1
“W
e are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” — Oscar Wilde
K U RI S 2 0 1 9 Published by Today’s Carolinian University of San Carlos Cebu, Philippines — ILLUSTRATION — 1st Place: Fated Choice by Daniella Ann Ocampo — LITERARY — 1st Place: Sardinas by Loren Grace Mañigos 2nd Place: Scripts by Jimbo Pantas 3rd Place: Soulmates by Neillie Pauline Gillera Again and Again by June Angelie Burtanog • Rain by Mar Louie Vincent Reyes Namulat by Kesiya Rodas • An Elegy for the Fatalist’s Shoes by Ana Trinidad The Vacuum by Ivy Joy Javagat • Five over Nine, over Infinity by N. Yan Tug Tuga-ok by Keith Ayuman — PHOTOBOOK — Poem: Here by Brynch Bonachita Keith Ayuman • Joanne Marie Bolo • Dodds Marvin Campomanes Christian Rey Caracena • Jason Matthew Lim • Lance Matthew Pahang Jessa Marie Pedrola — SHORT FILM — Written, Directed and Edited by Keith Ayuman Produced by Dave Bernasibo and Keith Ayuman Based on the poem “Hello Sunshine” by Dave Bernasibo Story by Keith Ayuman and Dave Bernasibo Director of Photography: Robert Michael Lim, Frank Go, and Keith Ayuman Assistant Director: Joi Villablanca Script Supervisor: Maria Consuelo Pacilan Production Design by Joi Villablanca and Keith Ayuman Sound Operator: Dave Bernasibo CAST Easter Fulache - Jules • Emmanuel Suarez - Jules’ Brother (George) Frank Go - Ryan • Januar Agujar - Mike Maria Consuelo Pacilan - Vanessa FILM SCORE “Gikan Pako Sa Bukid” Performed, Written, and Produced by Keith Ayuman “Kaugmaon” Produced and Performed by Frank Go “Ikaw” Written by Marlon Belita and Performed by Ramil Ayuman “Tuesday Evening at 7” Written and Produced by Keith Ayuman Performed by Luke Anthony Duma and Keith Ayuman SEE BEFORE PRODUCTIONS 2019 Collection Copyright © 2019 by Today’s Carolinian All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is strictly prohibited. Today’s Carolinian publishes one to two issues per academic year. Today’s Carolinian may also publish occasional extra issues. An electronic version (PDF Format) of every publication is available in the Today’s Carolinian website.
TABLE of CONTENTS Fated Choice: An Illustration / p. 1 Choices and Fate: Tales and Songs 1st Place: Sardinas / p. 5
2nd Place: Scripts / p. 9 3rd Place: Soulmates / p. 13 Again and Again / p. 15 Rain / p. 17 Namulat / p. 21 An Elegy for the Fatalist’s Shoes / p. 23 The Vacuum / p. 27 Five over Nine, over Infinity / p. 31 Tug Tuga-ok / p. 37 Here / p. 41 My Sunshine: A Film / p. 63
ILLUSTRATION – 1ST PLACE –
fated choice Illustration by Daniella Ann Ocampo
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7
tale song CHOICE & FATE:
es& gs 4
LITERARY – 1ST PLACE –
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SARDINAS
SARDINAS Loren Grace MaĂąigos
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin
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LITERARY – 1ST PLACE –
Dagan diri, dagan dadto Kuha diri, kuha dadto Tago sa bakuran, katkat sa atop Mao na akong kinabuhi sukad pagkatawo. Akong papa nga palahubog, Akong mama nga wa’y ayo Kami sa’kong mga manghud Nga kinulatag maayo. Usahay one day one eat, Kasagaran one day no eat. Bisan wa’y sulod ang tiyan, Akong gipaningkamutan nga motrabaho, Para sa akong mga igsuon nga wa’y kaon. Kalkal og basura sa kiliran, silingan ug sa dalan Uy! Naa’y pan mura’g bag-o pa, atong tilawan! Ibaligya og tag singko ang usa ka botilya nga litro, Ang uban tag mimiso. Kulanga sa halin! Singkwenta pesos taga adlaw Kwaon pajud sa’kong amahan, Isulod og sako kung wala’y mahatag! Kaluoy sa kinabuhing pobre, Kung motrabaho ka mura’g wa’y kaundangan. Mao na’ng akong mga barkada mangawat nalang Kay mao ra man sad ang kapadunggan. Sa duha ka adlaw nga wa’y sulod ang tiyan, Napagdesisyunan nako’g kwa-on ang sardinas Sa tindahan sa’mong silingan. Di lalim, pero unsaon taman, wa man ko’y kwarta ikapalit, Kwaon man nilang mama para ihithit.
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SARDINAS
Paspas ko’g dagan Para di maapsan Sa pagka-busy og dinagan, wa nabantayi ang bato sa dalan. Nadagma, nasamad, nasakitan og labi na sa tanan, nasakpan! Gisumbong ko niya sa akong papa, “Ikaw na’y bahala unsaon na nimo! Ipapriso na!” Sa iyang kumo nga mura’g bato ming lupad sa akong nawong, Nakita og nasiguro nako nga wa jud ko gihigugma Sa akong amahan. Ang kainit sa panahon ug kahayag sa adlaw, Wala ra katunga sa gibating kabugnaw ug kadag-om. Sa sulod sa selda ako nag muni-muni, Kanus-a kaha ko bisitahon sakong mga igsoon ngari? Naga-ihap sa mga adlaw, pero Kung akoy pabut-on dili nko muuli Kay ang pagkaon diri libre.
