TO THE READERS The very first time that I saw a well, I was amazed by the fearful abyss that lies in front of me. Its circular structure that protrudes above ground and the eternal darkness that embraces the pit captivated my interest. The impenetrable blackness that enforces me to pick up small stones, securing it in the cavity of my pockets, then carefully dropping them one by one, in which I take tremendous delight in the sharp sound that stirred when it touches the water. I would imagine how the stone would sink to its depth, like a feather that gently sways before it reaches the ground, until it remains unmoving, plunged into obscurity. I would ponder next about the things that fall underneath— frogs that get swallowed by the hole, leaves blown by the wind, hurled coins in exchange for a wish, and other unforeseen things that gravitate to its bottom. I would think deeply about it that during the night, I have these series of vivid images in my dream where I stood on the edge of a precipice then suddenly tumbled down. What struck me truly the most is when people would toss their plastic buckets upon its hollowness. How in total darkness, an element in its purest form, took shape and filled the container?
By some special sense which I had developed, I found my way back to the well again together with its very depth. As I looked at it, now in a new light, I came to fully comprehend some of its mystery. The well is not only a cloistered home for things that stay in the dark but is also a boundary where contradictions meet side by side; light and dark, heavy and weightless, oblivion and familiarity. It is a stretch of darkness where some things are bound inevitably to disappear but not like clouds of smoke because they reappear when one decides to nose-dive into its mists. It occurred to me that we are also a vessel—like the well, where memories and afflictions lean on the deepest part of ourselves. These are words and images that stay in the recesses of the mind sheltered by darkness and silence. Sometimes they appear in our dreams or they emerge as the slip of the tongue. Sometimes they appear as our shadows during solitary nights or beautiful dripping fragments of the thing we genuinely care about. These enshrouded parts composed our psyche as human beings in its purest form like water that revels in the glory of sunshine. As you turn the page, explore the gulf between reality, learn to sink into their depth, and thrive to slip through the dark where our true tales lay behind.
Reynold L. Sumido Jr.
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WAKE UP Ivan Matthew Superio
The drought left a void which seemed to swallow me whole, in frozen silence in tantalizing stench of a mourning soul. Perhaps life is a forest which was once an evergreen, but no purple rain nor a sweet refrain can revive what had been once demeaned. Though your eyes don’t work over dark stormy seas praying to get struck by lightning just for you to see. Whenever light comes you could see dark clouds, but in the darkest of nights the truest of light lies in your eyes. Wake up. 2
Tip, Apex, Metaphase Sissinisinta ko
I was at the tip of the iceberg waiting for the anathema to shatter when Titanic collided with my fate— frozen to death. I was at the apex of a volcano embracing the fiery pit when Mt. Pinatubo howled and turned me into ashes. I was at the metaphase plate of a graveyard lamenting the faded memories when dashing spindle fibers dragged me into the dark continent —Dementia. Nightmares, indeed. Living the life earnestly, until then.
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Unforgettable Past Hans Tabañar When I look towards the colourless skies That which despairs the light in my eyes I wrap my mind in a blanket of lies Wearing only my fear as a disguise Uselessly fleeing my eventual demise. Like the wailing banshees at a fearful night I could hear those voices full of fright Deafening me with its shrieking might It follows me like a relentless acolyte Filled with the horrors out of sight. It continues to grant me my suffering For all my sins have been waiting And my regretful conscience has been lingering As both prepare for what is coming I forge ahead and continue to keep on running. I tried to leave it all behind me Yet it was still in pursuit with hostility Destroying my hope for a new memory Strengthening the inner power of my inner enemy Sealing the fate of my mere human 4
Subli Inday Badidzae Alas otso sang aga,linyada sang banderitas akon nasiplatan, Daw nubo nga balangaw gakabit sa halayan, Mamang, mamang! May bayle riman bala? Nagtika ako sa banggirahan. Nagyuhom lang siya sang matam’is kag nanghalay liwan. Nag-agi run ang alas onse, baw nagdugang pagid si Ante Mamang igma run taton; indi tana ra kahulat ang tinig-ang ta nga gahalimuon. Kun ugto gadulot ang duag ka galabog lang nga mga banderitas, Baw daw abihon mo may piyesta riman si San Nicolas. ‘Mang manug alas-tres run nagbaligya lawayan run to sanday Bimbang, Ikaw tana daw gaistar run jan sa may bomba sa pasirungan, Buslan ta kaw bi danay tudlui lang ko kung diin run ra ja ang baranlawan.’ Nagbutlak ang adlaw sa aminhan, daw panganod nalang ang higot, May banderitas nga gapangurapot pero ang duag na run rapit run sa kasisidmon Baw ang ginpamulad ni Mamang wara gid may namunpon. 5
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Panahong Pabago-bago hle
Pagbagsak ng ulan mula sa kalangitan, Aming mga alaala’y patuloy na naglilitawan. Hindi mo pa mauunawaan sa kasalukuyan, Ngunit pahahalagahan mo iyan sa kinabukasan. Malungkot bilang lumbay na pesimista, Kumikinang tulad ng isang masayang optimista. Sa laro ay ikaw ang tanging hari Habang umiikot ang panahon sa iyong mga daliri. Matapos ang madilim, malamig, at mapanglaw na himpapawid, Mga dilawang sinag na sikat ng araw ay sumunod. Sa pagbili ng inuming dayap, naaalala ko ang nakaraan Tuwing ako ay lumulunok. Napaupo ako sa bagong pag-uugali ng panahon, Nagtataka kung ano ang iyong lagay ng loob ngayon.
