Bodega Volume 01 by The Bud

Bodega

Bodega VOLUME I

Bodega editor-in-chief nadeen dominique valenciano creative director jienne cryzelle alegre art director christian jehro ulita illustrators marish anne quirapas donna fae jaramillo john dave dela rosa enric carl betita

lourianne joyce pla

writers yansen rehsya cabalce yzabella devadeb jermaine dwayne perlas sophia chan rejeane anne tabuyo kimberly anne rin nate joas emilio gabriel aleck oandasan angel nicole saldua jeysed denille llanes crystaline gwyneth quadra aireen jade ancheta francis faey reyes nathaneil campos raychelle marie alaibilla cheena brea nartatez technical adviser miss marielle ann verzosa consultant dr. aurelia vitamog cover concept nadeen dominique valenciano cover art christian jehro ulita

jienne cryzelle alegre

BODEGA VOLUME I The Official Literary Folio of The Bud The Official Student Publication of the University of Northern Philippines - Laboratory High School All rights reserved 2022. DISCLAIMER: No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without a written permission of the editorial board, except where permitted by Law. The editorial board reserves the right to edit and not publish entries for reasons of quality, relevance, aesthetics, and space. Any similarities existing persons (living or dead), places, icons, and institutions are purely coincidental or were used in pursuit of creative excellence. For submissions, queries, suggestions or feedback, contact us at unplsthebud@gmail.com. Visit us at www.facebook.com/unplsthebud for updates and exclusive content. Bodega is published by the students of the University of Northern Philippines - Laboratory Schools and other contributors.

Literary Folio

introduction For the Filipino household, bodega is what they call a storage room or a space for hardly used belongings. It holds things deemed significant as if these scraps might turn out needed and so they are saved and kept for later use. Metaphorically, this room carries and hides it all—skeletons, fractures, joy, voids—everything; but it never closes its door. As time passes, these get buried under boxes and whatnots. As it piles up, no one will recollect. But the bodega will always remember. In our case, bodega is a workplace, which at first, we hated so much. This dear space under the stairs in the corner of the old Antonio Luna Hall was our home. It got crowded with heaps after heaps as if its messy state represents those who inhabit it—the once neophytes like us, those who were trying, and those who were just there to fit in. In there we brainstormed, wrote, crammed, revised, laughed, cried our hearts out, shouted eurekas, and whispered our frustrations. Together with the unused mountain of obsolete books, broken chairs, stack of papers, a bicycle, an improvised working table, and a slightly functioning airconditioning unit, we created and shared stories. It wasn’t an ideal place, but it borne ideas. It fostered our passion, prowess, and love for our art. That bodega stored the memories we created, and those remained with it until its demolition—if only broken walls could talk. And so, we became our own bodega—our words and works accumulated, packing empty spaces with the unseen and untold. In retrospect, the bodega isn’t a place for abandonment. It contains valuables, gems and golds, and stories—nobody doesn’t just know their worth. It represents our value for sentiments and our endurance to bear it all, not only the weight of the past, but those we cherish even though time had stripped their worth. For it is human nature to hold on to everything like our keepsakes, draw courage and strength from them to move forward.

Bodega Vol. 1

From broken furniture to the box of clothes that don’t fit anymore; book piles and old photographs; even the abubot that we keep without reason, are worth more than we think—the bodega is worth more than we think. Our folio, Bodega, stows the stockpile of stories throughout the years we kept in a Pandora’s box. These are the pieces we wrote and created when time and school works permitted us; moments when we were bored, when we were filled with wonder, and when we just wanted to spill things out. Now, we uncover lost words and forgotten art in our very own bodega—that is also us.

Nadeen Dominique Valenciano Editor-In-Chief

Bodega Vol. 1

abubot

hey are scattered around and have a story to tell. These are tales written about anything—from different sorts of love there is to the inexplicable weight we carry. People are innately sentimental and we keep these little things as souvenirs with bliss despite the hurt they give us. Either way, those are memories we remember. These abubot can’t be enclosed in a box or have a corner designated in the bodega; they are everywhere, and everything we feel.

Bodega Vol. 1 Let your E M O T O I N S F L O W Like the wild ravens, In black. Croaking for lost souls. Like a carnage, Immovable. Parasites attracted to its smell of foul. Like a snake, Slithering. Silently creeping up in your sleep. Like the waves, Unsteady. They keep rushing to the shore. But remember to pick your e m o t i o n s up one by one. Take your time.

Literary Folio

Trust me — Words that give you butterflies, But at the same time, thorns. Make you believe, You are worth something more. Trust me — This is something terrifying to say, Responsibilities come in your way. And if you fail to protect these words, You would live a life unheard.

Bodega Vol. 1

i’m a journalist, but i write poems secretly as my artful quell.

Literary Folio

Bus Ride i can’t remember the last time i wrote a poem. today, the words that were buried inside me resurfaced in a form of inconsequential memories stretched in years— the good old days of our lives before this from the carrot cake we just ate, the torrential rain in a fast-food conversation, the very first poem. now, i think about the uncertainty of what lies ahead of us through the stories we have shared over from the vast lonely ride going home delapidating our dreams, sustaining the frail faith we have for the world. and I have seen you and the rebirth of them— my hope that sprung from yours. they lived once more because now, it is you— who give them life.

Bodega Vol. 1

Tomie Beauty is a supermassive black hole Where not even light can escape its force It surpasses the limitations of what numbers and words can carry, As they are passed down From the whispers and memories of unreliable messengers Paint her like Monet’s lucid lilies, It shall never be enough Sculpt her like the God of Wine, Dionysus, You’ll end up toppling it down Because beauty is convulsive like that The power it reigns It’s so tantalizing You’d want to bury it, And never catch sight of it ever again You’d wish to slash it to pieces One limb after the other No, it shall never be enough If ruination is the key to salvation, Acts of violence must be equivalent to sanity Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not Have you heard about the girl? Who’s everywhere and nowhere, all at once? Her beauty’s a cult Worship it, and you’re 10 feet buried underground Because beauty is convulsive like that

Literary Folio

Distortion gouache paint on paper

Literary Folio

Jejemon terms evolve as humans do; insult as a gateway to boost ego with one foot on another’s neck must have existed before time. dark humor, they say but how cruel and dull your life might be if only degrading of others makes it amusing. wear the same shirt twice, be the next spectacle for a week. wear a bag that is not in season, you will be the season’s joke. remember when the internet shamed sunflower-print shirts? how dare this third world country buy affordable mass-produced clothing? capitalism, written all over. fueling hate; pressuring sale— all are a pawn in veil.

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Life The days passed so swiftly People come and go The years felt away Like a cold fallen snow Spring turn to summer And a morning dew in the sunset A new life has changed A future you can’t escape But there’s past you can always remember. Inevitable.

Bodega Vol. 1

The feeling of not being alone Is as good as staying at home. More comfort, fewer worries, Much warmth and bliss. But sands of time’s running fast, Each drop matters while it last. As people change as the season does, I got to realize that things won’t stay as it was. We always seek for everything, Never contented at some things. Some yearn for growth and comfort, Some want nothing but freedom. To find light in the dark, To fill an empty gap, To learn and explore.

Literary Folio

i see your shadows from the far away unknown, feels like déjà vu.