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LITERARY – 2ND PLACE –
SCRIPTS Jimbo Pantas
Illustration by Christine Mae Alferan
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SCRIPTS
K
nocks give me anxiety — gentle or otherwise. You rap those knuckles against that sevenfoot chunk of wood, and I’d fly from my bed towards its cold doorknob. Not grabbing it, just staring at it. Hoping the knocks would stop. Hoping to catch that sound of a reluctant footstep, and another footstep, and another, until I hear them fading in the distance, until I hear nothing more than the blood pulsing in my ears. Things work out that way sometimes. Mostly the knocks would go on and I’d be forced to make the grab, the twist, the pull, and the assertive just-paid-my-rent smile with a polite “Yes?” to the rude, unannounced company. If it’s indeed Ate Piamita, my landlady, I’d add a po to it: Yes po? I’m not sure just how old the old hag is, but she surely was born into a generation who cares about orthodox manners way too much. If it’s a neighbor down the hall wondering if they could borrow my plunger, I’d let them knock away. Life could go on with clogged toilets. But today, it’s not Ate Piamita or some neighbor whose name I barely recall; the voice accompanying those knocks belong to my sister Min-Min. Hellos give me anxiety. They’re too short and unwelcoming for a word that is supposed to be a greeting. I wish we spoke a different language, one that has warmer lexes for acknowledging people’s presence. Even the surprised, all-Filipino “Uy!” right before hello doesn’t help either. After the words leave my mouth, I become mute, and so does she. I’m caught off guard when she wraps me in her arms. I try so hard not to squirm. It’s my sister so I let her in, if only as an excuse to break away from the hug. She took a seat at my desk; I, on my bed. I watch her make a quick survey of my room, and I follow her in case her eyes land on something that needs explaining. They don’t. They finally settle on mine, and I fight the urge to turn away. Just before I could lose in the staring contest, she breaks the silence, “Patay na’s Dominique.” No opening lines about the weather. No buildup. No backstory to soften the plunge of the bomb. I wonder how long she rehearsed it on the bus on the way here, or if she did at all. I wonder if it crossed her mind that our brother, for all that he was, deserved a narrative of his demise, replete with a strong foundation to usher in the dramatic revelation. She’s not dealing with any nonsense today, I guess. She tells me to pack up because we’re going home. Travelling gives me anxiety. The image of a sea of vehicles amid the early evening Tuesday jam sickens me already. The thought of traveling with my sister and the silence that is sure to brew between us, they vex me. Conversations. Not Twitter threads, not subreddits. It’s so easy to come up with starters when you’re alone and awake at three in the morning. Dogs, books, tattoos, Duterte, the avocado trend, Reddit memes. But when you step out into the world you get this pitch-black hole in your head, all those wonderful ideas for discussion you had, sucked into that dark void, only to resurface when the whole thing’s over. Chance missed.
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LITERARY – 2ND PLACE –
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SCRIPTS
I try to break the silence between my sister and I now and then. She let me have the window seat in the bus, which makes it easier to chat with her since I could gaze out through the window and pretend I’m enjoying the view, which comprises of trees and a sparse assortment of houses, a sign that we’re getting close to our home. Driving into town, taking in the houses, the sari-sari stores with their big Coca-Cola signages, the grocery store, the barber’s shop, the local elementary and high schools, the church, the municipal building — all these places, that took up the most part of my life, just give me anxiety. I wonder how many of these people who have occupied these places for years are in bed, sleeping soundly, and how many are in our house, chatting over peanuts and coffee, while a barong-clad Dom-Dom lies in his fancy box in the corner of the sála. I wonder who will be there: my parents and my siblings, my títas and títos, my cousins, the people I went to high school with, the neighbors, a bunch of támbays who see an opportunity to gamble without the tánods breathing down on their necks. I imagine myself getting off the tricycle, attracting stares from everyone. Whispers. Local boy who went to the city, comes back home. The thought of it makes me want to jump off and run back to the bus stop and wait for the next bus bound for the city. But it’s too late; we finally get there and I am overcome by everything. The tents and the lights and the flowers. The words, the expressions, the tears, the hugs. I am passed from one pair of arms to another like a glass of expensive liquor, each person drinking solace from me until I am nothing but an empty piece of tableware, ready to be carted off to the sink, to be washed for another day’s use. Nothing gives me anxiety anymore; in fact, I hardly feel anything as the week goes by. I’m a walking rag doll. What I do, however, is watch. Observe. I take in as much as I could around me, and what I get leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I watch as they cling to the coffin, wailing my brother’s name as if cries could breathe him back to life. I listen as they tell me they’re sorry for my loss, condolences, and everything’s going to be okay. I examine their faces: the slumping of the eyes, the way their cheeks sag, the slightly bent lips. I want to ask them which of the thousands and thousands of films and TV shows out there did they copy this act from. When they formulate their words and speak them, I want to know the scene and who performed it. Was it a high-profile actor? What did she or he look like? I want to know if it had an amazing score. Slow, melodic, haunting. And what about the cinematography? I want to know if it’s visually aesthetic. I want to know the smallest of details. I let all these people and their off-screen performances wash over me for a week until I could not do it anymore. I feel panic rising and rising from my very core, and I’m somewhat glad that I can feel again. I embrace it. I break down and cry just like the rest of them. I cry and they flock towards me, ready to catch me in their arms. After a while the joy dissipates. Shame replaces it because I know now that I’m part of a system of scripts. I am fake. Unoriginal. A rip-off.