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Baka bukas Richard Olano
sa gabing tanging liwanag ay pag-ibig kalaban nati’y pagsilip ng bukang liwayway tayo’y maghihiwalay aasa maghihintay sa muling paglubog ng araw
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Naked Ayesha Belle Patches
If nudity was a sin, Then humankind should’ve been convicted at the very moment of birth. Undeniably, fabric draping our bodies is art, But forget not that bare skin is a timeless masterpiece. May it be inked, broken, bruised, scarred, or even smothered with rouge; The body’s largest organ that it is; Is fascinating in whatever hue. Aren’t we all born naked? Stripped yet innocent. Vulnerable yet magnificent. It is our skin that makes us human This is how our stories began and will never come undone.
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Nahanap Richard Olano
Nahanap kita sa mga taludtod ng tulang mapagpalaya sa pagitan ng mga linyang nagsusumamong magkatagpo.
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Emotional torture Hans Webster Labordo
My cat comes in all shades of indifference and only now does the irony strike me that i’m drawing a parallel between him and our many never endings – how his claws love my skin so much they sink. I am afraid I’ll spook him away if i jerk so I let the wound bleed and do nothing. He prowls back to the window sill and coils up to sleep. Tomorrow, he will love me again.
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Silence tore us apart, we can’t be fixed Richard Olano
They say it’s good to listen to podcasts so I did. Those about death, loss, grief, conspiracies, aliens, crimes, mysteries. I went through all of them. It was the first experience of me really listening to something to someone, in some sense. I never knew that’s how it felt like to really listen and understand. Obviously, I feel sorry for the innumerable times I’ve shut you off when I allowed the silence linger longer than it should after our exchange of painful, damaging words. Sorry for the silence Believe me that silence was the most painful the most deafening the most resonating I should have spoken first. 13
Lost Ayesha Belle Patches
Oh then? Where would I be if not in your arms? Perhaps I’ll roam in crevices of you unexplored before, some unreached by light, most inhospitable to life. Well then? Will the wind breeze in directions I’d want to go or blizzards to destinations you think are worthy to rendezvous so? I never knew I had stars in my eyes. The navigator you are drawing a compass and took me to places too far. We followed the dots dominating our skin, like constellations with legends we’ll never uncover if we don’t dive deep within.
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Ang Kabuhi Kauna sa Uma Nove Joy Losbañes
ang kabuhi kauna sa uma kaangay kang pispis nga maya maski sa kinawara, kabalo mangod mangasadya ganguri-nguri pa gani kon kaisa. mga dahon nga gakisi-kisi sa punta nagasinaot sa tunga sang sapa dugangan pa nga ang hangin preska kanami nga gina ili-ili ako ni lola samtang gapulupanihol lang tana. sami mabatian sa radyo, sunata nga Once There Was a Love ni Feliciano ano pa dali ako makatulugan sadto maski ano kagahod kang araro pati na pamial ni lolo. ang kabuhi kauna sa uma, masal-an nga pirme pista. tanan ga kinala-kala kay puno ang lamesa kang mga matam-is nga istorya.
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ako, nagdako indi sa humok nga baratangan. banig ang nahanig sa gab-i nga maramig. kung ang iloy ko pa, “sikad-sikad man lang ka habol ang aton ubra.” kanami sa pamatyag magbugtaw sa palibot nga masanag kay ang adlaw tuman ka grabe ang idlak. ugaling, ang bulan kung gab-i nagahibi na dukaron. ang kabuhi kauna sa uma, gulpi naglain kang indi ko na mabatian ang panihol kag sunata. ang hangin nga preska kasubo ang ginatampa. maski sa kubos ko nga paminsaron, indi ako makalipat kang kahapon. bitbit ko gid mga istorya nga binagtung kay ang kabuhi sa uma, kis-a kaangay kang pispis maya wala na kita-a.
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Reciprocate Adellsbi Lao
My bones, they are mine completely mine but sometimes these bones they become a house other souls dwell in rented and occupied, usually only for a while until payment becomes a bit too demanding.
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Nag-awol sa akon pagtulog Richard Olano
Ang mga damgo nga nag-awol sa akon pagtulog indi na nakon liwat madakpan pa. Ang mga sipad sini ang naalimunaw sa pagmuklat sang akon mutaon nga mga mata. Kahilwayan ang naangkon sa pagbugtaw sa… aga na. Mabatian ang paghalok sang balod sa maputi nga baybayon wala lugar ang mga damgo sa kalibutan nga tagumatayon .
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Elehiya sa Pagsulat Nove Joy Losbañes
May mga araw na hindi ako nakakasulat. Ang talinghaga ay kusang nawawala sa aking pagdilat Dahil luha ang bumabara, Hindi ang tinta. Kaya ang papel ay isinasantabi ko na Alam ko rin namang masasayang sa pagkabasa. Pagkatapos, matutulala. Blangko na naman ulit ang pahina. ‘Tila sa mga pagkakataong ito, Nilalamon ako ng demonyong Matatagpuan sa kaloob-looban ko Kahit anong pilit Nabubuwag ang kada kudlit Humihikbi ang mga metapora Dinudungaw ako nang pagkabalisa Unti-unting pinapatay ng iyong mga salita Tinatakpan nito ang aking paghinga. Kung balak mong lumayo dahil nararapat, Huwag mo akong titigan sa mata. May mga araw na sadyang hindi ako nakakasulat, Mamamatay ako kung ipipilit ko pa. 20
Untitled Pamela Claire Tutor
On ordinary days, there’s this choking feeling that devours my throat and makes its way to my soul – my being. A sensation depriving me of the things that make me alive – sanity, dreams, hope, oxygen. The uneasiness scrambles my feet to a stance, and not even wearing slippers, I run, I run, not minding the prickling heat on the pavement, ignoring the sharp stones. I run and carelessly remove my clothes, together with its chains, I run and finally get to see it The sea, my breather.
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Independence Adellsbi Lao
I once sat by a garden rose a pleasant verse a painful prose all too pretty for the eyes flaws unnoticed under disguise once a passer tried to pick just to have his fingers pricked the rose remained unscathed, untouched too stubborn to be kept and clutched.
