About the Cover Just like the being on the cover, we originally possess innate purity, signified by the color white, and virtuosity, as shown with the use of bright and colorful elements. Surrounding us are the seven capital sins –vices of the seven virtues – which lurk, lure and tempt us to commit erroneous deeds. The wooden texture represents reality, whereas the circle demonstrates eternity, both of which imply a never-ending cycle of immorality and, hopefully, redemption.
8 t h e
S e v e N
C A P I t A L
Ayah Danica V. Granada Literary editor
S I N S
uSA Publications Editorial Board and Staff academic Year 2013-2014
Ray Adrian C. Macalalag Ric Martin L. Libo-on EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Joel S. Sastrillo MANAGING EDITOR
Jerson E. Elmido Wilhelm C. Lizada Jesanny I. Yap ASSOCIATE EDITORS
8 the official student literary Journal of the university of san agustin Volume Viii, November 2013
Published in November 2013 by the UNIVERSITY OF SAN AGUSTIN PUBLICATIONS The Official Student Press Corps of the University of San Agustin 2/F Alumni Building, University of San Agustin General Luna Street, Iloilo City, Philippines 5000 Website: www.usa-pub.blogspot.com real-time News Website: www.usa-publications.journ.ph Email Address: usa.publications@rocketmail.com Telephone Number: (+63-33) 337-48-42 local 189
Ayah Danica V. Granada LITERARY EDITOR
Anne Catherine D. Malazarte ART DIRECTOR
Thongenn Lanz B. Patiam PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR
Jerson E. Elmido CIRCULATION MANAGER
Stephanie Kay L. Urquiola Jeremiah John P. Vardeleon Joyce Gem M. Cañete Rochelle Louise D. Doromal SeNIor WrIterS
Edrylle G. Cofreros Seulgi J. Han Marylex G. Sumatra Christine Joy A. Saber
Copyright © 2013 by the USA Publications for the collection and the individual authors, artists, and photographers. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form whether virtual, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission and approval from the owners. DISCLAIMER: This book, unless specified in the individual works, is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
STAFF WRITERS
Kinno O. Florentino ArtISt
Daniel P. Abutas Mara Elaiza A. Flores Mary Johsyen E. Pabalinas PhotoJourNALIStS
Hyacinth Grace T. Paloma Victoria Jade V. Estrada Therese Mae F. Billones Resty John L. Palete
WANT SOME MORE OF IRONG-IRONG? Scan this code with your mobile device and read this volume of Irong-irong along with the previously published ones anytime, anywhere.
COLOPHON: This book was crafted into perfection using Miller, Frutiger, and Lobster typefaces. Page design and enhancements were done using Adobe Photoshop CS5, Adobe InDesign CS5, Adobe Illustrator CS5 and Adobe Photoshop Lightroom 5.
APPreNtICe WrIterS
Marites P. Cornel MODERATOR
The cover images were crafted by Anne Catherine D. Malazarte and Kinno O. Florentino. The overall layout and book design were done by Ray Adrian C. Macalalag of the USA Publications. PRINTED BY: Panorama Printing, Inc. Corner Simon Ledesma and Lopez Jaena Streets, Jaro, Iloilo City, Philippines 5000 USA Publications Responsive • Developmental • Research-based
SINcerely yours, A N
W
I N T R O D U C T I O N
hite lies here, white lies there. Stolen bites and stolen kisses. No one really is what you would consider completely “innocent” nowadays. “Go ahead,” “That’s bad/wrong,” “Don’t do it–unless you want to go to hell”. Virtues and vices are topics typically discussed in our Theology classes. Most of what we know about the Seven Cardinal sins (Pride, Anger, Lust, Gluttony, Envy, Sloth and Avarice) is based on the Bible’s teachings, stored knowledge or popular culture. But what is it that makes them so compelling, so…tempting? Why are the “seven deadly sins” so deadly? These things, while not admirable, will not kill us. It’s not like we go around daily asking people, “What sin did you commit today?” I mean, there’s no commandment in the Bible against eating at a buffet, staring at a mirror a little too long or taking an album’s worth of selfies, right? Sins and virtues aren’t the only things linked with the number seven. It’s also a lucky number. This being my only, and last, volume of Irong-irong, I am more than fortunate to have people who veer me away from the path of immorality (or cause me to sin, kidding). To the almighty King, for showing me how to live as His princess and showering me with immeasurable blessings. Ma’am Cornel, for the guidance and for being our “mommy” away from home. Dearest Pub Pips. My Kuya Ray and Kuya Jerson, for being the most versatile and multi-talented pair of guys I’ve ever met, thank you for teaching us your ways, Masters. And for the patience. ESPECIALLY the patience. I know for a fact we weren’t the easiest bunch to deal with. MLS “babies”, for never failing to create wonderful-but-chaotic-out-of-tune-booming symphonies with our laughter, the stomach cramps and happy tears. Our artists and photographers, for allowing us to see the splendor of the world from your eyes, photoshopped or not. Our newbies and apprentices, I assure you that you’ll definitely find a home in the pub, just like I did three years ago. You’re going to love it here. My best friends, for my daily dose of “corny” and concern; home is wherever I’m with you. Dean Isidoro M. Cruz, for teaching me to appreciate the value, and beauty, of words. To “someone” a few time zones away, for making me realize that we can grow separately without growing apart. And to my Papa, who still insists that I send copies of my work across oceans, and Mama, who would cross any ocean for me. At first, concerns were raised about contributions being immoral, morbid, rude, scandalous, or too graphic, so I had a few doubts. For our contributors, thank you for taking the risk and for baring your innermost desires, grudges, secrets and thoughts anyway. In all honesty, I felt as if I myself were committing a sin by opting for this theme. In this “sinful” issue, you will come across relentless sinners, power-hungry wolves, overly voracious food enthusiasts, fantasists and their uncontrollable carnal cravings, personas with “major-major” anger management issues, “second-rate, trying-hard copycats” for a best friend and couch potatoes as well as procrastinators who strategize on changing the world –tomorrow. Sin is only a word. It is our actions that make mankind deadly. What are you most guilty of?
cont e nt s
Poetry [07] How do I approach You?
[31] Para kay N
[08] Sin City
[32] First Apology
[09] Stranger in Your Lives
[34] Dream no more
[12] Perdible
[38] Balay-balay (A Childhood Memory)
[15] Laway Lang
[41] Drifted
[16] A Drink or Two
[41] Kate
[18] Incite Not the Weak
[42] Tryst
[19] Stage Three
[46] You and Me Someone Else
[22] A Simple Test
[46] Promise
[26] Ennui
[48] Night Condemning Ardor
[28] I
[53] Write or Wrong
By Jeremiah John P. Vardeleon By Christian Mark Gerawa By Marylex G. Sumatra Ni Beb O. Ang Ni Wilhelm C. Lizada By Edward Roland Gabrillo By Edward Roland Gabrillo By Ayah Danica V. Granada By Joel S. Sastrillo By John Michael Elritz Gallo By John Michael Elritz Gallo
Ni Ruwila Anne Marie M. Mentino By Joel S. Sastrillo By Stephanie Kay L. Urquiola Ni Elsed Togonon
By Ric Martin L. Libo-on By John Michael Elritz Gallo By Edward Roland Gabrillo
By Ray Adrian C. Macalalag By Diane Danica Dy By Anne Catherine D. Malazarte By Ayah Danica V. Granada
[30] Mariit nga mga Mata
Ni Quennie Dame Falsario
Short Story [13] Family, Food, and Feud
[39] Cold
[20] Flare
[44] Second Best No More
[24] Why can’t you just leave?