Bodega Vol. 1

Ako Naman Oh kay pait ng aking buhay, Hindi ko man hinangad pero sa’kin ibinigay. “Anak, ikaw na sana ang mag-aahon sa atin sa kahirapan.” Isang linyang paulit-ulit na sinasambit ng aking inay. Hindi ko na alam kung saan ito patungo. Pangarap ko ba talaga ito o pangarap ng mga magulang ko? Pinipilit kong igapang, Sadyang hinahamon ako ng kapalaran. Huwag mo sana ako masyadong pahirapan Sapagkat ako’y isa lamang payak na kabataan, Pasan-pasan ang mga sakong puno ng kapanglawan. Hangad kong maging malaya Malaya sa mga kadenang nakagapos sa aking mga kamay at paa. Pumipigil sa pagtamo ng aking mga mithiin. Patuloy na iginagawad ang hindi ko naman gampanin.

Literary Folio

Hindi ko mawari kung kanino ako papanig. Ako’y naguguluhan, natatakot, at hindi mapakali. Kung pamilya ba o sarili, hindi ako makapili. Pagkamuhi, pangamba o pagsisisi. Iyan ang mga kinakatakot kong mangyari. Sa pagpikit ko ng aking mga mata, Sana’y masilayan ko na kung sino ang mas mahalaga. Ngunit sadyang labis akong nababalisa, Sa pagtatantong, nabuhay ba ako para maging puhunan nila? Hindi sa pagiging makasarili, Ngunit nais ko talagang piliin ang aking sarili. Inay, huwag mo sana akong talikuran at kamuhian. Pangakong itataas kita at hinding-hindi makakalimutan. Sa pagkakataong ito, Ako ay makikibaka sa agos ng panahon. Ako—ang uunahin ko, Ako—ang pipiliin ko.

Bodega Vol. 1

the contrary of euphoria when i think of all my yesterdays, i think they are cruel. because of you? or is it just me? you? me? i felt rain and wished for sunshine, you appeared in a facade of unknown, i cried in our walking paradox, and cried in laughter at our esoteric memoir. and i wished them away, hoping for a better tomorrow. did you feel my heart shatter when you crushed it with your twisted games? did you pull the fragments of reality from your skin like a broken glass? or did you keep them as a trophy of your twisted desire; a show to be rebounded on? is that how you hurt me? —and when i gave you everything, i was left with nothing. you’re like poetry. the thin lines decorating your hands are the black ink that marks a blank page. you are the words i breathe; the rhythms i arrange; and the ink flowing out of my pen. you are the everlasting memories, words i created.

Literary Folio

today, my words feel like blood on the page, and i can’t go outside because i know the sun will be hanging there sneering down at me, and it will be the same f*cking sun as yesterday—because the sun pays no mind to the tragedies of a speck like me. today, i am a speck. today, i am a dead assshole. i am a ghost haunting my own home. swallowing the dust from old polaroid pictures and books to glean a glimpse of who i was before. i grasp the hours i spent dragging myself apart. i took one final look in the mirror and saw nobody —invisible, like i had always wanted. haunt me, if you must. i’d rather be tortured by your memory than smothered by amnesia. be my favourite poltergeist. i’d rather run for you in my nightmares than not dream of you at all. today, none of my nightmares dissolved with the daylight, and i am filled with hatred for this world that is damned by impermanence. today, i refuse to swallow the fact that every beautiful thing will someday be a beautiful thing of the past. i was only ever taught that my body was a plaything, a novelty item for you. my heart was just another hole to you, maybe when you’re raised to believe that love is a transaction. it’s inevitable that you will begin to see yourself as a merchandise and nothing more.

Bodega Vol. 1

there was a time when i didn’t have to try to know you, because to know you was to know myself even more. but now, i’ll watch your life in our polaroid picture. i thought i knew you better than anyone but even i couldn’t see your sword plunging straight into my heart, and now i am paranoid. i am f*cking paranoid that you will hurt me like she did. i’ve forfeited the right to raise my arms for someone else to hold because every time i do, another dagger protrudes the bruise that has finally mended. please don’t hurt me like she did. i am begging. keep me like i did. and be my sanctuary. it was such a relief to let you go and grasp how it feels to emerge on my own.

Literary Folio

Destructive Devotion gouache paint on paper

he sky bathes the earth. In that brief moment, all that were thirsty will have their share— but not all will be quenched. The trees will want more for its roots. The leaves will ask for more than what they can hold and endure. The buds will come abloom, but they will demand sustenance.

They will wait for more. And that’s how it is in this discontented world.

Bodega Vol. 1

clothes that don’t fit anymore

thread of the past—the trip down the memory lane begins here. Out of the closet, the clothes we used to wear now find a place in the bodega. The scent from the perfume we sprayed on those garments lingers—the smell of regrets, what-ifs, and musings remain. These clothes may not fit anymore because we grew, physically beyond that. The sleeves may be too tight now, the buttons may not close anymore, but the thing is, these covered us when we were left bare. However, now that we are growing out of those, they serve only a memento of what was.

Bodega Vol. 1

Wild Guess I have always admired The beauty of men And their attributes I have always been The lowkey-girlish-type Who roots for manly scents I have always been Looking forward In meeting Pedro’s and Juan’s Romantic feeling was Always dwelled to Misters— That has been the drill It has always been “Ken” not “Barbie” But who would have thought That empanada and jokes Will alter the usual Because here is my wild guess I think this Eva is no longer Attracted to Adan... Am I confused or Just in denial?

Literary Folio

Unsaid Capsuled by words that couldn’t be uttered phrases that could lacerate a piece of bond deteriorating a vague conjunction that is more than enough to grasp on for a shine cannot be attained. Truth is a dove at the free space above yet it is a cage of either regret or achievement —at least for me. It is a gratifying burden to encompass unopened boxes; to wander with full unclarity just to glance at your beauty flapping its wings of full blast shades that once deciphered my true identity. Either confusion or infatuation, everything shall be—despite zero possibility— admired by me.

You’re not my ocean I saw my initials lying on the sand Said you outlined it To profess your affection And I thought, Maybe that’s just what lovers do But it had no appeal Funny how these seemingly romantic ideals Mean the world and the empty void, At the same time You’re not my ocean You’re just rainwater that goes up And pours back down to me I may have finally figured out, Why you thought of doing such an act It’s because you knew When the sun resurrects I’d be nothing but a folklore Heard from the waves’ mouths

Bodega Vol. 1

Ghosting What a strange thing it is To have to move so quickly, so eagerly Just so that I could look back, And see that I’ve gone nowhere To see that my feet remain where I stood I can never fathom how it happened I thought I was running, leaping Yesterday was summer flowers ago Strangely, I can still reckon the sweltering heat, In the back of my mind But I don’t see your silhouette anymore I’m still here, which is odd Because I thought people, They forget and move on I assumed they turn to ashes after they burn Yet, brighter and higher I can’t let go, I just can’t let this go The stage and your glinted eyes How I want to remain here, but also dread it What a foolish thing to say If I could drift away Maybe I’d go to you I’d follow you around like a haunting memory Face me and tell me to go away As if all of this was a play