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Blood stargazer
Its metallic scent and alluring hue lay haphazard on the cold, hard floor. This blood of his which no one knew spent many-a-time on death’s door. This blood of he who has risked his life for a hopeless nation drowned in lies with people who blindly lick the knife of those who never hear the cries of a people, battered and torn. Shattered and scorned. While their king is adorned With blood roses and thorns from the man on the floor.
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Prinsesa Luna
May mga oras nga nagaka dumduman ko, Ngaa hindi ako bagay sa prinsesa nga pareho mo? Kay tungod wala ako sang palasyo? Kay tungod hindi mo ako makita nga ga sakay sa kabayo? Kay tungod wala ako kabulig nga gasunod kung diin mag kadto? Apang sa akon madalom nga pagpaminsaron, Nasabat gid man ang pamangkutanon. Kay sa mata sang akon prinsesa, Isa man ako ka Eba.
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Siping Inday Badidzae
Lulan ng buwan ang nagngalan Sakin bilang kanyang Dayang; sa paghalik ng kamay pinangakuan ng pagmamahalang awanggan. Hinagod ng kanyang mga daliri Mga banging ginayak ng kanyang mga bisig; labi’y kumarinyo sa mga pook na bulwagan ng pinagbabawal na pagdagsa ng dagitab. Di mapaparisan ang awit ng kudyapi aniyang kintal ng morpemang gumon ng kanyang labi; Gunita ko’y kanlungan siya mula himlayan Ng mga hiyas na nilunod sa karalitaan; Subalit yaong alapaap ng kalangita’y Tanikalang kala-kaladkad ngaking balintataw, Ikinalalagnat ang iyong pagdalaw. O mga gabing nagdaramot ng luwalhati Mga bibig na uhaw; pagod sa’yong pagtalik, o paggahasa; di na alam pagka’t iniwaksi 27
Kinagaw na palad na nagpupunyagi Sa hangin; na hangaring madinig, Ang ubo’t daing dulot ng iyong pagbalani. Gat, banaag sa aking durungawan Ang gayak ng iyong pinalamutiang upuan, ‘Samantalang kaming iwinalis sa gulod, Gipit, hinalay, isinaklit, nagsusumamo. Nawa’y yaong inyong birang ‘wag ang busilig ang busalan, Maaring sa bibig gamitin ‘pagkat nakakarindi, Ang kagaw ng kasinungalingang Sinabay saking karumal-dumal na karumalan. Hindi ito aking limahid pagka’t ang iyong mga daliri Ang siyang naniniil sa mga inyong binilibid Pinagpalit sa buhanging sa alo’y kinain, ‘Nawa’y makasubo kayo ng kapwa nyong iniluwa At isiping, na walang kain, inumin at awa.
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Sapphic Adellsbi Lao
Eve was never his to take As soon as Adam was awake Her lips were never for his sake A sin like apple forms her nape I would protest the story’s fate The verses written, ruled as straight Because two apples on a plate Makes for a rather better date Adam can never trace her lips Nor will he ever feel her tips Spite be thrown, I do it best No one else can reach her crest Though I may be but a snake These words I know I cannot fake A girl she is, I too as well For Eve, from heaven did I fell Forgive us for we will defy, Although condemned, sin it may be The heavens could never deny She and I were meant to be.
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If Stars Could Speak Zades Like a damaged Ferris-wheel, my world drifted out into orbit. I was spinning around, no hope to heal, falling down into an endless pit. Then came you, a streak of light out of the blue. Chasing after the silence, Tying up my loose ends. But stars tell fortunes that aren’t really there, and we both hoped for the same fairytale. And all of a sudden, a romantic cynic like me, became the biggest fan of Gatsby and Daisy. With you, the breeze was colder but sweeter. The nights were darker but longer. Hands were no longer hands, they were caresses. And lips were no longer lips, they were kisses. Yet I learned that some things don’t happen and some goes out of control. There are loose ends you couldn’t tighten and there are moments we don’t want to recall. But despite the lost love and all the lonely poetry, We could rest in the thought that we once walked in symmetry. Now stars tell fortunes that are really true, And maybe my world could spin again without you. 30
Leftovers Karamazov
Primordial silence of midnight I burrowed in the graveyard Of my lineage Embarking on white bones Sharpened by decay Outstretched of hunger Sepia of experiences Again, again, until it solidified Wherever I go I sturdy clings to it My history--embossed in the soil of the earth
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Perished Poet Hans Tabañar
From darkest ends, baneful visions dare seep It was not when I troubled from my sleep But when awakened from dream so deep I recall my despair of which I failed to keep Thus my frail soul be hindered cry and weep. Remaining there in fragment memory My shattered heart grows all the more weary. For it seems I know not to be merry Thus mind and body writhe in agony Of torture deemed beyond insanity. To believe what seems to be illusion From those endless waves of misty notion My spirit degrades with such erosion Rendering helpless from mindful motion Thus caged me into mental damnation. As thoughts raged on like untameable sea Backlashing me in continuous spree Fate forever agrees to disagree For all that happened and came to be It may have never been meant for me 32
Delicate Ayessha Belle Patches
Delicate it is to know that the biggest part of our souls is made of the minuscule bits and pieces of affection. Not some grandiloquent dinner and diamonds on that one destined day we decided to stitch our souls together. The thread was made of the finest braid of attention and passion. Little moments of hair ruffling, eyelash batting, and stolen kisses on my hands where you know just how to hold them. Not the fragile handling as it should be with these gentle bones— where you pop and crack each joint I never knew had the ability to sound off the whirlwind they have inside.