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LITERARY – 3RD PLACE –
SOULMATES Neillie Pauline Gillera
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin Year 581 They started rebuilding the great wall. In this life, you Were a soldier. Tasked to keep watch of the workers. “Wait for me,” you said. I haven’t seen you ever since. Year 1552 “Treason,” they said. In this life, you Were an officer in the Russian army. The moment Vasilly II conquered Kazar, you told me to run away. “I love you,” you said. I haven’t seen you ever since. Year 1940 You kissed me on the train en route to Auschwitz. In this life, you Were a German merchant. I was a Jew. “I’ll find you,” you said. I haven’t seen you ever since. Year 1961 East German officials started constructing the Berlin Wall. In this life, You lived in the West. “Come with me,” I said. I haven’t seen you ever since. Year 2001 As two planes flew into the towers of the World Trade Center, I frantically dialed your number. In this life, you worked as a financial consultant. No one answered. I haven’t seen you ever since.
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SOULMATES
Year 2018 University started two weeks ago and I was restless. I haven’t seen you. Where are you? Just as I was about to leave, you entered the room. We looked at each other. A flicker of recognition present in your eyes. You looked different than you were in our past lives. But I knew then, that I’d still love you. Just like how I did before. I’d love you In this life and the next.
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LITERARY
AGAIN AND AGAIN June Angelie Burtanog
Illustration by Christ Ian Palomares
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AGAIN AND AGAIN
I was crossing the waters My hair, dancing in the wind I stare at a distance And you are running like a wild horse in my head How long will I have to wait? I have never seen such eyes in my years of aimless wandering You came with a kaleidoscope Slowly, black and white turned into striking hues Yours is the voice that gives me peace in my sleep How long will I have to wait? Finally, rain pours, washing away my madness Grief, lingering there all along, makes me dare say — “fantasy’s no stranger to reality.’ Darling, your smile is a case of repeat-plays in my lonely mind Do I just dream and wait?
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LITERARY
RAIN Mar Louie Vincent Reyes Illustration by Christ Ian Palomares
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RAIN
T
he name Rain was passed on to the man. The name Rain was in every paper that was of him. He did not want to be called Rain, but he had no one who could say otherwise. That was his name. Rain was the word that commanded the farmers to distribute grain because only he could allow them to plant in their land. Rain was the voice that brought every child up to go to school because only he could move them to study and learn: to learn of what Rain had to say next and to follow Rain in every way. How Rain was taught to the young, was the way the elders knew Rain. Rain was the name passed on to the man named Rain, and the word Rain was the word no one could deny, but no one else could say it but Rain. This was the code lived by the people of Pleasant Town. There was no other code. Rain was the word. Rain was the name of the man who gave the word, and the word gave the code. No one could deny the code, but no one could have the word. For only Rain could have the word. Only Rain. But Rain desired only one thing… to not be Rain. To not be Rain means to not have the word. To not say the word meant that people had their own word. To have their word meant to have their own code. But only Rain could have his own code. For the name Rain had been passed on solely to him. No one could take that away, not even Rain. Why would Rain deny Rain? Why would he deny his word? One day, Rain gave the word to the children: to love and to be loved. This was followed. The word was love. The children gave love. They had families, and they had friends. Their neighbors gave gifts. There was no worry. Rain said to love, and so they did. The next day, Rain gave a different word: to work hard and to be proud of it. The children made marvelous things. One had the image of Rain, and it was so beautiful that the teacher decided to have him say the words Rain would say on the next day. For in school, only those deserving of Rain’s respect could speak the word Rain has given. The child — Handy Boy — began to take to heart the code. He took to heart the word of Rain. Every day, he would go to the Place of Rain, where Rain lived and spoke his word. This way, Rain did not need to go to the school and say the word. The people followed the word Rain gave. Therefore, the chosen child had to give what the people must follow. Handy Boy was given a medal for his good work. The image of Rain was put as a monument to replace the one that had stood before. The day ended with every person accomplishing their best, just as Handy Boy did, and everyone was proud of what they did. The following morning, Handy Boy came with the word of Rain. Rain said that all must learn to be humble of heart. The children knew what this meant and each began to talk about the other person with reverence. But alas, Handy Boy, who won the respect of Rain, was tested
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here. It was on this day he learned that Rain wanted him to follow his word no matter how he felt. Today he praised another child who wrote an essay that praised Rain and his good words. The teacher saw this and gave a medal as a sign that she earned the respect of Rain. Let us name this child Clever Girl. She too was made to take to heart the code and give the word of Rain. She and Handy Boy visited the house of Rain to give his word the next day. The day ended with every person praising their neighbor and writing about them. The newspapers had the name of every citizen in town. The next day, Handy Boy and Clever Girl gave the word together. Rain said that all must keep their promises. The children passed their papers on time. In each paper, they were also made to write down what they had promised. One child promised to get the perfect score and he was recognized. He earned the medal and the respect of Rain. Let us call him Boy on Top, and he had the respect of the class. When Clever Girl and Handy Boy saw their scores, they were surprised. Both got perfect scores yet another would claim the respect of Rain. Why not them? As Boy on Top climbed the steps to the house of Rain, Clever Girl and Handy Boy confronted him right before he would reach for the door. They asked why Boy on Top got the respect of Rain. He replied, “It is my day today. I was chosen by Rain. You already had your day.” The two kids knew not how to respond. Boy on Top continued, “Why do you want more of what you already have?” “I want more because I want to be the best among us,” Handy Boy answered. So did Clever Girl. With this, the three began quarreled in front of Rain’s house. Rain came out and asked, “Why do you fight? You had your medals. You all earned my respect. Today is this boy’s day. Let him have it. Everyone gets their day.” This was another word by Rain, and thus, they obeyed. After a few weeks, the teacher gave an evaluation. Clever Girl had three medals. Handy Boy had four. Boy on Top had. Five more children had one medal each, and the rest of the medals were given to the townsfolk who followed the word of Rain diligently. The teacher had seen the work of Rain. People worked hard to earn the medals. The ones with more medals worked even harder to earn more of Rain’s respect. Then one day, Clever Girl lost one of her three medals, not realizing. The following morning, she met her friends and saw that one of them had two medals, instead of one. The word of