[49] The Last Issue
By Seulgi J. Han By Liezel Porras
By Joyce Gem M. Cañete
[35] Terms of Endearment
By Ayah Danica V. Granada
By Reymart Dinglasa By Rochelle Louise D. Doromal By Ray Adrian C. Macalalag
Septem Vitia Capitalia Immorality. Veering towards damnation. Humanity, torn.
artwork | anne catherine d. malazarte
I R O N G - I R O N G
How Do I Approach You? By Jeremiah John P. Vardeleon
What excuse shall I use this time, my God? What reasons shall I say which you have not already heard? What argumentation techniques shall I use to justify myself before You who have heard and seen what I have done? Had I not confessed these more than a hundred times in Your count? Perhaps I believed I was sincere when I beseeched You for forgiveness last time; but lo and behold, I have done it again! And again! And again! Thus, my soul is exhausted of escaping the guilt of my senses; tell me, how do I approach You now? Do You see the big mud stain in my soul? I deliberately did that. Why? Because it gave me pleasure. Again, look at my mind O’ God… Do you see the swollen parts? These areas in my eyes, do You see the rotten membranes? How about the sore on my tongue? I deliberately did these things to myself. Why? For the same reason that it gave me pleasure. I know it makes no sense to delight on something I know is slowly destroying me... Thus far, I realize that I am losing something of priceless value – Thy joyful company. And so I pray thee maintain this strong guilt in me every time I do these things again. For it serves as my assurance that even before I come to You, You have already started to approach me.… And I find myself hopeless to abuse You again.
7
8
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Sin City By Christian Mark Gerawa
“I’m the best and most high. No one can do it, only I. You’re wrong. I’m right. Sad truth,” exclaims Pride. “Only you are my utmost desire.” Anxious hands. Grasping. Something to acquire. “I want you to ruin me,” Slurs Lust, on duty. To avoid a ruined day, Everything I say, you must obey. When I walk in, block not my path. Or experience the greatest wrath. Alone or not, I eat a lot. More than my stomach can allot. I will not share, I won’t give to thee, For I’ve been visited by Gluttony. When you’re on top, I’ll drag you down Since only I deserve the crown. Everything you own, I despise. Especially when my Jealousy shines. I won’t share though I have plenty, Seeing you with nothing makes me happy. What’s yours will soon be mine, Cause I am ruled by a Greedy mind. TV series and movies- there’s my “marathon”. Better to sleep than sweat a ton. Why stand when I can sit? Whispered Sloth, “Let them do it.” With every day that passes by These seven you may notice by your side. It might surprise you one day, You’ve entertained one along the way.
8
I R O N G - I R O N G
“Stranger” In Your Lives By Marylex G. Sumatra
I I am but a lonely stranger in a big, big world. Walking in circles on a path overly curled. Searching for a perfect place where my efforts won’t be wasted. So I walk and walk and walk... Embarking on a voyage with a purpose. II I’m a stranger at an abode of a friend, His name is Sloth and he’s known to “tend” To tend to his sick mother - so lovesome indeed. Upon my arrival everything changed... Indolence took over; he abandoned his duty. I, too, departed and went forth with my journey. III I’m a stranger having lunch with a pal Meet Gluttony, my dear, dear friend. Wasn’t much of an eater until I gave her “this”. A special token supplying her with unexplainable bliss. Since then, she overate, forgot about weight- I headed back to my path. IV I’m a stranger on the way to a lover of mine He ruled my world, ‘til I noticed he was blind Lust, how could I ever forget your name? Our failed love story, I’m to blame. Due to my presence, your pure intentions were tainted I can’t face you now, so I turned the other way around. V I’m a stranger impulsively running to an old friend. Too bad it had to end. I used to call her Envy. Everyone resented her kindness and beauty Then I noticed how much time took from you and realized the tables have turned.
9
8
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
VI I’m a stranger taking a stroll with my uncle. With every step, a childhood memory I recall Memories I once cherished with my Uncle Greed Now he only minds what he needs and pays no heed. Gone are his giving days, I sigh. At the corner, I turned around for a flight. VII I’m a stranger paying a visit to my sibling, formerly an innocent little thing. My sister, Anger, whom I used to baby so much, Why’ve you turned into a lighted match? With a fire capable of sparking chaos, your own sister can barely approach you, not even close. VIII I’m a stranger, failed to find what I’ve searched for. I’ve reached home with emptiness inside my core but upon seeing my likeness in the mirror I found my very self – no longer a stranger. I am PRIDE and I am the essence of all sins. I am PRIDE, that stranger in your life.
10
photo | thongenn lanz b. patiam
Gula Mouths all slobbering, Upturned noses, widened eyes. Taste senses triggered.
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Perdible Ni Beb O. Ang
Ikaw at ako sa isang makamundong candlelit dinner, Ba’t parang pinahid ang kanina’y sweet mong “See u l8r!” Dahil ba sa good for three kong inorder? O sa ka-date mong natalo lang sa Biggest Loser? ‘Di mo naman kasi sinabing i-update ko, Ang profile pic na kinunan pa three years ago, Kaya kung nasaan na ang 36-25-36 ang itatanong mo, Malamang natabunan na ng 48-46-52. Nang ikaw na ang nagtapon ng karumal-dumal mong joke, Sino ang mag-aakalang ang sense of humor pala’y nakaka-stroke? Pero ngayon ewan ko kung ano ang mas masidhi, Ang kagat ng perdible o ang plastik at sugar-free mong ngiti? Lulunurin ko ang sarili sa masebong pinggan, Kaysa makinig sa boses mong nakakaumay naman, Ayoko talaga sa pork sa totoo niyan, Kasing lasa kasi ng buwis kong binabayaran. Hindi naman ako nagmamadaling mag-asawa, Mas nagmamadali akong maubos ‘tong ewan na lasang tokwa, Nang ang vegetable salad ay maumpisahan na, Habang nagkukwento ka ng funds at kung paano magpalago ng pera. Ang sana’y date ginawa mong business transaction, Kulang nalang alukin mo ‘ko ng networking o brochure ng Avon, At nagpaalam ka na at ganun din ako sa iyo, Naisip ko, Ay sana nag-order pa ‘ko ng cordon bleu! Ngayo’y nasa harap ng malaking salamin, Ang limang perdible sa baywang ay muling palalayain, Luluwag na rin ang dibdib at matutulog, At mananaginip na naman ng mainit na tapsilog.
12
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Family, Food, and Feud By Seulgi J. Han
i
’m out of breath. I can’t take it anymore but it’s too good. With my two fingers, I forced the long and soft delight deeper and deeper into my mouth. I can’t give up now. One more push, just one more. “Two more Fatima, two more!” Inhaling, I swallowed the last two hotdogs left on my table. As soon as I felt it coursing down my throat, I raised my arms victoriously. “Aaaaaaand we have a winner! Look who it is, our champion for three consecutive years, Fatima!”, the host exclaimed. I have finally reached my 3rd year as champion and I thought I deserved to be carried around by the crowd like a champ, but I was pretty sure it was impossible without someone getting injured, considering my 180 kilogram body. So I happily settled for a golden hotdog trophy and a picture with the hottest guy who I have been crushing on since the day puberty hit. On our way home, mom and dad did not utter a word. I am not sure if the silence meant they were proud of me, so I supposed they were as pleased as I was of myself. As soon as I got home, I ran as fast as I could to the restroom. It must have been the mustard, or the ketchup or just too many hotdogs in general because I felt the urgent need to “drop the bomb,” literally. I’ve been in the restroom for almost 30 minutes and not a single ‘bomb’ has ‘fired’. I forced it and kept my abdomen contracted. I gathered all my energy and – BAM! I was all of a sudden in the kitchen. Dust covered everything and I found myself still sitting on the toilet bowl that was now in a different setting. I looked up and saw a large hole. It took some time for me to analyze and I came up with a conclusion - I fell straight down from the restroom, through the ceiling and landed in the kitchen. Was it the weak ceiling? The old house? Or was it just my weight (which obviously failed to defy gravity)? Why did I see blood? Mom! Too late did I realize that it was oozing from her head. *** “I’m home”, said an unusually weak voice. I stopped chewing my favorite BBQ popcorn to see who it was. Oh. Just her. Quickly, I returned to my movie marathon. With eyes glued to the TV, I started to wonder how my sister, Tina, got so thin. She looked even thinner because of her petite structure and she has obviously lost so much weight. Anyways, who cares? “Hey... F..Fati..ma. Can I eat this pizza? There’s nothing else to eat for lunch”. “Don’t touch my pizza. I didn’t eat lunch yet.” “Just one please...o...n..e” “There’s the phone. Order one with your own money. I’m starving. Chewing this popcorn isn’t making me full at all.” “But I can’t... can’t wait for lo....ng” “Put it back and close the –” 13
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
THUMP I turned around to see, but I was too late. I stood up and saw Tina lying lifeless on the carpet. *** “AAAAAH! Dad! My tummy hurts. I think I’m going to throw up. Take me to the restroom”, I bellowed, holding my stomach tight. “Hold on, honey. Hold on. We’re almost there”, Dad reassured me, in a voice so calm and gentle that I forgot I was in pain. Almost. I woke up in a familiar room which smelled like alcohol and old people. “We have run some tests which prove that you have not been good to your body”, the doctor said grimly. “But I have been taking my meds.” “Have you been avoiding the foods I told you not to eat?” “Um...Um, No.” “Now will you please excuse us? Your dad and I have important matters to discuss.” “Mr. Manapla, as I’ve reminded you, Fatima is diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. Proper diet is the key and its most natural cure. I’m afraid the blood has become more acidic than before and her blood pressure readings are lower than her previous records. She experiences abdominal pain and vomits too often. Fatima doesn’t have much time left”. “No, not my Fatima, please. What else can we do? What else do you need?” “We have tried everything. There is nothing else we can do, Mr. Manapla. We are truly sorry” “But Fatima can’t die. She can’t leave me, she can–” “Mr. Manapla! Mr.Manapla!”, the doctor cried while dad lay unconscious in his arms. I stared blankly at the nurses running from here to there and doctors giving orders. It barely dawned on me --Gluttony killed my family.