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Walang Makatang Malaya Makatang Duwag
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gayong gabi, sa aming naging pagpupulong, inatasan kami ng aming editor sa panitikan na kumatha at magsumite ng isang tula. Kawangis ng isang tula, nais niyang isulat namin ito nang malaya – sukat, tugma, talinhaga, paksa? Kami na raw ang bahala. Kami ay malaya. Malaya. Naalala ko tuloy ang naisulat kong tula noong hayskul. Doon, buong tapang kong pinalaya ang aking paksa. Dama ko ang natatanging kaligayahan niya; kaligayahang, batid ko, ipinagdamot sa kaniya ng ibang makata. Nang mapalaya ko na siya… Naisip ko tuloy: ‘pag ba natapos nang maisulat ang isang tulang malaya, nakalalaya rin kaya ang isang makata? ‘Pag ba pinapalaya ang mga matulaing guni-guni at salita, naisasama’t nakasasabay rin kaya ang may-akda? ‘Pag tinanggal ba ang mga nagpupumiglas na mga diwa mula sa pagkakagapos, laya na rin ba siya nang lubos? Ang sagot ay hindi na kailangan ng mga tayutay upang ikubli ang ibig sabihin: hindi. 36
Walang makatang malaya, walang makatang piniling maging malaya – ‘di katulad ng kanilang mga tula. Dahil nang oras na ipinagkanlulo nila ang kanilang mga sarili sa prosa at poesiya, doon nila mas naunawaan ang sining ng pagkakabilanggo – pagkakabilanggo mula sa mga salitang kailanman ay hindi nagawang mapunan ng kalayaan. Sa totoo lang, inggit na inggit kaming mga makata sa mga paksang aming napapalaya, pinapalaya. Sana ay may itinakda din ang uniberso na mga tao magsusulat tungkol sa amin, na magpapalaya sa amin. Subalit sa gitna ng mga gunitang ito, sa gitna ng panawagan na kalasan na mula sa mahigpit na pagkakatali nito, naalala ko: ako pala ‘yong paksa na napalaya ko sa aking kuwento noong hayskul; ako rin pala yaong nagpupumiglas na palayain na sa aking mismong tula. Naging malaya nga ako, ngunit bilang isang paksa – at hindi bilang isang makata. Ngunit hindi rin ako nawawalan ng pag-asa na darating ang sandali na ang mga tulang aking isusumite sa aming editor ay mga tulang – marahil – kasinglaya ko na rin. Sana. Walang makatang malaya. At sabi nga ng aking propesor sa Filipino: ang mayroon lang ay yaong mga “mapagpalaya, mapagparaya.”
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The Saddest Thing on Earth bjork
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lothes are the saddest thing on earth. When someone you dearly loved departed, they just remained in the drawer or stiffly hangs on the dark closet without getting any physical warmth. They are leftovers of life that they just slung across the backs of wooden chair, scattered on the floor, and piled-up like a mountain, until all their colors get bleached by the passing of time. They are the paragon of melancholy, of fool and ignorance, because they will never grasp the reason why the owner forsaken them, so they persistently stick around, waiting, unmoving, until they get corrupted with molds. I wish we could tell them the person is not coming back. They are gone and they will never meet again. But one day, the clothes spoke to me in a whispering tone that no words can ever be sufficient. Like an echo of cool spirit. Their collective hymns that translate to “It’s okay. Hide me in the drawer. Closed the door, locked it, throw the key to the river. Let your grief pour unto me. I understand you. He already disappeared and we both don’t know where.” 39
For the boy that left his jersey with number 16 after we both spent the night talking about ayahuasca and Bjork. For the free-spirited girl that vigorously take-off her bra and underwear into the sand until she got swallowed by the raging torrents. For the child wearing an animal printed raincoat, suspended on the window, dripping with cold water, while he remains in the bed because of a fever. And for all the dresses, plaid jackets, striped polo, slacks, white sando, and knitted sweaters that outlived their owner– may you help alleviate the sorrows of those who still stays.
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Then they clipped my wings lysosomes
Ward Manager’s office/0739 You run, out of breath, no time for fear or anxiety, not enough time to ask and plead; Sister, sister I’m sorry I’m sorry She looks at you puzzled, says It’s alright dear a man had asked me the way to Paddington, silence I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t know, told me to go back to my own country Hallways/0743
I walk and don first the flimsy apron coloured with the vineyards at autumn then the gloves like your grandmother’s perfume lavender then the mask – tight like a drowning child’s embrace, takes away the air but you got to breathe Inhale, exhale more steps for today; you have to fight again Room 1/0815
Limbs shaking, muscle sinews straining, breath heavy Up, up the bed, but only moves an inch, 41
Sorry dear, but can you help me? I think I’ve gotten worse Multiple sclerosis, physios sent home Butters the bread, my hands shaking, I’ve never done this before Room 5/1016 C1 for red, C2 green, C3 near the sternum Confusing all these colours and she laughs, keep forgetting my left and right I know, I know, she whispers, says she works in theatre, with the stage right and the audience left, I just got hired last month, then they all closed down Painting flowers on her hand, oranges and blues, 200 mg Sertraline Fire exit/2000
You are a healer, schooled in the dark wet earth smelling of manure and tiny rivers where carabaos frolick You carry the blood of your ancestors: Rita. Salia. Catalina. Analisa. Silma but when you move away from the land where your placenta drowns in the tight embrace of the earth, who are you? How can you take away their pain when you can hardly breathe? 42
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The Sound of Our House cocoon
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ur house has always been so silent yet it carries a strange feeling that creeps into your nerves. Every time that you will pass around it, a conclusion would conjure up into your mind that it was already abandon. But there are no crawling vines that seemed to swallow the wholeness of the place. There is rust on its rooftops and you can picture it out like spots of a cow. The red paint of the wall is slightly peelingoff and it is very tempting to pull it with your fingers until its nakedness beneath unravels. You can clearly hear how the branches of the tree is being lifted by the gentle wind around but the dilemma is it does not give you calmness, rather, in my experience, it only brings up some buried thoughts that you usually repressed because those are dark and forbidden and lonely. It is not yet decrepit as permitted by the flow of time but there’s always stillness in the atmosphere. A lake without ripples. A stretch of land without wonders. Once I even tried pretending myself as a passerby to see for myself how it really feels, how it sounded like. I tried walking slowly to the perimeter of the structure and force-up my imagination that I am a boy crossing a separate reality. It was a hot and sticky afternoon and I can still vividly remember 44
how my shirt clings. I don’t really have an expectation so I just intensely stare, hoping that it would scream at me, pulse at me, and give me its precise tune that I was hoping to discover. It took a minute before I heard it. Until now, it is still impossible to present a rational explanation what triggers it. Maybe it seeded from the placidity of the nature that grows and grovels. Maybe it seeded from the inescapable fact that we are already lonely inside and we only need a spark to remind us that it flows like a syrup---very slowly that every movement, every stain, takes a particular shape that is miserable and cumbersome. The simplest elucidation that I could come up with is that it was purely lonely. As I was growing up, I just came to realized that there are some certain things on earth that are built-in, that before its birth there was already something unique constructed underneath it surface that does not come from integration. It was not shape by the natural processes or experiences but it’s just the way how it is. No elaborate reason. And when I try to think about it, that our house was built-in to be lonely I was torn where to project my sadness; to us, its faithful inhabitants or to the house that will never be free to its fate.
