18th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop Zine

Heights 18th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop Zine Copyright 2012 Copyright reverts to the respective 足authors and 足artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be 足reprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever 足without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: Heights, Publications Room, MVP 202 Ateneo de Manila University, p.o. Box 154, Manila Tel. no. 426-6001 local 5088 heights-ateneo.org Heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Illustrations and layout by Meggie Ong

PANELISTS

Ms. Mabi David Mr. Allan Alberto N. Derain Ms. Mookie Katigbak – Lacuesta Mr. Allan Popa Mr. Danilo Francisco M. Reyes Dr. Edgar Calabia Samar Dr. Benilda Santos Dr. Vincenz Serrano Mr. Martin Villanueva

FELLOWS

kuwento poetry kuwento

Angelli Camille P. Ancheta Regina Angelica A. Bengzon Abner E. Dormiendo

tula

Jenina Iba単ez

tula

Marc Christian M. Lopez

tula

Aidan Manglinong

fiction

Matthew Olivares

poetry

Elijah Maria V. Pascual

essay fiction

Stephanie Shi Rie Takumi

CONTENTS

ANGELLI ANCHETA

14 Hinto – Abante 16 Pista sa Malabon

REGINA BENGZON

22 Wild Places 23 Bookends

ABNER DORMIENDO

28 Eulohiya ng Isang Kuwentista sa Burol ng Kaniyang Namayapang Tauhan 32 Mga Bagay na Walang Pangalan

JENINA IBAÑEZ

40 Liham Para Kay ____ 41 Ang Proseso ng Paghukay ng Ibinaon sa Limot (Base sa Paleontolohiya)

MARC LOPEZ

46 Pentekoste 47 Almusal

CONTENTS

AIDAN MANGLINONG

52 53

Stigmata Spolarium

MATTHEW OLIVARES

58 70

Bonnie the Cat Undertow

ELIJAH PASCUAL

74 75

Pillow Talk Poem for a Management Major Going on Her Junior Term Abroad

STEPHANIE SHI

80 86

Body White Noise

RIE TAKUMI

98 Fujiyama Mama 102 A Job in the Morning

EDITORIAL

Simple lamang ang pangunahing suliraning inihahain para sa kahit sinong organisasyon na nais magdaos ng isang workshop tulad ng Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop.

Kailangan lamang masiguro ng organisasyon na may sapat na bilang ng taong magpapasa ng kanilang mga aplikasyon, at mula roon, nasa larangan na lamang ng pagpapalakad at pagpapatakbo ng mismong palihan ang kailangang bigyan ng pansin. Ngunit tuwing isasaalang-alang ang konteksto, lagi’t laging nagiging kumplikado ang situwasyon. Pansinin ang pamagat ng palihan: Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop.

Sa ganitong antas pa lamang, mainam na agad tingnan ang mga implikasyon ng isang proyektong tulad nito, ang mga maaasahan dito, at higit sa lahat, ang pagsukat kung naisasagawa ba nito ang mga layunin nito.

May kaunting salimuot at panlilinlang sa pamagat na ito ng palihan. Unang-una, naroon lamang ang pangalan ng Heights sapagkat Heights ang organisasyong nagsasagawa ng proyektong ito. Bagaman magkatabi ang salitang “Heights” at “Writers”, hindi ibig sabihing “Heights Writers” lamang ang tinatanggap ng palihan. Sa halip, palagi pa ngang binibigyangdiin ang pagiging bukas ng palihan sa sinumang manunulat mula sa komunidad ng mga undergrad sa Ateneo. Dito papasok ang “Ateneo” sa pamagat — sa unang antas, sapagkat sa komunidad lamang ng mga Atenista manggagaling ang mga aplikasyon, at sa ikalawang antas, sapagkat ito ang komunidad na nilalayon ng mismong pagdaos ng isang palihan. Dito nangangailangan ng pagiging kritikal bilang organisasyon.

Paano nga ba malalaman kung nakakamit ng palihan ang misyon nito na pausbungin at hikayatin ang pagsusulat sa komunidad ng mga batang manunulat sa Ateneo?