illustration | jerson e. elmido
14
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Laway Lang Ni Wilhelm C. Lizada
Asado, Adobo, Liempo, Apritada, Estofado, Embutido, Kaldereta Crispy Pata, Prito nga manok, Prito nga bangrus, Lechon nga baboy, Lumpia, Mechado, Morcon, Paksiw, Pata tim, Relleno, Sisig, Tapa nga Baboy Torta nga Talong, Batchoy, Kansi, Nilaga nga Baka, Menudo, Sinigang nga pasayan, Tinola Lechon Kawali, Pancit Lomi, Misua, Pancit Canton, Palabok, Sotanghon, Pinakbet Lugaw Arroz Caldo, Paella, Sinigang, Sinangag, Tinapa, Tocino, Atchara, Gin buro nga Mangga, Balut, Chicharon, Isaw, Siomai, Siopao, Tokneneng, Kwek-Kwek, Tokwa kag Baboy, Biskotso, Buko Roll, Empanada, Ensaymada, Palitaw, Pandecoco, Pandesal, Polvoron, Barquillos, Galletas, Utap, Bukayo, Inasal, Buko Pie, Halo-Halo, Hopia, Latik Taho, Puto, Piyaya, Suman Tocilog, Pinakbet, Barbeque, Keso de Bola, Kinilaw nga isda Dinugu-an, Camaro Hamonado, Longganisa Linagpang nga Turagsoy, Tambok sang Alimango, Cream Horn, Turon Pastillas de Leche Champorado Enseymada Turon Tapa Ube
Sige, laway lang‌.
15
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
A Drink or Two By Edward roland Gabrillo
In the glass, the remains of two ice cubes floated miserably in the amber sea of my now tasteless rhum. Unmoved, unconcerned, I drank and grimaced. More shots followed the bland first; determined to drown out the flavor of your lips. I know of no viler delicacy. My tongue is numb and my cheeks flushed. But, I take no heed. Again, more shots followed the bland first. The liquor did its magic; Warming my body as it crawled and explored every nook and facet of my frail frame. But the night is long and unforgiving. She pities not the down and broken. She spares not the slightest reprieve. Instead, she gets colder. I knelt and stoked the fire, leaving imprints and creases on the rug. The planks of wood cackled as the fire devoured them as if laughing at the man with sad eyes. The fire blazed brightly giving off an illusion of warmth--- but that was just it: an illusion. But I was not fooled.
My hands groped for consolation. They found the glass. Barely aware, more shots of rhum followed the bland first. The roses atop the shelf near the fireplace, all withered and black, are imprisoned in a solitary, dustcovered vase; Nothing more of what it once was. The vase itself is a relic. I look at it now. I find the imprints of the hands that had once held it--still fully formed despite the grime, dust and soot; preserved as if some cosmic joke, played by a sadistic divinity-- I crumpled back onto the rug. A slight whimper escaped my lips. My hand searched blindly for the rhum. The rough surface of the rug hindered me; Its fibers restrain my fingers, every now and then getting caught between my nails; like friends who claim they know what›s best for me. I felt the presence of the cold crystal at the tip of my pinky. Just enough to touch, but not to hold. My hand slumped uselessly on the rug. No more shots of rhum followed the bland first.
16
graphics | geonan john guevara
Ira Secrets and grudges. Twisted truths and deception. Hearts no longer whole.
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Incite Not the Weak By Edward Roland Gabrillo
I was tiny for my age. The bigger ones passed me around like a plaything. I cried for help that no one heard. They don’t see my need to calm down. They mocked my little tears. The bigger ones pushed me to the ground like a play thing. I cried for help with gravel on my face. They don’t see my need to calm down. My small frame the abused. The bigger ones tossed and kicked me like a plaything. I pleaded them to stop. They don’t see my need to calm down. My hands reached for a rock and pummeled one of the bigger ones. I bashed his skull like a plaything. They cried for help that no one heard. Now, they saw my need to calm down. My puny self struck them down. Unsatisfied, I gouged out the eyes of the bigger ones like a plaything. Their pleadings muffled by the gravel on their faces. Never again will they see my need to calm down.
18
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Stage Three By Ayah Danica V. Granada
Droplets from the I.V. mirrored those emerging from my eyes. At that moment, no one else had the right to ask “Why me?� More than you.
