mga kwento at tulang may talim sa magkabilang tabi
Tinta 2014 is the official literary folio of the Union of Journalists of the Philippines - UP Diliman Batch 2013-2014. All parts of this book is highly encouraged to be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form as long as it is credited to the respective writers and to the union.
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49 22 63 68 16 31 44 36 12 10 36 52 21 76 62 11 51 53 61 82
Tula
(Love) Drugged 3 inches of Agony Ang Dakilang Kasangkapan Ang Pagkakasala sa Laot Dispo Check Gintong Nawalan ng Ningning Idle at the Sea Ma, Paano na? Nocturne of the Office Clerk Noong may Kumot ang Sahig Oda Sa Bayan Kong Inuulan Of Desire and Hunger Salmong Tugunan Sampu Siklo Sonetong Plorera Transience Usad We’re All But Points on a Plane Why the Hooker Worked for Sex
Prosa
18 A Story Of Grief 55 Affliction 24 Ang Pinagkaiba ng Kabutihan at Murder ay Mas Madaling Gawin Ang Ikalawa 70 Galatea 45 Half Pack for One 13 No Escape 32 Paggawa ng Bangkang Papel 77 Palamuti 64 Problema Ang Mahulog sa Bad Boy 37 Stars in a Bottle
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N
akahihiwa ang mga katagang
hinasa, pinanday ng pighati at dusa. Ang bawat kuwit, tuldok, kudlit na itinusok; mga dibuhong iniukit sa tinta at luha, ay punyal na pinatalas. Itatarak sa mga dibdib na walang pakiramdam. At tanging kirot at hapdi at pait ang magpapalaya sa pagkamanhid. Parehong sakit- mahayap, maantak; sa bawat hilis ay bumabaon ding pabalik sa mga sugatang kamay na siyang may tangan ng balaraw na ang talim ay magkabila.
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Noong may Kumot sa Sahig ni Esther
L
iwanag ng araw, pabaha na sa silid, patungo na sa hardin ng iyong pag-idlip. Pag-abot mo dito’y pagbitiw mo sa akin, kumot na lang ako sa kama, nanlalamig.
At sinuri mo na nga bawat liko ko at linya, at lalim at lawak ng gabi hanggang mata mo’y ngumiti, at dibdib mo’y lumuwag sa pagbuntung-hininga.
Pero dinampot mo ‘ko. Mga tupi ko, binaba, hanggang ako’y hantad, isang parihaba, lantad.
Sa pagkita nito sa ‘yo gusto na kitang mayapos. Pero, ano ang sinulid kundi sa balat ay hangin?
Mga tuhod mo’y sinalo ng tela ko—manipis, malambot— na pinatag ng palad mo na mainit-init mga mali’t kulubot sa’kin. Umangat kong mga sinulid, natastas na ng panahon, hinalikan ng kamay mong tila sumisiglang daloy. Kung makagaganti lang sa’yo, higit mong malalaman bawat haplos ko’y magiging yamang hindi pa tuklas.
Buti na lang mayayakap ka pa rin. Pero, ano’ng ginagawa mo? Binalik mo ang mga tiklop hanggang ako’y matupi, at nilagay mo ‘ko sa aparador mong madilim. Bakit ka ganyan sa ‘kin?
Sonetong Plorera ni Aurora
P
initas kong dahan-dahan ang pamukadkad na rosas na alay sa’yo sa bawat pag-uwi. Ibubuntog mo sa tubig ang tangkay na siya ring aking puso--gawaing wala namang saysay; sa pag-ibig kong kailanma’y ‘di malalanta, ‘di masisira, aking plorera. Tulad ng tinig mong patuloy ang pagsabay, nakikisingit sa mga awiting aking pinatutugtog. Kaya’t pipihitin ang radyo hanggang dumagundong ang tunog. Baka sakaling itangay ng hangin, baka sakali lang; marinig na muli ng mga tenga mong bingi sa aking paliwanag at daing. Bubuksan ko ang bintana’ t patutuluying muli ang liwanag ng buwan at mga tala sa aking pusong nasanay nang ikaw lamang ang laman. Kakaiba, sapagkat dama ko ang bahagyang bigat sa aking kaliwang balikat, tila ang iyong ulong nakapatong, tulad ko ring nakamasid sa kawalan.
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Nocturne of the Office Clerk by Solar Plexus
Her biggest asset are her hands: Short fingers but fast there she goes, typing away 80 words per minute No errors, no mistakes no need to hit backspace. But oh, it is also her eyes focused and clear darting back and forth on the document As her speedy hands dance on the keys stepping on the right buttons with a soft pattering sound Like a drizzle, tiny drops of rain on the roof.
But when someone plays Liszt on the office radio Her fingers suddenly dance waltz with Mephisto– Her arpeggios come running, full throttle, fueled by burning coal, like the engine of an ancient train Speeding to the woods where the pied piper took the children frenzied by his thundering fortissimo Following a lightning strike summoned by Zeus to split the dark sky– And when she comes to, the black and white keys are gone: All that’s left are a QWERTY keyboard and the blinking cursor after some gibberish on the monitor.
No Escape by MGC
I
told them to stop. I told them to go away, but they didn’t want to. They told me that people would get hurt if I don’t follow them. I told them to go to hell. They just laughed. “We’re already there, kid. No use in saying it.” They were with me as long as I can remember. I remember them laughing when I fell off the tree in our backyard and broke my arm. My brother was sitting on weak branch, and I saw them-- no, heard them slowly breaking the bough (no don’t hurt him no). My brother always teases me about my flabby arms, so they thought that an arm for an arm is just fair. I interfered, so I broke mine instead. They got angry. They told me I was not grateful. It was horrible. I know because I remember all of it; waking up screaming (please stop no don’t talk to me), trying to drown down their voices, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t. They tormented me for nights. I was six. They were with me when I got caught cheating in our midterms exam. They were whispering the answers in my ear, traveling from seat to seat to get them. (no stop, please make it stop) My brother was at the top of the class back then but they wanted me, and only me to be the best. They said it was ‘training’ (what?). I wanted to disobey them; I wanted to prove I don’t need them; that when they told me that my brother has been copying my answers, I gingerly showed him everything. They were outraged. I supposed it was them who told the teachers. It must be. We both failed the exam (no). My brother now hates me (why, Andrew, why?). I got hit by my father. I was disgraced by my mother (mom it was not me! mom I didn’t do it!). And they lie whispering in my ear every night ‘You liar, you swine, you cheat!’ (please lord good lord not tonight). I didn’t scream then. I didn’t want
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to give them satisfaction. They can’t hurt me. I fought their voices down, stuffed my pillows over my ear. Just say it, they’re not here they’re not here they’re not here (stop, stop, stop). Soon you will, they said. I was nine. They were there when I got caught shoplifting. I tried very hard, but it was no use. They still win in the end. They told me to take the shoes (no). I wanted them, they said. I didn’t have money, I said. It’s alright, just take them, they said (stop don’t talk to me no). You know you want them, they said. I didn’t. I ran away from the store. I ran nine blocks away from the store. The streets were empty that day. I looked around and found myself in front of that old record store that our family used to go to after church. Excitement filled all of my insides. I did it. I defiled them. For a while I felt happy, free in fact. Then they came (get out of my head, stop! no!). They came crashing down (get out Jesus Christ get out!). It was not a single shot that went through me. It was a barrage (no, please, no! please make it stop. MAKE IT STOP!); Hundreds of angry swirling voices screaming in rage inside my head, telling me that I’m ungrateful of their service (no), filling the air around me with thick fog though I knew that it was only happening inside my head. Bile rose to my throat and I fought the urge to gag. Hands shot past me (who is this no please), tried to grab me but I held it tight, red spilling everywhere in my vision (blood?). I pushed my hair away from my eyes and something sticky caught my hand. Blood. My blood. That did it. I fainted. I woke up in my room. Silence (am I dead?). It must have been days since I last heard silence. Oh it was beautiful (oh). It was calming. For a moment, I felt happy, free in fact. I was wrong. My mother came in my room (mom?). She told me the news. My brother was found mutilated inside a trash bin (mom no). She said he was missing for two days, and so was I (no no no no). She then showed me a pair of bloody shoes. The shoes (mom please it was not me). She said I was wearing it when I got home. I knew my mother knew. But not enough. She didn’t know enough (MOM IT WAS NOT ME MOM!). Her eyes were a mixture of horror and anger and fear. I wanted to touch her, but I couldn’t. Then I heard a laugh, a high,
devilish laugh at the back of my mind traveling right to the tip of ears, so chilling it could freeze my insides. They’re here (mommy I need you please believe me). They’re happy. ‘Justice is done.’ I was twelve. They weren’t there when I was in the hospital, with half a pencil in my hand and the other half in my ear (mom don’t pull it out). My parents couldn’t understand my decision. How could they? They can’t hear them. Pain shot through my head down to my toes, but it was welcomed pain. It was the first time in a long time I heard silence (am i dying?). It was very much like heaven, if there is such a place (i wish i’m dying). The pain was still there when they injected something to me to make me fall asleep, but at least they weren’t. I was in and out of consciousness for a couple of days before I was fully awake. The doctor was talking, but I couldn’t hear him. My mother was crying, but I couldn’t hear her. Oh, the joy of freedom! No wonder people lay their lives for it. For a moment, I felt happy. I should’ve known better (mom? dad?). You wouldn’t let you hear them? They’d let you see them (MOM! DAD!). I screamed. You do not know the horror of screaming for help but you yourself cannot hear your cry (help me please lord help). I was thirteen. Three years later, I’m still here. My mother couldn’t take me (why mom I’m still your baby right?). She left. No matter, I can take care of myself. The voices don’t haunt me anymore. I guess they really don’t care about you when you’ve grown used to them (no help no help). A little kid just went pass me, and I’m pretty sure that he knew I was there. I now understand why alI that ‘training’ is necessary. He went up a tree with another kid; probably thinking he was safe up there. He has no idea (stop, he said). This is so fun. Hey kid, I’ll cut off this branch, ok? I need your brother’s arm.
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Dispo Check* ni Aurora
M
ay kaguluhan sa kabilang kwarto. Dispo check kasi. Bawat salita’y may hugot, ani nga nila. Hugot sa pamilya, pag-aaral, pag-ibig, pagkilos at kung anupamang “p” na hindi aakalaing manggagaling sa parehong mga kasamang lagi namang may ngiti sa mukha. Dito manunumbalik sa isipan ang katotohanang sila’y tao rin nga pala. ‘Sang boteng suya Puluta’y pakumbaba Usok ng luha Sa paglaon ng gabi’y lalong tumitindi ang drama na minsa’y sinasabayan ng panaka-nakang sigaw at dabog. Dito makakarinig ng mahahabang litanya tungkol sa existence at iba pang philosophical questions na lagi’t laging may pagkwestyon sa kabuluhan ng buhay sa daigdig. Mahinang tapik Tenga’y makikinig sa Hingang hinaing Ngunit hindi lahat ay ganoon ka-emosyonal, hindi lahat ay ganoon kahina. May mga taong tulad ko na pinipiling abalahin ang sarili sa pagtipa ng gitara, pagmasid sa bilog na buwan o kaya’y sa kislap ng tubig sa dahon ng mga halamang inulan – parehong kislap ng tubig sa aking mga mata na pilit kong nilalabanan upang walang makakita. Minsan yaong matigas sa labas ang mas emosyonal at mas mahina sa loob. Bibig, tinikom May daga sa’king dibdib Konting tagay pa. *Disposition Check: gawain sa isang organisasyon kung saan nagpapahayag ang bawat kasapi nito ng kasalukuyang disposisyon nila sa iba’t ibang aspeto ng buhay.
Kuha ni Jong Pairez
Third Place, Mulat Maninipat 2013
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H
A Story
of Grief
by Boy Jorge
er name was Deirdre and this is the story of how she lost everything. Deirdre was born one hundred years after the gods and goddesses left the mortal world. She was the child of two rich families in a civilization residing in a small secluded island not far from Greece. She was so fair and beautiful that the story of her birth became a famous song that was carried by singing travelers in the land and far. O maiden you have pierced our hearts which longs for thee with eyes like diamonds –hard and velvet lips like blood that seeped through the pearl-white snow that is your skin
When Deirdre turned of marrying age—16 in their village—she bid her farewell to her family and to her comfortable life to travel and find the man (or woman) that she would spend the rest of her life with. It was a ritual that women from prominent families would have to accomplish to be welcomed back and honored as a Discerning, a title given to women who learned and loved. On her journey she had with her two loaves of bread, a huge slab of cheese, a gem-studded drinking bottle, a large beautiful hat and her mother’s sapphire necklace, Naoise. She spent a month travelling in the angry seas and another through the Dessert of Loch Etive. Through her travel, Deirdre became very forlorn and longed to go back to her family. However, whenever she clutched Naoise to her chest, she would feel safe and strong again, urging her to continue. She would hear voices during the nights she was filled with unimaginable despair and dread and she would know that it was Naoise, whispering words of encouragement and comfort. After another month of wandering aimlessly in the forest, Deirdre began to feel more attached to Naoise. Naoise would be the first thing she would look at when she opens her eyes in the morning and the last thing she would hold on to before she sleeps at night. All the pain and suffering that would shake her in between would all vanish when she curls peacefully in the softest pile of dirt she would find at night, with Naoise tucked in her arms.