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n 1910, Sigmund Freud, a psychologist known for his psychodynamic theory of personality, published The Interpretation of Dreams. In the following pages of the book, Freud elucidated that every dream, despite its strangeness and obscurity, has full significance in waking state. He described it as the “royal road” in revealing our repressed desires and unconscious thoughts that lurk in the recesses of the mind. It contained symbols that had meaning representing our past, present, and future concerns where most of its content is told in many layers of absurdity and bizarre images. JADE: It was a sunny day. I was inside my house and everything was blurry. The staircase was the only clear figure inside where I noticed the rays of sunlight seeping through the windows. Then suddenly, there was a change of perspective. I was now seeing myself running up the staircase calling for someone. While I saw myself running, I felt a sense of achievement coming from nowhere. I smiled to myself. KELLY: When I was five years old, I dreamt that I shrunk down to the size of a goldfish. I was flushed down to the toilet and subsequently transported into another world. It’s been over a decade since then but I can still recall strolling along this strange 47
underwater world while singing as though I were a character from The Wizard of Oz. CLINT: I can already feel my uterine contractions moving intensely. My water leaks profusely and an indescribable pain radiates from my back. In the next few minutes, I will finally see my newborn latching upon my breasts, caressing him with all my senses. I’ve waited for this moment a long time. However, all of these were blurred in an instant. It was only a dream, a fantasy that started when I entered adulthood. How sad life is. ZYNNIE: I am staring at an endless tunnel that looks like the secret tunnel along the Great Wall of China. No one’s here other than my dog which seems to have turned into a fat, stunted cow. I hear screams behind us. It is definitely the witch that has been chasing us nonstop. I am deeply exhausted from the endless running that I surrender in an Indian sit. Then, there’s a soft tap on my back. It is him. The guy I have been falling head over heels for more than four years now. But why is he holding a knife? I shut my eyelids tight and everything started spiraling. LYOD: I have always had a dream to be little in my hometown. One gloomy morning, a boy was wearing diamonds and a suit glittering with silver beads. The people can’t look into his brown 48
eyes directly. He started a joke to open up a conversation but they were scared. They don’t recognize him in the light of day. He walks again. He let his heart decide the path, but it was me who chose the right way for him. KAYLA: I’m trapped. Again. All I can see is the hot red light that blurs everyone into a fading black color, similar to shadows. Noises of excruciating pain and hysterical laughter filled the place. I want to get out from this chaos. I want to free myself from fear so I can end this struggle. But it seems that there is no way out… REESA: I was running, being chased by something I don’t really know. I kept running, gasping for breath, and my legs felt like giving up. I collapsed to the floor and suddenly, I found myself lying on my bed. RON: I was seeing the stars and the moon hanging outside my window pane. I looked at my alarm clock and it read 00:00. I started to wonder if it is even possible. I got up and walked towards the kitchen for a glass of water. As I headed towards my room, I noticed something different with the big wall clock. I winced. The second, minute, and hour arms are missing. I grabbed my phone in my pocket and there was no time on display. My fear finally woke me up.