Matindi ang argumentong ipinanlalaban sa puntong iyon. Bawat taon, tumatanggap ang AHWW ng sampung (10) fellow mula sa mahigit limampung (50) aplikasyon. Kung nakatatanggap ang AHWW ng limampung (50) aplikasyon, gaano karami rito ang mula mismo sa mga miyembro ng Heights, o kaya sa mga kurso ng BFA Creative Writing at AB Literature? At kung pagtitipunin mo ang lahat ng mga grupong iyon (Heights, CW, Lit), gaano kalaki — o mas akma — gaano kaliit na bahagdan lamang ito ng buong populasyon ng Ateneo? Hindi ba’t mahigit dalawang libo (2,000) ang mga mag-aaral sa bawat batch ng Ateneo? At kung may apat na pangunahing batch sa Ateneo, aabot ang bilang na ito hanggang walong libo (8000). Sapat na ba ang nagagawa ng palihan na makakuha ng aplikasyon sa wala pang 1% (80) ng buong populasyon na ito? At kung idadagdag pa roon — sapat na ba na makatanggap ng sampung (10) fellow mula sa potensyal na walong libo (8000) bilang mga kinatawan ng buong populasyon na ito?

Wala akong ilusyon sa pagpapaliwanag ng ganitong suliranin. Kung manghuhula ako ng mga datos, maitataya ko siguro na lampas kalahati ng populasyong ito ang wala namang likas na pagkiling sa pagpapahalaga sa sining (mapa – visual

art o pagsusulat). Mababawasan pa ito kung sasalain mo mula sa bilang na ito ang mga nais mismong gumawa ng sarili nilang sining. At mula pa rito, mababawasan ulit ang bilang kung tutukuyin ang mga taong nais talagang seryosohin ang kanilang pagiging alagad ng sining. Kung magiging realistiko, ito lamang ang target market na maaaring abutin ng AHWW. Kakaunti itong bilang, ngunit sigurado akong hindi naman dapat humantong sa limampu (50) ang bilang ng aplikasyon. Sa ganitong modelo, nagiging sapat na nga ba para sa komunidad ng Ateneo ang paloob na pagpapahalaga ng palihan sa sasampung (10) batang manunulat?

Bagaman may engganyo na pribilehiyo ang mapasama sa kakaunting bilang ng mga fellow, naniniwala akong hindi dapat tumigil dito ang tungkulin ng isang palihan.

Nakakatuwa man pakinggan, malinaw na hindi dapat “Ateneo Heights Writers – Fellows Workshop” ang pamagat ng proyektong ito. Kailangang maghanap ng isang ruta pabalik sa komunidad na nilalayon naman talaga nitong tulungan — ang komunidad ng mga mag-aaral ng Ateneo.

Nais kong maging patunay sa ganitong pagpapahalaga sa pagbabalik sa komunidad ang paglulunsad ng Workshop Issue na ito. Pagkatapos ng labinwalong (18) taon, panahon na para muling bigyang-liwanag ang “A” sa AHWW. Itinatampok ng Workshop Issue ang mga akda ng mga kalalahok lamang na mga fellow mula sa nakaraang 18th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop. Kasama ng bawat akda ng mga manunulat ang isang maikling sanaysay na ipinaliliwanag ang kanilang malikhaing proseso sa pagsusulat, ang kanilang mga ideya sa mismong isinulat, at ang mga mungkahi na natanggap nila at maaaring gamitin sa pagrerebisa. Sa lahat ng babasa, nagsisilbi itong paliwanag ng mga fellow sa karanasan nila sa palihan bilang mga batang manunulat. Sa mga nakatatanda, dokumentasyon ito ng simula ng pagkahumaling ng mga batang isip sa pagsusulat. Sa mga kapwa batang manunulat, salamin naman itong magpapatunay na hindi gaano kalayo ang kanilang mga ideya sa ideya ng iba, at hindi gaanong malawak ang pagitan ng kanilang potensiyal sa potensiyal na natatanggap sa ganitong mga palihan.

Simple lamang ang pangunahing suliraning nais bigyang – solusyon nitong ika-18 na Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop. Bagaman nabanggit kong nais nitong magbigay – liwanag at maging salamin para sa komunidad ng mga manunulat na Atenista (na kung tutuusin, nasa larangan ng abstrakto), payak lamang ang talagang hinihiling nito para sa Ateneo.

Magsulat at magsulat pa.

Paolo Miguel G. Tiausas September 2012 Quezon City

Angelli Ancheta

Si Ace Ancheta ay isang AB Lit – Eng Major na nasa kanyang ikatlong taon. Sinubok niyang magsulat ng mga maikling kuwento na sikolohikal at historikal.

Nagpapasalamat siya sa Heights na humihikayat sa kaniyang magsulat, sa kapwa niya mga fellows at sa mga panelists ng 18th AHWW. Ang kanyang mga akda ay para sa kanyang mga magulang, kapatid, kay Joshua at sa marami pang taong nakakapagpangiti sa kanya.