illustration | jerson e. elmido
19
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Flare
By Liezel Porras
A
trickle of sweat fell down my back, my temples, and my chest. The heat was unbearable. I kept tossing and turning in bed as if the motions could aid me get rid of the feeling of being toasted. I managed to smear a great deal of sweat on the pillowcase and mattress instead. With the frenzied heat persisting, sweat kept surfacing from my skin; I was pretty certain that if I squeezed my camisole, pillowcase and mattress, a sizeable bucket would be satiated. After the storm yesterday, the electricity in the whole barangay went dead. A line man from PECO said that the transformer providing electricity for the whole place was currently under repair. I glanced around to look for a fan or anything that could somewhat produce a wave of air on my face. My wall clock, leveled a little higher from my bed, stared back. 11:15pm, it said. Mirroring the flicker of candlelight on my bedside table, trembling shadows reflected on the wall. I found my heart-shaped fan, and fell asleep. *** I opened my eyes, expecting to see the glimmer of light bulbs or the lampshade on my bedside table. Utter darkness greeted me instead. For a moment, my muddled mind failed to bring to the surface what it was that woke me. Ah, yes. It was my mother’s voice, bellowing my name from a distance, ordering me to go find my younger brothers and get us some food and saying all I did was lay my ass on bed. And you? Are you not doing the same the thing? As soon as the thought slithered through my mind, a feel of guilt promptly eclipsed it. My insides boiled with rage still, and the heat only fueled it further. It’s 8:00 in the evening. No lights. No food. No electricity. My brothers have gone missing again; probably in quest for some scraps that could be piled into our scanty house in addition to the pieces of worn wood, rusty chunks of tattered sections of our once whole roof and walls. All of these remaining from our once unscathed house before being devoured by the grotesque fire. And its flames almost consumed my mother. It was only a week ago when the horrible episode happened, a night that would forever be etched on my mind. 20
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
I would never forget how I woke up that night with an acrid smell that clogged my senses. How the smell of something burning to a crisp roused me from sleep. I would never forget how people milled around with a few of their belongings grappled in their arms, others in a hustle to salvage some more of their possessions even though not a finger of fire yet has touched their homes. Not even close. I would never forget how hopelessness engulfed me as I scuttled around, looking for my brothers, and failing. But most of all, I would never forget how the stream of people dashed around with armfuls of goods, but not a single bucket of water. How I heard the faint wail of a fire truck from a distance. And realization settled in: it’s way too late. How I finally found my little brothers, tended by a couple of medics, and a wave of relief swept over me only to be replaced with trepidation from the look on their faces. As our eyes met, they had the unspoken question written all over: Where’s mama? A faint voice, full of pain and suffering answered me inarticulately. I fixed my eyes on the bed to a person lying down with skin barely spared by the fire, and whispered, “Mama?” I was enraged. All our neighbors did was save their possessions when the fire barely even reached their properties, but did nothing to help stop the flames that seared my mother’s flesh. *** Outside, the path was clear. No stream of people milling around. No fire truck, police, or ambulance. Just a clear night. As if last week never happened. As if a neighbor of theirs hadn’t lost her home and nearly lost her mother. A few greeted me, how is your mother? How are you all doing? Most of the time, more questions would only surface from the questions being thrown to my face. Instead of these useless questions, you could have helped us douse the fire! You took no notice of us in the midst of calamity, not until we were left with nothing. I answered numbly, We’re okay, the same response I gave everyone. A lie. Their questions could never bring back our house from ashes. My answer could never bring back my mother to how she was before. Hours later, I found my brothers in a scrap shop. The money they got was not much; nevertheless it could suffice our empty bellies at any rate. I fed my mother. After hours of seething, as I did every night since the fire, I stretched out in bed, willing this drained mind, and body, and soul of mine to fall asleep. A thought entered my mind then before the lethargy claimed me. The image of wavering shadows around the walls as they mirror the flicker of the candlelight sitting on my bedside table. Too late. I was fuming with rage at the people who did nothing to help us that night before it was too late. I was seething with a feeling of resentment that emanated from within. The line of fire should’ve been directed to me. The anger, flaring, threatened to consume me. I should not be accusing them. None of these would have happened in the first place if it wasn’t because of me, the source of fire. After all, I was the burning ember. 21
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
A Simple Test (Subjective) By Joel S. Sastrillo
Seven thousand miles or so. I don’t care about the distance, how far you’ll go. As long as she’s happy every day, There are no more words for me to say. If you can’t promise it that way I’ll teach you a lesson, day by day. You know she’s a treasure; a value impossible to measure. You knew her since when? Her bliss, all fashioned from words, her pen. There’s magic in that thing Somehow you make it perfect, everything. Don’t let her go, make her feel precious. Among her and them, how difficult is it to choose? You have made this for three, now make it last. Please don’t tempt me to make you forget your past. Never tell her “goodbye”, just “goodnight” It makes her sad, that’s not right. Listen to every word she states Sounding so perfect; the way a child prays. She came into my life, ruined it somehow. But above all, she made me feel more than what I used to be. Still asking me who am I? I’m just like you. Need I say more? It’s self-explanatory.
22
photo | thongenn lanz b. patiam
Socordia Procrastination. “Maybe later, maybe not.� Sleep is not a cure.
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Why can’t you just leave? By Joyce Gem Cañete
R
oy…? “…..” “Roy!” “Mom, what is it?!” I tossed my already unruly hair with one hand while the other still clutched the mouse. I navigated my character Darius, The Hand of Noxus, to the grass, cloaking him. “Roy?” She calls out from downstairs again. This time in exasperation. “I only have one weekend, Mom. Why can’t you just stop pestering me?” “I’ll be leaving...what do you –“ I turned up the music in my iPod as Alex Gaskarth’s screams drowned out my mom’s annoying plea. I banged my head to the eargasm, hoping Mom would just leave me alone. “Roy...” I glanced up at her green lazy eye, through her drooping eyelids, “Please don’t forget to lock the –“ “Okay, okay” I said mindlessly and waved my hand in dismissal of my irritating mother. *** After a few rounds of online gaming, I went downstairs groggily and glanced up at the clock which ticked towards 10:30am. “Psst…psst..psst..” a voice hissed, “pssssst….” “Huh? Who’s there?” Wobbling my way through our auburn-colored sofas, I followed the hiss and much to my surprise, an old beggar was peeping through our front gate, sticking his calloused sunburned hands through the fence. “Boy..please, I’m thirsty..psssst…” The heck. Can’t you just beg somewhere else? Tsk. Pretending I didn’t see him, I marched back to my room and marveled at the sight of my blue comforter, gratefully welcoming me into a deep slumber. *** “Uhh….” Stretching my limbs out, I rapidly blinked my eyes as it adjusted to the dimness of dusk. I panicked, and scrambled to my feet upon remembering something important I had to do: update my game client! Like a ninja, I hurried towards my study table and turned on my metallic friend. Tap, tap, tap. Soon my game client revved up and I let out a victorious cheer. Click, clack, thump, click, clack, thump, thump Darn, it’s probably mom. I’m deeeeead. Click, clack, thump, click, clack, thump, thump “Mom? Hold up, er..I’m still cleaning here!” I yelled, as I sprinted towards my bed and struggled to fold my comforter neatly. “I’m hungry. She probably brought home some pizza,” I whispered happily to my belly which, by cue, started grumbling. 24
I rushed down the stairs as I finished ‘cleaning’. A familiar silhouette in our white living room was bent down, picking up scattered things off our brown-tiled floor. Upon feeling my presence, the figure slowly straightened, only to stop midway. “Mom..I…I swear..I didn’t do this..I just slept in my -“ The person turns around, and I discover that it’s actually a man. On his left hand were boxes of mom’s jewelry and a set of souvenirs we brought back from Hawaii. On the other was a piece of metal that gleamed against the light behind me. At that moment, all my organs seemed to stop functioning as I remembered one of the most important things I forgot to do: to lock our gate.
illustration | jerson e. elmido
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
-Ennui-
By John Michael Elritz Gallo
I retire to my reverie when I find no meaning to this plain monotony and endless breathing To what fair extent will this life lead when each of us are bent and we silently bleed? Growth is subtly withering never were there wings to fly. Simply just believing, until time passed you by. So tell me what I gain when I idly recline or desperately remain in good life’s line. “Better,” I say carelessly, “to sleep forever than see the world daily which is never in your favor
26
digital art | donnabelle panaligan
Superbia Selfie. Double-take. Look again and reassure; Recognize yourself.
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
-I-
By John Michael Elritz Gallo
Full of self. Metal skin. No bullets penetrate. No reason can obliterate my tyrant disposition Your cause will always falter In my eyes I am superior Aiming to have The final laugh As I always wish, Always wish, For my own Satisfaction.
artwork | anne catherine d. malazarte
28
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Mariit nga mga mata Ni Quennie dame Falsario
Ano run ang gakaratabo sa atun palibot? Panabi-nabi anay kay daw puno na it mga punsod. Mariit nga mga mata rugyan sa una mo kag likod Gapaniplat sa gaaragi, babaw-dalum magturok Wara labot sa bug-at mo nga dara, Make up kag bisti mo tana ang nabantayan da. Magkirinadlaw kag magpinanghikay sa mga baduy “kuno”, Wara ni guro sanda ka hapit it lantaw sa espiho. Ano man bi kay tuod kung kis-a, Pamayuon sang iban, pang TGIF gid tana. Censored pa ang iban nga parte, rated SPG Sus Purya Gaba, sa nagsulat kadya. Mga pakaisa ni Dabiana, fitting clothes gid ang gusto. Bisan di run halos kaginhawa, makasunod lang sa uso. Malnourished ko man tana nga mga ihada, Ay abaw naga skinny, daw tul-an na lang sanda. Ang miga ko pa gid nga si Katrina, Namian gid magpakita-kita it ana; Ana nga likod, kilid kag una Ngaa wala na lang sya bala nag uba? Hai, Biyernes nga daan, Bayo ginapagustuhan. Daw may rugyan garing nga nalipatan, “Hindi mall ang eskwelahan.” Huya man daad gamay bala, Sala pa ni guard kung masita sanda Ang student handbook ne, meg, lantawa! Basi bala kag mabugtawan ka. Rugya lang man kami nga mga Donya Victorina, Gadiniruro, gararapta, gasanib-pwersa Depende man kanimo kung kami miga o kontra. Gapamantay kay insecure, pero may punto man di bala?
