya na alang sakong amahan; Hustisya na alang sa akoa ug sakong pamilya; Hustisya sa mga taw inig agi sa kaugmaon; Ug hustisya para magdungan tag kasunog sa impyerno. Kalami diay, justice is served! (katawa) Today’s CAROLINIAN
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