H

e t n a b A

–

into

Lumakas ang ulan mula sa katukayo niyang namumuong bagyo. Wala nang nagawa si Leila kundi sumilong sa pinakamalapit na waiting shed ng MMDA. Isang jeep na lang sana ang kailangan para makauwi siya sa boarding house pero puro auto ang nasa kalsada. Madilim na ngunit kasabay ng ulan ang pagpatak ng mga tao sa daan katulad niya, sinusubukang makauwi sa gitna ng hagupit ng hangin.

Naiwan ang payong ni Leila noong umaga sa labas ng silid – aralan paya matuyo habang nag-kaklase kaya napilitang magpatila muna ngayon. Pang-apat nang payong ito ngayong semestre.

Kumidlat, inasahan ni Leila ang kulog. Bigla niyang inabot ang tainga at pinaglaruan ang hikaw na fancy.

Nagsusugat ang balat sa paligid ng hikaw sa totoong ginto o pilak kaya kailangang peke o plastik lang ang gagamitin niya. Lumaki na nga ang butas ng tainga niya kakapa-ikot sa pakaw. May humablot sa kamay niya at inilayo sa tainga. Tinignan ni Leila ang lalaki na ngumiti sa kanya. Naka – jacket at unipormeng puti, basang-basa. "Lei! Long time no see ah!" ngumiti rin si Leila nang hindi lumalabas ang ngipin. "Mag-iisang taon na rin, Bly." “Pauwi ka na ba? Pauwi na rin ako eh. Eh ang lakas ng ulan, bwisit, magpatila muna tayo. May upuan doon sa gilid o, tara,” aya ni Bly. Tumingala sa langit si Leila at saka humarap sa kausap, “Sige.”

Naupo sila sa kinakalawang na bangko. Lumakas pa lalo ang ulan kaya naaanggihan din ang dalawa kahit naka-silong. Iniipon naman ng daan ang tubig – ulan, abot – biyas na ang baha sa tumawid na lalaki, sa nasa talampakan naman ang lalim sa dalawang magkausap.

Walang imik parehas hanggang sa nauna nang humarap si Bly kay Leila.

“Peke pa rin ‘yang hikaw mo, Lei ah.”

“Oo. Ganun pa rin, alam mo naman ‘yun.”

"Kamusta ka na? Huling balita ko nag-shift ka raw sa lit. Ayaw mo na ng econ? Parang mas bagay ka yata doon. Nung high school kung dagsain ka ng nagpapaturo ng solution para sa demand at supply problems parang wala nang bukas! Ha ha. Doon ka bagay eh!"

"Nahiligan ko na rin kasing magbasa. Noong niregaluhan mo ako ng libro — " "Nung Valentine's Day? Ha ha. Oo nga pala. Ang corny ko, ano ba yan. Libro? Sa araw ng mga puso?

Walang 'ya. Pero hindi na ah. Si K 'yung ex ko? Mahilig sa carnations. Kaya laging 'yun ang binibigay ko.

Madalas may tsokolate na rin. Magastos pero ganoon

talaga eh. Anyway, 'yung libro na binigay ko sa 'yo yung nagpalipat sa 'yo sa lit eh no?"

"Ah, eh. Oo. Isa sa mga dahilan." Bumalik ang kamay ni Leila sa hikaw. Inalala niya ang libro. Hindi niya kilala ang manunulat. Nobela iyon tungkol sa mga babaeng mayayaman na namimili ng damit sa gabi at nag-iinggitan sa umaga. Mga sosyalera. Hindi niya ito nagustuhan. Isang araw nakita na lang niya ang sariling naghahanap ng libro sa book store, natatakam sa mga pahinang mas may bigat, mas makakapukaw ng atensyon.

May dumaang sirang tsinelas sa harap ng waiting shed. Tangay-tangay ito ng rumaragasang tubig. "Sayang lumipat ka, parehas sana kayo ng course ng girlfriend ko ngayon. Isang taon ang tanda sa akin, graduating."

"Ah, ganoon ba..." Hindi pa rin nauubusan ng tao sa kalye kahit lalo pang lumakas ang ulan. Halos matumba na sila sa agos ng baha. Inangat ni Leila ang paa niya sa bangko nang mahalatang tumataas na ang tubig ngunit napatayo rin nang may dumating na jeep. Nang mapansing nakasabit na ang isang pasahero, naupo na siya. Natutuluan na siya ng tubig — kalawang mula sa butas na yerong bubuong sa pwesto niya. Hindi na lang niya pinansin.