The howling of the wind and the ferocity of the seas and the aggressiveness of the forest tainted not our maiden’s splendor but alas, could we still contest for her loving and fair care when her soul is now trapped in that sapphire necklace’s bidding
A few more weeks, Deirdre stumbled upon a majestic-looking village outside the woods. The village was holding a festival of some sort and the villagers were all sitting around an enormous gold idol, drinking barrels of beer and eating greasy slabs of meat. Deirdre’s hunger engulfed her upon seeing this so she approached a fine-looking man with four fawn ears standing beside a nice house which had a sign that says ‘Cabin’. The man instantly noticed Deirdre’s beauty that was buried behind her months-old weariness and started piling a plate full of food for her. As he handed her the plate, he said that because of her fairness, he would cut the rates and the plate would only cost two gold pieces instead of four. Deirdre did not have enough money for this so she offered her gem-studded bottle. The man gladly accepted it and let her inside the cabin, saying she could stay there for the night. When Deirdre finished her food, she approached the cabin counter and asked if she could stay there for the night. The plump woman in the counter, which had seven fingers in each hand, said because of her fairness, she would cut the rates from three gold pieces to only two. Deirdre offered her oncebeautiful hat and her crystal shoes for she had no money and the woman gladly accepted it. Deirdre spent the night and had the soundest sleep she had for months. In the morning, Deirdre went around the village to replenish her supply of food. She knew she could not stay in the village any longer because things were too costly for her. She found a glass structure that was labelled ‘Supplies’ and looked inside for cheap bread and cheese. She got two stale loaves of bread and a small slab of cheese and proceeded to the counter to pay for her supplies. She was greeted by a thin woman with only one eye and two mouths and told her that because of her fairness, she would cut the rates for her supplies. Instead of five gold pieces, it now only costs three. Deirdre searched her pockets and found nothing else to trade except for her adored Naoise. And right there, in the middle of her transaction, she realized that she could not give up Naoise. A sensual and soulful song erupted in the background and she suddenly felt waves of emotions urge through her as she held on to Naoise in her pocket. She closed her eyes and allowed the raw carnal passion engulf her soul, comprehending the adoration that she felt for her beloved. And right there, she offered her right arm and left leg to the woman in exchange of her supplies. The woman agreed and Deirdre hopped on her way outside, clutching both her supplies and Naoise in one hand. -19-
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Out of nowhere, a boy with one eye but two noses and three ears appeared in front of her and motioned for her to come closer. He whispered to Deirdre that he knew about Naoise and offered her a silk box as a bed for her beloved. He told her that because of her fairness, she would cut the rates for her and give her the box for six gold pieces instead of ten. Deirdre was excited to give Naoise a home and so she offered her nose and her ears for the box. The boy agreed and gave the box to Deirdrein exchange of her nose and ears. Deirdre hopped away with a smile but bumped to a frail old bald man sitting in the middle of the street. He had no legs and he had no eyes and he was helplessly asking for alms but no one was paying heed. Tears ran through her eyes and felt sorry for the old man and so she gave him her eyes and her beautiful hair. The man touched her arm with his shaky hand and whispered a soft thanks. On her way outside the village. Deirdre encountered four more people— two of which were merchants, one was an old woman and the other looked like a horse. When she finally stepped outside the village, all that was left of Naoise was her bald head, her torso, her left arm and her Naoise. Deirdre asked herself what went wrong because suddenly, she felt sad and alone. All the hype from all the buying and the trading and the almsgiving vanished and she was left with almost nothing. She could not recall the happiness she felt when she bought her first meal or the fleeting feeling when she helped the old man and the old lady on her way out anymore. She even ended up giving away the supplies she traded for her limbs. She clutched Naoise one more time to her chest and felt their hearts pumping together in unison. And she knew everything is bound to be alright because she still had Naoise by her side. So she placed Naoise on the ground beside her, ripped her own heart out and placed it carelessly on top of her sapphire necklace. And she breathed her last. Barely a minute has passed before the townspeople charged towards Deirdre’s fresh corpse, clawing for a piece of what was left of her. Seconds later, three more were dead and nothing was left of the woman whose beauty travelled places and was sung by all—not a lock of hair, not a portion of flesh, not even a crumb of the lovely sapphire necklace that drove her in love and insane. Oh, all hail, all ensky The beauty that was longed and lost The tale of Deirdre and Naoise That made our hearts exalt in joy And drove us to our vast collective madness
M
alalim na balon, pitong milyon ang nakakulong
Madilim na bato ang pumapaligid Madulas sa lumot na dito’y nakakapit Sa kawalan ng ihip ng hangin, ito’y malamig Malalim na balon, pitong milyon ang nakakulong Maliliit na bato ang nasa paanan Walang namang tubig, ni patak ng ulan Tanging luha mula sa pagtangis ng makasalanan Malalim na balon, pitong milyon ang nakakulong
Salmong Tugunan ni Delonix Regia
Ang tanging liwanag ay mula sa taas Hindi man maabot ay pinagmumulan ng lakas Walang sapat na paliwanag ang sinumang pantas Malalim na balon, pitong milyon ang nakakulong Pitong milyon ang nangangapa sa dilim Tanging inuusal ay mga panalangin Munting ilaw sa taas ang nasa paningin Malalim na balon, pitong milyon ang nakakulong.
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3 inches of agony by Boy Jorge
I
n the land where the porcelains thrived and women danced like tiny lotuses; and men went after wives they could keep for themselves and beauty was defined as tiny little baby steps. I was only then five but I can remember, the hot chocolate and the fire licking the brick of the furnace-that warmed not my shivering legs and feet. My nose cringed as mama dipped my feet in a bowl of leaves swimming in blood of pigs and chicken, whispering in my ear: wo ai ni. She broke her daughter’s toes, pressing each end into its sole.
Every day the nanny rebound my sore and aching feet-Washing them in perfumes and blood; Binding them with a ten inch cloth; Forcing them in golden silk shoes. Every day they would push me to walk, with every step, excruciating, and make me keep a straight face in front of my papa. But it is at night when I would let the pants short and quick escape my lips, wishing that the pain would go with each breath; And I would be dreading the smell of the morning tea, when they would unbind and bind yet again my feet bellowing for freedom.
I am now forty-five, wife to a man, first of four, and of countless concubines. Gold coins are seldom tasted by my hungry palms for every piece of silk is offered to every baby brought forth by his three other fertile wombs. I am now forty-five, but still with every labor, every ashen porcelain doll that is born to my husband, I would look hungrily at the plump legs and creamy tubby toes, and remember every cringe, every whimper I choked back, every sting that crawled along those three inches of grotesque beauty defined by tiny little cursed steps.
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Ang Pinagkaiba ng Kabutihan at Murder ay Mas Madaling Gawin Ang Ikalawa ni XNE
K
apag nasa labas ka ng bahay aakalain mong alas sais na ng gabi dahil sa kulimlim ng panahon, pero pagtingin mo sa orasan alas kwatro pa lang pala. Kulog pa nang kulog, 'kala mo naman eh maaalarma ang mga taong magmadali sa kung anumang ginagawa nila. Kung bubuhos ang ulan edi bumuhos. Tigang ang lupa, ta’s ‘yung mga tao parang gusto na lang din biglang tumigil, magpabasa sa ulan kung uulan man, at magtampisaw at kalimutan na lang lahat ng mga utang nila. Lahat naman tayo, ‘di ba? Natatakot lang tayo na kung gagawin natin ‘yon eh baka tayo’y mapagkamalang baliw. “E ano naman kung baliw?” ani Xander. Sa loob ng isang boarding house sa Taft ay sinusulit ni Alex ang pagkakataong wala ang kanyang mga roommate, ang kakaunting assignment, at ang lamig ng panahon. Madilim dahil sa mga nakapinid na kurtinang hangin lang ang pinapapasok, na para bang ayaw niyang makita ang mga patay na taong naglalakad sa labas. Mga patay na nagbubuhay-buhayan. Ang tanging umiilaw sa kanyang
kwarto ay ang kanyang laptop. At ang pelikula lang din ang gumagalaw dahil parang tuod sa panonood si Alex. Maliban na lang pag ngumingiti siya tuwing may ipinapakitang bangkay. "I've been trying to figure something in my head, and maybe you can help me out, yeah? When a person is insane, as you clearly are, do you know that you're insane?" tanong ng bida na ginagampanan ni Brad Pitt. "Maybe you're just sitting around, reading 'Guns and Ammo', masturbating in your own feces, do you just stop and go, 'Wow! It is amazing how fucking crazy I really am!'? Yeah. Do you guys do that?" "It's more comfortable for you to label me insane." tanging sagot ng murderer. “Di nga, ano naman kung baliw?” tanong nanaman sa kanya ni Xander. Pinindot ni Alex ang pause at napatingin sa bintana, nadala ‘ata sa drama ng pinapanood na Se7en. Nakatakip man ang kurtina ay parang nakikita nya pa rin ang mga tao, at ang mga makasarili nilang problema. Kung ratratin ko kaya kayong lahat ngayon,
para saan pa yang mga pamomroblema niyo? Napakunot-noo siya sa naisip niyang iyon. Ang panget. Di bagay.
Kung sabagay si Alex din naman ‘tong pumayag. Ang ayaw lang nya eh‘yung paputol-putol manood ng pelikula.
“Ewan ko, di naman ako baliw e,” ang nasabi lang niya.
“Pakitanong sa kanya ha,” habol ni Xander.
Natawa lang si Xander. “Tang ina mo.”
“Ha? Alin?”
“Ano?” “Sarcastic ba ‘yon?”
“Kung anong masama kung baliw ka.”
“Alin? Na di ako baliw? Gago.”
“Potah ka Xander tumahimik ka na.”
“Ah so seryoso ‘yon?” Ngumiti si Xander, sa puntong maiisip mong pwede palang magmukhang tao si Chesire Cat. Pwede naman. Panoorin mo ‘yung live-action film. “When a person is insane,” inulit ni Xander ang linya, “do you know that you’re insane?” “Ano naman kung baliw?” Si Alex naman ang napatanong. Mapapamura pa sana ulit si Xander dahil sa matinong kausap, pero nag-ring ang cellphone ni Alex. “Putang ina,” natuloy pa rin. Si Tess ang tumatawag. Atrasado ito, "May...may ginagawa ka ba?" Gusto muna sana ni Alex tapusin ang panonood, "Bakit?" "Kailangan ko sana ng makakasama ngayon." "Ha? May problema ba?" "Okey lang bang magkita tayo sa Rotonda?" "Uh... oo, anong oras?" Nagkasundo silang magkita ng alaskwatro. Kapal din ng mukha neto ni Tess makahingi ng pabor, sa isip nya, eh kinse minutos na lang alas-kwatro na.
Sa labas ay napatingin sa kanya ang pulis na nangangasera sa katabing kwarto. Tang ina rin netong pulis na ‘to, sa isip niya, minamanmanan ba kami? Saka naalala ni Alex ang balita sa dyaryo, mga pulis mismo ang nagbenta ng mga baril sa NPA. Natawa lang siya, lalo na sa editorial. “Sinong kausap mo?” Tanong sa kanya ng sarhento, si Mang Dante. “Wala ho. Kayo ho kamusta na ho kayo?” Alam niyang hindi niya dapat itanong ‘yon. Pang-asar lang. “Okey lang.” Kibit-balikat nito. Sa baba ay pinag-uusapan ang pulis ng mga tsismosang nakatambay sa tindahan. May kaso kasing isinampa kay Mang Dante. Alam ni Alex na matuwid at may prinsipyo ang ginoo, ang di nya alam ay kung bakit nauurat pa rin sya tuwing nakikita nya ang pagmumukha nito. Sa isang banda ay parang gusto nya ‘tong pagtawanan, bumulong ng buti nga sa’yo, pero sa isang banda ay naaawa siya dito dahil alam niyang di makatarungan. Ewan. Ang sigurado siya’y gusto niyang bigwasan ang mga tsismosang tambay.
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Pagdating ni Alex sa Mcdo, naroon na si Tess. Nakaupo sa tabi ng bintana, may dalawang fries sa mesa, at maraming bagaheng katabi. “Huhulaan ko,” ani Alex, “Uuwi ka ng probinsya?” “Makikipagkita ako sa’yo dahil lang d’on?” “Magtatanan kayo ni Mark?” “Hayop ka.” “Bangkay laman nyan? Bomba? . . . Lumayas ka na sa inyo?” Tumahimik si Tess. “Ha! Galing ko talagang manghula.” Nanlulumo si Tess kaya di na niya nagawang isaboy sa mukha ni Alex ang coke, at ayaw na rin niyang pahirapang maglinis ang service crew. Tumahimik na lang muna sila. Kain-kain ng fries, inom-inom ng coke, kain ulit ng fries, hanggang sa naisip ni Tess na baka inaaksaya niya ang oras ng kaibigan kaya nagsalita na siya. "Lagi kong sinasabi sa inyo na ayos lang ako, dahil akala ko naman talaga ayos lang ako. Akala ko kasi namanhid na 'ko, na hindi na ko makakadama ng sakit. Di ba nga, bago magpenitensiya ang isang deboto, 'binubugbog' at pinapadugo muna yung likod sa simula para di na gaanong masakit paghinampas?" “Di ba hinihiwa-hiwa?” “Di ba ‘yun ‘yun? Basta ‘yung point--” “Okey, o tapos?” "Ayun. Akala ko gan'un na rin sa lagay ko. Hindi pala. Kapag tahimik,
payapa, akala mo wala na, akala mo okey na. Pero pag... pag nagsimula nanaman, bumabalik lahat. Naiipon 'yung mga nararamdaman mo dati na akala mo lipas na." Pailing-iling lang na tumawa si Tess. "Putang ina nilang lahat, 'no? Sarap nilang pugutan." “Wag kang mag-alala, di ka nagiisa,” naks, lyrics ‘yun ng kanta di ba? Napatingin sa kanya si Tess. “Ako rin naman . . gusto kong mamugot ng tao noon. Kaya lang di praktikal.” “Hah?” “Na mamugot. Nakakaenjoy pero parang nakakapagod. At nakakapurol ng. . . sa’n ka pala tutuloy ngayon?” “Kina Mark.” Napasandal si Alex, “Edi para na nga rin kayong nagtanan, o live-in.” Pero sa loob-loob nya’y gusto nyang alukin si Tess na sa kanila na lang muna tumuloy. Pero syempre, sino bang pipiliin ni Tess, siya o ang kasintahan nito? Ba’t ba ang gagago niyong mga babae kayo, sa mga siga kayo sumasama? ‘Kala niyo ba mapagtatanggol kayo ng mga ‘yan? Mula sa bintana, pinagmasdan na lang nila ang alon ng mga taong nagmamadaling umuwi ng bahay, pero kinabukasan ay magmamadali namang umalis ng bahay. Nagmamadaling mag-aral, nagmamadaling magtrabaho, nagmamadaling mabuhay. Pero pag cutoff na talaga, as in deds na, ennggkk pass your papers finished or not finished, marerealize na lang nila na ni pangalan man lang nila di pa nila tapos isulat.
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“Salamat,” sabi ni Tess. Walang sinabi si Alex, nakatitig lang sa ketchup na nilagay sa tissue, sawsawan ng fries. Parang nakikita niya ang mga manggagawang nagpakahirap sa pabrika magawa lang ang Heinz na ‘yon, at maging ang mga magsasakang nagtanim ng mga kamatis para d’on, at ang mga naghihirap nilang pamilya, at ang mga magsasaka’t aktibistang nakikibaka para sa lupa, at ang mga naghaharing-uring nagmamay-ari ng mga lupang taniman ng kamatis, pabrikang gawaan ng ketchup, fast food restaurants— “Wala ‘yon. Tawag ka lang ulit pag kailangan mo ko,” sa wakas ay naging seryoso rin sya, pinipigilan ang sariling sabihing may mas malala pang problema dyan, Tess. Ayaw ni Tess na seryoso siya, at mas ayaw niya, dahil alam nilang dalawa na pagseryoso na, may maiiyak.
nakaambang digmaan, epidemya, salot, at pagkawasak ng mundo. May isang pulubi, bata pa. Imbis na magpaawa sa mga dumadaan ay tulala lang, iniisip siguro kung paano sya napadpad sa gan’ong kalagayan, hanggang sa may maghulog ng bente. Aba bente! Nawala na sya sa pagmumunimuni. Pero si Alex nag-iisip pa rin. Bakit nga kaya? Bakit nga ba ang mabubuting tao pa ang labis na pinahihirapan sa mundo? Bakit ang masasama pa ang malaya at walang kinatatakutan? Ang mga gahaman ang naghahari at nagpapakasasa kaya't ang kakaunting mabubuti ay natututo na ring gumawa ng masama. Kaya’t patuloy na dumarami ang mga problema, mga maliliit na problemang nagmamaskara sa tunay na problema.
Kumulog na para bang nagsasabi “Ang mga tao,” ani Xander pag-uwi ang langit ng “Iiyak na yaaan.” niya, “Pare-pareho lang yan! Mabuti masama, lahat sila bumubuo sa bulok Sa labas ng McDo, pinagmasdan na mundong ito. Susubukan nilang muna nila ang alon ng mga taong solusyonan ang isang problema, na nagmamadali, tinanong sa kanya ni Tess magbubunga naman ng isang mas kung namumugto pa ba ang mga mata malaking problema. Di na nila kailangan nito, hanggang sa maanod na rin ng ng demonyo para parusahan ang mga agos ng mga tao si Tess. Wala rin itong sarili nila. Mga kaluluwang palutangipinagkaiba sa iba, patay na nagbubuhay- lutang lang sa impiyernong sila mismo buhayan. Nagpaanod din si Alex, at ang may gawa.” pakiramdam niya’y lumulusong siya sa dagat ng mga basura. Nakakasuklam. SariNakatulala lang si Alex sa mga saring problema ng mga tao— walang drowing niyang nakapaskil sa dingding pambayad sa ospital kaya’t natutuksong ng espasyo niya. Ilang beses na siyang magnakaw; naghahanap na ng iba pinagsabihan ng mga roommate niyang dahil may taning na ang asawa; walang alisin ang mga iyon. Pagkuha’y sinabi pambayad ng matrikula kaya nagputa niya, “Kailangan nila ng anghel na na lang—walang kamalay-malay sa mga magliligtas sa kanila.”