Literary Folio

Bahay-Bahayan digital art

Bodega Vol. 1

gOlden Times “G

ood old times,” I utter and sigh as I watch the golden sky bid its goodbye. The sparkle in my eyes stayed the same every time I came to stare at this moment for a while, and it feels like I’m stuck at the part where I’m not ready yet to turn the page as to how it was supposed to end. “Can I repeat the universe’s timeline?” I said before I closed my watery eyes. The sun had risen, and I heard my grandma’s shout from the kitchen, “Anne, come and have your breakfast!” she said. I then fixed my bed and immediately went to where the voice came from. Another typical day where my uncle has also been patiently waiting for me so we could have our breakfast together. He cooked the food served on the table. It was sisig with lots of onions and another set of mine with fried rice and hotdogs. I’m cracking up as he boasts about it like a master chef in front of me. It was a morning filled with joy, I guess. After a matter of time, as I was watching my favorite Disney movie, I heard the sound of car horns in front of our gate, then I opened the window. “Anne, let’s go to the city,” my uncle said. I ran as fast as I could, wearing matching pajamas, tied hair, and the scent of mint from toothpaste. I sat down in the passenger seat. All the windows were open and the music was playing at a high volume. It was a vacation, and my uncle is a recent college graduate, so we had a lot of time to bond together, since he was my best buddy of all time. The wind touched my face, the splash of the sea lingered, the flock of birds migrating above the mountains, the speed of the vehicles like they were being chased, and we were filled with laughter and magnificent chikas. We went shopping for groceries. Nothing special, just to buy a supply of snacks for later. My uncle and I were already at the counter when my grandma made a phone call. “Your cousins are home,” she said pleasingly, and we immediately added up the supplies. We’re very excited to see them. My visage made a wide boxy smile, longing for them for a long time. My uncle asked, “Anne, where’s your favorite drink?” And I almost forgot, my lychee-flavored drink with little chewy jellies inside. I think he remembered it well because I always included that drink in the cart. Time skipped, and it’s already lunch time, so we went for a drive thru. I ordered a burger with fries and a sundae, while he ordered the same but with a coke-float. We came home with a smile painted on our faces and a happy tummy. “Yehey!” Familiar sounds welcomed me as I arrived. “My cousins have returned!” I shouted with joy. My ecstatic ears followed their footsteps, and all eyes were on me as I entered through the door. They greeted me with hugs and endearment. The same old vibes; I miss them all. Uncle then invites everyone to join him on a ride to the beach to watch the golden hour together. I kind of feel tired and at least I still have time to take a siesta. The same goes for others; they have to charge their energy back for later’s agenda.

Literary Folio

My cousins woke me up, and we proceeded to make some preparations. After a few minutes, the sound of car horns lingers again, being heard in front of the gate. I accompany my other cousins in the back passenger seats, and I’m in the middle of the two. A summer vibes song was played aloud on the speaker and we were bopping along with it. We stopped by the stall in the middle of the plaza owned by Manang Linda, a footlong seller. “You guys are back!” she said happily. My uncle had some small talk with her, then he ordered five cheesy chili footlongs for each of us. Manang Linda has known us for a long time as we always buy footlongs every time we come to visit the sea. We then bid farewell and took some strolls until we reached the shore. Time check, it’s already 4:30 pm in the afternoon. On the sand, we took off our flip flops so we could sit on them. The taste of the footlong seems very sentimental as the sound of the waves and seagulls has taken over our eardrums. The smell of seaweed, the breeze coming from the west, the mirage seen on the surface of the wave, the sun seeming to jive along; we enjoyed every inch of this moment. How could I forget when I always wanted to stop time and stay like this forever? Stories of life, dreams we wanted to pursue, manifestations, desires, all of them have collided, witnessed by the golden hour. “Why is it that everyone is fading?” I wonder. I called my uncle, and he was just staring at me fondly. I looked at my cousins and they were like statues sitting on the sand. I was on the edge of crying when I heard a familiar voice that was calling my name. “Anne, wake up,” someone said. Everything made sense; it was only a dream, a vivid dream that recalled my childhood memories. I guess my desperate soul could not accept this reality. If only I could live that dream. If only I could turn back time, I would do it. I cried as soon as I woke up. It was my grandma who called me, and she hugged me tight as soon as she saw me sobbing. I didn’t know that I slept on the bench that resides in our garden after I watched the sunset. I went inside, and everything had changed. There is no noise; no car horns; no road trips; no footlongs; Uncle is not home; they won’t come back home; it’s just me and my grandma on this summer vacation. Silence and gloominess have reigned in the house. My favorite Disney movie doesn’t entertain me anymore, and I now prefer to lock myself in a room all day long, all alone, scrolling through my social media, watching how everyone’s spending their time to have some fun. It’s not the same; it will never be the same as before. This inevitable change has made me realize that I must close the page of the golden times and accept the truth of letting go. The memories trapped inside the old tapes will always be cherished, but must have come to an end, and that’s the sad reality.

Bodega Vol. 1

Literary Folio

Milk from the store Milk is good for you, that I know, Mum always tells me to drink milk so I could grow strong and tall. With a glass of milk in hand, I ponder Just how much milk I need to drink, to become as great as my mum anticipates me to be. For if I need only few, Dad can then return home from the store, And if I need a ton, Patiently I will wait until he has got enough for me. I never understood why dad indulges in long ventures to the store, Last I saw him was a few moons ago, Distant and cold he was, Yet milk always finds its way to our table, Perhaps dad secretly hands mom the milk I so love and then walks away from it all, from me. Perhaps he does care, For if he didn’t then I can say goodbye to the ambrosia I call milk Although I am never too sure of why dad needs to leave, I am sure it is for good reason, If it means frequent intake of my favorite drink, I will gladly let him. For it is milk from the store, I so adore.

Bodega Vol. 1

Stab of a dull knife how could one be a dull knife, can be enhanced but not enough to cut fine, it doesn’t fit for an onion that cries a juice of sting and sacrifice. visibility of change is at peak opacity, giving up is an option that if chosen could feel a stab on the chest but liberty for its best.

Bodega Vol. 1

Literary Folio

how long does the mirage of me linger in this stillborn oasis—earlier today, my mother cried, our bedroom walls turned into a fortress, a fragile one at that; we wore a camouflage in hopes that maybe, just maybe, this time, we will be dodged by the bullets they have fired at us— how often do you see a rain of fire accumulating in the starry sky, i am not referring to the fireworks, i mean of the nuclear incidents that wiped fukushima to the ground—the same thing happened in chernobyl; the holocaust that killed six million jews, one hundred eight thousand two hundred fifty seven people died during the golden years of the philippines— i wish to shield her from the world—from all the spiteful artilleries, overwhelming our said fortress; war should even be the last thing i could ever think of a metaphor for a love poem— but there weren’t any weapons for retaliation—cannons, all those carefully crafted atomic bombs, and tactics that could bring a country down to ashes—I’ve been meaning to crumble, to dilapidate slowly, and slowly when I look at her eyes, it reminds me of childhood, i have seen no blood, I have seen no cruelty nor death; when i look at her now, i have seen it all.

Bodega Vol. 1

broken furniture

t doesn’t matter if it has a tiny crack or is falling to pieces— it’s broken, but why is it still in the bodega? These may not have much purpose anymore, but like any other, they have value— sentimental at that. The broken furniture represents the feelings of negativity that one can feel. They are crammed in a corner of the bodega where the sunlight doesn’t reach; the shadows of pain stay hidden, but their presence is felt. The broken furniture in the bodega bears the brunt of the ache it continues to endure for years now. These are lucky as they didn’t end up in the trash, but know this: they are anything but worthless.

Loud Silence chirping of crickets for years of existence, rain poured thunder roared calmly flowed along the vastness of blank decibel. an urge had woken to let out a roar stored from the beginning of spring filled up to the recent and overflowed as it reached its extent. a still cup provides alarm only when it overflows. to be quiet is not always serenity.

Literary Folio

“I’ll build our home, and a life filled with love.” Were the exact phrases that reverberate in my head to this day. In the days of eternal darkness, I stood as your light. On the nights when you felt the most lost, I acted as a guide. For as light is just finite, The dark will remain to absorb it. You painted it with sunshine on the walls I constructed. You colored them with affection for each white rose I cultivated. I became the roof that sheltered your teardrops. All was made possible by me Hooray for you, who now finally built a home. With sunshine still reaching every room. At last, life has finally been filled with love But sadly, not with I.