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RAIN
Rain had not yet been given by her or anyone. The teacher warned them not to take medals that did not belong to them. The girl who had the second medal felt guilty; the code demanded honesty, so she had to give it back to Clever Girl. When the word was spoken, to that girl’s surprise, she earned a medal. The word was honesty. This angered Clever Girl. “Why was she rewarded for stealing?” she asked in a burst of rage. She grabbed the girl by the collar. “You could not be better than me just because you followed the code!” Clever Girl was stopped by the teacher. Soon, the newspapers spread word of farmers fighting in the marketplaces for medals, claiming that they were honest in their delivery, and others were hiding things. Rain read this and was not pleased. The next day, Rain had not said any word. This was a shock to the entire town. What would they do without the word of Rain? What will they listen to? Sensing the worry of the people, Handy Boy went to the place where his monument stood. He now had the most medals among them and said, “I speak the word of Rain. We must keep quiet and calm down. Let us not worry for all will be well.” The people did not believe him. “I heard another story,” one remarked, “I heard the word of Rain was to pay the farmers double.” The farmers cheered. “I heard it differently,” said another, “The word of Rain was that the women do whatever their husbands say!” The crowd grew louder and Handy Boy could barely speak up. When Handy Boy and his classmates came to the house of Rain, they did not find him there. Rain was gone. After years without Rain, the farmers decided to stop distributing grain. They did not feel Rain. The land had been divided among the groups. Each had to buy the grain for themselves. At the same time, without the word of Rain, the land had to be paid by the farmers for them to work on it. The people continued to suffer. The wages paid to maintain the homes, the lands and the school itself were increased. No one knows what happens to the money, the grain or the books. The children were now competing for medals, until the school ran out. The medals were more important than the books the children took home. For the kids, it was everything. For their parents, it was another way to pay the wages of their homes. For the farmers, it was their ticket to having the grain they reaped. Everyone wanted the medals, until the medals ran out. There was no reason to get more anyway. Medals were useless. The groups made their own decisions but they decided to keep taking more of the people’s wages. The town was all the better for it. After all, Rain said things would get better if we gave a part of ourselves. Rain never wanted to give the word. He was nowhere to be seen. And he was free to not be Rain. But at what cost?
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LITERARY
NAMULAT Kesiya Rodas
Illustration by Philip Luke Manghihilot
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NAMUL AT
Ako’y naglalakbay sa lugar ng kaginhawaan Na lahat ay pawang ngiti’t saya ang bumabalot At ‘di na ito kailangang punan Dahil lahat ng saya ay nakapalibot Bawat taong umaaligid ay may bitbit na saya ‘Di ko maintindihan na bakit masakit sa pakiramdam Pero mga bata’y pilit ako pinapasaya Kahit ano pa ang bigat ng aking dinaramdam Nasa desisyon na ang iiyak o mamuhay gaya nila Pinipilit kong magging matatag at palaban Para hindi sa kanilang harapan magkakasala Pinapatuloy ko pa rin ang laban Masakit na at biglang mga luha ay bumuhos sa mga mata — Sumabay ang pagdilat at nawala ang lahat Mga unan na kay basa ang una kong nakita At biglang aking puso’t isip ay namulat Namulat sa umagang kay silaw na saan patungo at lalakbay Sa desisyon bang mananatili o babangon na sa katotohanan — Na sa lahat ng bagay na ako’y pinagkait at sumablay At mga bagay ngayo’y gusto ko ng dahan-dahang punan
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LITERARY
AN ELEGY FOR THE
FATALIST’S SHOES
Ana Trinidad
Illustration by Phoemela delos Santos
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A N E L E G Y F O R T H E FATA L I S T ’ S S H O E S
We have dreams, but some don’t last some aren’t realistic some aren’t practical some just aren’t meant for us and some dreams were crafted for us by other people And we make decisions, some not good some not bad some just happen and some just hurt This poem is for those who believe in fate, for those who didn’t want to make decisions, for those who trudged a mile in someone else’s shoes, living with the discomfort of blistered feet and neglected aspirations, This is an elegy for the fatalist who knew nothing about determination, This is for some, who wear the intentions of others. The world is not fair, when we burst into life, there was no deciding our circumstances, no grand reveal, no choosing ceremony — there was no prologue to our making which cast us based on our desires this wasn’t a movie, we were never invited to star, no applications were submitted, but for some reason,
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LITERARY
it was innate for us to know, that though nobody was casting, this was a show, and we had a permanent audience. We didn’t know their names — It was a crowd of unrecognizable faces, undeniably there, with the spotlight in our face, We didn’t dare say it burned It was a blind show With standard party tricks, we performed based on crowd interaction, Eventually, we could pick them apart You see, at age 4, when I came home with twi stars stamped on my hand instead of three I met disappointment At age 6, when I danced in the mall wearing immaculate white, the only nurse in the area being me I met expectation At age 10, when I walked along the aisle for the second time, hands gripped into a hold, the familiarity telling me to make sure there was a third time, and a fourth, and fifth… I met competence At age 13, when I got my first bra, I met society At age 14, during an outreach program, I met privilege At age 16, when I entered a new school, I came to know isolation At age 18, when nobody asked me what I wanted to be when we get good grades early on in school; most don’t dare ask you what you want I met education at age 19, struggling in college, I met apprehension and her friend, the nagging voice of hesitation.