Nilingon sya ni Xander. Tumatawa si Alex.
Kinuha ni Alex ang baril ng patay na pulis. Tiningnan nya kung ilan ang Lumapit ito at tinitigan si Alex sa bala nito. Dalawa? Fucking budget cuts. mga mata, “Baliw ka na nga.” Hindi na rin siguro masama. Dali-dali “E ano naman nga kung baliw?” syang umalis. Nagdodrowing ito ng anghel. Pagkuha’y nasa Bangkal na sya, kung “So baliw ka nga?.” saan nakatira si Mark. Dumirediretso “Hinde.” Natawa ito. “Pangarap lang.” siya sa loob ng bahay dahil walang tao, hanggang sa makarinig siya ng mga “Bakit?” ungol. Sinundan nya ito, at sa kwarto ni Mark ay parang masisira ang mga paa Ngumiti lang si Alex, at naalala ng kama sa lakas ng indayog niya kay niya ang mukha ng mga tao, at ang mga Tess. Napatili si Tess pagkakita kay Alex mukha ay unti-unting namimilipit sa at itinulak si Mark ngunit ayaw nitong poot at pagdurusa, at ang ngiti ni Alex patigil. ay naging mga halakhak. “Parang antagal mong natigang, ah.” Palabas ng kanyang kwarto si Mang Nagsalita si Alex, saka lamang napansin Dante ng makarinig ito ng sigaw mula ni Mark ang presensya nito, pero halos sa kwarto ni Alex. Lumapit siya sa pinto ayaw pa rin nitong tumigil. nito. Nakarinig siya ng kahinahinalang ingay mula sa loob. Hindi rin ganap na “Anong ginagawa mo ditong hayop nakapinid ang pinto. Kumatok siya at ka?” sagot nito sa pagitan ng mga hingal, ilang ulit na tinawag si Alex ngunit hindi nakadiin pa rin kay Tess, “di mo ba ito sumasagot. Sa kanyang pagkabahala nakikitang—“ ay pumasok na siya. Mukhang dalawang baril ang di Alisto ang ginoong pulis. Madilim makapag-hintay. Hinugot ni Alexander ang inuupahan ni Alex at walang tao ang baril niya, saka lang din nahugot sa sala. Bukas ang pinto ng tulugan. ang “baril” ni Mark. Nanlaki ang mga Hawak niya ang kanyang baril at mata ng magkasintahan. handa sa anumang magaganap. Ngunit pagkabukas niya ay wala ring tao. Di “Xander, bakit—?” tanging nasabi ni Mark. tulad sa sala, mas maliwanag ng kaunti sa tulugan dahil sa isang bintana. Ang Hayop ka rin, wag mo kong nakita niya lang ay isang laptop na matawagtawag na Xander, close ba tayo? nakapatong sa kama, mga kakaibang “O ano? Takbo na gago!” larawang-guhit na nakapaskil sa isang dingding ng kwarto, at isang larawan ng “Alex ano ba to?” nalito si Tess. anghel, Anghel ng Kamatayan... at ang “Kanina lang tayo nagkita hindi ka pa huli nyang nakita ay isang kutsilyong ganyan!” sumibat at sumalubong sa kanyang mukha.
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“Matagal na kong ganito,” ani Alexander, “Matagal ko nang gustong magbigay ng katarungan, iligtas ang mga tao mula sa mga sarili nila. Kaya ikaw Mark, umalis ka na.” “Ha?!” “Di mo gets?" Itinutok nya ang baril kay Tess. "Parusa ang mabuhay sa impyernong ‘to. Ginagawan ko lang ng pabor ang mga mabubuting tao--tulad ng pulis na may-ari ng baril na ito. At ikaw, gusto kong maghirap ka pa sa mundong ito, kaya pinapaalis na kita.” Napayakap si Tess kay Mark. Nataranta si Mark. "Baliw! Tatawag ako ng pulis!" "Bilisan mo ha? ISA!" Hindi alam ni Mark ang gagawin. "DALAWA!" Pinaputok ni Alex ang baril sa pintuan. Napakaripas ng takbo ang hubu’t hubad na si Mark na nagawa pang hatakin ang kumot. Nagtilian ang mga taong nasa harap ng bahay. "Alex ano bang ginagawa mo!" hagulgol ni Tess. "Ginagantimpalaan ka." Ngumiti si Alex. "Hindi mo na makikita pang muli ang pagmumukha ng pamilya mong gumago sa'yo. At hindi mo na rin kailangang magpagago pa kay Mark. Matatapos na ang pagdurusa mo sa mundong ito.” Nakatitig lang siya nagmamakaawang mukha ni
sa Tess.
Huwag! Huwag mo akong patayin! Magkaibigan tayo, marami pa akong pangarap at alam mo ‘yon! Pero para saan pa? Magkakaroon ka ng pamilya, bahay, kotse, pero magdurusa rin ang mga anak mo, mapapanood nyong pamilya sa TV ang balita tungkol sa demolisyon na malapit lang sa subdivision nyo, at madadaanan ng kotse nyo ang hilera ng mga pulubi’t mangangalakal sa EDSA. Ang pangarap mo’y tulad lang din ng sa iba na makasarili, hindi nito mababago ang kahangalang bumabalot sa mundo. “Maliit na kabutihan lang ang magagawa ko kapalit ng kalayaan ko. Dalawang kaluluwa lang sa milyunmilyong taong nagdurusa ang maililigtas ko.” Umalingawngaw ang putok ng baril, at kung pababagalin ang oras, maririnig mong tila may mga salita rin sa alingawngaw na iyon, nagsasabing tapos na ang pagbubuhay-buhayan mo. Parang wala lang na lumabas ng bahay si Alexander, pinagtitinginan ng mga taong nakapayong at lumabas pa ng kani-kanilang bahay pero nagtatago rin naman. Umuulan na pala Xander. Nakatingala lang si Alex habang sinasalo ng kanyang mukha ang bawat patak ng ulan.Napansin mo ba, na kung ngumiti si Jeff the Killer ay para ding si Chesire Cat? Sayang di natin natapos panoorin ‘yung Se7en. Di nya pansin ang papalapit na mga pulis na dadakip sa kanya. Sayang din di natin natanong kay Tess kung anong masama sa pagiging isang baliw.
Gintong Nawalan ng Ningning M
ni Self-Proclaimed Atheist
ga araw ay nagsidaan at namaalam; Liwanag ng buwan sa tugatog Ng kadiliman ay lumisan, Mga alaala’y ibinaon sa hangin; Nakalutang, nakahimlay Umiiyak, naghihintay sa kawalan Para bumango’t turukan ng buhay. Kagitingan ni Panula’t Tinta’y inalisan ng puwang sa pagkakakilanlan, Katanyagan ni Papel; pinunit, pinigtas sa trono ng kakintalan, Gawa ni Manang Makata at mumunting tinig ni Kataga; Isinulat sa karagatan ng kalugihan at nilimot sa pag-iyak ni Ulan. Aklat ng nakaraan ay pinilit isara, Hinayaang alikabukin sa dilim ng mga sumpa, Mga salita na itinatak sa pamamagitan ni Pagod at Pawis, sa marmol na tablet Ay naitatak nga! Subalit tuluyan nang nilusaw sa bawat patak ng mga dugo’t luha. Sa muling pagpanaw ni Haring Araw at muli niyang pagbalik sa kawalan, Mga alaalang kinaligtaan na dapat sana’y may kabunyian, Ay hihimlay sa karimlan ng walang hanggan. Tugatog ng katatagan ay di na muling mabubuhay sa lason ni Aklatan At korona ni Mamang Makata ay di na muling magniningning; Talento’y pilit nang pinilas- kinalimutan!
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Paggawa ng Bangkang Papel
ni Delonix Raegia
Mga kailangan: - Piraso ng mga parihabang papel na may sukat na 4 x 6 pulgada ang mga gilid (maaaring gumamit ng pahina ng lumang dyaryo o magasin) - Isang palanggana ng tubig Mga hakbang:
K
unin ang piraso ng papel at siguraduhin na ang sukat ng isang gilid nito ay apat na pulgada at ang isa naman ay anim na pulgada. Mas magandang gumamit ng mga lumang pahina ng mga magasin at dyaryo dahil sa taglay nilang makukulay na pigura at larawan na maaring maihalintulad sa isang masayang paglalakbay. Hawakan ang magkabilang kanto ng gilid ng papel na may sukat na apat na pulgada at itupi ito patungo sa kabilang dulo. Matapos nito ay mahahati ang papel sa gitna at ang sukat na nito ay magiging 3 x 4 pulgada. Itupi ang bagong kanto ng papel na nabuo mula sa natuping bahagi patungo sa gitna hanggang sa makabuo ng isang tatsulok. Ulitin ang nakaraang hakbang sa kabilang sulok ng papel. Sa ibabang bahagi ay may matitirang parte. Itupi ito paitaas sa magkabilang parte hanggang maging isang tatsulok na lang ang papel. Ilusot ang mga daliri sa gitna ng papel at ibuka ito hanggang maging isang maliit na kwadrado. Hawakan ang magkahiwalay na bahagi at itupi ito paitaas. Gawin muli ito sa kabilang parte. Matapos nito ay magiging isang maliit na tatsulok na lamang muli ang papel. Muling ibuka ang gitna ng maliit na tatsulok hanggang maging isang mas maliit na kwadrado. Hawakan ang kanto ng papel na may hati. Hilahin ang bawat bahagi palayo sa isa’t isa hanggang mabuo ang Bangka.
Kunin ang palanggana ng tubig at ilagay dito ang ginawang Bangka. Panuorin ang lumulutang na bangkang papel. Maaring hawiin ng onti ang tubig o kaya naman ay ihipan ito upang gumalaw ang Bangka . Matuwa dahil sa matagumpay na paglalayag ng Bangka sa tubig matapos ang kanyang mga napagdaanang mga tupi. Panuorin ito sa loob ng ilan pang minuto. Kapag may pagkakataon, ipakita ito sa ibang tao. Paglipas ng ilang minuto, makikita na unti-unti nang mababasa ang papel. Ang basa sa ilalim ay mamumulaklak sa gilid ng banggka hanggang sa ito ay makarating sa loob. Panuorin ito habang pinapasok ng tubig hanggang sa tuluyan itong mabasa at magsimulang lumubog. Alalahanin ang mga napagdaanan ng munting papel bago siya maging isang Bangka. Pagnilaynilayan ang prosesong ng pagtutupi at pagbuo ng lukot sa papel na magiging kanyang suporta bilang isang Bangka. Pumikit pasumandali at saka sumulyap upang saksihan ang paglapat ng papel sa palanggana. Matapos bumagsak sa ilalim ng palanggana ang Bangka, magmuni-muni ng ilang sandali. Ihalintulad ang Bangka sa buhay ng isang tao. Isipin na ang tao ay tulad ng isang bangkang papel, marami man siyang pagdaanang proseso at gaano man kaganda ang kanyang buhay, siya pa rin ay isang papel na matapos makapaglayag ay mababasa at lulubog. Malungkot, umiyak kung maaari. Matulala ng panandali, tumingala, at saka punasin ang luha sa pisngi. Tumayo. Kumuha ng panibagong piraso ng papel at ulitin ang lahat ng hakbang.
Esther
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“Buwis Buhay” ni Che Tagyamon
Second Place, Mulat Maninipat -352013
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Ma, Paano na?
M
ni Daenerys
a, maniniwala pa ba ako? Sa mga higanteng nakasuot ng kamison at barong, Sa mga nagmamay-ari ng balat na sapatos at sinturon, Sa mga taong pangako’y kanila lamang ibinulong? Ma, dapat pa bang magtrabaho? Kung ibebenta lang din naman ang kaluluwa ko Sa mga gumagawa ng maryonet na nagbabayad lang ng bent’singko? Ma, maniniwala pa ba ako? Sa mga artistang nakipaghalikan na sa mikropono, Sa mga bituin na nagniningning sa gintong dapat ay atin, Sa mga taong nilulon ang mga salita nila noong Hulyo? Ma, alam ba talaga nila ang tama?
R
Kung bawat buka ng labi at galaw ng dila Ay kalkulado para sa tainga ng pariwara? Ma, maniniwala pa ba ako? Sa mga kapwa natin na nagsasabing alam ang nakabubuti, Sa mga nakaahon daw sa tulong ng mga higanteng inapakan tayo, Sa mga arawang kumakain ng bubog at patalim mula sa kapreng kasyoso? Ma, paano na tayo? Ma, paano ka na? Ma, ano na ang gagawin ko? Ma? Ayoko na.
Oda sa Bayan Kong Inuulan ni Aurora
aragasa ang ulan sa pusod ng lungsod, dadaloy, aagos sa litid at ugat ng mga estero at kanal; bubuhos sa bawat parte ng marurupok na haligi at yero, mga bulok na kariton, mga tarpaulin na may mukha pa ng kagagalang-galang na G. o Gng. Pacquita Monfuetmo- kung sa’n nakatira silang nagsusulsi ng bra’t panty, lumulusaw ng bakal, naglalata ng isda sa pabrika; kayod-kalabaw, kapit-patalim upang pagkasyahin ang sahod na hindi man lamang maibili ng mga produktong sa kanila na mismong kamay nabuo, sa kanilang pawis, kalyo, laway, uhog, dugo. ‘Yang ulang tila daing din, sisipsipin, aararuhin ang bawat dumaraang butil ng oras, araw, buwan, taon, milenyo- ng walang katapusang pagtanim at pag-ani ng mga likurang tinutong ng sikat ng araw, mga biyas na naluto sa pestisidyo; gayong ‘di pa rin sapat ang sinaing, ‘di pa rin pagmamay-ari ang lupang inangkin. Babala ang bawat tikatik, nanghihimasok, tumutuloy sa lahat ng mga lagusan -ang mga bintanang isinara, pintong kinandado. Nanggigising, yumayanig sa mga yungib ng emosyong kinulong, pangitaing dinaanan ng tingin, sigaw na ‘di dininig. Ang ulan, gagapang sa mga sulok ng gabi, tungo sa bawat manhid na kalamnan ng bayang tigang; sa naninigas nitong puso, nang makaramdam muli ng pag-ibig.
Stars in a Bottle by Solar Plexus
W
hen I was a little boy, Grandfather taught me how to do simple origami. We would sit for hours on the porch every afternoon, depleting mother’s stash of colored paper folding cranes and tulips. I could never get the cranes right – the paper always ended up wrinkled with all the extra creases I made by mistake – but the tulips I perfected, from the yellow petals down to the green stem. I gave mother one for her birthday, which earned me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I would make something like a werewolf’s claws too and wear it on my fingers, but without a sister to scare or a brother to challenge to a mock battle, playing with paper airplanes and boats interested me more. I would run around the house pretending to fly my plane around, until Grandfather showed me that my paper plane was perfectly capable of flight on its own. I made an airport out of the top of the stairs, and I would throw my planes in all directions. When one of them almost landed on the pot of boiling stew in the
stove, mother threatened to make stew out of my origami on the next meal if my planes did not stay out of the kitchen. I retreated to the porch and cried on Grandfather’s lap as he sat on the rocking chair. He patted my head, stroked my hair, and said: “Hush now, buddy. Don’t you want to test your paper boats? You’ve made an entire fleet for the navy; it would be such a waste to just keep them anchored in the dock, wouldn’t it?” I disentangled my arms from his waist and looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Really? They can sail?” “Of course,” he said with a smile, and tugged at my hand. “Come, I’ll show you.” I nodded and let him drag me to the back of the house, where mother does the laundry. Grandfather filled the largest basin with water, handed me a paper boat, and prodded me to try it out. I hesitated. “But it will get wet. It will sink. Like the Titanic, when it hit the iceberg. Grandfather chuckled. “No, it won’t. Want to do it together?” “Okay.”