Sinundan ng tingin ni Bly ang babae sa pagtayo nito’t pagbalik. "Oo, isang taon ko na lang siya ihahatid – sundo sa unibersidad, salamat naman. 'Di ako makaipon, isang tricycle, isang jeep at limang istasyon ng LRT ang layo, dios ko." Nilakasan niya ang boses niya nang napansing nasa iba ang tingin ng kausap.

Humarap at napangiti si Leila. "Ganyan ka pa rin," sagot niya kay Bly. Inagos ng baha ang mga kalat mula sa katabing masurahan ng waiting shed. May dumikit na balat ng Mentos sa sapatos ni Bly ngunit hindi niya nahalata.

Si Leila lamang ang nakapansin dito. Dumaan ang bundok ng basura sa harap nila, nangangamoy at nanunuot sa ilong.

"Lecheng ulang ‘yan. Ang lakas ng bagyo, ano?

Kapangalan mo kasi eh! Ha ha."

Nakitawa si Leila pero hindi sumagot.

"Kamusta love life?" Tanong ni Bly. "I'm in a relationship."

Nakita ni Leilang umangat ng bahagya ang kilay ng kausap kaya itinuloy ang sinabi, "with school requirements and books."

Halos hindi na sila magkarinigan dahil sa buhos ng ulan. Pasigaw nang nagsasalita si Bly. Inakap naman ni Leila ang mga braso sa lamig ng hangin. Tuloy naman sa kwento si Bly. "Ang corny. Buti wala na kong naging girlfriend na bookworm. Alam mo ba kung gaano ka kahirap hanapan ng libro? Well, hindi madali. Si K at iba ko

pang mga ex ko tuwang-tuwa na sa bulaklak eh. Si Janine naregaluhan ko nga ng plastik eh 'di man lang napansin, bakit daw ang tagal ng buhay ng bigay ko sa kanya. Parang timang."

Tumahimik ang paligid pagkatapos magsalita ni Bly. Tanging pagpatak na lang ng ulan sa tubig – baha ang naririnig. May natumbang puno sa kabilang kalsada. Walang natamaan dahil wala nang dumadaan doon, pauwi na ang lahat sa ganitong oras.

Naubos na rin ang sasakyan sa daan sa harap ni Leila at Bly, nang may isang jeep na dumaan, halos pasukin na ito ng tubig – baha. Tumayo muli si Leila at tumakbo na sa ulan.

“Ma! Sandali lang ho!” sigaw niya. Huminto ang jeep.

“Ha? Saan ka sasakay diyan, Lei. Dalawa na ‘yung nakasabit oh, tanga ka ba?”

Nilusong ni Leila ang baha. Tumatakbo itong lumapit sa jeep ngunit ang pwersa ng tubig ang nagpapabagal sa kanya. Sa kabila nito, naunahan niya ang lahat ng taong gusto rin sanang sumakay at makauwi na. “Mauuna na ko sa’yo, Bly. Tataas pa ‘tong baha panigurado. Paalam!”

“Lei! Uy, Lei, teka sasabayan na kita!” Tumakbo na rin si Bly palabas ng waiting shed.

Sumabit na si Leila sa jeep, humarabas naman ang sasakyan kaya’t hindi naabutan ng lalaki. Sinalo na lamang niya ang talsik ng itim ng tubig – bahang galing sa gulong ng jeep. Nawala sa balanse si Bly kaya’t napaupo sa daang lunod na sa baha. “’Tang ‘nang ‘yan.”

Nakita ito ni Leila nang tinanaw niya ang iniwan.

Sa isip niya, tinangay na ng tubig si Bly. “Ma, bayad ho,” sinabi ni Leila nang may ngisi sa labi.Inabot ang bayad niya sa drayber. Humihina na ang ulan ngunit kinabukasan pa huhupa ang baha.

13

Pista

n o b a l a M sa

Tapos na ang pulong sa tahanan ng mga Gabriel at nagliligpit na ang mga utusan. Pinag-usapan ang napipintong pagpupunit ng sedula sa Malabon sa darating na kapistahan ni San Bartolome. Mayo noon at buhay na ang plasa sa bayan ng Malabon; punong-puno ng banderitas at halos natakpan na ang harap ng simbahan, sumasayaw na ng Paru-Parung Bukid ang mga deboto ni Maria habang inilalabas ang caroza dala-dala ang Birhen mula sa bukana ng isang bahay na katapat ng paaralan. Handa na rin ang mga taga – Malabon na salubungin si Maria.