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KEVEN: I dreamed of you and me overlooking the wide horizon sea. A sprinkle from the waves trickled our faces while the water glimmered under the night sky. Slowly, I reached for your hand and our skin touched. I felt my heart beating fast. And then my body became heavy, my vision dark and blurry, and you gradually disappeared from my memory. GERLYN: I was standing in the middle of a familiar curved road brimmed with greeneries on both sides. The colors of the surroundings were so vivid from the rays of the morning sun. As I looked around, I realized that the road was just in front of my grandparents’ old house where I used to spend all my summer vacation days when I was a child. In an instant, I found myself in a tight embrace with a person whose visage I cannot see. The hug felt very safe and comforting. I asked for his name again and again while our arms remained entangled. As my voice grew louder, I panicked as the view began to fade very quickly until everything became a blur. JULIE: I was walking my dog, Keiko, around our quiet neighborhood when we passed by my childhood friend’s lawn. She, too, had a dog. While I was about to greet her good morning, I was surprised to see her coming out from the back of their house with a huge dog, as huge as a giraffe. I asked her what food she gave to her dog for it to become so huge but she only smiled. Two days later,
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Paramount Production released a trailer of the film, “Clifford the Big Red Dog” – a dog as huge as a giraffe. TEO: It was early around the pandemic period when I had one of my weirdest dreams. I was at my elementary school waiting for my usual tricycle driver when I saw Chandler Bing adjacent to the front gate. He struck up a conversation with me and everything he said sounded like he was underwater. Then, along with the most deafening strike of thunder, it rained very hard. I looked around and the people vanished. I realized that my hands were all centipedes and they were wriggling. I was suddenly naked but something else was incorrect; my family jewels metamorphosed into a telephone. Then it started to ring. I was hesitant at first, but decided to pick it up. AUBREY: When I was six years old, I dreamed about being in heaven and seeing the world below it. I can still remember the image of the Last Supper where I climbed the golden stairway while holding on to a red cloth that guides my way to a big white mansion. A bearded man was waiting there for me. I realized that I might be dead and told the bearded man that I should go back and tell my mother that I’m okay but he insisted on staying. I ran away and rushed down to the stairs on the other side. I saw the red cloth again and while tracing its end, I saw a woman dressed in white being tangled in it, begging me to help her. But I continued to go down and as I was about to reach the end of the stairs when I woke up. 51
RICHARD: I stand in front of a wooden wheel, much like the ones that regulate water in hydroelectric power plants. On a platform across from me, several people dressed casually stand erect, their faces smudged—like when you accidentally touch an oil painting that hasn’t completely dried or when you unintentionally spill coffee on an inked paper. The wheel starts spinning. And I see the people on the platform, one by one, jump into it. They scream, they bleed, and die as the merciless thing tore their muscles, broke their bones, and squeezed out all the fluid from their body. I freeze from where I stand, smothered by blood. I could see and hear them but could do nothing. I am helpless, powerless, filled with guilt. And I still haven’t woken up until now. ELLA: As I slowly tread down the aisle to meet my forever, taking every moment in, I could not fathom the happiness I was feeling--seeing the love of my life waiting for me at the altar. But right before my father laid my right hand to his, I was sucked up in a void and woke up from my dream- a dream that was too good to be true. I woke up still single. REYNOLD: I remember the feeling of being forgotten rippled inside of me as if it was not just an abstraction but a real, moving thing that crawls and itches. I shed a tear. I feel like a foreigner arriving from a new place. People walk in different directions. Their happiness lingers on air but I just stare, stare, stare…
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Fallen Angel Zades
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t 7 am yesterday, Mrs. Skyler who works in the parish as a lector reported seeing an angel circling our village. The police would have ignored her silly claim if Dr. Reyes didn’t support her testimonies. According to Dr. Reyes, he was inspecting his car’s wheels when he heard something strange in his backyard – like a very huge bird is flapping its huge pair of wings. When he came to check the noise, he was surprised to see a real-life angel, but the weird thing is, it wasn’t flying but falling. Seconds later, he could no longer see the heavenly figure like it disappeared in a blink. This news spread across the town and everyone thought it was a bad omen. The parish priest, Fr. Guzman, warned everyone to be prepared for the second coming, because with all the chaos happening in the world, rapture might be the next thing to take place. “God is condemning his angels and sending them down here on earth. Sinners should repent or be prepared to be sent down to hell,” he emphasized on his sermon earlier today. After the mass, I noticed that everyone put a couple of coins in the blind man’s cup. At the market, I have observed that the customers gave way to their fellow customers when it came to choosing the freshest meat. At the bus, all passengers wanted to offer their seats to the oldies. Everyone seemed to have been moved by Fr. Guzman’s sermon or, to my own understanding, everyone was afraid to be sent to hell.
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Everyone’s bothered by the fallen angel, everyone except crazy Addie – the man who wears the same dirty clothes every day and asks the passersby for matchsticks. Today, I saw him doing his usual routine: he asked a little girl for a matchstick and the little girl nearly cried when Addie grabbed her arm. “Let go, you’re scaring her,” I told him. Addie eventually released the little girl’s arm and she run away like what a normal kid would do. “You ought to stop scaring people, haven’t you heard of the fallen angel? Do you want to be sent to hell?” I asked him. Instead of answering my question, he laughed like a crazy man that he is. “I am not afraid of fallen angel because I am the fallen angel,” he said and laughed again. I told him that it doesn’t make sense but he argued that he was the fallen angel. Infact, he led me into the back of the prep school where the Material Recovery Facility was located. There I saw a pair of wings with stains of blood; both ends were tied with strings. I froze after realizing that Addie wasn’t joking, he was the fallen angel, or should I say, the one who made people believe there was a fallen angel. I wondered where he got the wings. Hours later, one of our neighbors screamed after seeing her swan’s carcass with its wings removed.
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Papa Legba Sinbad the Sailor
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hen Papa Legba died, my mother and I were given the task to clean for his leftover belongings. I never met him in personal so I never got the chance of hearing his voice and casting a glance on his afternoon shadow. I was a junior high school student at that time and the idea of finally having a glimpse of his life, ironically, on his time of demise, had left an impression to me towards impermanent things. A wooden furniture that has been touched by a finger, a spoon that clashed in our teeth, and a cloth that gently clings on our skin, fortunately, holds human imprints that we could still kept them in a drawer or wrapped in the most creative textile that we could find to preserve someone’s memory. I realized that at first, these are manufactured for their ideal purpose, but at the end, when the owners of these matter cease to breathe, we scrambled in keeping them. We knew that these scraps and crumbs, crumpled and chipped substances, are the only things that we could clench, sniff, or ruffle to comfort our longing souls on days we are desperate to grapple a sensation beyond our reach. Papa Legba lived in a countryside far from his relatives. The house is near to a pond that glitters like diamond from afar with an old tree that showers the ground with a heap of dried leaves so every step 57
crackled. The interior was never really out of order. It is left with remains of a normal person that is expected to continue his routine hereafter. What captures my attention is the worn-out sofa patterned with strips of sunlight that escaped from a window. It was deeply soiled, with holes and scratches and bumps–signifying that it is in the threshold of losing its true form. Before we started, an earnest prayer was offered through bowed heads and murmurs, then, we divided the work. My mother cleans in Papa Legba’s room and from time to time, I can hear her muffled sobs. At that moment, I wish she could divide her loneliness in fragments so that I could have a piece. How I hope that people could scatter their seeds of pain in the ground, not store it up in their insides where it could grow too large for them to handle.