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Grandfather held my shaking hand, flashed me a reassuring smile, and slowly guided my hand as I put the boat on the water. When five, and then ten, seconds passed and it stayed afloat, I threw a triumphant fist in the air and cheered in glee. “I did it!” “Good job, buddy,” Grandfather said, and then gave me a high-five. He then proceeded to show me how to blow the boat and move it around, a feat I did not grow tired of doing over and over for the next few days. I liked playing with my paper planes and boats so much that Grandfather, who used to be a wood carver, made me wooden ones for my sixth birthday. I put them in the glass case in the living room and showed them proudly to my aunts and uncles who occasionally came to visit. I did not play with them, because they were Grandfather’s precious gifts to me, so I still made paper planes and boats. When mother’s stash of colored paper ran out, I started tearing the unused yellow pages under the center table. Grandfather watched me every time I played, sitting in that rocking chair or his as I concentrated on making my own air force jets and navy cruisers. On one occasion, he asked me the one question adults always ask kids while looking at me affectionately, clearly amused by my shenanigans. “Hey buddy, what do you want to be when you grow up?” I gave him a quick glance, and
then went back to my work. “Well, that would be obvious,” I answered him, and then bit my lip, engrossed in folding another paper boat. “I’m going to be an airplane pilot or a ship captain, of course. I’ll fly among the clouds and cross the oceans!” Grandfather smiled. “I guess that’s not bad for a dream, buddy.” I beamed at him. Two years later, however, I would have a new dream. I was on third grade then, and it was in science class, when Teacher Amy told us about the man who first set foot on the moon. His name was Neil Armstrong, and he was an astronaut, people who fly to the outer space wearing this thick white costume and investigate other planets. I sat in my armchair with my mouth hanging open and eyes sparkling in awe, a halffinished paper crane forgotten on my desk, and I thought, that is so cool! I told my family about this new dream of mine over dinner, chatting animatedly about how good old Neil left a footprint on the moon in between spoonfuls of soup. “He got to the moon first, but I’m going to be the first man to set foot on Mars!” “Why Mars?” father asked, curious. “All the others are out of the question, dad. Mercury and Venus are so hot I’d probably get burned into a crisp, and I can’t leave a footprint on gaseous planets. I ought to leave my mark.”
“What about Pluto?” Grandfather offered. “That’s too far,” I deadpanned. “And it’s not a planet anymore, remember?” Everyone laughed, and then mother suddenly joined the discussion. “Well make sure to eat up so you won’t buckle when you wear that thick astronaut costume. It looks heavy,” she said, and then placed vegetables on my plate. “Mom!” I groaned, and everyone laughed again. Ever since then, my interest in astronomy grew tenfold. I still did origami out of habit, and the years of practice made me finally perfect my paper cranes, but I spent more time reading my science textbook and the big encyclopedias displayed in the shelf in the living room, beside the glass case holding my wooden toy airplane and boat. I started watching the news for updates on eclipses and meteor showers. Upon nightfall, I would hang out with Grandfather on the porch and we would hunt constellations and shooting stars together. In fifth grade, I even volunteered to do a report on the weird relationship of aphelion, perihelion, equinoxes, and solstices. Everyone wondered why the winter solstice occurs when the Earth is closest to the sun, at perihelion, when it really got nothing to do with distance. “It’s the Earth’s tilt on its axis, you dummies. It doesn’t matter how far you are from the sun as long as
the tilt’s pointing your hemisphere towards it,” I said, demonstrating through the model Grandfather carved for me. My classmates were too busy being awed at my revelation to realize that I just called them idiots. Miss Elise made me stay after class was over and gave me a stern lecture about it anyway. “The ‘you dummies’ part was totally unnecessary! That was disrespectful!” I smiled sheepishly, told her I was going to donate the model to the science laboratory, and went home scot-free. When I turned twelve, Grandfather got me glow-in-thedark stars for my room ceiling. I would admire their luminous pale green glint before I fell asleep – my own milky way keeping me company in the darkness of my room, until the same darkness consumed me as my eyes finally shut close. I was greeted by a similar pitch black while seated inside the planetarium for our class trip in sixth grade. It was so dark at first that I thought I was eaten by a black hole. My sense of direction was practically non-existent in that reclining chair – I no longer knew up from down, and the north, south, east, and west became foreign, unfamiliar concepts without a point of reference. I suddenly wondered how astronauts would navigate in space if they were to lose their radar. I shivered because of two things: one, because -39-
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it must be scary (what if they don’t find their way home?), and two, because it must be thrilling, like hunting for treasure in the desert or forest. But isn’t it the same for flying planes and sailing ships, which travel in the vastness of the skies and the oceans? I concluded that the radar is such a useful invention, indeed. My thoughts halted just when flickers of light slowly appeared, scattered randomly in the darkness. Stars. I spotted Polaris in the center, and then other constellations, one by one. Orion. Big dipper. Little dipper. Taurus. I squinted my eyes to locate Hercules, but the stars started moving, revolving around the center in opposite directions, leaving arcs of light in their wake. I was seriously star struck, pun not intended. After the trip, I was already rehearsing in my mind how I would relate the exhilarating experience to my family as soon as I hopped on the bus. It was mother who fetched me in school two hours later when we arrived, and I was ready to bombard her with stories when I noticed that her eyes and nose were red and puffy and her face was several shades paler than usual. I kissed her on the cheek. She put her arms around me, and then gave me a tight squeeze, as if channeling strength from my body. “Mom?” She sniffed. “Let’s go, sweetie,” she finally
said. Then, in a broken voice, she added, “Your grandfather’s in the hospital.” My stomach dropped, as if it suddenly turned into lead, but I did not say any word until I got to see Grandfather lying in the hospital bed with an IV tube protruding from his wrist and an inhaler mask resting atop his nose and mouth. Several machines with LED display, which made soft beeping sounds, were wired to his body to check his vital signs. “Dad,” I said when I entered the door. Father stirred from his seat beside the bed and nodded to me in greeting. “Where’s mom?” “She went out to get dinner,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “What happened?” “He had a heart attack. He’s stable for now, but he would need an operation.” I knew about heart attacks. I read about it in the encyclopedia. Arteries would get clogged, disrupting the flow of blood – that warm red liquid which reeks of iron rust. It delivers the essence of the outside world to every fiber of our being – oxygen to the cells – and keeps the heart beating, keeps people going, alive. Once it ceases to flow, like a dried waterfall, life disappears like stardust. For the next few weeks I kept myself busy, trying to push that first brush with mortality at the back of my mind. I dropped by the bookstore and bought one ream
of assorted colored paper, plus an origami instruction manual. I brought them to Grandfather’s room in the hospital and worked on a new piece each day, trying to cheer him up despite his weakened state after the surgery. Grandfather rarely talked and I did not force him. Instead, I took all the chattering upon myself, telling him about my day as I folded colored paper on the table, beside the basket of fruits and snacks. The first time he woke up after the bypass, I told him about our trip at the planetarium. I didn’t think he took it all in – he was groggy with drugs and all – but he listened gingerly, not letting unconsciousness claim him, and nodded and smiled at the right moments. Grandfather did not get any better even after the operation. I overheard the doctors explaining to my parents, who took a leave from managing our grocery store to take care of him, that his condition had not stabilized and he was in danger of heart failure any minute. Mother silently wept in father’s arms after the doctors excused themselves. Father kissed the top of her head and held her close, allowing himself only a brief moment of weakness. He had to be strong for the both of them. As for me, I started folding paper cranes. The origami manual had a trivia section for each piece, and for the crane, it is believed that a person’s wish shall be granted when he folds a thousand of them.
I would fold in class and fold some more during my after school visit to Grandfather every day. I folded until I got a paper cut, my blood smearing the bright yellow of the paper, but even then I continued. I folded until a dull ache formed on the tips of my fingers, as if the sting of unshed tears and all the hurt in my chest gathered in my lean digits, releasing themselves on every crease I made, on every crane I finished. On the day I reached the two hundred mark, Grandfather passed away on a second heart attack. In his will, Grandfather instructed that his remains be cremated, the ashes sown into the sea, scattered by the wind. I was doing a pretty good job of keeping myself from crying, until father dipped his hand inside the urn holding Grandfather’s ashes, and threw the handful he scooped towards the blowing sea breeze. My turn would be coming soon, I said to myself, trying to fight for composure, but I could not hold it any longer. Tears streaked on my cheeks, unbidden, as the realization echoed itself in my mind: Grandfather was gone. He’s gone, and I would not see him anymore. I spent the following weeks continuing my paper crane-making, as my own way of mourning. I preferred the solitude my room offered instead of working on the porch, which held vivid memories of afternoons spent on folding -41-
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colored paper and evenings of stargazing. But I put the wooden toy airplane and boat on top of my study table, such precious mementos of Grandfather, to keep me company as I worked. It took me three months to finish folding a thousand cranes. I tied them all together, and then hung them in one corner inside my room. I did not make a wish, and instead promised to move on. When I reached high school, my interest in the celestial skies never waned and continued to grow. I joined the astronomy club and we would organize eclipse viewings and write short articles on astronomical events to be posted on bulletin boards. I no longer wanted to be the first man to set foot on Mars, and instead leaned towards scholarly and research work. I saved up to buy a cheap telescope by my junior year, which I set up by the window in my room. Sometimes I would take it downstairs to the porch and invite mother and father to watch constellations. Towards the end of my senior year, my room was filled with astronomy books – some I bought with my allowance, some I checked out from the library, some I borrowed from friends. I would read them at night after doing my homework, while my hands worked on folding small paper stars which I kept in bottles and jars. I already lost count of how many I filled while reading about galaxies and
all the heavenly bodies they carried, but I knew I was never going to be an astronomer. I would not become an airplane pilot or a ship captain, either. The day I enrolled in the university, I made a stop to the beach where Grandfather was laid to rest for all eternity before I headed home. Upon mother’s insistence, I took a course on management so I could attend to the family business – the small grocery store which I would eventually inherit from them. My world would be of supply and demand, of stock exchange and shares and balance sheets. I was never going to see the world beyond, so I would watch it now and engrave it in my memory, as the airplanes flew on the orange sky above my head and the ships sailed toward the distant sunset. I would keep this image in my heart, together with the waning glow of the stars on the ceiling of my room. I stayed until the sea swallowed the last golden rays of the sun and the moon rose above the horizon, casting its soft silver light on the waves. I looked up at the starry sky and wished upon the thousand twinkling stars, even though I knew they were dead, long ago, somewhere in the vast emptiness of this universe.
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Idle at the Sea by Esther
A
We walk the rosy shore, wide under a morning sky, while waves lie on our feet. Then, their tips slip cold their gray walls curl away, icy fingers take you with the words I wish you heard. I choke on your laughs and smiles, and push to be pulled away. Memories drown me with a last glimpse at your face. I cry to the blue. All around, it rumbles. I could not answer back. So I bare myself of all but final breath and tears, I join
Daener
ys
the plunge.
O
verlooking the slow metro traffic: cars belching smoke, drivers rolling their windows down. There she was in a coffee shop, still hearing the same old sonatas and bossa nova tracks, still hearing the same old cups and spoons kissing each other with a light smack that was all too familiar for us. Overlooking the people around her: laughing, giggling, kissing, and loving – all of which, she never did (and never could). There she was on a small mahogany table which could fit four, but is only occupied by one. She shifted her vision from the busy streets, to the patch of grass and flowing river behind the coffee shop. “Silence, peace, maybe that’s all I need,” she thought to herself.
Half Pack for One by Daenerys
She needs something, someone, anything. Someone who can ease the pain and make her forget. Something to get her by while her days numbed her far too much. Anything. She counted. One. For the loneliness that left a huge void. Two. For the uncertainty for the things that are crucial. Three. For the willingness to forget everything. Come on, just one huff.
Est
Among the happiness of the people, she was drowning. Among the chimes of the coffee cups and plates, she was loathing. Her problems never left her. She never had the chance to breathe, to live. Her problems clung unto her like a child to a mother, and she clung on to them like a fool to its master. But right now, all she wanted was what it could give her.
her
And just like that, it was back in her life. 5 months astray, and a second later, she gives in. This is her. Settling for things and people who can never give her what she wants, but whom she can take anything from. She kicked it out of her life. She clawed her way out of its toxicity. “It’s for the best,” she said. But her eagerness right now, proves otherwise.
She took it out. Three left from the original of ten. Placing it where it rightfully should – between the plump of her lips and the white of her teeth. It took its life from her and she took hers from
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it. The sweet poison and the toxicity of its presence. She accepted it. She accepted everything. Wholeheartedly. Desperately. Her hands found its way to her laptop. Slowly unfolding the lives of the people around her. Scrolling up and down. Clicking. Typing. Everything she could do, she did. And she saw what she needed to see – “Jonathan is in a relationship with Annie” - to drag more from her sinful pleasure. Just like how Jonathan, without any reason, bit temptation. Now go and breathe me in.
This is how she needed it. It controlled her. It is her everything. The cigarettes served as something to keep her preoccupied from the reality of life and the guttering pain of disappointment. She scrolled down, and down, and down until she can’t make do of anything with a tinge of familiarity to her anymore. “Everything about this,” she thought, “screams how much of a failure I am in life.” She lingered her cursor to the photos of women with whom she once had the pleasure of spending time with, but now pretended that she was nothing. Now drag. She lingered her cursor to the people with happy lives and giddy status updates. Now drag. She lingered her cursor to the men she used to love and used to love her back. Drag some more. The flame and the stick once again kissed and she placed it between her grinding teeth. She needed to get away. For once in her life, she wanted to be the one who leaves. She fished her things and walked along. Determined to leave what she could never before. Her feet trailed to the nearest serene place with a patch of grass and laid there. This, this is how everyone loved her. Her deep brown eyes willing the world to stop rotating and pause at this very moment. The hint of blush in her cheeks from the heat is what keeps people alive. Her mystery, her devotion, her aliveness, it’s everything that makes people want her. It’s everything about her. Until she destroyed it, destroyed herself with her uncontrollable addiction, her urges, her uncertainty whether to keep on living or just end it abruptly. She destroyed herself. And stopped halfway. She stared at the last cigarette in her hands. Then pressed her lips against it. Rekindling the romance between her body and the nicotine. Again and again and again And again and again And again.
You know you need me.
The fervor from her now sultry lips lit up the passion in the stick. The taste of her drug – tangerine Tictacs – still lingers between her teeth. Her sweat drips from her forehead, down to her chin, lastly, to the skin above her black low-cut dress. She slowed down. And everything feels to be drifting away. Flashback. An accurate view of how we used to be.
Content, pink unrattled lips, and a pack just in case. Flashback. And how we fell apart.
Crying, mascara smudges, and five empty packs around her. She wanted to stop breathing it in.
But I’m the only thing that keeps you sane.
A few more of this and she’d lose it. She’d succumbed to it. Again. “I don’t want that.” she whimpered to herself. Oh yes you do.
Stop. Stop.
Keep the flame. Keep your sanity.
She slowly removed her lips from the nicotine, removed her once strong grip from it. She pushed it down. Away. Again. Not again. Please. Her slim hands combed the tangles away from her hair and then continued to damp a good amount of concealer below her eyes. A streamline of red traced her lips, and a nauseating mist – vanilla and flowers – encompassed her. She stood and strutted away. From her destruction. Not again.
At last.
The hundredth time this has happened, but wherever life takes her, I know. I know in myself that she’d come back. She ’d need me again. Over and over again. There’ s no escape. She’ d light me up again. She’ d want me again.
She’ d mutter the words that she has muttered for over a hundred of times. She’ d say it to the person manning the counter, like an inside joke. In her sweet, innocent voice: “A half pack of cigarette for one, please.”