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A N E L E G Y F O R T H E FATA L I S T ’ S S H O E S
When we get so used to their attention, we forget the millions of options nobody deprived us of We become the narrator of the show we wish we weren’t part of; inviting the same people we wish didn’t go, because they were the only ones we dared to know. After walking the mile in shoes too small for our feet, we might find that the soles have worn off, the heels have chipped, the blisters have callused. But we have walked too far to head back now. It is time to get rid of dead weight, It is time to bury them along with the notion that we are powerless, that our path is set, that we are nothing without them, this is an elegy for the fatalist who walked a mile, and a half, before finally getting his own pair of shoes.
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LITERARY
THE VACUUM Ivy Joy Javagat
Illustration by Phoemela delos Santos
“D
o you ever wake up crying after a dream?”
“Sometimes,” she said, still looking straight ahead. “I do. A lot.” “Really?” She glanced at me in awe. “I guess a grown man like me shouldn’t admit to such a thing.” At once, I felt like a fool for not thinking of better things to talk about. “No, no, no,” she said as she shook her head. “A grown man should totally admit to such things. It makes you seem super… manly.” “Definitely,” I chuckled. All these years, and she still hasn’t lost her way with words. Dark clouds and rumbling noises filled the night sky. The moon was nowhere to be seen, and the streets were empty. It was just the two of us, walking side by side, recollecting all the memories we’ve shared, talking about the people we’ve met and the places we never imagined we would see. When I ran out of words, I decided to tell her about the dreams I was having. But I guess I shouldn’t have. This is a dead-end. “What kinds of dreams make you cry?” I was glad that she showed interest in what I opened up, or that at least she acted like she was. “I don’t know. I just keep having this one dream where I’m standing on a hill, all right, with dirt, and I just start vacuuming —” I paused. I watched her to see if she was invested in my story. She seemed to want to know more. “And when I’m finally done, I look around me, and I’m in the middle of the desert, surrounded by dirt, and I’m so overwhelmed with never cleaning that I start crying. It was tears. Like a never-ending cycle of never getting rid of dirt, but then disposing what the earth is made of back into itself, so it’s just constant…” I didn’t want to elaborate. “That kind of just gave me a headache,” she said. “Yeah.” “I like that you’re not afraid to say that you’re afraid.”
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T H E VAC U U M
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Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, we were standing in front of her house. I felt like I’ve been here before, but I’m probably mistaken. She told me she only moved here yesterday. “Thank you for walking me back to my house.” “Anytime.” I was waiting for her to get inside, but neither of us moved an inch from where we were. We ended up exchanging awkward smiles instead. It felt pure. I felt pure. “I guess since you’ve done some chivalrous deed, the only way I can return the favor is if I walk you back to your house,” she said. I was caught off-guard. My mind instantly responded but my mouth took a moment to find the right words to say. “Okay.” I was desperate to extend the night. I could have confessed how glad I was, but I didn’t. We talked about our friends and their new families. Well, it was her who did the talking. I was busy grasping every moment. Every detail. I wanted to remember all of it. Her hair flowed smoothly from her crown braid, and I loved seeing it caressed by the soft breeze. The last time I saw her, she had full fringes with her hair just above her shoulder. Quite a lot has changed with how she looked, but her cheeks were still plump and rosy, which made her seem younger, as if eight years didn’t pass. I wondered if she still listens to Hawthorne Heights or The Offspring. I wondered if she still paints. I wondered if she still hates avocado toast. I wondered if she ever misses me. I wondered then if she’s happy. “Were you there when Tim’s son was christened? I only saw the pictures.” I wasn’t paying much attention to what she was saying, but fortunately, my mind immediately caught up. “Oh, did you see that baby? The chubbiest old man face... so angry.” “But I can’t sleep, I keep having these terrible dreams about vacuuming the never-ending dirt of the desert and I’m so mad! Look, there’s dirt everywhere,” she chortled. She’s still so adorable. “Jerk.” She continued laughing. It’s been years since I last saw her like that. If it weren’t for that neon sign of the liquor store across my apartment, I wouldn’t know that we’re home. “This is where I live,” I said. She didn’t bid goodbye. She didn’t say anything. The look on her eyes… it was as if she misses me. “Guess it’s only fair that I do the same for you,” I said. “Why do you keep coming back?”
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T H E VAC U U M
“What?” “You keep going in circles.” I feel like I’m losing my mind. “Maybe we both are,” she said. “Why did you stop loving me?” I asked. “I don’t know.” “I miss you.” “I know.” Do you? “I am sorry I stopped loving you. I have no idea where it went. I know none of these matters. I’m not really here. I can’t give you the quarter you need but please don’t hate me. I’m so sorry.” She hugged me. I hugged her back. It was brief, but it was exactly what I needed. “I don’t know how to move on,” I said. “You have to. It’s not fair for either of us. You can’t keep going back here. It’s not safe.” I knew then. “Do you promise me, Paul?” “I will.” She looked down. She started walking away from me. “Can I walk you home one last time?” She stopped. She was already about a yard ahead of me. She turned around and looked at me. Finally, she extended her hand.
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FIVE OVER NINE, OVER INFINITY N. Yan
Illustration by Christine Mae Alferan
M
y first life was spent when you fed me that brown thing. Do you remember? I do.