30
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Para Kay N Ni Ruwila Anne Marie M. Mentino
Pasensya na Kung di ko matatanggap ang paghingi mo ng tawad. Akalain mo ba namang lumipas na ang tatlong taon, ‘Di pa rin kumupas ang pagkamunghi ko. Pasensya rin Kung di ako marunong lumimot Ng mga panahong naging alipin ako ~Ng di matalimang pagmamahal sa kanya ~Ng sobrang lame mong organized crime (as if wala akong dati mong number, ang dali mo kayang matunogan ~Ng mapanghusga mong halakhak (sa tuwing NR ako sa mga parinig mo sa FB hanggang doon ka lang naman) Pasensya na rin Kung di ko kailanman ma-gets kung bakit ikaw pa. Bakit sa akin pa? (pwede naman sa iba nalang diba?) Pasensya nga rin pala Kung nagtimpi lang ako noon Sana’y sinugod kita nang duwag kang tumalikod sa akin. Sana’y tinirador ko yung takip ng mineral water bottle noong naglaro kayo ng lawn tennis, sabay karipas papalayo. Sana’y sinuntok kita noong may tsansa ako (dahil HINDI ako mananampal o mananabunot sa hindi ko kapwa babae) Sana’y di nalang ako nagmartir-martiran noon Pasensyang lubos din Kung nanahimik lang ako noon ~At nagkubli sa sikretong alam kong ikakasira niya ~Na mariing itinago ang kapalaluang mga langaw mismo’y mahihiyang dumapo Nang malaman din nilang lahat ang maskarang sinusuot mo araw-araw ay tila naging parte na ng iyong balat at laman. Ako tuloy ang nagmukhang sinungaling. Ang nang-agaw. Ang naghabol. Mahibang man ako sa pagkagusto sa mga bago at sa iba Hangga’t di nananakaw ang mga ala-ala Hangga’t di pa ako nakakakita ng kabulukang hihigit pa (tila ikaw na yata ang sukdulan) Hangga’t dumating ang araw na matikman mo ang mas matinding kirot na ipanalangin mong sana’y di ako ang magiging dahilan. Mananatili kang tinik sa aking bituka (‘di lang sa lalamunan) Nawa’y malubos mo ang mga panahon sa pagitan ng ngayon at sa muli nating pagharap. Dahil wala nang pase-pasensya. 31
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
First Apology By Joel S. Sastrillo
“Let him know you’re sorry.” I– I don’t want to… I don’t want to, either. “Who’s willing to take the blame?” He– She was the one… He was the one who did it. “Let it go then, forget about it.” No– No, I won’t… No, I won’t, he should come forward first. “Fine, I’ll leave you both be.” Yes– Yes, maybe… Yes, maybe it’s for our own good.
32
digital art | donnabelle panaligan
Luxuria Eager for the night. Together reaching climax. Clothes gone and sheets stained.
Dream no more
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Terms of Endearment By Ayah Danica V. Granada
A
borning, v. There was no way he would be in the delivery room. He gave up the right to hold me when he slept with a woman other than Mama. Did he at least help pick out my name? Covered for my birth’s hospital finances? The man responsible for my birth was merely a sperm donor.
Bedswerver, n. After tucking me in bed, Mama always had a new friend come over. I would lie under my covers and listen and count by tens on my fingers when they creaked her bed. That night I reached 163 creaks. I always had to count until her friend made a gaspy sound and stopped. I don’t know what would happen if I didn’t count, because I always did.
Caitiff, n. “Men are like fires. They go out if unattended.” Mama’s got scars on her tongue from biting back angry words. And for him, the only thing more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving. He chose the latter. Disculpate, v. Who really was to blame? “It’s not your fault,” she’d explain to me every time I would ask why he left. Mama said the only thing she could do as a mother to save our family was to break it apart. Epiphany, n. “Pareho daw kayo ng palayaw ng kapit-bahay namin.”
Filipendulous, n. Never really sowed, patched, or woven, it didn’t take too long for the thread to break. Family – the part of my life that was never complete Genetic, adj. One of my greatest fears – turning out like her and being married to someone I couldn’t stand. History, n. I want to know how they fell in love, or if they ever loved at all. He stole love from her before she even knew what love was. All they had seemed to have been buried in the past. They had a Cold War in their hearts. 35
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Inparlibidinous, n. She seemed to look for her husband in every man she brought home. Why else would it be a different man every other night? He was too tall, too rough, or too nice. How many more would it take before she realized he was never coming back? She would stare at the men, taking in their features as if willing them to be my father. Juvenescence, n. My clothes tend to fit her, and vice versa. Often, I’d be mistaken as her sister instead of her daughter. Mama was more up-to-date with the latest trends than I was. She was forty, but acted fourteen. Kaleidoscope, n. Too many dimensions to choose from, yet we can’t seem to agree on one. They say that without the dark we would never see the stars, but in our case, we look up at the same sky but see such different things. Lethologica, n. “Better to know the meanings of difficult words with simple meanings, than simple words with difficult meanings. I want you to be able to find the right words to say.” He was illiterate, according to Mama, and didn’t want me to end up like him. So she gave me a dictionary. Even before Mother Goose and nursery rhymes. Maculate, v. I learned how to get high without having to get on a swing. Vodka mixed with soda and alcohol became more than just a disinfectant. I was ready for the kind of “protection” used for sex. Mama never got on my case about being a wild child every now and then. “Been there, done that,” she’d say. The only time Mama ever went berserk was when she found razor blades in my room. She probably knew what I was up to. Nuptial, adj. It was my 18th birthday –I was finally what they would consider a lady. The next big event would be my wedding. “We never bothered with one… Promise me that when the time comes, you’ll have a marriage more beautiful than your wedding, anak.” It occurred to me that in neither of these events would I be having a fatherdaughter dance. Obeisance, n. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Prosopography, n. If I didn’t follow after Mama, then who else would I be like? What did you do now, and would I follow after your footsteps? I wish I knew the contours of your face –if, under those deep-set eyes, your brows furrowed like mine, whether or not your smile was asymmetrical and had a toothy grin. Maybe you knew how to wiggle your ears too. Or perhaps being vertically-challenged and visually impaired came from your side of our (once) family. 36
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Quixotic, adj. He was a poor gentleman who has lost his senses. Mama never became his Dulcinea. He left in the pursuit of windmills, all of which existed in his mind. Her knight in rusting armor. Revile, v. You throw words like stones into my puddle of emotions and you cannot fathom the way it feels when you do not see the splash. Surreptitious, adj. Mama warned me never to tell a single soul about her friend visiting ONLY at night. Tipsy, adj. On nights her friend failed to arrive, Mama took refuge in liquor. I joined her. Each beer bottle represented a toast for every man she’s been with. I’d stay sober enough to wonder just which of those names she uttered were my father’s. Ultracrepidarianism, n. “There was a time when I thought I loved him more than life itself. But now I hate his guts. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? I wish someone could tell me.” Questions tempt us to tell lies when we find no answers. The answers to Mama’s questions were more questions. Veer, v. An individual wants something, , and makes a decision to get it. If they take it too often, that process of decision making gets out of control, and it becomes an addiction. You shatter into pieces across the floor, and I tire of having to tip toe around so I do not cut myself on you. Whisper, v. I speak to you every single night before I try to force my eyes shut. I murmur silent longings and wordless offerings of my hopes for you. In the darkness I squeeze tight these eyelids and spill it all. Believe me when I said that when I pray, I pray for you. X-ray, n. The last time Mama visited her doctor was the day after her big fight with papa. She suffered from a broken rib then. Yclept, v. The “Father” segments of documents stayed empty. Just as the spaces for him in her heart. Mama said his name wasn’t worth mentioning. He remained anonymous to me. Zenith, n. As I reached my climax, I realized that the person I swore I would never become was looking back at me through the eyes of a man I would probably never learn to love. 37
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Balay-Balay (A Childhood Memory) By Elsed Togonon
It was a time when playmates gathered with their candy wrappers,
He and I were left, he and I hidden in between crevices of
Coca-Cola crowns, and play moneys at Lola Paz’s empty backyard.
the greyish fences that trapped the dilapidated hut in the backyard.