Bodega Vol. 1

Pasalubong I

n my seventeen years of living, I only have tidbits of memories with my father. Nevertheless, I can memorize and trace the features of his face if you’ll ask me to draw, though I am not an artist myself. Him coming home with the same smile, the same appearance as if the same person, made it easy for a beginner like me. It took years to perfect the portrait, as he only appeared rarely and occasionally at times. I could recall his dark figure towering over my little body whenever I threw a tantrum, but he never got mad. The good ones—we always try to make the most of his one–month vacation, for the opportunity did not come to him so easily. In exchange for the good times, he would always explain. He needed to construct a valid excuse to return home and be with us. But compensating for his leave usually takes a year or two of progressive work. This was because he was a “big asset” to the company he worked in, so much that they could not let him be with his family for a longer time. Yes, the good ones composed of us– as a family, asking him about the dates of his approved vacation. Anticipating his arrival, waking up at random nights, and imagining he is already would later relive our sense of familiarity with him. It was as if he was not “family” enough. At this moment, I felt a sudden rush, for his excuse became clear: this time, he chose us over his big ambitions in life. No one thinks about the years, which were more than ten years because his absence paid for our living. It paid off our loans and debts that kept us alive until the very months he would come to be with us. Money buys us his love, but as the wheels of time kept going, I grew in the space he kept neglecting. Many people would call for an opportune moment to solve this, and they call it “bonding.” It would be successful if, in the end, the gap would close. I should be able to know his favorites, his strengths and weaknesses, and other details that make him him. I should be able to feel secure around him because he gave us life. It pains me to say, deep in my heart, that the time I solicited for the both of us was up to no good. It still felt like the white space in the family frames, substituting his towering presence.

Literary Folio

Just like that, our mother filled in the father figure for us, and our real father became absent for most of our ages. The problem is that he works too hard, too serious, and too mathematician-minded for us that it caused a string of awkwardness whenever we tried to communicate with him over the phone. But he still rings us a good morning and a good night for 30 seconds; at least he tries. He would always buy us things that would remind us that we have a father over the distance; unreachable sometimes. He and his Pasalubongs are one when he comes home once a month. A doorbell ringing at 3 o’clock in the morning was always our signal to open our doors to a ghostly presence. Nonetheless, as children during those times, the presence brings a smile to our faces. First, our eyes trace over his overly-worked body and then to the plastic bags that would always look heavy. He never came home without a Pasalubong. It was as if his big strong hands from work were meant to carry bags of toys. Both were inseparable throughout the years. It became so usual that we could not even determine which of them had caused our hearts to ceaselessly jump, out of excitement. Perhaps, it just adds an element of suspense that serves to feed our joyous anticipation for whenever he would come home. His love comes from distant lands that is barely spoken of. He is an imposter in the image of my father, with whom I am not entirely familiar with, except for his expensive gifts and daily ‘good nights.’ His thin and dark body could bear high temperatures. He only takes pride in spoiling his family with material things. During family dinner, he takes his time eating, partially because of the once in a while decent homemade food which he scarcely eaten during his time away; and because he looks up to his family, eating in silence, content in what he has. And yet, he would always bring home Pasalubongs, even though it had already cost him time and money just for the family he rarely sees in real life.

Bodega Vol. 1

Femme T

he intricacies of womanhood and the dangers of having a female genital in this world could never be understood by men. And I mean this with no offense meant to the other gender. I envy the way they will never feel the unending sermon parents would have to pack along the lunch for their daughter. I wonder if they were ever pressured to look pretty, to wear shoes that skin the back of the foot just to fit the dress code, to perfect a messy bun—I mean, it is a messy bun. Even in the look of mess, have they ever felt the need to look good? Or pleasing? Would they ever understand the existential crisis in a woman when they say they admire natural-looking women who do not require make-up and low maintenance; however, they do not strip their expectation of baby soft skin, perfectly-carved body, plump lips. Would they ever understand your whole being measured by how long your skirt is and the amount of make-up you use? Would they ever understand what it’s like to have to scream to have rights and to be treated like a decent human being yet still be told “no”? I envy that they have the right to object and gaslight a woman’s experience. I envy that they could turn a blind eye on the oppression brought upon by the patriarchy. I envy that feminist men are praised and put on a pedestal while feminist women are called untamed and angry. Well, I am angry. Now I ask: Why aren’t you?

Literary Folio

The Wick of A Lamp digital art

Bodega Vol. 1

I wrote my first suicide note when I was fourteen. Now, I am writing my second and no one is here to read this.

Literary Folio

Roommate When the day of merry making ends And I’m forced to retire to my room On my shoulder appears a shadow Whispering omens of doom The door is ajar No light shines within One foot in My fate’s been sealed Darkness caves in Lingering dread, dark room, Atrocity stands on the corner. In my haven it looms, Casting an eternal winter. Where flowers once bloomed, Now I watch them wither. Alone together, With this unwelcomed intruder.

Bodega Vol. 1

The Grab I

t was a gloomy night when the Grab rider arrived at the subdivision. Rain was pouring down, but he had no choice but to continue doing his job. The customer was yelling at him over the phone, but he couldn’t really hear what the person was saying due to the loud noise hitting his way. He begged the customer’s pardon and was about to finish what he wanted to say when the customer dropped the phone. The Grab rider was so tired and exhausted from driving all day and talking to different people, and not eating well to top it all off, which would end up with him being sick. When he finally arrived at the exact location, he tried to call the customer, but the customer declined his call. He yelled in the middle of the rain. He badly wanted to get rid of people like his current customer. A few minutes later, someone waved at him from afar. The person was pointing at the white house a few steps away from him. He got the food out of the bag and started walking, as he thought that the person’s waving was what he was looking for. When he finally reached the gate, the person stepped back and said, “Come inside,” in a very normal tone of voice. He smiled and started walking. He was about to say that he’d just get the payment and go when the customer opened the door. “It’s raining. Wait for it to stop,” said the customer. He didn’t know how to react or what to say, but he just followed the customer’s direction.

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He was still thinking about what was happening right now. He had never encountered this type of customer before. Usually, they’d just get the food and give the payment. But this customer? This customer was so different. They don’t even ask about the food they ordered. The grab rider was checking his pocket to get his phone, but he forgot that it was in his motorcycle’s box. He wanted to know the time. When he glanced back at the person right in front of him, the person was gone. He looked everywhere and started to be scared. “Don’t be scared.” He was shocked when he saw the customer sitting on the couch. “How’d you get there that fast?” the Grab rider asked. The person didn’t answer. The delivery rider might think that the customer’s one of those crap who kills people at night; think that he might not make it back home alive. “Take a seat,” said the customer. He sat next to the customer and felt how heavy the rain was. “It’ll take forever. I have to go. I need the payment”. Still didn’t answer. The customer turned the radio on. The broadcaster was talking about the typhoon coming to their area, but the customer switched the channel where pop music was playing. “Switch it back now!” The Grab rider asked the customer in a medium-high tone of voice. “I love listening to pop songs—” the customer was about to finish what he was saying when the Grab rider switched it back to the news. “... and we heard that the psycho killer’s around the town. People, you must take care of yourselves. We also heard that they’re pretending to be delivery rider—” He shut the radio off and grabbed and started stabbing the customer.