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rys
Da ene
Love
L
ove is a pack of smokes One box of guilty pleasure One box of wasted coins and bills lit with a single stroke of a match, one single stroke of sanity
Drugged by Boy Jorge
One hit is all you thought you wanted But one more is what you really want And another one to kill the time And another one to numb yourself The nicotine will eat you up like a sweet poison creeping up your chest. With every deep breath, a nest of clogged emotions and foggy memories; With every deep exhale, a cloud of dark smoke welled up inside Love is a pack of smokes Calming the guilt and the paranoia Calming the surging thoughts Drowning the fear and the troubles of the world The lightheadedness is welcomed, built with every lungful. Ten seconds of smiles and shared contemplations; Ten seconds of giddiness and a lifetime of dread You’ll let the smoke envelop you in its warm and silent armor— Letting your chest rot to the tune of your huff and puff; You’ll let the smoke devour the person next to you— twice as much she will decay to the tune of your huff and puff Love is a pack of smokes Covetously consumed Voraciously shared Until all that is left from the countless sticks that’s been ignited and extinguished Is a pile of useless butts And black ashes.
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Malaya
I
wish to stuff all mythings in a bag Put on my favorite shoes And simply walk away Never turn back. To be lost, but not so lost in the gazeless stare of people of unknown origins, unknown stories But finding solace in the comforting anonymity of being strangers. I need escape. A place far beyond the grasp of my own demons, whispering slurred words feasting like famished beasts in the cobwebs of my mind Those weeks of solitary confinement, I, trapped in the prison cell of my own guilt and hatred, forced to seek anything to fill the unfillable emptiness inside, a dull,constantly aching void where nothing was. A sweet escape. Towards that blank space where I can be anything My eyes, slowly sweeping across the limitless sunset Settling over yonder, at the far westsun slowly descending unto earth, as if to devour a last kiss of goodbyemy heart swells with sweet melancholy that I need to close my eyes. A futile attempt to preserve the moment Remember how it all once felt what was long gone and never will be mine, never again except, perhaps, in these fleeting seconds.
Transience by Aurora
Escape. The temporary bliss feels so right. It lulls me, lifts me up, makes me whole But it’s gone away too soon. I need one that lasts. The salve over my lesions takes away the pain It calms, soothes, appeases But it’s washed away so quickly Leaving the wounds and lacerations stinging and burning, larger and deeper My soul more broken, blistered Damaged than before. There is no other choice but to fight. Fight hard, I must. To face the horrors lurking in the shadows Break the chains that bind me to broken pieces Of thoughts and dreams, discarded; aspirations shattered To crush the wall I built around myself Embrace such scars That make me who I am. To get up Stand up Once again. Never again For today, tomorrow And the day after Escape, I shall.
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T
Of Desire and Hunger
wo o’clock in the morning and the hours seem to drag on seamlessly I taste pitiful anxiety on my tongue. I feel sanity leave my fingertips. (I breathe in deep, deeper – until I can’t anymore - and I breathe out) Losing my grasp of the strength and the will to ward off every filthy, amorous carnal thoughts of you. 2:30 and still drowning in the need for your touch; the warm feel of your skin between my legs; the electric buzz provided by your tenderly chapped lips; and the unusual longing for your (our) intimate desires.
by Daenerys
Still aching for the familiar thrust that leaves us wincing in pain, yet thirsting for the pleasure and your fervent force with its concomitant sweetness that my insides have been craving for. 3:00 and still picturing you in my dull, dark room with nothing more but a string on. Manipulating my every move, my every pull Dominating my mind (and my lust) in every way Still pleasuring myself in degrees that are more than I could bear (but I’d be willing to take more than I could need) just to feed the insatiable hunger you left me with. I watch myself get watered down by fatigue, nausea and guilt. I notice myself watch the way the dawn breaks just as you watch my pieces noticeably crumble and fall a p a r t. Image courtesy of Rojin Hamid of The Owl Pallete
“Sa Magkabilang Daan” ni Shane David
First Place, Mulat Maninipat 2013 -53-
XNE
Usad
(Travel Guide Para Kay Yani) ni Alaala
U
na, likumin mo ang pangambang umaanino sa iyong mga pasilyo At itaboy na parang pusang lagalag sa kabilang kanto Ihanda ang sarili sa byaheng di malilimot Sisirin ang lalim ng damdamin Bagtasin ang lawak ng balak Maglayag sa mapanghamong mga alon Mangilid sa bangin ng pag-aatubili Unti-unti, ubod ingat tatawirin ang eskinita ng takot - ang daang pinangingiwasan Yapusing maigi ang bagaheng sukbit Makipagpatintero sa kabang kalaban Akyatin ang tugatog ng galak Hukayin ang kaibuturan ng lunggati Tumalon ng may kanlong pagtitiwala Umahong nang malanghap ang hanging mithi Kung dibdib man ay hinahapo Binti ma’y pinupulikat Abutin man ng antok sa daan O, handa ang bisig kong magsilbi mong himpilan Dito ka muna Mamahinga panandali, magtampisaw sa batis ng aliw, magpiknik at sumilong muna sa mayabong na lilim ng pananalig
Mamangha sa indayog ng alabok at mga patay na dahon sakay ng malanding hangin ihip-ihip ng oras na pinalilipas Sa gubat ng Recto makinig sa busina’t mga nagmamadaling yabag dito sa pusod ng lungsod masarap makipagtaguan Kapag naligaw sarili muna ang unang hanapin Maligayang paglalakbay, manlalakbay Paroroonan ay ‘di tukoy Ruta paroon ay paligoy-ligoy Sa hilaga ang ligaya Sa timog ay kawalan Silangang mapula Kanlurang nakaraan Subalit sa huli sanang sangangdaan magtagpo, magpantay ang aking kamay sa kamay ng compass mong baon.
Affliction by Solar Plexus
F
rom the empty corridor of the cancer ward, you stare at the whitewashed walls of the hospital dimly lit by low-wattage bulbs. You are sitting on a train of blue plastic chairs that seem to be taken from the bleachers of a baseball stadium or the waiting area of the airport. The back rest only reaches half of your back, so your shoulder leans directly on the wall. It is rather uncomfortable, but what irk you more are the sudden bursts of suppressed laughter coming from your older sister’s room. Her friends from law school arrived earlier this afternoon, four days after her surgery, and brought a pack of green tea – your sister’s favorite – which they now sip from the white porcelain cups they also brought as a gift. You immediately excused yourself after telling them the directions to the hospital’s cafeteria, where they could get boiled water. You never liked the company of lawyers, who are always too proud in showing off their intellect, who carry themselves as if they could never be wrong. They seem to be playing a mock trial – you catch a voice saying “Objection, your honor!” like a magic word capable of opening and closing doors – but at least they have the decency to remember
that they are in the hospital at the moment, hushing themselves when they get too loud or their laughter gets out of hand. At least they have the decency, self-important lawyers that they are, to remember that your sister cannot eat anything solid after getting a part of her stomach removed, although you do not really care if they brought the usual basket of fruits. You would eat them, anyway. A few minutes later the door finally opens and they get out one by one. At least they have the decency to keep their visit short. One of them approaches you to say they’re leaving, and then asks, “Give tita our regards?” You nod and absentmindedly bid them goodbye, your thoughts instantly flying to your mother inside the hospital chapel, kneeling in worship. Your agnostic of a mother, who hasn’t set foot in a church since your younger brother got baptized eighteen years ago, who hasn’t even as much as prayed when your father died two years later, now recites novenas day and night, a rosary in hand, and fasts for your sister’s recovery. For the daughter she cannot lose. You enter the room and find your sister finishing her tea. “Are you sure you should be drinking that?” you ask. She smiles, her eyes tired, as -55-
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she sets the cup down. “It should be fine. The doctor suggested to start taking light fluids other than water, anyway.” You do not respond. You collect the used cups instead, take them to the sink, and begin washing. The soapy sponge feels foreign in your hand as you pick it up from the corner. Between the two of you, it is your sister who has the knack for dishwashing. You prefer to do the cooking instead, ransacking the kitchen utensils and dumping them all on the sink after. Your sister is never fazed by the mountain of dishes she has to conquer – she knows how much soap and water are enough to remove the grease from the pan where you cooked your chicken adobo, the exact pressure needed to get rid of the burned rice stuck at the bottom of the pot using the steel wool, the distance of her body from the edge of the sink to keep her shirt from getting wet. That’s just how she was – she did anything and everything right, even the things that didn’t really matter. In between rinsing the cups, you glance at the person your sister has become: with her hair unkempt for days, her face ghost white, a hospital gown hanging loosely on her slumped shoulders, and an IV tube protruding from her wrist, this person seems like a stranger to you. The sister you know stood tall with her back straight and wore a blazer and slacks, her hair neatly pulled up, her face always beaming with radiance. How the mighty have fallen, you think, seeing that
perfection of hers get reduced to the frail and sick person now in front of you. Perhaps all of the hatred you harbored for her over the years got transmitted to the food you fed her, like they say in culinary school, that the feelings of the chef is worth more than a thousand flavors and seasonings, and as the food sit in her stomach, mutated into deadly cancer cells that suck her life away. “Why don’t you go home first? I think you need the rest,” your sister says just as you finish drying your hands. “Take mom with you, too. Don’t worry about me, Andrew will come later.” You check yourself on the mirror hanging on the wall, and as you stare at the bags forming under your eyes and the loosened strands of hair framing your face, you finally feel the fatigue weigh on you. You haven’t been getting enough sleep. “I’ll go, then,” you respond. You begin to fetch your things and your mother’s, although you already know she would refuse to budge and come with you. Her dirty clothes need to be washed, anyway, and she needs a fresh set of clothes and toiletries. You step out the door. “Take care,” you tell your sister, without really meaning it. *** A week later you find yourself face to face with your sister’s nutritionist. She gives instructions on how to feed your sister in the coming weeks – which foods are allowed in what amounts until when. The doctor actually wanted
to keep your sister for another week to supervise her diet, but she insisted on going home. “Hospital food is horrible,” she said, and besides, does she not have a chef of a sister? She has always been a picky eater -nilagang baka should be cooked with kenchi beef cuts pressurized for fifteen minutes, chicken macaroni salad should have plenty of minced white onion, daing na bangus should be marinated for sixteen hours, rice should be the soft and sticky dinorado. She would have long died of ulcer if you have not been there to respond to her whims. The nutritionist is a bespectacled young lady in her thirties, with an air of professionalism surrounding her. She speaks in a detached, almost mechanical, tone – a voice akin to that of your sister’s when she is discussing cases in court. And suddenly, you feel a shiver down your spine when you realize that this woman is who your mother wanted you to be all along. You say goodbye abruptly and escape to the door, only to find yourself plunging into the world you had been poised to enter but turned your back from halfway. The hallways of the hospital are filled with nurses in immaculate white pushing patients on a wheelchair, interns carrying a set of tools to get blood samples and blood pressure, doctors with a stethoscopes hanging around their necks, doing rounds. The atmosphere suffocates you. There is more to being a doctor than graduating cum laude in chemistry
and passing the NMAT with flying colors, and you have long since realized that medicine is not for you when you cannot even begin to fathom the idea of bearing the burden of another life onto your shoulders. But your mother doesn’t understand that, she who is fixated only on reputations and good names, on salaries and successful careers. You begin to feel a sense of relief when you finally find yourself walking towards the hospital exit, your sister’s belongings a welcome weight in your arm and your brother Andrew beside you, pushing your sister in a wheelchair. But just before the smell of the antiseptic disappears into the sunshine, you feel a punch in your gut when your mother suddenly speaks. “You would’ve been here by now, if you had only obeyed me like your sister and went to med school.” Your grip on the bag tightens until your palm turns white. *** The first thing you do when you arrive home is don your apron and prepare the ingredients for arroz caldo. You let the sharp flavor of the ginger travel all the way to the living room for your sister to smell, and when you finally place the steaming bowl of congee on the table, you watch your sister savor every spoonful she is allowed to eat. She had nothing but yoghurt and oatmeal for the past few days. In the following weeks, you fall into a routine of cooking for your sister. You hum to yourself as you -57-
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prepare today’s meal, macaroni soup, when your sister suddenly appears in the doorframe of the kitchen. “Need a hand?” she says. You spare her a glance before going back to the task of peeling the hotdogs out of the plastic. “It’s alright, I’m almost done anyway.” “I thought you might need help with the dishwashing.” “Well, thanks.” She smiles and wastes no time to don the spare apron you keep in the cupboard. She gets to work immediately, grouping the utensils together – the microwaveable Tupperware’s in one corner, the bowls to the side, leaving the strainer and can opener in the sink. She turns the faucet on and starts rinsing everything, and soon she is lost in her own world, her hands moving skillfully, mechanically, as she begins to sing softly under her breath. She always does that when washing the dishes, you remember, and when you were kids, you and Andrew would often sing with her until your mother scolds you three for disturbing the neighbors with your loud voices. You realize it’s been so long since you last saw her familiar figure in your kitchen, tidying up after you create a mess out of the dishes and saucepans you used, and sometimes asking for a taste of your newest recipe or an advanced serving of her favorite dishes. She has never said anything about your cooking, although she never fails to ask for second servings.
*** When your sister’s chemotherapy begins, you and your brother take turns in coming with her to the hospital. You would pack a change of clothes, a set of towels, a bottle of alcohol, some snacks to munch on, and occasionally, a novel to pass the time. Today is your shift. You watch wordlessly as your sister shut her eyes tight when the nurse inserts a needle on her wrist and attach the IV tube from which the drugs would be administered directly to her veins. She has never gotten used to it, even after going through the chemotherapy session several times. “Cook some sinigang for me when this is over, will you?” she says as she lay there on the hospital bed, the medicine now flowing insider her body. “You know you can’t eat meat,” you tell her. She has grown gaunt and paler in the past few weeks. The doctor said it’s only natural given her condition, but to you, her situation does not appear to be simply about losing weight. Her fragility is a picture of life deteriorating, of youth’s magic ceasing. You can see it in the thinning of her hair, in the hollow of her cheeks, in the drying of her lips, in her exposed clavicle, in her skinny wrists. She pauses and closes her eyes. She must be hurting. “Every meal could be my last, you know. Might as well enjoy it,” she finally says. That is what she said, too, when your mother forced her to go into law. She spoke of enjoying as she
memorized Latin terms, statutes, and provisions, word for word, but you know that she spends night after night inside her study, not reading up on cases and instead writing manuscripts of unfinished novels that would never see the light of day. You hate her for it, for simply obeying your mother, for setting a precedent to how a child is supposed to behave. And now you are trapped in this maze of expectations you do not want to follow, suffering under the disapproving look on your mother’s gaze. “Hurry up and die, then, and save us all the trouble,” you unconsciously say, but when you turn to your sister, she has already fallen asleep.