In fact, I still remember the first time we met. You held me awkwardly, red-faced and bawling. I’ve been told that humans are soft, leaky things, but I didn’t know they were adorable as well. I was yet to discover how noisy and annoying you could be though. Back to that brown thing that you liked so much. Your mother tried to hide bars of them when you weren’t looking, but still you knew where to find them. I didn’t know why you liked it so much though. It tasted like sand. Still, I ate the lot you gave me. After all, it was you. You were annoying, but you wouldn’t do anything evil. I could smell it in your skin and in your hair, all those times you used me as a pillow. My second life was spent at the vacant lot two blocks down the street. Do you remember? It was your favorite spot to spend afternoons in. You’d pick flowers and make wreaths with them, or make fairy houses out of twigs and dead leaves. Sometimes you spoke to fairies, despite their absence. I’ve never been outdoorsy, but I decided to follow you after I sensed it, how other humans your age didn’t want you in their games. I didn’t know why. You were warm, and had grown to be quiet and nice. Those were our afternoons, and I discovered that being outside under the sun felt good too. That day, we saw new people bustling in the adjacent house. Then, a hulking mass of noisy villainy growled at you. It kept saying it was his territory. I wasn’t sure you understood, but it was the first time I felt your fear. You were making tiny, tiny steps, almost frozen. The next thing I knew, I was hissing at it, backing into you. We both tried to inch our way out of there, but the thing lunged at you. I had to intervene. My third life was spent chasing you down the street. Do you remember? Your father’s voice thundered through the house. He called you a demon, again. I didn’t know what a demon was. All I knew was that whenever he did that, the air in the room would hang heavy, and it would rain seawater from your eyes. I tried to lick them away but you always hid your face, as if you were ashamed I was seeing this happen. I was used to your leaking by then. Silently, you stole away from the house when dark came, but not so silent enough that I didn’t hear. I slipped through the door after you to investigate. I went after you but one of those metal hunks got me right when you were within sight. The pain was sharp but thankfully short-lived. When I opened my eyes I was in a white room. In that room there was one of my kind so great in size, in such an unfathomable array of colors. I stared in awe.
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F I V E OV E R N I N E , OV E R I N F I N I T Y
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LITERARY
“My child,” she said. I knew she was a she, but I didn’t know how I knew that. “Mother?” I called to her instinctively. “This, what you have done, is unprecedented.” “What do you mean? How so?” “Our kind, we come and go as we please. I trust that you know that, yes?” “Yes. Yes, I do.” “You seem to be rather fond of this particular soul,” she mused out loud. I only shrugged in response. “Under her care, you’ve been here and back three times since you were born. At this rate, you’ll use all your lives up before you —” she stopped to sigh, and started again. “My child, what is the purpose of life?” She asked me this as if she expected me to know the answer, but I didn’t. My mouth was agape and my head was tilted. “I don’t know.” She smiled a little. “You have a lot to learn. Try not to die so easily this time,” she said with a hint of gentle laughter. With that, she opened her mouth and swallowed me whole. The next time I saw you, I lived at the house beside yours. I was apparently doted upon by a spinster who sewed clothes for a living. Her shop was a stone’s throw from the wall that separated her territory from yours, and had old wooden creaking floorboards. I was well-fed and comfortable, pampered, even, but it didn’t quite feel like home. Besides, I was utterly bored. The lady was nice, but she worked all the time, and stopped to pat me only sparingly. We never played. To pass the time, I would climb up the tall wall and stare down at you in your room. You stared at me a lot, too, and sometimes held up scribbles of what I was supposed to look like to you. The old lady, however, didn’t like that, and would always talk about me getting wounded or falling to my death. She’d keep me cooped up inside the spacious shop, day in and day out. At first, I escaped every chance I could. However, upon taking a good long look at her, I decided to humor her. I went out less often and took it easy on her. She was all alone, after all. Her back ached, and she was hard of hearing. She was at her machine all the time, but business was scarce. Sometimes I would curl up on her lap to stop her from overworking herself. I lived like that for quite some time until that dear old lady passed in her sleep. I was beside her the night it happened, and she caressed me one last time before walking into the light. I, on the other hand, walked into the mirror and ended up in the same white room where I came from. “Curious, indeed,” Mother said, studying me. “You were bored, weren’t you?” “So, so much! You wouldn’t know. I was bored out of my wits!”
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F I V E OV E R N I N E , OV E R I N F I N I T Y
“Then, why didn’t you cross over?” I had to stop for a while to think. The realization came slowly to me. “Well, I knew that if I crossed over, I wouldn’t be going back to the old woman. I couldn’t do that to her.” “Why not?” “Because it would probably have killed her had I left. She said she loved me.” “Were you happy?” “She was good to me,” I said absentmindedly, reminiscing her clammy skin and mothball scent. “Answer the question, child.” There was a lump in my throat. “I don’t know. What is love?” I had learned that honesty was the only way with Mother. I felt so small as she circled me. Finally, she sat and pulled me into her lap. “My dear child,” she sighed, “to be kind is to be capable of love.” “So, I loved her?” Mother shook her head. “Still, kindness is not love.” I was confused. “This is your fourth life. It is time,” she said with finality. “Time? For what?” “This was why I was wary of you spending your lives with just one human,” she started. “You have learned but little, and now you have to make a difficult choice.” “But I didn’t choose to spend my lives with her again and again! I was just there.” “That is what happens when souls seek each other,” she said with a chuckle. “She must have looked for you in the eyes of every one of our kind whom she met, but did not find you, because you were yet to be born. You met the first time, your first life, by a lucky stroke of fate. It was as the universe arranged it. After that, it was you who sought for her in your second and third life.” I marveled at this, and asked, “What about the decision, Mother? What did you mean by that?” “You have to choose between nine lives or immortality.” “Why do I have to choose?” “Because those are the rules, child.” “Why should I be subject to these rules then?” I muttered under my breath, but Mother caught my words. All at once, the air in the room felt like little shards of glass on my skin. She rose to her full height, and I realized how humongous she was, towering over me like that.