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I write this with a loathing heart One that held its beating for so long It forgot how it worked, and how it’s just thumping Absentmindedly. I tend to write the void, staring right back But how does one cope if that abyss is inside? Of them? How long will you stare at your reflection Knowing that it does not have the courage To stare back at you. Hold me close, hold me fast and cast that magic Spell—let me sleep a forgiving slumber As I lay my frightened soul in a garden of thorns Never forget to wake me up if I haven’t by Dawn, but when the dawn ceases to shroud The morrow; the sun to the valleys, the children to their mothers—let me be. Let me grieve in frustration. Let me badmouth This phony world. All these phony world All the fraudulence they have fed The wolves inside The other one is barely Winning; I will always love that anecdote And I write with a loathing heart, but it is a love poem—everyone, especially you must know That this is a love poem. They say, Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan Hindi mararating ang paruruonan— Now look at us; going to where we had fought Against for, back in the street, where it all started.

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empty boxes

he words ending with ‘-less’ and ‘-ness’ belong here— hopeless, loneliness, aimless, emptiness; you get it. A huge void is what they are; a blank canvas that no painter wants to use; a feeling of nothing—empty boxes are just all they are.

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[Youth]anasia Time yet still strives to fill in a void in their heart

is a deadly foe which no one can defy, It creates a nightmare such as youth a cruel thing to life. in the

early days the world is too full of possibilities a person becomes everything and anything all at once but will never become who they are

eight, you feel the need to grow up to the extent of rushing love.

Then suddenly you’re old.

seventh, you don’t think you’re wasting a lot of time.

sixth, the earth’s soil was not dirty to you at all.

All that is left

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second, the fresh breeze enclothes your skin into a cold embrace.

first, you hear yourself genuinely laughing to jokes,

fifth, your insecurities were just a brush of a thought that is.

of your childhood

third, your sweat disguises itself as a tear prickling down your face, from a six-hour playtime with your childhood friends.

fourth, you did not care about keeping memories, just making them.

Fits in a rusty little box.

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Old Cranky Road Cold sweats on this frigid night. I got lost again. Where am I? To the woods, I see. It was the same lumpy road I ran on. But yet, here I stumbled back to square one. Dim street lights in the obscure night sky Dogs are howling; stars are shining. Wind gusts, mist in the thin air. Everything seems to be fine. I quiver. Trapped in the dark, clouded with thorns Seek solace for the mind and soul. Yet, conquest is nowhere to be found On the haphazard road, I stood, no bounds.

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An echo of lament has devoured my soul, Beckoning whispers into a despondent hole It’s Dolor that blinds me. I have no eyes to see. Hear, streams and the clash of stones. Bear the anguish of breaking bones. Voices of the unknown Malice just came home. Alone, ago. They have returned. Brawls and battles with demons Whistles of misery inside an indecipherable psyche Words uttered vanished above. Only night lights can free the owl. The war of silence and noise has struck. Try not to trip over the rocks. Grasp, then look up to grab the chasing dove.

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LET ME Times couldn’t be reckoned of how often I glanced at the vast to dream of flying to lift myself to be blown by the wind, without any ropes attached on rooted upon my origin. I was blissful—as I thought no one dared asking, behind a grin prowls an invisible wrap on my neck, the hindrance obligation and manipulative conscience molded through my reality by those who established me. House is not a home rather a cage; boudoir is a case painted with illusion. To be delusional is not to be brow furrowed for letting one feel unattainable blast even just in a trance will never to be said as red. A dove only wants to fly free, he knows the way home.

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flowers of the ungrateful Engraved roots of turmoil, Among the heights of meadows. There unto the soil, No tenants, nothing to sow. Sun feeds the leaves chlorophyte, Whilst Greatest be filled with envy for our yellow highs. Kids, I say, still neophytes. With their rose-colored glasses, I pry. Watch our petals, I dare say. We are unowned. We are strays. Inspire the ungrateful with awe. Their feet disturb our peace, To come once again, at ease. Never to drop by a penny. For our petals, pollens are handy.

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In strings we are bound. In shears we are lost. Yet in mixed flowers, we are found, In vases, probably cold by the dawn. Others succumb into the darkness. Our petals now they wither. No eyes, no sense of smell. No more meadows for the seer. Petals all we have got, To burn your love for life. For when you still need us, We are all around and alive. In luck, we are owned by the moon. In lows and four seasons, For its light, it never begs. Enough said. We hope to see you again soon.

Bodega Vol. 1

What’s Inside The Mystery Box? Impulses of infatuation, glamors of butterflies Fools get possessed, yet it doesn’t make sense. At least for me, that’s the vision I set. To not grieve when the flowers go wilted, To not disturb the sleeping archers. There’s a package, a box of mystery. I succumb out of curiosity, inevitably. It can’t be opened. Well, that’s so lame. It drives me crazy. I whine and complain. I shoved the package away from me. A thunderstorm hollow, swallowed me. A glimpse of the glow glimmers the sorrow. Destiny having fled, I smiled by accident.

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Delusions of your eyes, pervaded by butterflies Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Numb by the cold, warm on the inside The flowers have bloomed in the frost. I found the light behind my shadow. For a long time, I’ve been a ghost. Lurking by the alley, Finding my similar soul. The mystery will soon be revealed. Yet so unsure, I’m dumbfounded. Allow it to be and set those doubts free. Surprises have begun. Let’s grab this chance. Let’s have some fun.

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the hole in my chest is full of burden digital art

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Bones Remain digital art

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The Walls W

hen the night is deep and everyone has gone to slumber, there I lie in silence with the crickets and bugs as an ensemble. That is when the walls start talking to me and share the ugliest things. I tried to turn away before, cover my ears and pray to God for sleep. There used to be a time when I tried to run away from the voices and the ugliness that is I. But now, oh but the present, my body lies still and lets the walls devour every chamber of my brain that it echoes even in the day.

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The deeper the night gets the lonelier it becomes sometimes, when i think of the threads, those that tied those years those that held those that had been unsaid, i think of the weight as well. i’ve been carrying the burden ever since of detangling my fragments the strings over my pieces the chaos all over me when they fooled us that this is how it is. i’ve been a mess ever since so full of incapacities to express so full of incapacities. but some nights, for some reasons, and when a poem hit me the hardest i think of you. some days, I still think of you.

Bodega Vol. 1

The Housekeeper Twin trails of desperation, Rush down your cheeks, Lassitude takes over. Isolated as you are, The mocking doesn’t stop. It never does. You do not deserve to cry You do not deserve to tire You do not deserve to feel Serve them until your bones give in, Serve them until you have nothing left to give, Serve them.

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Like a dog lapping up Eating all your words hungrily Salivating, drooling, painfully panting Whole attention concentrated To the promises, your empty promises As to me, they are ambrosia A harmony to my ears; harps and trumpets A poem recited by angels Delivered by your pink lips I am blind to the warnings Deaf to all, but your whispers Following you blindly, helpless Hopelessly entranced by your charm I walked to you, to the voice I did not see the cliff until I had fallen.

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ah, the iron in my blood, it’s metallic essence lingers just enough these poetries must have scarred people, must have cut flesh open—i can hear the massacre from here, a fountain of eloquence cascading down at countless then-living silhouettes, staining our realm in the brightest shade of vermillion there is something in the shallows that’s telling me it won’t be soon enough to fill an ocean of organs, of ill-abused loyalty, to fill canyons deep of conscience swallowed by the devils who had made their way in the surface and hell has been empty, for years it had waited, like any masterpiece to its master— thrown astray, kept from the darkest corner of an attic, remembered by the stars but never its creator, patiently in flames it cries so does the iron in my blood, its metallic scent lingered just enough - where do you think you are taking me? i am all by means innocent. so does the iron in my blood, its metallic scent lingered just enough—where do you think you are taking me? i am all by means innocent.