only focus on the never-ending siren of the ambulance as it maneuvers its way on the roads in a rush to get your sister to safety. When the vehicle stops and the nurses hurriedly take your sister’s stretcher away, it is your brother who chases after them as they disappear into the distance. You support your mother through her long trek to the emergency room, her weakened knees buckling with the weight of witnessing her favorite daughter grappling for her life against the formidable illness that consumed many others before her. Your sister is already sleeping in the cancer ward when you arrive with your mother. She has been given a dose of morphine to ease *** the pain, the doctor explains to your In the dead of one of the nights family, but he needs to run several that you keep vigil over your sister, tests to determine her current you hear her muffled whimpers condition. The cancer might have breaking the rhythm of the second already spread to other areas of her hand of the clock in the think body. silence of her room. You pretend to In the few days of waiting for be asleep, thinking that she deserves the results, your mother has sought every bit of the pain striking her refuge in the hospital chapel once nerves like lightning – oh please, more. Your sister has been clipped to let her suffer like you suffer, let her the morphine drip after agonizing soul ache and cry as much as you in a few more waves of pain every do, let her spirit be broken as yours, time the injected dose has worn off, please please please– each lasting for a shorter period The door bangs open and the than the previous. She sleeps for the next thing you know you are already most part of the day, her peaceful inside an ambulance, watching your expression in slumber hiding the brother tightly clutching your deadly battle raging within. The sister’s hand in his. In one corner morphine only assures you that she your mother quietly recites prayers does not feel a thing, but as the days of the rosary. That is about the only pass by her face begins to contort in thing she can do to keep herself growing discomfort from the pain from crying. As for you, you can barely kept at bay. -59-
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Until finally, the doctor gives the verdict: even with steady medication, she has only three months left to live. Your sister asks to go home with the resolve of someone who has already accepted death, willing to bear the pain in exchange for one last taste of whatever limited normalcy her condition would allow her. But your mother would not let her go – your mother could not afford to let her go, she who has placed another woman’s frustrated dreams like a cross on her shoulder, she who has lived another woman’s life. Even in death, she is denied of the privilege to choose for herself. *** Your sister fights to stay lucid each day. She sips the green tea in the porcelain cups her friends from law school gave her to keep herself awake, reading the novels your brother would bring one after another to pass the time. She asks you to cook all sorts of food for her, as long as it is allowed by her doctor, and never fails to eat two spoonfuls. At night, her stifled gasps and moans fill the room as her fists curl against the sheets. She dies in her sleep a month later.
of three siblings, the engineering student both by his choice and your mother’s, stands tall amongst the mourners like the foundations of earthquake-proof buildings and supports your mother’s weight like the cross-brace of steel bridges, like the father-figure from your blurry memory. He doesn’t shed a single tear in the funeral and in the cemetery, but in the days that follow after your sister’s internment, you find him weeping silently inside your sister’s study, clutching her unfinished manuscripts in his arms. On the ninth day after her passing, you spend your time in the sanctuary of the kitchen preparing her favorite dishes. You bake brownies and steam leche flan for dessert, prepare atsarang papaya and fry tilapia as side dishes, and finally, cook beef steak for the main course. You pat the slices of beef and marinate it with calamansi. In the middle of chopping onion rings, you begin to feel the searing hot tears flowing down your cheeks for the first time since your sister died. It’s only the onion, you tell yourself, but the voice of your sister, young and not yet caught up as the willing surrogate of your mother’s dreams, forces you to admit that you are crying.
*** As they lower your sister’s casket to the earth, you watch as your mother collapse into a crying heap on your brother’s chest. Your brother Andrew, the youngest
*** “Isn’t it perfect, Florence? You’re the chef, and I’m the dishwasher. Someday, let’s build our own restaurant together! That’s a promise, okay?”
We’re all but points on a plane by Solar Plexus
I
n the imaginary grid of the Cartesian we lie, position dictated by abscissa and ordinate from the nothingness that is the origin of all. We’re equally nothing but we have a name: we’re all but points on a plane.
We are the small black dot made by the ink from the tip of a quill, And as it glides on the smooth and flat surface of paper white as starch, We are at the mercy of the wielder’s hand: Together we make up a line a parabola a circle–
We shed our nothingness, we are killed: The dimensions are traversed and we give birth to everything. but what of us? we wish for the wielder to make a mistake: spill some ink and push the quill hard enough to bore a hole on the page. And in the void that is left our inexistence is complete– We are dimension zero: We’re all but points occupying no space at all in an endless plane.
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S
a may gripo’y nag-abang ang mga labi niyang maputla para sa inuming mala-tsaa na dagliang pupuna sa nangangalam na sikmura. At matapos damhin ang bawat patak ay kinalas ang tali ng yerong pintuan na siyang tagapag-ugnay sa kanya at ng tuwid na daan (nga ba?) Di pa nakakakai’y nagpakalayu-layo na at di na nagpunas sapagkat ano ba ang laban ng malinis na tubig sa mga marka ng bubot na katawan, baka marumihan pa itong ipanghuhugas. Hayaan na rin lang na ang usok mula sa tambutso ng apat na gulong ang magsisilbing pabango sa isang araw na naman na lilipas. At sa bawat hakbang ay malalim na nag-iisip nagtatanongsaang tambakan niya mapupulot ang perang papel na ipambibili ng blokeng semento? Nakakaramdam din ng sawa at pagkayamot sa pag-iipon ng latang nabubulok makabuo lamang ng kastilyo.
Siklo
ni Malaya
Kaya sa bawat bundok na kanyang natanaw ay walang alinlangang inakyat gaano man kaango, para mapuno ang sako na kalaunan ay naging ilang pirasong barya na sa dulo’y katumbas ng isang supot ng butil at sachet ng kape para sa bunsong kapatid. Sa daan pauwi, pagbasa mula sa aklat ang umalingawngaw. Nang madiskubreng galing sa simbahan ay napabuntong hininga na lamang, napaisip— Kung ang leksyon ng pari ay tulad ng itinuturo sa paaralan baka doon na siya tumira. Nang makarating sa bahay sa mesang kawayan ay naupo kasama ang mga kapatid, at nakisalo sa isang plato na may sabaw na pinaghalong tubig at asin. Matapos ay lumabas, umupo maalinsangan man at napatitig sa langit at saka nagwikaKung ang araw na sumisikat at lumulubog sa lupa ay kulay pula Wala nang mahihiling pang iba.
Ang Dakilang Kasangkapan ni Alaala
S
andaang matatapang na sundang Tag-ulan ng sanlibong sibat Nagpapula sa lupang tinubuan, Pinunlang giting at tapang sa lahat O, mga dakilang kasangkapan
Sa gitna ng mga sumasayaw na ilaw patay-sindi, indakang magaslaw Nakasunod ang mga naglalakihang mata Sa saliw ng binibidang punit-punit Sa ligtas na lilim Pluma'y isinawsaw sa tintang ubod itim na bestida O dakila, kinasangkapan ka Nagwisik, naghasik ng mapangahas na mga titik O, dakila kang kasangkapan Hudyat: batingaw na nagkoro Sugod na, laksang bolong mananambang matitigmak ng malansang dugo ng inutil na mga tampalasan O, dakilang kasangkapan! Sampares ng puting gwantes Ubod ng linis at hiwaga Dunong na walang-kapares Tigapunas ng pwet, tiga-paligo, tigaalaga O, dakilang kinasangkapan!
Boteng timplado ng gatas ay sukbit Pinagheheleng bunso, sa kabila naman Singkit at may ibang rikit Ang kalong na mumunting ninuman O salamat sa dakilang kinasangkapan Kasangkapan ng mga dinakila Kinasangkapan... dakila! Anong sangkap upang maging dakila?
Malaya
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Problema Ang Mahulog
sa Bad Boy
ni Boy Jorge
P
inatawag ka nanaman sa principal’s office. Ikaw at ang tropa mong basag-ulo. Libangan niyo nga atang pasakitin ang ulo ng principal natin. Kawawa naman siya, pero mas kawawa ang naging biktimang pang-ttrip niyo ngayon. Nakita kong lumabas ng opisina ni Maam Meldy pagkatapos ni Hans. May kaunting dumi sa polo at namamagang pisngi. Tumakbo agad ang bestfriend kong si Grace sa mga bisig ni Hans at nalaman naming kayo nga ang dahilang bakit ganun ang itsura niya. Ilang minuto lang, lumabas na rin kayo. Ikaw agad ang napansin ko dahil may natuyong dugo sa may pisngi mo at masmagulo sa normal nang magulo ang buhok mo. Kahit na ganun ang lagay mo, nakuhamo pang kumindat at ngumiti ng mapang-akit sa mga babae sa hallway. Nakakainis, nakakarindi. Hanggang sa buto ay nanggagalaiti ako. Pero galit na galit ako hindi dahil binugbog mo ang boyfriend ng bestfriend ko. Kung hindi dahil sobrang attractedako sa’yo at sa pagka-badboy mo. Pero siyempre di ko inamin ‘to sa mga kaibigan ko. Ang ilan kasi sa kanila humaling na sa’yo at ang iilang hindi, masidhi ang galit sa pagkamahangin mo. Maraming nagagalit, maraming natatakot, pero marami pa ring nabibighani sa angking angas ng grupo niyo. Pero ikaw, ikaw ang nakakaani ng pinakamalaking atensyon. Gwapo mo kasi e. Pero nahulog ako sa’yo hindi dahil sa mukha mo o sa ganda ng katawan mo. Kung yan lang ang basehan, may nanligaw na sakin na di hamak na lalamang sa’yo. Di rin sa pera mo dahil mayaman naman ang pamilya ko at hindi ko kailangan ng isa pang kotse o cellphone. Tulad lang ng sa mga teleserye sa TV o sa mga nobelang nabasa ko, nagustuhan kita dahil sa kaastigan mo. Nahulog ako sa bad boy image mo. Sigurado kilala mo ko, magkaklase kaya tayo sa apat na subjects at sa isa doon, nasa harap mo pa ang upuan ko. Ang hindi ko lang sigurado ay kung napapansin mo ko dahil kahit minsan, hindi pa ako nakatikim ng mga kindat at sulyap mo. Malandi ka, alam yan ng buong campus. Kahit maganda o hindi masyado, kahit sexy o katamtaman lang, kahit matalino o bobo, tinitira mo.
Ilang babae na ang nakatext mo, nakapasahan ng love letter sa classroom at nalibre ng fishball sa harapan ng school. Marami naring nagtapat sa’yo ng kanilang paghanga pati nagmakaawang tanggapin mo ang pag-ibig nila. Pero kahit isa, alam ng lahat, wala ka pang nasyota. Hindi dahil hindi ka sinasagot ng mga babae at hindi rin dahil sinasaktan mo sila. Wala kalang talagang niligawan, wala kang sineryoso, at wala pa sa mga fling mo ang tumagal sa isang linggo. Nagulat na lang ako noong isang araw, sa klase kung saan classmates tayo at nakaupo ako sa harapan mo, nang luminon ako at inabot ang papel na pinapasa mo, kahit na sa pisara pa nakatuonang mga mata mo, narinig kong namutawi sa iyong mga labi, “Jane, mas bagay yang may bangs sa’yo.” Tangina, kinilig ako.
—
Nasa clinic ako ngayon,nagddysmenorrhea nanaman. Lagi nalang, sa tuwing dadatnan ako, sa clinic nalang ang bagsak ko. Handa na yung hot compress ni Ate Nini pati na yung mefenamic na ipapainom niya sa’kin. Pero espesyal itong araw na ito. Hindi katulad ng mga nakaraang buwan kung saan iniinom ko lang yung gamot ko at mananatiling tulog maghapon. Kasi ngayong araw na to, sa loob ng clinic kung saan dati’y lagi kong natatagpuan ang katahimikang kailangan ng dumaraing kong puson, umupo ka sa kamang katabi ng kama ko. Halata kong mas madalas ka pa sa loob ng clinic kaysa sakin dahil halos hindi ka na pinansin ni Ate Nini at inilapag na lang niya ang medicine kit sa tabi mo. Sa buwan-buwan kong pagapparito, ito lang ang unang pagkakataong nagkasabay tayo. Tila biniyayaan ata ako ng langit. Pinagmasdan ko ang bawat kilos mo habang nilalaro mo ang bendang binigay sa’yo. Tinanong ko kung kailangan mo ba ang tulong ko. Sanay kasi akong mag-alaga ng mga nasugatan o napilayan dahil tatlo ang doktor sa pamilya at dalawa naman ang laging nasa peligro (AKA twin young brothers). Mukha namang kaya mo na ang sarili mo dahil hindi ka sumagot. Ilang saglit ang lumipas, siguro napansin mo ring nahahalata ko nang nahihirapan kang ayusin ang benda mo sa kamay. Natawa ako at lumapit sa’yo, kinuha ang benda sa kamay mo at inulit ang proseso. Nilinis kong muli ang malaking sugat na nakatitig sa’tin at nilagyanng dalawang ulit ng gamot -tulad ng lagi kong ginagawa sa mga kapatid ko. Nagulat ako nang marahas mong hinila ang kamay mo at tinignan ako ng masama. "Aray! Ano ba yan dahan-dahan ka naman!" Hindi ako sumimangot at nagpacute sa’yo. Kaya nang gawin yun ng libo-libong babae sa eskwelahang ito. Hindi ako ngumisi at tumitig ng palaban. Kaya mo nang bumusangot at magangas-angasan para sa’ting dalawa. Tumango lang ako at tinuloy ang ginagawa ko, ngunit ng mas dahan-dahan -65-
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ngayon. “Minsan, sinasabi nga ng mga kapatid ko na medyo mabigat nga raw yung kamay ko. Kelangan yun eh, nagddrums kasi ako.” Di ko maintindihan ang mukha mo sa mga panahong yon. Mukhang gulat na naiinis na nalilito rin. “What?? Pinapalo mo mga kapatid mo?” "What? Di no. Madalas ko rin kasing nililinis mga sugat nila, malikot kasi at palalabas." Malumanay ang boses ko, halos walang tono. Parang nagpapaliwanag sa sampung taong gulang na batang nagtatanong kung ano ang ibig sabihin ng sex. Dahan-dahan, maingat. Hindi mo kailangan ng babaeng mang-aakit sa’yo at mapapaamo mo gamit ang isang ngiti lang. Hindi mo kailangan ng taong lalabanan ang angas mo. Hindi mo kailangan ng bagong playtoy o bagong bro. Kaya inayos ko ang benda sa kamay mong may mariing pagdadahan-dahan at pag-aalaga. Hindi ko ginagawa ‘to para mapasakin ka. Kundi para maipadama sa’yo ang kalinga at alaga ng isang nanay na bata ka pa lang ay nahiwalay na sa’yo. (at alam ko yun oo dahil nastalk na kita sa Facebook). "Turuan mo akong magdrums, mukhang astig yun." "May bayad ang services ko, no," tugon ko sa’yo. Hindi ko tinitigan ang mukha mo dahil natatakot akong baka mabighani lang ako masyado sa kagwapuhan mo. "Ano ka, bayarang babae? Ang dami kaya diyang babayaran ako para lang maturuan nila ako no!" "Edi sa kanila ka magpaturo." Natapos ko na ang pagbebenda at inayos ang medicine kit ni AteNini. Halos hindi ko napansing dapat ay nagpapahinga ako dahil sa sakit ng puson ko. Tumayo ka na, nagsimulang umalis nang sinabi mo, "Bukas, alas singko, after class." Nakakainis ka, ang hangin mo. Pero sabagay, yun ang gusto ko sa’yo. — Simula noon, halos araw-araw kang dumadaan sa bahay para maturuan kitang magdrums. Meron akong studio sa bahay kaya hindi naman tayo nakakaabala sa mga tao dun. Hindi rin natin ‘to ipinaalam sa mga tao sa school. Para sa’tin, nasa gitna tayo ng isang business deal kung saan binabayaran mo ako para matuto kang tumugtog at para panatilihin ko ang katahimikan ko. Ganoon ka pa rin sa school. Maraming babae, madalas gumawa ng gumulo at makisali sa gulo ng may gulo, madalas tumambay sa clinic at sa principal’s office. Pero ang pinagkaiba lang, ngayon, madalas ka na rin sa bahay ko. Yoon lang ang panahong nakakapagusap ta’yo. Di tayo naguusap
sa school, hindi nagtetext, hindi nagpapansinan sa facebook. Sa mata ng iba, tila ganoon pa rin tayo, halos hindi magkakilala. Pero para sa’kin, nagbago ka na, nagbago na ako, nagbago na tayo. Pero hindi parin nagbabago ang paghanga ko sa pagka-badboy mo. Isang araw, nagulat na lang ako pagdating mo sa studio, may dala kang mga bulaklak. Medyo nainis ako dahil hanggang ba naman dito, dala-dala mo yang pagka-chickboy mo. “O, para kaninoyan? Basted ka yata ha!” "Ha? Para kaya sa’yo to." Sinabi mo yun ng walang pag-aalinlangan, ng walang pagkahiya. Sabagay, sanay ka na rin sa mga ganyang usapan. "Bakit mo ko binibigyan niyan?Anong joke to? Magbabayad ka pa rin no, walang discount." "Para nga kasi sa’yo to." Halos naiinis na ang boses mo, nauubusan ng pasensiya. Aba, ikaw pa ang may ganang mainis sa’ting dalawa ngayon? Tinignan lang kita at nilapag mo nang padabog ang mga bulaklak sa mesa sa tabi natin. Pinigilan kong tawanan ang mukha mong parang natatae sa kunot. "Liligawan kita, okay?" --Ang sabi nila, mali ang mahulog sa basag-ulo, sa ma-babae at sa badboy. Sakit ng ulo at sakit sa puso lang ang maidudulot nila sa’yo. Pero sabi rin nila, may mga pagkakataong nagbabago ang tao ‘pag totoong tinatamaan na ito ni kupido. Malas ko lang, sa lagay ko, hindi ito nagkatotoo. Ako ang unang naging nobya mo. Sinagot kita isang buwan pagkatapos mong sabihing gusto mo akong ligawan. Noon una, nakita ko namang sinubukan mong magbago. Pero sa huli, hindi naging sapat ang relasyon natinupang baguhin ang mga kabalastugan mo. Tatlong buwan sa relasyon natin,nahuli kitang may tinatagpo. Babae, maganda, galing sa ibang paaralan. Lumapit ako sa inyo, hinalikan ka sa pisngi at umalis. Kinabukasan, sinabi ko sa’yong break na tayo. Walang second chance, walang pagdadalawang isip, walang kahit isang patak ng luha mula sa mga mata ko. Dahil sa loob ko, alam ko naman nadarating ang araw, babalik ka sa nakagawian mo. Babalik ka sa pagka-badboy mo. At ayun na nga, dumating na ang araw na ‘yon. Totoo nga. Problema lang ang mahulog sa mga badboy na tulad mo.