I can still recall how she delicately closed the door after we deliberately settled the house into its proper arrangement. I was left to follow her footsteps while she navigates the entirety of the place with the frame of Papa Legba across her chest. Her steps are approaching into a line where days froze, allowing her to transform into a young girl again. In the mere seconds of time, my mother, enlivened again her childhood with Papa Legba to compensate for the unsaid farewell and solitary nights.
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The Owl’s Curse Zades
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ot so long ago, I decided to spend a few days in my grandma’s province, Iloilo. I was to go there for a short holiday. My grandma’s house lay upon the edge of a pearly beach. The island was surrounded by mountains. The Ilonggo who drove the taxi told me that those mountain forests are inhabited by diabolical people who still practice sorcery. “If I were you, I would not set foot into those forests,” the driver said. “There are strange things happening there.” My scalp jumped upon hearing it. “What do you mean?” I asked. “It’s better you don’t ask,” and he changed the topic. When I got to my grandma’s place, I couldn’t help but be amazed by the view. The black rocks along the coastline, the giant trees cascading with brilliant scarlet flowers, and the serene breaking of waves made the setting even more breath-taking. But the moment I gazed to the mountains, I started to feel uneasy. There was something weird and sinister about them, just like what the driver said. I told my grandma about it but she said there was nothing to worry. “Our family knows every little tribe living in those mountains and they know us too, the whole neighborhood is safe as long as we do no harm against them,” she told me. The next morning, while I was walking barefoot on the sand 60
and enjoying the cool breeze, my attention diverted to the crowd of people clustering in a distance. When I advanced towards them, I confirmed that there was a commotion. At first I thought they were looking at a haul of freshly caught fish but it was an owl lying on its back in the sand with both legs tied, not an ordinary owl! It was onein-a-million. How would I describe its size? Had it been standing, it would probably be taller than me and I am 5’6. And if it spread its wings, I couldn’t imagine how wide it is. The fishermen, who caught the incredible creature in the thick forest while they were resting, tipped it on its back to stop it from flying. The crowd was thrilled and delighted by this spectacle. A dozen cameras were out and clicking away. As I stood there, I heard the people discussing the destruction, consumption, and the flavor of the creature, who seemed dignified despite its misfortune. “Let go of that owl, “ Lola Nena shouted, my grandma told me that she was the oldest woman in the neighborhood. “That owl is sacred and curse will fall down to those who will harm it.” Despite Lola Nena’s warning, the people wenton with their businesses and plans for the evening – which centered on killing their magnificent captive. The next morning, I woke up with the news that the men really butchered the owl. The next few hours, the fishermen who caught it died in the sea as their boats capsized – all along, Lola Nena was right. 61
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Ikaw ang Sarili mong Timeline Makatang Duwag
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indi ko alam kung bakit. Hindi ko alam kung bakit pagdating sa pagkawala ng isang mahal sa buhay o pagkabigo sa isang bagay, tila hindi na lang ito isang bunga ng pangyayari. Pakiramdam ko tuloy -- isa na itong proseso. Mahabang proseso. Hindi nawawala, hindi totoong nakalilimutan sapagkat patuloy na pinagdaraanan. Maaaring magbago subalit hindi maglalaho kailanman. Ang pighati, maaari mong bihisan upang maging isang ngiti; ang iyong mga luha, maaaring magbalat-kayo bilang tuwa; ang pagod mong puso’t kaluluwa, maaaring dayain at gawin mong larawan ng pag-asa. At katulad ng alinmang proseso, mayroon itong patutunguhan: paghilom, pagpapatawad, at pagbangon. Sa pagsasakatuparan ng mga ito, ikaw ang sarili mong timeline. Pakiramdaman mo ang sarili mong proseso. Masyadong mabilis, masyadong mabagal, o katamtaman? Ikaw ang bahala. Hindi mo kailangang ipaliwanag. Wala kang dapat patunayan. Lahat ay nabibigyan ng 24 oras bawat araw, subalit maaaring iba ang uri ng panahon na iyong kailangan. Yaong panahong nakagapos o malaya sa mga kamay ng orasan. Hindi ko pa rin alam kung bakit ganito kasalimuot ang proseso -- hanggang sa ngayon. Ang alam ko lamang, sa lahat ng pagkakataon, napakabisa ng panahon.
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I am SHE Elle
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he summer crisp breezed as I was traversing through the fine pristine shore on a sunny afternoon of my 3-month isolation from COVID-19. The beach was not as crowded as it had been before the quarantine began. From a distance, I saw a bubbly little girl slouching over to pick up some sea shells. She was maybe around 5 years old, wearing a yellow daisy beach dress and kettle brim hat, whose chicness was topped off by a face mask―definitely a protective slash fashion staple for every human now. “Hello there!” I walked toward her direction. “Oh hello!” She said sweetly with a smile, showing her cute dimples. “I see that you are picking up some shells. Can I help you?” “Sure! Look at the ones I already have.” She’s still smiling. She got everything in different colors and shapes. “Wow you got the pretty ones, huh?” I said as I put some more shells into her bucket. “Yeah! I only want what is best for me.” I loved the pureness and joy in this child. I remember myself in her, when I was still a kid completely innocent from the cruelness of the world.