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old photographs & book piles

tories live through words and visuals. A picture is worth a thousand words, they say; and letters create images. The old photographs and book piles in the bodega show and tell all good things. The hope, happiness, and inspiration we seek after a gloomy day—a rainbow after a storm. Despite the downpour and tumultuous silence, we end with a smile. We close the chapters of our books with euphoria and gaze at photographs with nostalgia. This is how we end, still, where it started—in the bodega.

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A Forever Walk O

ne day, it is a sunny morning, and everyone is ready to begin their day. For some, it is a moment when everyone may wake up and enjoy life, but Jun awoke not knowing that his life was about to fall apart. Monday. It was a typical day, and Jun was getting ready to spend time with his family before heading to work like everyone else. Jun’s family lives in poverty because he did not complete his education and married while he was young. Then something strange happened as if a sorcerer had cast a spell on him. His wife backstabbed him, leaving him with nothing. Jun was forced to leave their house. He had no clue what to do except to be brave and prepare for the trials that were ahead. He slept on the streets since he had nowhere else to go. Tuesday. Jun had been strolling for hours on the streets, unsure of what to do or where to go. He didn’t eat for a day for he is still coping with what happened with his marriage. As the sun sets, he sleeps by the side of the road with no blanket or food. His t-shirt and shorts are beginning to show signs of wear. Despite all that has occurred, Jun is certain that everything will be alright. Wednesday. Jun awoke hungry on the streets and noticed a family eating and bonding in a restaurant. He was watching them have a fantastic time until it began to rain. Jun dashed to the restaurant, but he didn’t step inside. He was merely looking for a place to stay. As people leave the restaurant, he begs them for money and food. People felt sorry for him and donated him a little amount of money so he could purchase food. As the beauty of the night appears, a thought came to Jun’s mind. What if his wife divorced him because she found a more suitable partner? A man who can accomplish the things Jun can’t. He recognized that his wife was never happy with the way they lived. Jun had no choice but to cry. He sobbed all night about how much of a failure he is as a person, husband, and father.

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Thursday. Jun felt as though the entire universe was against him. He can only think about his family so he began to walk back to his hometown to see his mother and siblings. It’s a long journey for him, but he has no choice. Right now, his original family is all he has. He spent the whole day walking, he didn’t eat food nor did he sleep. Friday. Jun had been trekking for a day without eating or sleeping. His behaviors, as he wanders through the streets, show how desperate he is to return home. He is becoming weaker, and his general appearance is changing. From a regular citizen to a homeless person. At 7 p.m. on a cold night, he walked to a nearby tree to lie down and rest. Jun can’t believe how much his life has altered in only a week. All he can think about is his sons, and not spending time with them is the worst feeling any parent can have. Saturday. Jun’s siblings learned that their brother had left his family and gone missing. They are very concerned about Jun, who may already be dead. They hurried off to look for him. Jun, on the other hand, is still wandering the streets, hoping to survive. He is starting to give up at this point since he has been walking for a week and has not eaten for three days. Sunday. Jun is still walking, and he is simply waiting for his end to arrive. He had lost his sense of purpose in life after losing his family, future, and, most importantly, himself. All of this changed when a passerby noticed him strolling through the streets as if he was going to pass out. That man was his brother. Jun was saved by his brother, who adopted him and treated him well. Jun’s brother was my Dad. Once my Dad learned the news that his brother had gone missing, he went to look for him for two days. My Uncle Jun was once a wander, but now living on his own with my family continuing to give him the love, care, and support which my Dad left behind as a legacy.

Bodega Vol. 1

A Late Night Conversation With A Dear Old Friend In deep dark nights, I look up to see, How high my Little Prince Came to be. How he is, And how he’s doing, With all that I entrusted to him. He is not one to summon so quickly. And so, I ask, politely, What became of his Rose he loved so dearly? So immensely with all his heart, That he traveled back in a dart. But what about Asteroid B-612? He’d rather find solutions than sit and dwell, On the catastrophes that will have fell– this, or else I would not find hope Such as in the miraculous desert well. What about the little figurines? What fun must it have been! To play with your much wanted Lego submarines The oceans here are vast. They are as not as little As you can see above. What about the versions of me you liked? Are you still in touch with them too?

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What became of the dreams I wished to pursue? The dreams which were not few, Yet for its overwhelming beauty, A spotlight-worthy–I withdrew. Oh, how I wish I knew, How to plant a major coup. Then what of the wishes I could not attend to? Such as the wish for the company of two? The promise of happiness that was long overdue? One could only hope anew. Hope is such a little word but still, I think of you. And your golden hair that shines along with the words you utter– words which you have promised, That they are not in some kind of a fabrication. That they are in the right universe, in the right time and place. Under the right celestial bodies, where it is moderately cold and hot. Under the right hands. Under the right me. These things I ask– He responds with silence, Yet stars glisten in his presence. The world turned grim Since he protected the heavens. But then I shall let him be, With the things I entrusted to him.

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Literary Folio

Soulmate Maybe in time we’ll meet again when the stars remind us of what’s been I wonder if our minds cross one thought; the moments that the heart did not taut. You were more than a memory; you were an experience. You were not the rain but the feeling of dancing under the comfort of it. You were not the rainbow but the relief of the promised tomorrow. Could someone ever despise a word or a notion? Now that you are a ‘were’ my chest cramps with unknown emotions. You are my soulmate that was not meant to be that no matter the debate it could not bring you back to me. My life has marks of your love of what was and what could have. Those are the scars that forever will remind of a human I met that was angel-kind.

Bodega Vol. 1

Dark Street E

veryone wants a high-paying job, one that you could proudly announce to even to strangers; a profession that the mere title would get you respected. Being in the medical field, engineering, law, are on the top of the list. And by the time you turn 15, it is expected that you already have a passion or interest in those fields. You should already have a clear vision of what you want your future to be. Relatives on family reunions would pester you for an answer and the school would require you to write an essay all about it. For the longest time, I struggled finding anything that would pique my interest for longer than three months. And here I am now, less than two school years away from college years with no idea who or what I dream to be. Thinking that my answer is a big blank in comparison to what my classmates would have answered is discouraging. The weight of realizing you are being left behind is a giant boulder on my shoulders. I may be uncertain but I envision a wealthy future. A life where I get to live comfortably and afford the things my heart desire. I often find it difficult to be driven however, when I do, I exceed expectations. It is still a confusing road I am trying to find my directions in but I know there is always an end to the tunnel. I trust in my own skills and abilities that it would manifest opportunities. Having no passion in specifics has its advantages as whatever comes in my way, I will dedicate my own and be my best self. After all, that is all I need to get through life. We are all a work in progress, as they say. My thoughts on this essay could change tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, or maybe just hours from today. But for now, a blank answer is all I can give. And that should be okay. This dark street will be conquered two steps at a time, hopping, probably skipping, happily venturing this journey called life as a 16-year-old.

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Stardust “Medals are small things in the light of the stars.” – Maria Mitchell all along, she believed that the motions are hers alone. she had kept the quakes at bay, she tried and when a part of her would burst, she kept still. she knew that she had been the teller of time but not the controller, especially of fates as what her people had known. the arrival of unequal days and nights had been her rhythm, as she danced on her own feet. she is part of the bigger universe where there are far more incomprehensible than what she feels she dwells with the stars, each would tell a version of story and scar her more, make her feel less smaller and dimmer but she envies those who died and endured those who already met their inevitable doom. her birth had been the birth of all, but her emotions aren’t owned by most she feels lonely, she has inhibitions as her death could be the death of all.