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Ang Pagkakasala sa Laot U ni Alaala
urong at sulong na parang alon sa dagat Dagling malalantad ang batuhan mong kalooban Makukubli panandali sa kurtinang sutla Balabal sa magaspang ngunit kalawakan mong payapa.
O, tanaw ko pa rin naman ang buhanginan mong nilalaman At ang alat ng iyong katawan Di magnais na matikman Subalit mapilit ka Kahit pa na alam kong dulot mo lang ay pahamak. Maaakit papalapit sa kurbada ng hambog mong alon Alam mong paborito ko ang may diin mong hampas sa likod kong pagal. O, payagan mo na akong lasapin ang umaapaw mong lamang-dagat —ang ninakaw na biyaya ng mga minsang pagkakasala. Hilig ko pa rin ang maligaw sa matagal ko nang nakabisang paraiso mo. Paminsan na lamang mapasyal sa iyong teritoryo Subalit heto ka, Kung kailan lulong na sa lason mo, itutulak mo kong palayo, pabalik sa baybayin. Doon ka ligtas, wika mo. Parang di mo nakikilala ang suki mong bangkero. Ang sayaw na ito atras-abante lulukso, tuksong-tukso naniningkayad, naaagad itulak-kabigin, pagtanggi't pag-amin hanggang sa uulitin.
Mahal kita kahit ipinagbabawal pa Subalit dito lang lulutang sa mga along nag-aalinlangan ang pag-ibig at kasalanan.
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Galatea ni XNE
“Father, patawarin niyo po ako ‘pagkat ako’y nagkasala.”
N
agpipinta ako noon sa isang sulok ng studio nang may marinig akong papalapit na dalawang lalaking nag-uusap. Nang sandali akong sumilip mula sa canvass ay agad akong sinenyasan ni Sir Darek ng pagpapasintabi dahil sa pagpasok niyo. Kasama ka niya at nginitian mo ako’t tinanguan bilang pag-eexcuse din. Kaswal at isang iglap man iyon, at kahit na ang atensyon mo’y balik na sa mga paintings na ipinapakita ni Sir, ako naman ang nahirapang ibalik ang buong atensyon ko sa ipinipinta ko. Palihim akong sumisilip mula sa likod ng canvass, nahihirapang alisin ang pagkakatitig sa iyo. May halong pagkamangha ang pagkabighani ko sa mapupungay mong mga mata sa likod ng suot mong salamin, sa matangos mong ilong, sa makalunok-laway mong labi—na para kang isa sa mga estatuwang nililok ni Michaelangelo na nagkaroon ng laman at dugo, at bihisan man ng kagalanggalang na damit ay di pa rin maitatago ang pagkamatipuno. Ikaw ang pinakamagandang likhang-sining na nakita ko, isang buhay na obra maestra. At tulad ng isang turistang limitado lang ang oras sa isang museo upang matitigan ito, sinulit ko ang mga minuto upang busugin ang mga mata ko, hanggang sa maramdaman mo nang nakatitig ako sa’yo kaya dagli akong bumaling sa aking ipinipinta. Ngunit sa unang tingin ma’y nabighani ako sa’yo, sa unang tingin din ay alam kong hindi kita maaaring ibigin. “Patawarin nyo po ako sapagkat nahulog ang loob ko sa isang bagay na walang buhay, isang bagay na likha ng tao, isang pinta.” Nang magkaroon ako ng pagkakataon ay kinuha ko ang aking sketchpad at lapis at sinubukan kitang iguhit mula sa memorya. Kaya nga lang, may mga bagay sa ating paligid na gawa ng Manlilikha na sa labis na ganda’y mahirap kopyahin ng isang tulad kong tao lang naman. Kaya naman nakaramdam ako ng pagkasabik ng muli tayong magkita,
isang bagong pagkakataon. Tulad ng isang turistang nakadalaw muli sa museo. “Ay sorry, sorry. Nagulat ba kita?” Napalingon ako sa’yo noon at akmang uupo ka na sa may likod ko upang panoorin ang aking pagpipinta. Ilang segundo akong napatanga sa’yo kaya inakala mo nang may mali. “Um, okey lang bang panoorin kita? O di ka sanay ‘yung may nanonood sa’yo?” dugtong mo. Nataranta ako. Alam kong ibig sabihin nito’y sa mga sandaling iyon kailangan ko nang alisin ang pagkakatitig ko sa’yo. Pa’no to? Memoryado ko na ba ang anyo mo? “Hindi.” Nagkaroon ng katahimikan, isang awkward na katahimikan. Pagkuwa’y sinabi mo, “Ay gano’n ba, sorry ulit.” At tumayo ka na. “Teka!” pigil ko. Lumingon ka. “Ano bang… ano ba 'yung sinabi ko,” natawa ako at napailing-iling. “Ang ibig kong sabihin okey lang, okey lang na manood ka.” At nagtawanan tayo. “Sure ka ha?” sabi mo. Noon tayo pormal na nakapagpakilalasa isa’t isa. Ang sabi mo wala ka naman talagang masyadong hilig sa arts noon, sinama ka lang ng isang kaibigan mo sa isang art exhibit at doon naman kayo nagkakilala ni Sir Darek. Napadpad ka sa bahaging ito ng Antipolo at nalaman mong malapit lang ang studio ni Sir kaya naisipan mong dumaan. Unti-unti ka nang nagkakainteres sa sining at dito ka na laging dinadala ng interes na iyon. “Anong malay natin, baka maging art collector ako isang araw,” sabi mo. “Anong klase naman ang gusto mong kolektahin?” sabi ko habang pasimple kong kinakabisado ang leeg at balikat mo. Napanguso ka, “’Yun nga lang ang di ko pa alam.” Minsan, dumadalaw ka at nakikita kong magkausap kayo ni Sir Darek. Sa mga dinadaluhan naming exhibits at seminars ay minsan ka rin naming nakikita. Hanggang sa naging matalik na magkaibigan kayo ni Sir. Kung saan may art event na naroon ako, madalas ay naroon ka rin. Ang sining ang naging tulay upang mas madalas kitang masulyapan, na habang lumalakas ang interes mo dito ay mas nagkakadetalye at nabibigyang buhay naman ang ipinipinta kong portrait mo. Pero ang akala ko, hanggang doon lang iyon. Ang akala ko nabighani lang ako sa anyo mo. -71-
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“Alam ko na kung anong gusto kong kolektahin,” ang sabi mo habang marahan nating binabaybay ang corridor sa gilid ng isang kumbento. Sa labas ay nagsasayaw ang sikat ng araw sa lilim ng mga puno tuwing umiihip ang hangin. Ito pa lang ang maituturing kong pangalawang pag-uusap natin. Madalas kasi’y puro kamustahan lang. “Ano?” “Gusto kong malaman ang iba’t ibang pagsasalarawan ng mga tao ng anghel.” Natahimik ako. Napaisip ako sa sinabi mo. Nakangiti kang tumingin sa akin na parang natutuwa kang napapaisip ako. “Ano sa tingin mo?” Pero nang makita ko ang mukha mong nakingiti sa’kin—na parang nawala ang lilim ng mga puno at direktang tumama dito ang malamlam na liwanag ng araw—tila kalapating nakalaya ng kulungan ang mga salita sa bibig ko, dahan-dahan mang lumipad ay di ko pa rin namalayan. “Anghel,” sabi ko, “Ba’t di katumingin sa salamin?” Unti-unting nawala ang ngiti sa mukha mo. Nagtawatawanan ka upang ikubli ang bahagyang pamumula ng mukha mo. Tinapik mo ako sa braso, “Matagal ko nang alam ‘yon. Hah. Hulog talaga ako ng langit.” Nagtawatawanan na lang din ako para magmukha akong nagbibiro, kahit pa seryoso ako sa sinabi ko. Noong mga sandaling iyon akala ko dala lang iyon ng pagkabighani ko sa’yo. Ika-anim, ika-pitong beses na nating pagkikita ay di pa rin nawawala ang pagkamangha kong iyon. Pero nang paalis na kami, nang magpapaalam na kami, tumingin ulit ako sa’yo. At sa muling pagtingin ko sa mukha mo’y mukhang hindi na pagkabighani lang ang nararamdaman ko. Nakumpirma ko ito isang gabing nakatunganga lang ako sa harap ng canvass. Noon kasi’y naisipan kong tapusin na lang sa canvass ang nasimulan ko sa sketchpad at gawin itong acrylic. Pinagmamasdan ko ang natapos kong portrait mo. Kung magpipinta ang isang tao nang may kopyahan— maaaring gamit ang isang larawan o sa pagtingin sa aktuwal na bagay, tao, o tanawin mismo—maaari nya itong makopya nang eksakto. Ngunit iba kung walang kopyahan o ang reference ay mula sa memorya lang. Maaari itong magbunga ng kaunting pagbabago depende sa kanyang saloobin sa taong kanyang ipinipinta. Makikita mo ang kanyang galit, takot, o tuwa sa taong iyon kung pagmamasdan mong maigi ang diin ng bawat linya, ang kagaspangan ng mga detalye at dilim ng pagkakakulay.
Ngunit kahit pa ang pintura, ang canvass, ang sining na mismo ang nagpapatotoo ng nararamdaman ko sa iyo, hindi ko pa rin ito magawang tanggapin. Nakatitig lang ako sa portrait mo nang ilang minuto. Hanggang sa unti-unti itong nanlabo. Ang luhang umulap sa aking paningin ay naguunahang tumulo. Ang nadarama kong pag-ibig kanina’y napalitan ng sama ng loob. Hindi kita maaaring ibigin, hindi ka maaaring ibigin ninoman. “Hindi ko maaaring ibigin ang taong ipininta ko.” Halos hindi gumagalaw ang kausap nitong anino sa kabilang panig ng confession room. “Kaya naman wala po akong magawa kundi ibuhos na lang sa pinta ang lahat ng nararamdaman ko sa kanya. “Kung hindi lang sana ito masisira kung hahagkan ko ito.” Nagbago ang lahat pagkatapos nito. Hindi na ako makatingin sa iyo tuwing nasa paligid ka. Bakit nga naman kailangan pa kitang tingnan gayong tapos na rin naman ang portrait mo at wala nang dahilan para tingnan ka pang muli? Pero wala na nga bang dahilan? Makukuntento na lang ba akong ang tingnan na lang palagi ay ang portrait mo?Ito ay represetasyon mo lamang at hindi ang aktuwal na ikaw. Walang laman. Walang dugo. Walang buhay. Minsan, sinabi ko sa sarili ko, sa huling pagkakataon, gusto kitang tingnan muli. Pero pagtingin ko sa iyo’y nakita kong nauna ka nang nakatingin sa akin. Naguguluhan ako. Alam kong alam mong naiilang ako sa’yo. Pero ang di ko alam ay kung naiilang ka rin sa’kin. Kung sabagay, bakit ka nga naman maiilang sa’kin kung ako lang naman ang may nararamdaman? Mas napadalas pa nga ang pagdalaw mo sa studio. At minsan pa’y kinausap mo ako, “Pwede ka bang magpinta ng anghel para sa akin?” Sinubukan ko. Ngunit makawalong ulit na ako’y mukha mo pa rin ang palaging lumalabas. Isang araw ng Lunes, bakasyon ng Mayo ay pinakiusapan mo akong magvolunteer sa isang programa ng parokya nyo. Bahagi ng programa ay ang pagpipinta ng mga kabataan nyo ng mural sa isang pader sa may likod ng simbahan—isang simbahang mas marami pa ang mga estatwang anghel kaysa mga imahe ng santo. Isang oras bago ang pagpipinta ay naroon na ako bilang paghahanda. Sa bodega ng simbahan sa ilalim ng corridor na nilakaran natin noon ay dinig kong tapos na ang misa. Kukunin ko na sana ang isang yerong hagdan nang makita ko ang isang libro sa sahig ng bodega, -73-
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nababalutan ng makapal na alikabok. Hinipan ko ito ang ang pamagat ay “The Future of Humanity.” Hindi ko kilala ang awtor. Bakit nandito lang ito? “Matagal na naming hinahanap ‘yan,” sabi mo. Paglingon ko’y nakita kita sa may pintuan ng bodega. Kamangha-mangha ang anyo mo sa suot mo. Para ka na talagang anghel. Pero agad ko ring tiningnan ulit ang libro. “Minsan, nagtataka ako kung bakit mahal na mahal pa rin tayo ng Diyos,” sabi ko, binubuklat ang mga pahina, “na bakit nangako pa Sya kay Noah na hindi na magpapadala pang muli ng Baha na lilipol sa atin, sa kabila ng lahat ng katarantaduhang ginagawa natin sa planetang ipinagkaloob Nya. “Saka ko naisip na hindi Nya na rin kailangan pang gawin iyon dahil tayo na rin naman ang sisira sa ating mga sarili.” Lumapit ka hanggang sa nasa harapan na kita. Umangat ang tingin ko mula sa libro, pero hindi ko pa rin magawang tumingin sa’yo nang diretso, “Ano kaya kung hindi na lang nila kinain ang Prutas ng Kaalaman? Kung hindi na lang naging maalam ang Tao?” “Hindi na natin mababago ang nakaraan. Ngunit maaari nating pagplanuhan ang hinaharap.” “Naniniwala ka ba talagang may hinaharap pa rin para sa atin?” Natigilan ako sa sinabi ko. Nang mga sandaling iyon, tila nagbago ang konotasyon ng pariralang “sa atin.” "Oo," wika mo. Napapitlag na lang ako ng maramdaman kong ilapit mo ang mukha mo sa akin. Sinunggaban ko ang magkabila mong balikat, itinulak ka’t nagpadala ka lang hanggang sa bumangga tayo sa pader. Ayoko. Ayoko. Ayoko. Sama ng loob. Pagkalito. Desperasyon. Gusto kong sabihin sa’yong wag ka nang magpapakita pang muli, sabay tumakbo. Para sa ikabubuti mo. Ayoko. Ayoko. Ayoko. Nakayuko lang ako habang tulak-tulak ka sa pader. Ang tanging nakikita ko ay ang mga paa ko at ang mga paa mong halos abutan na ng mahabang puting sutanang suot mo. Ayoko. Ayoko. Hanggang sa mapatingin ako sa mukha mo. Nakakaakit pa rin ito. Pero nahaluan na rin ito ng sama ng loob, pagkalito at desperasyon.