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“I see that you are alone. Do you live nearby?” I asked, picking up more seashells. “Yeah. My parents let me play here for awhile as long as I don’t go into the sea.” “I’m sure you’re still having fun even if this didn’t turn out to be the best summer you wanted because of the virus.” “Yeah. It’s okay. I just don’t get it why people have to wear masks all the time when they go out. But mommy said it’s for our protection.” “Your mommy is right and you also have to wash your hands. Okay?” I said. Then she looked up at me with a serious and curious gaze in her eyes. “I just don’t get it though. Why we do have to wear masks if we are already wearing one our entire life?” I felt the intensity in her words―who could have ever thought that such a young mind like her was already capable of knitting the harsh reality beyond usual. My eyes suddenly became watery. “Wh..at do you me..an?” I nervously asked. “All our life, we have always been wearing masks on our faces, making us hide whatever we don’t want the world to know. The kind that is mysterious but we still try to live with as we grow up. That is just sad—not showing who we really are.” She stood up and enclosed me in an embrace. I could not stop myself from crying anymore because her presence felt familiar and it was like something I also had before. “Hush now. Don’t cry. My mommy said it’s not good to always cry.” She patted my head lightly. 66
When she held me, the sadness in my eyes just continued to roll down. “Well I have to go now. It was nice meeting you again.” Still flaunting her natural charm. I was stunned. I never met her my entire life. How could she say it was good seeing me again? As I was just about to ask her if she knew me, she was already running away with her bucketful of shells. “Hey I don’t know you! What’s your name?” I shouted for her to hear me. “I am YOU!” she turned to me and waved goodbye. And just like that, I remember a core memory from my childhood― wearing the exact yellow dress and hat when my parents brought me to the beach once when I was a kid. I met my old self again after a long time―a pigment of my memory that I relived today while dissociating from my present. A piece of myself that taught me to grow from my old selfish ways and made me remember how sharp I should be in life’s challenges. I am SHE.
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Conversations “Every time I looked at her, I saw these piling green crystals growing at the top of her head. It sparkles so much especially during daylight. Is this some kind of illusion brought by my affection towards her?” he blatantly confessed to me while I took in all the staggering light from his face. “Probably, boys gave her that nickname because of her raven-hair. Truth is, nobody cares if she is smart or a national champion in weightlifting. Men describe us according to our distinct physicality, not by our essence.” “I really believe in the existence of spirit. I imagine them like an amorphous smoke that separate from our physical self after we took our last breath. Then, they fly and travel around to search for another form of life so that we could start all over again.”
“It was super-hot outside that it felt like the sunlight is penetrating my skin! I can’t wait to hear from my employer so that I could leave this hopeless country. I mean–the weather, the corrupt government! Until now, I don’t really get it why you are so firm in staying here.”
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s with a Friend “I can never be myself in many adults because I have these strange thoughts and perceptions about many things that are not considered as conventional. I am pressured to act like them so I decided to mold myself according to their beliefs. This is the only way where I can be a normal person in the society.”
“My younger brother spends his day watching television and playing video games so he does not usually go outside the house. When the pandemic started, I am really shocked not to solicit any from of sadness towards him as if he was already used in being isolated all the time.”
“I wish I could have enough vocabulary to fully express what I am feeling right now. It is just unfortunate to be always stuck in the same place no matter where I am.”
“There will inevitably be a last day at work, a last book, a last song, or a last lover, but never a last drink for sad people like us.” 70
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EDITORIAL BOARD A.Y. 2019 – 2021 HANDURAW
The official literary folio of West Visayas State University ISSN: 2423-2769│Member of the College Editors Guild of the Philippines under the banner of West Visayas State University Forum-Dimensions Publications, Inc
Editor-in-chief: John Glen L. Teorima Managing Editor: Zynnie Rose C. Zaragosa Associate Editor: Gerlyn Joy P. Rojo News & Special reports Editor: Eric D. Morguia, Jr. Feature Editor: Julie Anne L. Collado Filipino & Hiligaynon Editor: Maria Kayla T. Tingzon Literary Editor: Editor Reynold L. Sumido, Jr. Sports Editor: John Aubrey J. Jamero Online Editor & Art Director: Nicole Anne A. Moscoso Circulation & Exchange Manager: Jonar B. Dorado Senior Editorial Assistants: Reesa T. Azarraga Clint M. Belosillo Ron Eliezer G. Duhina Ella Hyacinth R. Golez John Lyod B. Pachejo Richard D. Olano, Jr. Keven Ritzo C. Sitjar Editorial Assistants (2020-2021): Jade Danielle T. Isidro Kelly P. Ronveaux
PHOTO AND ARTWORK CREDITS Front Cover - Kelly P. Ronveaux Fly Leaf- Kelly P. Ronveaux 1 - Kelly P. Ronveaux 2 - Karla R. Porras 3 - Karla R. Porras 6 - Kenneth C. Gohel 8 - Karla R. Porras 9 - Kenneth C. Gohel 10 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 11 - Karla R. Porras 12 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 13 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 17 - Karla R. Porras 18 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 19 - Karla R. Porras 21 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 22 - Karla R. Porras 23 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 24 - Karla R. Porras 25 - Kenneth C. Gohel 26 - Karla R. Porras 30 - Jade Danielle T. Isidro 31 - Karla R. Porras 34 - Karla R. Porras 35 - Kelly P. Ronveaux
38 - Jes Mercado Abella 43 - Jes Mercado Abella 46 - Joshua A. Celestial 53 - Jes Mercado Abella 56 - Jes Mercado Abella 59 - Jes Mercado Abella 62 - Jes Mercado Abella 64 - Jes Mercado Abella 68 - Jes Mercado Abella 69 - Joshua A. Celestial 70 - Joshua A. Celestial 71 - Kelly P. Ronveaux 72 - Riley Sarmiento II 73 - Riley Sarmiento II 74 - Riley Sarmiento II 75 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 76 - Gwenneth Meg D. Soniso 77 - Karla R. Porras 78 - Joshua A. Celestial 79 - Joshua A. Celestial 80 - Joshua A. Celestial 81 - Hsien na Kuo 82 - Joshua A. Celestial Fly leaf - Kelly P. Ronveaux Back Cover - Kelly P. Ronveaux