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Hey, Youth! A serene clime, so beautiful as ever. What spell could possibly break the bane? Just for me to look at you like this forever. A glimpse of tranquility, silence lingers For a moment of hiatus, ambivalence wringers As a zephyr welcomes me through my window, The mirror abruptly shattered, making me quiver in the shallows. Serendipity in the morning’s sunlight Breaking the silence, kindling the flames. The sounds of youngsters walking down the street I took a glance. What a regret. Just to witness my heart falling into pieces. Once it rings, then time is up. Aurora’s warmth, The bloom of hope solaces an envious heart. Breathe. Do not be discouraged and just take it easy. For your power is at hand, And the time will soon be in your favor, darling, they say. Grasp yourself together; I know this will be over. Enjoy it while it lasts. Still, be happy. Youth—young, wild, and free. The clock says tick-tock.

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a once upon a time she used to be alone, and she deserved it. her heart was made of stone, because of you. you had a cause to serve, but did you serve it? or did you see yourself the way that wasn’t true? this is not your father’s fairytale and no, it’s not your mother’s fault you fail, it’s what the story comes to shine, where you want to be, divines, like, once upon a time, a girl tried her hardest, once upon a time, she tried again, once upon, a bolder choice, she took the risk, she used her voice, now, she’s satisfied with her life, this time.

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A Dream From The Jar One night, she dreamed about a jar Not just an ordinary jar But a jar filled with dreams, she thought so far. It’s made of glass; very transparent Allows her to see through what is inside. She had seen a jar filled with honey. Honey that so fresh and natural, Very fruity just like what she want her future to be, Its sweet-scent that made her think it’s possible to be, But its dark golden color made her think it’s not going to be easy. The moment she opened her eyes She thought about the jar Is that an omen for her future? Is that a sign that it will be sweet as honey? Or it’s a sign that that she’s stuck in one place like a jar and she need to move forward? A dream that become a big question mark. But what if it’s just a simple dream and it doesn’t mean anything? Yet, she continue dreaming and pursuing things, Continue believing and living her life to the fullest, To someday figure out what really that dream from the Jar is all about.

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Good Mourning I wake up for the brief hours of morning the sun, still out, the world quiet and a multitude triggers run over me of sight, I only get to witness as the light breaks in, leaves crisped and damped from the dawn’s dew, flowers almost blooming, this wet earth being born again and again reminding the impermanence each day undergoes. with all the hustles that I have to go through— I am always and still scared— of each brand new day, of tasks that drain my Herculean hopes of routines that take away the mystery, of ideologies that seemed to unshaped me. I question if I am really getting wiser with my weary dreams, I still wake up and wander and be reborn in this period, never suspended, yet full of glory, as if it can take all the indifference, as if it can nurse the wounds it also sustains in its own passing.

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it is a meandering apparition, towering above skyscrapers of genuine architecture, besides feeble structures of rusting steel chains were constricted around its frail remains; an embryo burgeoned about tragedy, witnessed the disposal of bodies two feet under shallow graves it wore ragged clothes resembling years of unremembered treacheries; those were the linens used when the pandemonium wasn’t kept at bay even children vividly recall the gunfires, stray bullets freeing tormented victims, our land in hues of vermillion, drenching the greener pasture— and when the voices grew louder, all of what’s ours stood still; the monsoons calmed down, the mountain ranges listened, our shores were untouched; it was a pseudo-miracle let them know that we, too, can play god.

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We give them our youth and our precious vitality Our time seems stolen right under our noses we give them patience unlimited benefit of the doubt endless chances for redemption we offer everything there is until we buckle and fall yet they are paying us cheaply with morsels and crumbs but we deserve a banquet a feast. Now. it is time to collect.

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Hope, Countless Meanings Hope, a word as simple as white Hope that is associated with aspirational light What is hope as they say? Hope that gives strength to someone each day Is hope a bird, that flies freely in the sky? Gently, yet aspirational when it passes by Does hope compare to a wildflower? That wields in its colorful petals, infinite power Hope is the light amidst immense darkness The voice that lurks in crowded silence Hope is like vines, that live on spreading Never dies, keeps on growing Hope is many of those things That gives courage to every beings An ambition for a positive outcome You’ll never run out of it, not a single one

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Everything, in time To live a happy life, treating mankind To explore the world, enjoying life To be happy, proud, and content is what I desire Everything, in time Life, filled with dreams That makes life seem worthwhile We’d go that extra mile To reach the goal that we desire Everything, in time I believe in myself Enjoy every moment, treasure every experiences I may get discouraged, but I’ll stand brave To reach my dream Everything, in time

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Burn Scared for tomorrow, Scared for what it may bring, For the future bows to no one, And the fire inside is dimming. But who is it to blame, When they paint you in such light, When the applauses echoed, From strangers left and right. It fueled the fire inside, But ignited it far too bright, It burned your being, Naivete urged you to hug it tight. Applauded for being talented, Yet where are they now. They rot in the back of your mind, Never to be seen again, never to be found. Now, you smell of smoke, Yet you never learn. You’re still the naive kid, but with a waning fire. The honeyed praises, hot oil, And you, the wick of a lamp, Still desperate to burn.

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Bones R

digital

A Look Back (2020-2021) digital art

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Remain

l art

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Sa sinisiil

Batid sa aking kaalaman na hindi mo ninais na mapunta sa ganitong sitwasyon, ngunit libo-libong buhay na ang nawala at kalayaang makapagsalita ang pinupuksa.

Alam kong takot ka, sapagkat ramdam ko rin ang mga tudlaan na nasa iyong likuran sa tuwing sinusubukan mong magsalita. Sa kabalintunaan, ikaw rin naman ay sinusubukan ng mga taong wala nang ibang inisip kundi ang kanilang sarili — liniligtas ang sarili nilang balat habang pinaglalaruan ang kinabukasan ng taong-bayan.

Harap-harapan ka nang ginagapos ng mga tinuturing mong pinuno. Pinipigilan ka nilang sabihin ang iyong puna sa kanilang liderato. Hindi nila tanggap ang hindi mo pagtanggap sa kanilang panig at dako. Ginagamit nila ang batas upang tuluyang lurayin ang karapatan ng bawat mamamayan at demokrasiya sa bansang iyong ginagalawan. Binabalewala nila ang ipinaglaban ng ating mga namayapang bayani na kasarinlan.

Huwag mong hayaan na ituring kang kalaban ng mga maniniil. Hindi ang iyong mga salita ang dapat nilang katakutan, sapagkat ang tunay na banta sa isang bayang hindi nagpapaapi ay ang paghadlang sa kalayaan nito.

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Hindi nito malulutas ang pagpili mo sa gitna ng mga pare-pareho rin namang mapagsamantala. Kung pinapapili ka nila ng kulay, huwag mong kalimutan na may manipis na puwang na nakatuon sa katarungan. Iyon ang piliin mo. Panatilihin mong nag-aalab ang puso mo bilang Pilipino.

Hindi mo kailangang maging isang kilalang tao para tumulong sa nakararami. Magsalita ka nang walang takot. Ipagsiwalat mo na karapat-dapat kayong magkaroon ng makatwirang pamahalaan. Nagsimula ang rebolusyon noon nang marinig ng mga tao ang aking paghihingalo at hilahil. Walang sapat na panahon ang maibibigay sa inyo bago tuluyang mayurak ang mga karapatang pantao.

Umaasa ang lahat sa iyo. Umaasa ako sa iyo.