Pero higit sa lahat, sabik na silang masilayan ang pinaka-magaganda at pinaka-mayayamang dalagang paparada sa harap nila pagka-lubog ng araw.

Kakalabas lamang ng mga nagpulong. Sumambulat sa kanila ang ingay sa labas ng bahay. “Huwag kayong magkumpulan, madaling mahalata,” ika ni Ka Gabriel, “doon kayo sa bahay na ‘yon pumunta, ‘di kayo makakalabas ng Bayan nang ganyan ang itsura niyo.”

Tinuro niya ang bahay pinanggalingan ng Birhen. “May tutulong doon panigurado.” *** Nakakahiya naman ‘to, bulong ni Boneng, para sa’n pa’t tinawag akong katipunero kung nakagayak naman akong pambabae ngayon, pinipilit niyang ngumiti sa lipon ng taong nakapaligid sa kanya at sa kanyang mga kasama sa prusisyon.

“Pambihira. Tumahimik ka nga diyan, Reyna Justicia, kumaway ka na lang. Panoorin mo na lang si Reyna Elena. Gayahin mo ang galaw.”

Nilingon ni Boneng si Reyna Elena. Maganda, makinang at ‘di makakailang ilang beses ang kinaganda ng ternong suot nito kaysa sa suot ni Boneng. Makinis ang balat, parang isang Birheng Maria na nga talaga. Siya marahil ang hermana ngayong taon, ‘di nagpatalbog sa ibang mga sagala. Huminto sandali ang prusisyon. Nasa tapat na ng paaralan ang enturahe, konting lakad na lang, makakatawid na sila papuntang tulay ng Tonsuya.

Inilihis niya ang paningin sa dalaga, natuon ang pansin sa guwardya sibil na inaaninagan siya mula sa likod ng karwahe ng Reyna Elena, tumalikod na lang si Boneng sabay harap niya muli sa konsorte niya. Umandar na ang lakad. Kahit malakas ang kabog ng dibdib, kumaway na lang siya katulad ng ginagawa ng mga kasama niya.

“Bokyo, ‘di ba delikado ‘tong gagawin natin? Ninakaw na nga natin ‘tong mga damit, nasa gitna pa tayo ng mga tao. ‘Di yata’t napakadali nating mahuli nito,” sabi

ni Boneng. “Tumahimik ka na lang diyan. Alalahanin mo ang sinabi ng heneral, wala tayong magagawa, ito lang ang paraan. At hindi natin ninakaw ‘tong mga damit natin. Iyong hermana, tinutulungan tayo.”

Nakilala na nga ni Boneng ang hermana. Napakakapal lang ng pulbos at napaka-pula ng kulorete sa pisngi’t labi, siya nga ‘yong nag-abot ng damit kanina pati kay Bokyo’t Miguel. Sinusubukan niyang lumakad ng diretso, ngunit hindi ito pinahihintulutan ng bolo niyang nakasabit sa baywang niya. “’Di mo iyan bibitbitin sa parada, itago mo sa loob ng palda mo, bago tumawid ng tulay, may mga bantay na guwardya, siguraduhin mo lang na ‘di mo titignan sa mata ang mga sibil, ngumiti ka lang.” Naalala ni Boneng ang bilin ng dalaga na si Reyna Elena pala ang gagampanang papel. At nalalapit na nga ang tulay, nakikita na rin niya ang mga naka-unipormeng mga lalaki. Konting tiis na lang Boneng, ayan na ang daan papuntang Caloocan, makakatakas na. ***

niyo kami dito ng suman. Sige na’t tumuloy na kayo.

Baka abutan kayo ng mga rebelde, ngayon daw ang dating nila sa Malabon,” ika ng isa pang sibil.

Nagkatinginan si Andres at Bokyo. Namawis ang labi ni Boneng. Rebelde? Paano nila nalaman ang pagdating natin? Nais pa sana magtanong ni Andres tungkol sa narinig, pero nagpasya siyang huwag na.

Nagpatuloy na lang sila sa paglakad nang marinig nila ang isa sa mga kawal na nagsalita, “Tonto de cultong mga indiong ‘yan, akala yata nila’y maiisahan tayo, buti na lang may nagdadaldal at naka-abot sa gobernadorcillo ang balita ng pag-aalsa.”