He was ten, I was then six playing inside a raunchy kamalig
And the rustling of the kakaw leaves badgered the silence of the night,
with cobwebs and dust witnessing our attempt to become parents.
The rooster, in his moan-like crowing, had the moon bled; its clot never
When dusk scattered around and the rooster began to perch
to heal again, never to heal again Until the moon finally recovered
on the branches of kakaw tree, when angelus could not coax us
And Nanay came to fetch me, I swore deep inside that I
to go home until Nanay fetched us holding a bitlag and her litany of curses.
would never play balay-balay again. I would never play balay-balay again.
But the dusk turned into night and Nanay did not yet arrive
38
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Cold
By Reymart Dinglasa
I
woke up, my eyes solid from sleeping and couldn’t move my arm. Beside me, beautiful as ever, was my wife. Though we weren’t officially married, we vowed to each other that we would stay together…forever. She was still sleeping, dark curls surrounding her too-peaceful face and a smile etched so permanently on her lips. We had a rough night. I tried to caress her naked shoulders, her soft skin against the warmth of my fingertips. She didn’t even flinch. I sat up, kissed her cheek and told her I needed to go out to visit the bread shop. I brushed her face, angelic yet vulnerable. She was the woman who stole my heart. And the woman whose heart belonged to me. Anette.The woman I would kill for, the woman I would die for. “I’ll be back, baby.” And I wore my shirt, the one she liked, with two kids holding a broken heart. *** The sun wasn’t up; rather it was replaced by clouds threatening to shower. I already missed her. Her lips. Her soft skin. My warmth against… “G’morning Phil.” It was Mr. Bownie, the town’s flower shop owner. I waved. He gave me a weary smile as he continued removing dead leaves and petals from the once fresh bouquets. A beautiful young lady ran by. She wore a jogging outfit and I remembered my wife wearing one of those. And in those yoga pants, those tight hips I used to hold… “Philip?” an elderly voice called from somewhere. It was Mrs. Hummond, holding a limp, lifeless hose as she finished up her gardening. She smiled, feebly, “You heard the news?” “News?” “Yes, news. You heard about it?” I creased my eyebrows. When was the last time I paid attention to the news? “I…I don’t think so Missus Hummond.” I gave a light smile, bowed my head again and continued my walk. After a few minutes, I reached he bakery and chimed my way in. It was just a normal day, until I found a rack outside with today’s newspaper in it. *** When I got back home, bag of bagels and coffee in my right hand and a roll of newspaper on the other, the snow gave telltale signs of falling. Checking our room, I found her still sleeping. I took a plate, placed it on a tray and prepared her breakfast in bed. I loved her; I’d make things better for her. Make things like this. She forgot to take off the earrings I got her –the ones she mentioned were to die for. I let the coffee cool. I grabbed the newspaper and scanned the pages. The headline was, of course, the winning team from the playoffs. No stock exchange? Comics. Obituary. I turned the page and found a photo of a stunning woman. Tresses so black it dared to be touched. Her eyes, more peaceful than a meadow. Of course, I knew her. I would kill for her. But I didn’t care anymore, because I owned her now. Her name is Anette Blackshaw. 39
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
-Kate-
artwork | anne catherine d. malazarte
By John Michael Elritz Gallo
Pull down the scorching sun infuse it between our bodies As we become one In a warm romantic rhythm Lips damp by each other While our hands linger Plucking stringsHitting notesPlaying loud and unchained melodies. Sea of white cloth crumpled under a pounding soundthe friction of our skins echoing, repeating I snap Awake from a daydream.
Drifted By Ric Martin Libo-on
Seeping towards the body Is grief that never dies. A void that nearly completes The gaze of beautiful eyes. Memories burned into ashes, Scattered on lost lands, Wandering into the river, No touch of hands. Beyond boat and shore, There I always stand, Seagulls flock at sunset, Your trace of hourglass sand. The taste of dry wind Makes it awfully plain. The caress of its touch Makes me numb in vain. All words unspoken In hues of black and blue, Beckons the starry skyAs blinding as you. I walk with the tempest And the chills that make you shiver The distinctive scent after the rain Brings hope that always glimmer. They run in never-ending circles, All of yesterday’s ghosts. Because it’s the way you don’t make me feel, that I have felt the most. 41
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Tryst By Edward Roland Gabrillo
You had your back against the wall. My hands crawled to your center. You pulled me closer as if we couldn’t the gap between usfastenough.
fill
“OK?” I breathed into your ear. As I unzipped and hitched up your skirt, I took your audible gasp as a surrendering and breathless
yes.
42
digital art | donnabelle panaligan
Invidia Doubt starts to fill you. “What makes them so much better?” Hating “just because.”
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Second Best No More By Rochelle Louise D. Doromal
S
hiny brown hair that spilled across her chest in waves, flawless skin, straight white teeth, beautiful green eyes, an outspoken personality and parents that gave all their time –nope, I’m not describing myself. I don’t compare much to this person. Lena. That’s her name. She might not have the things I do: an affluent family, brains and a secure future, but she was beautiful. All the guys knelt down at her feet. Her parents were always – I mean always – there for her. My parents barely cared. I idolized her. I adored her. I worshipped her. I wanted to be her. And, she was my best friend. Lena and I have been the best of friends since we were in diapers. We grew up like sisters. I gave her a lot of things and almost all my time. I remember giving her a gold bracelet with diamond charms for her eighteenth. You might think that it was too much, but she was my best friend; my only friend. I didn’t have anyone else but her. I got a perfect score in our test one day. I was very happy and all our classmates complimented me, telling me how smart I was. I just smiled, nodded my head and sat beside Lena quietly. She did all the talking. My shyness would always get the best of me. Suddenly, I heard them tease Lena. “Lena, 55 is barely passing. Let me tell you this. You may be pretty, but it can only get you so far. Why can’t you be more like your best friend?” one of our classmates added. A few snickered. I felt bad for her. Only a little. I was glad that although Lena was prettier, I was still the smarter one. At least I had that. “Lena, if you want I can help you study. I have lots of free time. You can come over anytime since my parents are rarely home,” I whispered to her. Something sparked in her green eyes; an emotion I couldn’t name. But as quickly as it showed, it disappeared and she just nodded and smiled at me. “Sure. Thanks.” We went to dinner that night. It was my treat. We were laughing and chatting like old times, clearly forgetting any troubles we had. Suddenly, a cute guy walked towards us. As usual, Lena was the one who did the talking. I envied her. I wanted to be able to talk to guys without blushing or stuttering. They conversed like old friends, but the guy kept glancing back, hinting me to leave. My blush deepened and I excused myself. I went to the powder room and stayed there for a while. I really wanted to be like Lena. I wanted her life. When I got back, Lena was alone and I saw her frowning. Honestly, it gave me a little contentment inside. Still, I wasn’t used to seeing her sad. “What’s wrong, Lena?” I asked. She slowly raised her head and looked at me. 44
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
There was that same emotion in her eyes, the one I saw at school. I still couldn’t put my finger on what it was. “Nothing,” she said. “By the way, that guy wanted me to give you his number. Here,” she handed me the piece of paper and smiled a strange. It wasn’t the usual smile she had. “Really? I thought he wanted to talk to you, not me,” I said. I was confused, but at the same time pleased. For the first time, a guy liked me. Not Lena. “He saw you and thought you were cute, so he walked towards us. He kept glancing at you, waiting for you to say something, but you were too shy. Then when you left to go to the bathroom, he asked me all about you,” Lena said with the same smile and, for some reason, it sounded like she had a hard time saying all of it. Something was wrong with her. “Lena, are you sure you’re okay?” I asked again to be sure. “Yeah, it’s all good. I just feel a bit sick. I should probably go home,” she said. “Oh okay! I’ll walk you home. Let me just pay. Waiter!” “No, it’s okay. I can go home by myself and, here, my share of the payment,” Lena handed me the money and I just stare at it. After what seemed like hours, but were just mere minutes, I pushed the money back to her. “Lena. I can’t take that. I invited you, so it’s my treat. And, I’ll accompany you home. Just wait for a minute and I’ll-” “Stop! Why do you always do this?! Everyone knows that you’re rich, intelligent and flawless! Stop treating me like I’m not capable of anything. I can go home by myself and I sure as hell can pay for my own food!” Lena screams, storming out the restaurant. I was left there, in shock at my best friend’s sudden outburst. Everyone was staring at me. I paid, got up and left the restaurant. It was dark already, almost ten. There were only a few people on the street. On my way home, I could not shake off the sense that I was being followed. The footsteps I later on heard confirmed that I was indeed being trailed. As I quickened my pace, my heart did the same. I started to run towards the alley, but lost my balance and fell to the ground. I tried to stand up, but he grasped my hair and pulled. I screamed, tears falling down my cheeks. He pushed me down. Blood trickled down my forehead, onto my swollen lip. I couldn’t see him as he pulled my hair once more, this time with more force. I begged him to let me go, but felt cold metal being sunk in my back. As I struggled to be free, I was stabbed twice more before I elbowed him, causing him to drop his weapon. I could hear my own heartbeat. The knife landed beside my face. Any attempt of mine to move failed. I knew I was going to die. My killer stood in front of me, but I couldn’t get up. All I saw was the knife. He picked it up and it became clear. He wore a gold bracelet with diamond charms around his wrist. I suddenly understood. She took a step back and started to walk away. But, before leaving me in the dark alley, the last words I’d ever hear from her, or anyone at all, were:
“I won’t be second best anymore.” 45
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
You and Me Someone Else By RAY ADRIAN C. MACALALAG
It was someone else, I learned. But how come I was just watching? That dream I’ve always yearned. It was you and me in that ending.