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LITERARY
She lifted her great paw above my head, and for a second there I was sure I was going to stop existing. I closed my eyes, ready for oblivion, when I felt a soft weight on my head. I was instantly flooded with relief. The seawater flowed freely. Mother sighed, a deep and tired breath escaping her lips. “You’re a strange one. Let me tell you what’s about to happen,” she said. “If you choose nine lives, you’d be living as you did your first three lives: You’d be free to go wherever you please. You would also have access to the secret portals only our kind are able to use. You could also always visit me, too, whenever you want. However, as you may have already known, this life is fraught with uncertainty. You would be severely limited. You could get sick. You would age and die. You have spent four of those lives already. And, lastly, after your nine lives are over, well, as for that, no one knows what happens after that.” “Oh. I see. How about immortality?” “If you choose immortality, you’d be spending all eternity with me, in me, as me,” she started smiling. “You see, one is all, and all is one. I am everything, and nothing, knowing everything and nothing there is to be known or unknown. I never run out of tomorrows, and am impervious to sickness and old age. I am above and beyond death. However, I can only stay here in this white room.” I nodded and sat down on my haunches as the gravity of this decision washed over me. The rest of my life, to be decided in one fell swoop. Mother sat across me in silence. At times, I looked at her, when she wasn’t looking at me. She was great and mighty. I pondered how powerful she must be and how wise to have some degree of control over the lives of those of my kind. She must be the greatest of our kind in all known and unknown worlds. Then, I remembered looking into her eyes all those times, and seeing how cold and empty they were. I wondered how lonely she must be. All alone in this boring white room with only the cacophony of the goings-on of a world far removed from her filling in the roaring silence. I wondered if all that she was ever regretted their choices. Then I looked down at my tiny paws and thought of you and your world. I reminisced your scent, and the feeling of home. I can still taste the brown bricks of sand you fed me in my first life. Your favorite treat. I remembered the feeling of your heavy little head on my back, the wreaths made of flowers, all the fairy houses I toppled over in the second time I spent with you. I recalled all your funny little sketches, then I recalled your loneliness and your fear, and even the taste of seawater. “It seems as if you’ve made your choice,” Mother said. I was startled. “I have?” “I shouldn’t have confused you with all that. I apologize. Besides, we’re cats. We’re allowed to be selfish,” she winked. Confused, I shook my head. She smiled a sad smile. “You have a kind heart, child. Visit me often, will you?” She opened her wide, wide mouth, swallowing me whole. The next thing I saw were bars. Then, your face.
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F I V E OV E R N I N E , OV E R I N F I N I T Y
“This baby was seen under a dilapidated car. Must have wandered away from her mum. She’s a runt. As you can see, she’s small and weak—” “Shhh. Don’t believe him,” you cooed to me. My ears perked up at your voice. You turned to the man in the blue collared shirt. “May I hold her, please?” When a woman sternly said, “Darling, you can’t just hold all the cats in the pound and—” I tuned her out because the bars were being swung away. I hopped eagerly into your hands. “Do you remember me?” I asked you. “Oh, poor baby.” A revelation — I could hear the seawater in your voice. This time, though, the air in the room felt different. It felt like hope. You held me closer, cradling me into your chest. I looked up at you. “Please? Please do remember!” “Mom,” you sniffled, “can I keep her?”
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LITERARY
TUG TUGA-OK Keith Ayuman
Illustration by Eduard Jude Jamolin
Unang Tsapter Suok dira sa iskina, Luyo sa kapilya, Naay balay na gub-unonon Ug sa second floor ni anang balaya Ang kwarto sa usa ka batan-on Borneo Adelante;, ang pangalan “Bornok� ang tawag sa mga higala Sama sa askal ang pagtan-aw sa amahan Medyo ilado sa katilingban Iyang inahan namatay sa pagpanganak kaniya
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TUG TUGA-OK
Bornok ang gi-angga sa katawhan ni-ini Kay pagkabata nakatulon kuno ni og iti Ug nalihian jud tuod ang dagway Sa gi-ampingan niya nga manok Nga pirting gipalangga sa amahan Inig silaw sa bulan, Patiran na sad sa amahan ang pultahan “Bornok, cahm hir inutil!” “Unsa man pa?”, May sagol na kahadlok ug katarantar ang tono ni-ini “Did yu knu? Taga kita nako kanimo, Makapangandoy jud ko nga may unta’g baog ko.” Bog! Plag! Kaplog! Gikulata na sad si Bornok Pagkahuman ang amahan ni bisita ni “Ex-Makina”, Ang gihatag nga pangalan sa manok Ikaduhang Tsapter Lunes, Martes, Miyerkules Manok ang pirming giatubang sa amahan Huwebes, Biyernes ug Sabado Niinom na sad ug nahubog Inig ka Domingo, musimba dayun ang amahan sa kapilya Samtang si Bornok magpabilin sa balay Maghinuktok ug makapangutana, “ Maypang manok mas gipangga ni tatay.” Ang amahan mangita’g pagkaon Si Bornok matarantar na sad ug og luto Sa wa pa kini nahuman Gsagpa gamit sa spatula Ang nawong ni Bornok “Litsi, napul-an ko’s imong giluto. Sige nalang ta’g ga biplop!” Usa ka semana ang nilabay Sa anang adlawa, ningitngit Ang tanang palibot sa balay, Si Bornok nahibiling nag-inusara Sa kusina siya naghilak “Maypa’g manok nalang ko, Basi’g mas dawaton kong tatay.” Nahinumduman niya ang Usa sa pinakasakit nga panumduman Nga maoy gidala niya hantud siya nidako: “Pa, tan-awa! Nakapasar ko!” “Nakakwarta ka ana? Maypangmanok!