Ayoko… Unti-unti kang nanlabo. Inulap nanaman ng luha ang paningin ko. Ayo— “Pwede ba akong magpakumpisal sa’yo?” sabi ko. “Kahit ngayon na.” “Hindi ko kaya ng harap-harapan,” nalaglag ang mga luha. “Bukas, ibibigay ko sa’yo ang painting ng anghel pagkatapos kong magkumpisal.” *** Natatawa ang babae, “Kung si Pygmalion hiniling kay Aphrodite na pagkalooban sya ng asawang katulad ng nililok nyang si Galatea, ako hihilingin ko na sana naging pinta na lang ang taong iniibig ko, kaysa tao nga sya’y hindi naman sya--…” Napakagat ng labi ang babae habang pinipigilan ang pagluha. Nagsalita sa wakas ang pari, “Sinama ako ng kaibigan ko sa isang art exhibit kung saan nakilala ko si Darek. Nagmisa ako sa Antipolo at nakapunta sa studio ni Darek, kung saan nakilala naman kita.” Bumuntong-hininga ito, “Sa tingin mo ba ang lahat ay nangyari dahil sa tsansa lamang? Na sumabog ang isang malaking bagay, tumilapon ang mga piraso nito, naging planeta at nakapagbigay-buhay sa mga halaman at mga hayop? Nang walang dahilan at nagkataon lang ang lahat?” “At ano ang dahilan ng lahat ng ito?” Nanaig ang katahimikan. Isang tila eternal na katahimikan. Tulad ng dati, tahimik lang nilang pinakikiramdaman ang isa’t isa. Sinusulit ang minsanang pagkikita. Kahit bihirang mag-usap at hanggang mga pagsulyap lang. Ngayon, hindi na rin nila kita ang isa’t isa. Anino at presensya na lang ang natira. At pag-ibig. Na syang mawawakasan na rin yata. “Mauunawaan din natin sa takdang panahon. Sa hinaharap.” Hinawakan ng babae ang screen. Hinalikan ito. Hinawakan at hinalikan din ng anino ang screen. Natupad din sa wakas ang kahilingan ng babae na mahalikan sya, may tabing man sa pagitan. Bumukas ang pinto at nagmamadaling lumabas ang babae. Naiwan sa loob ang isang pinta ng anghel—walang pakpak o halo, nakasuot lang ng salamin at puting sutana.
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S
ampung mga daliri, Nawala ang isa Nasaan na? Nasaan na? Tanungin mo nalang sa kanila. Hindi na raw makita Pagka’t siya'y maliit. Mga taong nasa taas, Huwag kayong magsinungaling! Sampung mga makasalanan Pobre daw ang isa Lalaban pa ba, Lalaban pa ba, Sa nagp’pakain sa kan’la? Susugod pa daw sila Dadanak rin ba ang dugo? Ikaw na nakakita, Huwag kang magsinungaling! Sampu na ang napawi Sa buhay na pasakit Ilan pa ba? Ilan pa ba? Para kumilos ka.
XNE
SAMPU ni Daenerys
Marami pang makikitil na buhay ng maliit Ikaw na may’rong alam, Huwag kang magsinungaling! Sampu na ang nalagas Ikaw ba’y papalit? Ano pa ba? Ano pa ba? Sampu pa ba ulit?
Palamuti ni Caitlyn
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aggagandahang mga parol ang nakasabit sa dingding ng bawat bahay, makukulay na Christmas lights ang nagpapaliwanag sa lugar, at mga batang sintonadong umaawit ay patuloy na namamasko sa bawat bahay. Napakasayang tignan ng lugar sa dami ng palamuti, ngunit 'eto na naman ako, nanonood sa may gilid at nakikinig na lang sa kanilang kasiyahan, sinusubukang ngumiti man lang. Bitbit ang aking mga pinamili sa palengke, naglakad ako sa may paradahan ng tricycle. Gusto pa rin ni Nanay na naghahanda ng pagkain sa Pasko, na para bang may kahulugan pa rin ito sa amin. Sa totoo lang? Wala na. Pero dito naman kami magaling eh: Sa pagpapanggap na ayos lang ang lahat. Tss. "O, ikaw pala. Kamusta na ang nanay mo?" tanong ni Mang Jobert, isa sa mga tricycle driver sa'min, habang papasakay ako. "Mabuti naman ho," ang aking sagot. Isa na namang pagpapanggap. Isa sa mga suki ni Nanay si Mang Jobert noong nagkakarinderya pa kami kaya 'di ko na kailangang ituro sa kanya ang daan patungo sa bahay namin. Hindi lingid sa mga kapitbahay namin ang nangyari tatlong taon na ang nakalipas. Kung di ako nagkakamali, maging si Mang Jobert ay nakakaalam din nito. Nakakabingi ang ingay ng motor ng tricycle, kaso nga lang hindi kayang lunurin ng ingay na ito ang aking mga naiiisip. Sawang-sawa na kasi ako sa kakaisip kay Nanay, na mag-isang nagtatrabaho para sa aming apat na magkakapatid. Sawang-sawa na ‘ko sa pag-aalala na baka hindi ako makapagtapos. Sawang-sawa na ‘ko sa awang nararamdaman ko para sa aking mga kapatid na tatandang walang ama. Sawang-sawa na ko sa pagpapanggap na maayos lang ang lahat.
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Hindi gaanong malayo ang bahay namin mula sa kanto, kaya mayamaya rin ay tumigil na ang tricycle. Ngali-ngali akong bumaba at nag-abot ng bayad. "Salamat po, Mang Jo. Merry Christmas po," sabi kong nakangiti. "Merry Christmas din sa inyo," ang kanyang tugon. "Namimiss ko na 'yung luto ng nanay mo. ‘Di niyo na ba ibabalik yung karinderya niyo?" "Ah, baka po hindi na eh." Maligayang Pasko sa aming pamilya? Kung kaya ko lang, tinawanan ko na ang kanyang sinabi. Pinanood kong kumaripas paalis ang tricycle bago harapin ang aming bahay. Hindi marami ang palamuting aming inilagay--konting parol lang at iilang Christmas lights. Kung pwede nga lang ay 'di na kami naglagay ng kahit ano. Hanggang sa panlabas lang naman ang mga dekorasyong ito. Aanhin mo ang mga palamuting ito kung sirang-sira na rin ang aming Pasko? Naglakad na 'ko patungo sa pinto. Bubuksan ko na sana ito nang may narinig ako mula sa loob. Hindi ko mapigilang kumurap sa pagkabigla. "Daddy! Daddy,tignan niyo po itong exam ko sa English!" "Aba, patinginnga niyan." Boses niya. "Napakagaling mo naman pala. Manang-mana ka sa akin." Naramdaman kong tumigil ang pag-ikot ng mundo, kasabay ng pagsikip ng aking dibdib. Parang umakyat ang lahat ng dugo ko sa aking ulo. Ano'ng ibig sabihin nito? Bakit siya nandito? Huli kong narinig ang boses na iyan tatlong taon na ang nakalipas. Pagalit na sigaw, dalawa o tatlong mura, na sasagutin ng naiiyak na boses ni Nanay. Naaalala ko ang pasigaw nilang pag-aaway habang kaming magkakapatid ay nagtatago sa kwarto, pinipigilang umiyak at lumabas para makita ang nangyayare sa labas. Naalala ko pa ang gabing iyon. Naalala ko ang pabagsak na pagsara ng pinto at simula noon, ay hindi ko na siya nakita. Ngayon ko nalang ulit narinig ang boses na ito.
Nahihirapang huminga, inabot ko ang doorknob, ngunit nanginginig ang aking kamay na para bang 'di ko na ito makontrol. Sinubukan ko ulit. Inilapat ko ang aking mga pawis na daliri sa malamig na metal ng doorknob. Sinubukan kong huminga ng malalim--isa, dalawa, tatlong beses--bago ko itinulak pabukas ang pinto. Bumungad sa akin ang isang mukhang ni minsan ay di ko naisip na makikita ko pang muli sa loob ng bahay namin. Bakas sa mukha niya ang pagkasabik nang makita niya ako. Bumilis ang aking paghinga, kasabay nang pagkabog ng aking dibdib. Namumuo ang mga luha sa gilid ng aking mga matang nakatitig nang masama sa kanya. "Napakalaki mo na, hija," ang sabi pa niya, kasabay ang isang ngiting di ko mawari kung tunay ba talaga o ano. Sa likod niya, nakita ko si Nanay, bakas ang pagkagulo sa mukha. Lumapit siya sa'ken, nakabuka ang mga kamay na para bang ako'y yayakapin niya, na para bang ayos lang ang lahat at wala siyang kasalanan sa amin. Tangina lang eh. "Ba't ka nandito?" tanong ko, nakakuyom ang mga palad, hawak-hawak pa rin ang plastik na naglalaman ng mga pinamili ko. Napatigil siya sa paglalakad, halatang hindi inaasahan ang pagturing ko. "Hindi ba't Pasko ngayon? 'Eto nga o, may regalo ako para sa inyong lahat." Pasko? Pasko ba ang dahilan kung bakit siya nandito? Regalo? "Tatlong taon nakalipas--ang regalo mo ba sa pamilyang ito ay ang iwan mo kami? Ang sirain ang Pasko namin?" asik ko. "Ang galing mo rin, ano? Gaguhan pala 'to e." Nagdilim ang kanyang mukha. Nag-ayos siya ng tindig. "Tatlong taon lang akong nawala at naging ganyan na ang pag-uugali mo? Naging ganyan ang pananalita mo? Tatay mo pa rin ako kaya wag mo 'kong pagtaasan ng boses." "Tatay? Tatay? Ni hindi ka nga dumalo sa graduation ko nung high school e. Baket ka ba nandito ulit? Napagsawaan mo na yung kabit mo? Ni -79-
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hindi ko na nga maaalala 'yang makapal mo'ng pagmumukha sa tagal ka naming 'di nakita kaya tangina wag kang magmataas diyan." "Ate!" sigaw ni Jeff, ang pangalawang panganay. Napatigil ako.Tumingin sa paligid. Sa sulok, nakita kong tahimik na lumuluha si Nanay. Nakita ko ang gulat na mga mukha nina Trina at Elisa, ang dalawang pinakabata. Nakita ko ang tingin sa akin ni Jeff, napara bang nagmamakaawa. At dito ko naintindihan kung bakit mas madaling magpanggap na lamang. Magpanggap na maayos lang ang lahat at masaya ang aming Pasko sapagkat buo na naman kami. Magpanggap na hindi kami iniwan ni Tatay nung Pasko tatlong taon na angnakalipas. Magpanggap na hindi mahirap tanggapin ang lahat nang ito. Mas mainam magpanggap na lamang para sa mga bata. Dahil para sa kanila, may kahulugan pa rin ang Pasko. At kung aawayin ko si Tatay ngayon, ako naman ang sisira ng Pasko para sa kanila. Tangina. Binitawan ko ang aking mga bitbit. Hindi ko hinayaang bumagsak ang mga luhang kanina ko pa pinipigilan. Tinitigan ko nang matagal si Tatay, pagkatapos ay si Nanay, at ang aking mga kapatid. "Ganito pala ang gusto niyo e. O sige. Maligayang Pasko," ang tanging nasambit ko, nakatingin sa mata ni Tatay, bago ako pumunta sa labas upang magpalamig muna, kung saan naggagandahang mga parol ang nakasabit sa dingding ng bawat bahay, makukulay na Christmas lights ang nagpapaliwanag sa lugar, at mga batang sintonadong umaawit ay patuloy na namamasko sa bawat bahay. Napakasayang tignan ng lugar sa dami ng palamuti, ngunit 'eto na naman ako, nanonood sa may gilid at nakikinig na lang sa kanilang kasiyahan, sinusubukang ngumiti man lang.
aya l a M
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Tingles started to roll down her arms and neck as her skin— cold but soft— touched another gently lovingly but This is not the memory she wants to recollect So she knocked on a new door— that which readily opened and did not ask questions
Why The Hooker Worked For Sex by Boy Jorge
Goosebumps started to crack on her arms and neck as her skin— warm and wet— rubbed on another sweetly electrically Her breath started to increase in pace as the town plunged into a deep slumber and she gasped for air so loudly she thought everyone heard her but They didn’t hear a sigh or a moan yet she could still catch the steady breaking of her heart So she knocked on a new door— that which readily opened and asked only a couple questions
Perspiration started to trickle down her arms and neck as her skin— hot and excited— grinded on another aggressively forcefully that the air was filled with a foul but honeyed stench and the strings were played so vigorously she almost reached her breaking point And she thought this was how she could forget that memory which she did not want to recollect Salted water ran down her back-tears she expected would come from her chest-But as she heard the gasps and the rugged breath from the limbs that were still entangled with hers,
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She realized her wounds were licked clean with blood and water from the pain she now caused another.
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Ang mga Panday ng Salita... SELF-PROCLAIMED ATHEIST
SOLAR PLEXUS
I came of age but never grew up.
Atheist ngayon.
BOY JORGE
Writer. Lover. Revolutionary.
CAITLYN Sheriff of Piltover.
DELONIX REGIA
A conspicuous tree with large, red flowers.
MGC
I write sins, not tragedies.
XNE
ESTHER
Standing here for such a time as this.
Palayain ang mga kulay, huwag ikulong sa mga linya.
AURORA Ang pagbukadkad
DAENERYS
ng mga bulaklak habang ako’y nahihimbing, ang pagkamatay ng mga bituin, ang mga alaalang sana’y isinilang at ngayo’y gugunitain, ang bawat sandaling lumipas nang di ko nawari, maibabalik ba ng matamis mong halik?
ALAALA
Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Mother of Dragons.
MALAYA
Hinihintay lamang na may bumihag sa kanyang puso.
Makakalimutin.
Tinta 2014 Team Project Head:
Members:
Kiersnerr Gerwin Tacadena
Marisse Gabrielle Panaligan Judielyn Agua Christianne Petiluna John Reczon Calay Mikhaela Dimpas Karen Ann Macalalad Danielle Mae Isaac
Graphics Head:
Jovianne Figueroa Finance Head:
Dale Calanog
Chairperson: Kiersnerr Gerwin Tacadena Vice Chairperson for Internal Affairs: Rosewell Kyla Palo Vice Chairperson for External Affairs: Mikaela Dimpas Vice Chairperson for Information and Propaganda: John Reczon Calay Vice Chairperson for Finance: Danielle Mae Isaac Vice Chairperson for Membership: Karen Ann Macalalad Vice Chairperson for Education: Kate Katherine Tayamora Members: April Anne Benjamin Raphael Rayco Judielyn Agua Kevyn Krysten Tapnio Christianne Joy Petiluna Hazel Lobres Patricia Isabel Gloria Krysten Mariann Boado David Tristan Yumol Dale Calanog Trixia Adre Janelle Dilao Erika Mitra Ramil Solano
The Union of Journalists of the Philippines-UP Diliman AY 2014-2015
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Special thanks to:
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