Never expect a happy ending. That’s the lesson I have learned. The pain I was enduring, The time couldn’t be returned. All that I wanted was you. Everything that I dreamt was in you. I remember that moment in the bus. I knew there was love in both of us.
Like ice turned water before my eye, Never thought my heart would melt But to my dismay, idealist was I I had to tell you how I felt.
I had to tell you how I felt. But to my dismay, idealist was I Never thought my heart would melt Like ice turned water before my eye.
I knew there was love in both of us. I remember that moment in the bus. Everything that I dreamt was in you. All that I wanted was you. The time couldn’t be returned. The pain I was enduring, That’s the lesson I have learned. Never expect a happy ending.
It was you and me in that ending. That dream I’ve always yearned. But how come I was just watching? It was someone else, I learned.
Promise
By Diane Danica Dy
The way you spoke about her The way your eyes shone with just the mention of her name, That cute habit of yours… running your hands through your hairAn obvious sign of how you felt ‘bout her . Gestures that meant you’d never feel the same for me. It was always her. It always has been her. The little miss perfect of your life Difficult to accept, Too painful to take in. Too stubborn to let you go. These eyes, Hurtfully staring both of you down. Envy. So be aware, For just a little slip of her hand And I will pull you away We’d run off, living the happy ever after I’ve always wanted for us. You and Me. Forever… I swear. 46
graphics | geonan john guevara
Avaritia …want more, but of what? Two feet, but three-thousand shoes. Yearning versus need.
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Night Condemning Ardor (paradox of “Knight in Shining Armor) By Anne Catherine D. Malazarte
He was the king of a kingdom never told A man from long ago, sitting on his own bent throne Won battles of which no one had a clue, Like borrowed empires, burnt and gone askew. Frail body of his became a play of the lewd So did his weakened soul become a lamb, lured. Upon his blindness, ashes befitted rocks Beyond his consciousness, sorrows turned to peacocks. Shattered to pieces, he came to his senses Wails of the future clamoured to his lenses. Like sphinxes in the mirror who’ve never been asleep He was a shadow that’s never been relieved. Now, will he forever be Incarcerated in the land of hypocrisy? Or shall he hopefully turn to a melody, producing eternal harmony?
48
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
The Last Issue By RAY ADRIAN C. MACALALAG
i
t was never easy for the school paper of Generoso Community College in Cebu City. They had to redeem themselves. For the past ten months last year, they produced newspapers that frequently ended up in the basket. Their first issue of the year came out – with an early dose of disappointment. “Who would want to read an article about the goodness of the arroz caldo in our cafeteria? We all know cockroaches lurk in their pantry,” Jonnah, the editor of the Generoso Tribune, said in despair while slamming the hopelessly published newspaper on a dusty desk where the staff conducted their issue planning. “We’d better close down our operations this school year!” She mutters in the comfort of her best friend, their 19-year-old resident photographer, Francis. He brushes her hair with his fingers as she leans on his shoulder. “Why shouldn’t we come out anew this school year and revive the glory that was before?” he suggests. Jonnah wiped her tears, recalling the pressure she had undergone when she took over as editor a year ago. She wanted more, but the past editor wanted to stick to the basics and to remain somehow “mediocre”. Later that afternoon, the staff of the Tribune met in their now-free-from-dust table. Everyone was there except for Kirby, their new, lunatic staff member who hailed from a decent top-rank school in Manila. “I guess we have enough people here to make decisions for our new issue next month,” Jonnah stated, a big smile of excitement and redemption on her face, “We have to look into more of the details in school and aim for stories that will surely turn our newspapers into collector’s items.” “I guess we should.” A bang on the office’s door against the mauve wall caught everyone’s attention. It was Kirby, late from a last minute-trip to the school library. “The library sucks. The school charges a lofty sum of money, but all we get are ancient books from Shakespeare’s era. How do we find answers to our assignment if the books are all browned by time?” “I totally agree; it needs a makeover. We should do something about it.” Rico, the associate editor, closed the idea of writing an article calling for new books in the library. * * * * * “A fire is currently taking place in Generoso Community College. Faulty wiring from the outside is said to have caused the fire in the library. Although nobody is in the building, there are a few chances of having a single book survive this fire that started thirty minutes ago.” The local television network shook the town, more especially the Generoso Tribune writers and Jonnah. 49
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
“Oh my! Who could have done this to our library?” Was all she had to say. The following morning, she met with Francis and Rico to talk about some revisions for next month’s issue. They all agreed that this recent fire could enhance their story and aid them in regaining the respect of the student body back. And it did, a few weeks later. It was 9:00am when they dared to expose their latest issue in the cafeteria. People just passed by the newspaper bin. Jonnah’s heart slowly crumbled. Francis and Rico sympathized with her, but nothing could adorn her face better than the teardrops forming in her eyes. “Is this our new issue Jonnah?” Proud of what he saw, he grabbed a bundle and distributed it to those ignorant students of Generoso. It was Kirby, the retarded newbie, who initiated the restoration of their career. The cafeteria, now a marketplace, filled with babbles and gossips. All were interested. “A new library will be under construction two weeks from now? Really?” “Yes, I heard that the fire cost the school millions.” “Finally, those books will be replaced!” “These Tribune people really hit us this time.” Jonnah’s tears finally fell, from joy and gratification. It was all thanks to Kirby. *** Jonnah became popular, not just to the students but also to the teachers, school officials, and personnel. Brighter lights and inspired staff illuminated the office of Tribune. “Everyone! Can I have your attention?” a motivated Jonnah started the meeting. “Our latest issue has gotten everyone’s attention. I want to congratulate us all. It was all through my effort to put this Tribune of ours to a higher level. Let us sustain this throughout the year fellow Tribunites,” she excitedly chattered, “We should start conceptualizing our next issue.” * * * * * Everything progressed quickly. The stories got even more daring. Francis and her have gotten closer. Rico kept busy by doing all the technical things required to produce their paper. Francis would comfort her in times of need. He obviously liked her. Kirby became one of the best informants of their staff. In fact, for almost every story, he was the one who did the reporting. Jonnah eyed his promotion for next year. Two more issues emerged with the following headlines: Generoso Tribune Volume 67 Number 3 “STICKING to principles of a smoke- and drug-free campus and to set an example once and for all, the administrators of Generoso terminated academic coordinator Lita Sevile after she was found guilty of smoking marijuana in her office.” Generoso Tribune Volume 67 Number 4 “BEING a high ranking school official is man playing god but the days of Prof. Jeffrey Lim as staff regent is over when an anonymous letter testified and documented records of his corruption of school funds proven to be true by witnesses.” * * * * * With the absence of the headline makers , Generoso Community College was now in perfect shape. Lita Sevile is now at a women’s penitentiary in Passi City. Meanwhile, Prof. Jeffrey Lim, now single and pounds lighter, is in a financial peril. Though proven guilty of malversation, he did help in bringing the school in a higher level and the school no longer brought the case to court. 50