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LITERARY Way kwartang madawat anang dako nga grado!” Nakamata si Bornok sa reyalidad Nibukal ang iyang kalagot “Ngano di man jud ako ang unahon?” Gikuha ni Bornok ang kutsilyo Dayun kining nidiretso sa manok Gitadtad ni-ini ang lawas Sa paboritong tagdon sa iyang amahan Ikatulong Tsapter Didto sa iskina, Atubangan dira sa tindahan, Ang amahan ni Bornok nagpalit Og kan-on ug sud-an “Dungagi og usa ‘day,” ni ingon siya sa tindera “Apili nalang sad og duha ka kan-on ug Sparkle.” “Birthday man diay ni Bornok karun ‘noy sa?”, Nakahinumdum ug nakapangutana ang tindera “Mao gani gidungagan. Basi’g mangluod nasad ning bataa.” Didto sa balay, Si Bornok nakahilak ug nagpungko May pagmahay ang gibati ni-ini Samtang ang mata sa manok nagpabiling ga-mata, Gipanitan niya ki’ni Gilugod ni Bornok ang mga balahibo Sa manok sa iyang nawong Nisaka siya sa babaw, Nisulod sa kwarto, Ug nilingkod sa bintana. Nabati niya ang nisilaw na bidlisiw Nga dinala sa adlaw Gipiyong niya iyahang mata ug Sa nianang momento nakasinati siya Kung unsa ang tinuod nga kalipay Sa kining pamaagiha, basi’g tarungon nako ni tatay,.” Dungag niyang hunghung sa kaugalingon Ang mga nilabay nga mga silingan Natarantar sa ilahang nakit-an “Bornok! Naunsa man ka? Imohang nawong napuno man na’g dugo Ug balahibo sa manok!” Nikatawa si Bornok sa nadunggan niya
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TUG TUGA-OK Ug sa wa damhi, niabot ang iyahang amahan Nabuhian niya ang mga pinalit ug nakaluhod Naglantaw siya sa iyahang anak nga nagkapa kapa sa kamot;, Nagpa-aron ingnon nga manok “Bornok! Naog dira!” nakahilak ang amahan “Tan-awa ko Papa,” nitubag si Bornok samtang nagtutok sa amahan “Kahibaw nako molupad. Tan-awa.” Ang mga tawo wala nakasabot sa ilang nakit-an Ug wa sad sila nakasabot kung unsa ilahang bati-on Ang luha sa amahan nitulo sa mata Sama sa gisaad nga uwan Nga maoy gipangandaman sa katilingban “Bornok! Naog na. Husto’ na,” Hangyo sa amahan Samtang ang luha nipadayon ug tulo Si Bornok ni barug sa gilingkoran, “Tug tuga-ok!”, Nisiyagit si Bornok. Ang kahayag sa adlaw nisugod na og tago Ug ang amahan nagkurog sa kahadlok Para sa iyahang nahibiling anak “Tug tuga-ok!”, Dungag ni Bornok sa dili pa kini mulayat. “Bornok, ayaw!”
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her Brynch Bonachita
re
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Hands were made to build, as they were meant to take.
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Here, you took.
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Your careless fingers danced across hallways, across programs, across departments and across people;
you called this a promise of tomorrow.
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Today, your feet dragged you through the halls:
one step forward by painting better with numbers, two steps back by drying Painting’s ink, and three steps away from fervor voices.
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Here, you built.
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When your hands found their way to the fountain,
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you cupped the running blood: paper, plane, ship, saltwater, body, all of this yours and all of this tasted the same.
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Iron did not pillar concrete and ideals; stood erect was an empty hand and weight below was carried by prayers for a Life in Green and Gold.
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Here, you held.
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You carried our name like a newborn, taking care of the head but forgetting its own body.
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Declared exodus by naming a rising tide a necessity, and baptized it by a different name with the same goal.
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The drowning became a recurring melody: those close to the shore were pulled back by riptide fees,
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and your hands are part of the orchestra, playing maestro with your fingertips.
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And still you danced. With applause. ‌
Hands were made to give, as it were meant to hold.
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Yet you took.
here
Brynch Bonachita Hands were made to build, as they were meant to take. Here, you took. Your careless fingers danced across hallways, across programs, across departments and across people; you called this a promise of tomorrow. Today, your feet dragged you through the halls: one step forward by painting better with numbers, two steps back by drying Painting’s ink, and three steps away from fervor voices. Here, you built. When your hands found their way to the fountain, you cupped the running blood: paper, plane, ship, saltwater, body, all of this yours and all of this tasted the same. Iron did not pillar concrete and ideals; stood erect was an empty hand and weight below was carried by prayers for a Life in Green and Gold. Here, you held. You carried our name like a newborn, taking care of the head but forgetting its own body. Declared exodus by naming a rising tide a necessity, and baptized it by a different name with the same goal. The drowning became a recurring melody: those close to the shore were pulled back by riptide fees, and your hands are part of the orchestra, playing maestro with your fingertips. And still you danced. With applause. ‌ Hands were made to give, as it were meant to hold. Yet you took.
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“A
ll we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” — J.R.R. Tolkien
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— LAYOUT — Layout Supervisor: Anton Elijah Lin Layout Artists Riza Mae Colon Julia Jubac Jose Preben William Layola Aubrey Joy Morales
“All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist.” —Kurt Vonnegut
et us explore the intricacies of choice and fate through L stories and an illustration submitted by our readers, and a set of photos and a short film from Today’s Carolinian. In a society where our environment — our status — limit what we can be, are we destined to conform to the whims of those around us? Or do we have the choice to do things differently on our own?
Cover by Eduard Jude Jamolin
The progressive student publication of the University of San Carlos
OUR COMMITMENT. YOUR PAPER.