Naghihintay,

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Bodega Vol. 1

index

literary entries NDV 9 Chapter I: Abubot JDP NDV 31 Chapter II: Clothes That Don’t Fit NJE Anymore LMNA NDV 47 Chapter II: Broken Furniture JDP NDV 63 Chapter IV: Empty Boxes MJR NDV 87 Chapter V: Old Photographs & YRC Book Piles RAT AJA 101 A Dream From The Jar JCA GAO 88 A Forever Walk YRC MJR 84 ah, the iron in my blood RMA x CBN RAT 22 Ako Naman YD JCA 90 A Late Night Conversation JDP FFR 100 a once upon a time MAV YRC 110 Burn JCA MAV 13 Bus Ride MJR JCA 94 Dark Street NC YD 10 Emotions MAV CGQ 109 Everything, in time ANS YD 54 Femme PTQ JCA 70 flowers of the ungrateful YRC SC 36 Ghosting MAV RAT 38 gOlden Times YD MAV 103 Good Mourning SC RAT 98 Hey, Youth! FFR JDL 108 Hope, Countless Meanings JDP CJU 51 I’ll build our home LMNA NC 12 i’m a journalist RAT NC 21 i see your shadows KAR MJR 60 I write this with a loathing heart SC YD 17 Jejemon JCA

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68 18 82 48 104 41 66 52 57 114 93 42 97 56 45 24 79 20 58 80 28 77 14 11 33 107 73 32 34 64

LET ME Life Like a dog lapping up Loud Silence meandering apparition Milk from the store Old Cranky Road Pasalubong Roommate Sa sinisiil Soulmate Stab of a dull knife Stardust Suicide Note This bastion we’ve built the contrary of euphoria The deeper the night gets The feeling of not being alone The Grab The Housekeeper The sky bathes the earth The Walls Tomie Trust Me Unsaid We give them our youth What’s inside the mystery box? Wild Guess you’re not my ocean [Youth]anasia

Literary Folio

index

illustrations DFJ LJP MAQ ECB JDDR CJU CJU CJU CJU JDDR SJL JDDR DFJ MAQ MAQ JCA JCA JDDR

8 Chapter I: Abubot 30 Chapter II: Clothes That Don’t Fit Anymore 46 Chapter II: Broken Furniture 62 Chapter IV: Empty Boxes 86 Chapter V: Old Photographs & Book Piles 7 Bodega Presswork I 122 Bodega Presswork II 85 ah, the iron in my blood 112 A Look Back 37 Bahay-Bahayan 75 Bones Remain 110 Burn 95 Dark Street 27 Destructive Devotion 15 Distortion 102 Good Mourning 99 Hey, Youth! 50 I’ll build our home

JCA DFJ DFJ DFJ CJU MAQ CJU CJU LJP LJP JDDR JDDR JDDR MAQ JCA MAQ LJP MAQ CJU JCA

61 16 69 19 83 48 105 40 92 43 96 78 74 81 28 76 55 44 106 56

I write this with a loathing heart Jejemon LET ME Life Like a dog lapping up Loud Silence meandering apparition Milk from the store Soulmate Stab of a dull knife Stardust The deeper the night gets

the hole in my chest is full of burden

The Housekeeper The sky bathes the earth The Walls The Wick of A Lamp This bastion we’ve built We give them our youth You’re not my ocean

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Bodega Vol. 1

about us

writers ALAIBILLA, RAYCHELLE MARIE. Her pen spawned a life of its own and filled a hiraeth she once thought was a lifelong void. Writing reveals her too closely, so she takes one breather at a time to unearth her being. ALEGRE, JIENNE CRYZELLE. Words are not her strongest ammunition, her heart is. ANCHETA, AIREEN JADE. Her pen is her reflection. Her pen creates a portal going to her new reality. Her pen defines what, who, and what she wants to be. CABALCE, YANSEN REHSYA. Her words materialize when her emotions are nigh its peak; her demons, her muses, close by her side. CAMPOS, NATHANEIL. In a walking paradox, he glimpses himself as a fragment of the multiverse. CHAN, SOPHIA. Her poetry has its own personality. She pulls out her insides and cast them in gold. A feral being.

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DEVADEB, YZABELLA. Not your modern day anything, she just exists to be whoever she is even when there are moments, she becomes unsure who that is. EMILIO, NATE JOAS. He can bear every word. He is the master of himself. LLANES, JEYSED DENILLE. Until now, he’s working in silence, but letting his words speak for himself. NARTATEZ, CHEENA BREA. Her soul yearns for something out of this world; but in this realm, she grips on a cup of coffee and a couple of words. OANDASAN, GABRIEL ALECK. He is silent but his words are blaring and sharp. He holds a pen with the hope to change the world. PERLAS, JERMAINE DWAYNE. His subtle intensity is a deceiving mechanism, concealing aggression of bustling thoughts that only a pen could disclose the full spectrum of ethereal hues from within.

Literary Folio

about us

writers QUADRA, CRYSTALINE GWYNETH. She is a reader who hopes to be a better writer. REALGO, MC JUSTINE. Has a love-hate relationship with mathematics. He takes inspiration of his craft from the likes of Poe, Lovecraft, and Gaiman. Soon to be a licensed geodetic engineer, he wishes to publish his own book in the near future.

VALENCIANO, NADEEN DOMINIQUE. She drowns in the sea of jet-black ink, her words weigh her down—she never learned how to swim through her emotions. VERZOSA, MARIELLE ANN. Her love for reading brought her here. She writes whenever time spares her.

REYES, FRANCIS FAEY. An ordinary girl who desires to use writing to discover the purpose of her life—trapped in a tower full of no’s but climbed down to hear her voice full of yeses. RIN, KIMBERLY ANNE. She has a lot of stories to tell but these are the ones she already wants to forget. She keeps on opening them anyway. SALDUA, ANGEL NICOLE. She loves writing but she enjoys crocheting and reading short fiction the most. TABUYO, REJEANE ANNE. A novice in her own field of interest, yet the monarch of her own enchanted queendom.

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Bodega Vol. 1

about us

artists BETITA, ENRIC CARL. He is filled with dualisms—serious yet playful, quiet yet active, and focused yet open for breaks. Despite all these dualisms, his goal is certain and vivid. DELA ROSA, JOHN DAVE. He is not a very expressive person; however, he uses the power of his hand to create art that reflects what he feels. JARAMILLO, DONNA FAE. Her pace hearkens to the gentle heft of the breeze, as her sentiments revamp to the merriment of her milieu. Bestowing life to countless mirages with a jovial affinity and fondness. LUCZON, SARAH JANE. She hopes to someday make a mark in this world or do something out of the ordinary that she would probably regret when she’s 20. PLA, LOURIANNE JOYCE. Their heart and mind enjoy listening to silence and peace. QUIRAPAS, MARISH ANNE. When tormented by chaos and despair, she creates, because it is the only thing louder than destruction.

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ULITA, CHRISTIAN JEHRO. He turns grays to hues; graphite to flowers, with a pencil that morphs reality.

Literary Folio

acknowledgment We consider this as our labor of love. Every writer and artist who is part of this is humbled because we are sustained by the goodwill and patronage of these people whose kindness inspired us to keep creating. To Dr. Aurelia Vitamog, Prof. Nelson Benzon, Dr. Mariano Avila, Dr. Rolando Navarro, and Dr. Erwin Cadorna for valuing our potential and for giving us the opportunity to publish our works through our school publication. To Prince Trojan Quijano and Mc Justine Realgo for sharing their passion for stories and poetry. To Engr. Lean Maverick Nikko Alcantara for trusting us some of his works and for mentoring us when he served as our resource speaker during the Journalism Camp. To Mr. Jonathan del Castillo for always lending a hand and for giving valuable feedback to our works. To Sir Ireneo Ico and ICOR Enterprises. To our readers. And to every writer and artist who was and is and will always be part of The Bud, we repay what we owe you by continuing to labor with love.

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