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
With Jonnah’s graduation day fast approaching, she plans to join her family in Manila where her father works as a travel consultant. Francis and she have mutual understandings, but no commitments. Rico is also graduating with honors, most likely. It was time to call for a meeting for the last issue of the year. Troubled and out of ideas, Jonnah panicked. Her desire for more daring issues and stories has gotten to her head. Kirby, unfortunately, did not know what to share to his senior either. “For almost six months Kirby, I trusted you to giving me ideas and now what? You came here with nothing!” exclaims the no longer docile editor. “I take my word back. You are no use! I pitied you because you were a transfer student from some school in Manila. I bet your parents sent you here because you’re such a shame to them!” Jonnah lost it. Kirby, unable to hold in tears, exited the office as fast as his emotions could handle. “How dare you talk to him like that!” Francis finally did something right to stop the monster Jonnah had become, “I’ve been patient with you, and admired you for your writings. I have done so much for you. What kind of a monster are you, Jonnah? Why should you step on someone who has been helpful to you? You owe all your fame to Kirby and you know that!” He walked out. Everybody left Jonnah and her monstrosity in the darkened office. She sobbed it all out. Her selfishness finally consumed her.Would she be able to get back her Tribune staff or at least her integrity? Her phone beeped. “Jonnah? I really apologize for what I have done to you. Can we talk in the office tonight? Only the two of us.” Kirby sent her a message. “You don’t need to say sorry. It was my fault. I wasn’t much of a leader to everyone. Let’s meet up at 7:30, I still have a class at 5:30.” Jonnah took time to reconcile from the momentary tantrum she threw at their disastrous meeting. * * * * * The door knob was cold and partially damaged by Kirby’s banging. It shrieked as it opened. The room was pitch black. “Hello?” Jonnah had to ask out of her fear. She tried to reach for the lights but failed, and immediately felt a sack around her head. She panicked as her mouth was also covered. Jonah fell flat on the ground. The person on her was too powerful to handle. She didn’t know who was manipulating her. “You have been a bad girl,” says a familiar voice, tying a thick rope around her neck. “Kirby? What are you doing? Is this your idea of a joke? Get off of me.” She pleaded. “No way, Miss Editor. This is for the sake of our Tribune’s great finale. Do you remember the past three issues? I’m responsible for all those bittersweet stories. I burned the library. I planted the marijuana in Ms. Lita’s drawer. I watched her from afar and took a photograph when she found it. I sent it to the school administrator’s office anonymously. It was even more unfortunate for her because she got a positive in the drug test that led the school to conclude that she was using it.” Kirby revealed, all the while tightening the rope as she neared her final breath. “I researched and hacked the bank account of Prof. Lim. A person so powerful like him should be getting quite a lofty sum of perks. Because of the anonymous letter I sent the administration, they investigated and discovered he had three accounts at three separate banks. All the interest from the association’s account was transferred to his personal account.” Jonnah stopped struggling; she finally felt the need to give up. “You are so selfish Jonnah. People like you don’t make the world any better. You took advantage of Francis’ presence. You took advantage of all of us. I don’t know how you found out about my parents, but just so you know, you we’re right: I am not a good 51
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
son. They sent me here so that I’d have what they called a “conversion” and change of heart. My family knows the kind of person I’ve become The rope around her got tighter, and tighter. Tightest. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you the last issue of the Tribune.” Cleaning up all the evidences, Kirby went to Mactan Bridge and threw her phone to the sea. * * * * * The following day, they found out about her death. All of the Tribune staff felt truly weak, except for Kirby. They had to move on, including Francis and his momentary romance. They all knew the how she died. Generoso Community College’s best writer and Generoso Tribune’s wave-maker was gone. Two weeks have passed since her burial. The Tribune came out on Jonnah’s supposed graduation day. The banner story was about their commencement speaker who discovered a cure for cancer. An article with Jonnah’s picture was on the bottom. Tribune editor puts pen down to rest By KIRBY JOHN S. MENTIROSO Jonnah Libertad, a graduating student and editor of The Generoso Tribune passed away last March 13 after committing suicide for unknown reasons. A security guard found her body hanging at 5:00am in the Tribune’s office and was later on discovered that the time of death was around 8:00pm…
illustration | jerson e. elmido
52
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
Write or Wrong By Ayah Danica V. Granada
;
Your eyes semicolons that could separate fantasy from reality. capable of setting fine lines and limits Your mouth dashing, yet reassuring Commagain? Ears that paused listening to problems and words unspoken And arms which tugged towards the parentheses of your (((ribcages)))
–
,
–
,
All of these I knew You were saving For her. All of which I wished Were meant For me. But You were never mine To let go. So I haven’t.
53
I R O N G - I R O N G
8
List of Authors Seulgi Han. BMLS 2. Mom’s coin tray taught her the meaning of temptation at age 7.
Beb O. Ang Leaves the toothpaste cap open and her shirt’s last button, unbuttoned. Not an introvert, just a lazy talker.
Ric Martin Libo-on. BMLS 3. He cast out his own demons. Still no saint.
Joyce Gem Canete. BS Pharmacy 3. *no comment*
Wilhelm Lizada. BMLS 3. Thinks he’s far from being malnutritioned. Everyone has a right to a happy tummy.
Reymart Dinglasa. AB Literature 4. Loves darkness and the things it may bring. Rochelle Louise Doromal. BMLS2. Thought the candies were free. Grabbed some anyways.
Ray Adrian C. Macalalag. BSCE5. A real life Chicken Little. Not an alcoholic but, when drunk, is extremely skilled at acting sober –especially at home.
Diane Danica Dy . BMLS 3. Fell way too deep in chocolate. And can’t swim.
Anne Catherine Malazarte.BFA 2. Time is just a legend, a.k.a. Procrastinator.
Jerson Elmido. BHRM 4. Will, by all means, devour all of the pork and beans.
Ruwila Anne Mentino. Law 3. No longer trips teachers secretly, err “accidentally”.
Quennie Dame Falsario. AB Polsci 2. “ I used to be me, but now I’m not sure if I’m a he or she.”
Donabelle Panaligan. BSA 4. Ardently frustrated artist and photographer. Thongenn Lanz Patiam. BSFS 4. The perfect girl doesn’t exist.
Kinno Florentino. BFA 2. Lets his artwork do the talking.
Liezel S. Porras. AB Literature 4. Her soul’s as dark as her eyeliner. Kidding.
Edward Roland Gabrillo. AB Literature 4. He IS the dirty secret.
Joel S. Sastrillo. BSCE 4. Wishing he was here to see and feel the pain.
John Michael Elritz Gallo. BS Arch 3. Generally apathetic towards life or death.
Marylex G. Sumatra. BMLS 3. Fond of white lies. They’re harmless, right?
Christian Mark Gerawa. BSCE 4. A talkative, and very much human, teddy bear.
Elsed Togonon. What he can’t express in metaphors, this teacher expunges the craziness of his through splatters of acrylic & scribbles on canvas.
Ayah Danica V. Granada. AB Literature 4. Took the cookie from the cookie jar. ~lalala. Believe her, she’s lying.
Stephanie Kay L. Urquiola. BS Psych 2. Envious to the point of deceit.
Geonan John Guevara. BFA 3. Lets his artwork do the talking.
Jeremiah John P. Vardeleon. BAMM 3. First helpings are definitely not the limit.
54