Nagpatuloy na lang ng pangkat ng mga kalalakihan sa paglalakad. *** Tumuloy na nga ng paglakbay sina Andres at mga kasamahan, ngunit hindi na pa-Malabon, patungo na sila ng Balintawak sa Kalookan. Doon na sila nagpunit at sumigaw.

At nakatakas nga sila. Bisperas ng pista ni San Bartolome, Agosto 23, 1896. Tutungo ng Malabon sina Andres at ang mga Katipunero. “Teka, wala yata itong kulumpon ng mga sibil na ito noong huli tayong dumaan dito,” sabay turo ni Boneng sa mga guwardya.

Hindi kukulang sa sampu ang naka-kumpol na mga naka-unipormeng Kastila, nakatayo sa may gilid ng makipot na daan, hindi malulusutan. “’Wag kayong manuro. Mas nagkalap sila ng bantay, simula kasi noong engkwentro sa limbagan ng Kalayaan, mas umingay ang usap-usapan tungkol sa katipunan, kaya hayan, mas nagkalap pa ng mga sibil.”

Tinutukoy ni Andres ang pagkabunyag ng katipunan noong Agosto 19, isiniwalat ng isang katipunero ang mga nalalaman niya sa kapatid nito at saka naman nangumpisal ang babae sa prayle.

Handa na ang lahat. Handa na ang mga sedula, handa na silang mapunit. Handa na nilang ipahayag ang pagtutol sa mananakop. Hindi lamang nila inasahan itong mga sibil na ito papasok ng Caloocan, dala pa naman din nila ang mga bolo at naka-pulang pantalon pa. “¿Qué llevas? Ano iyang dala niyo?” Tanong ng sibil.

“Ah, eh, mga bolo ho. Ano ho, pupunta kami ng pista ni San Bartolome,” mabilis na sinabi Andres.

“Oho, sa katunayan nga po niyan, mga peregrino kami ni San Bartolome,” dagdag pa ni Bokyo.

“Ah oo! Usted se visten de rojo. Naka-pula kayo, mga kulay ni San Bartolome. Pagbalik niyo eh daanan

15

ACE ANCHETA

Humuhugot sa karanasan ang manunulat na ito tulad marahil ng iba pang mga kuwentista. Para sa kanya kasi, pinakamadali at pinaka-nakalilibang gawan ng istorya (o drama) ang nakababagot niyang buhay. Sa kanyang mga flash fiction, ninais niyang makapaghatid ng mga bahagi ng kaniyang sarili sa ilang mga pasulyap-sulyap na kuwento sa pag-asang maiintindihan siya ng mga mambabasa at maiintindihan din niya ang sarili.

Sa kanyang unang akdang "Hinto – Abante", sinubukan niyang paglaruan ang sikolohikal na aspeto ng mga karakter.

Limitado ang nalalaman ng tagapagsalaysay na nasa ikatlong panauhan at sinubukan ng may-akda na bigyang – diin ang mga kilos at galaw ng mga tauhan upang, sa kabilang banda, mabigyang – diin pati ang kanilang sikolohiya. Naging matagumpay ang pag-angkop ng mga tema sa naratibo.

Atras – abanteng naging hinto – abante. Hindi na kayang umatras ng tao dahil inilagay na ng mga pangyayari sa isang sandali.

Hihinto na lamang at susukatin kung kayang umabante.

Sa kondensasyon ng istorya, nabigyan ng empasis ang kaabsurduahan ng mga pangyayari sa paligid ng mga karakter at ang mga understatements sa dialogo. Ayon sa mga panelists, kaya pang paghusayin ang naging pagtatapos ng kuwento, kailangang bigyang hustisiya ang pipiliing kalutasan. Kaya naman sa kanyang rebisyon, sisikapin niyang kilalanin at ipakilala pa ang mga karakter upang mabigyan sila ng karampatang wakas.

Sa ikalawa niyang akda, naging mapangahas ang kuwentista sa kanyang "pagbabalik" sa nakaraan. Bilang taga-Malabon, ninais niyang magsulat tungkol sa isang sipi sa kasaysayan nito. Pakiramdam niya, kailangang maisulat nga mga kuwentong – bayan na hindi pa naisusulat. Sa komplikasyon ng kanyang proyekto, maraming naging problema ang manunulat. Unang-una, sa pagkuha niya ng mga detalye para sa akda. Ayon kay Sir Mitch Cerda, nangangailangan ng

MULA SA MAY-AKDA

matinding pagsasaliksik kahit na ang pinaka-maliit na detalye ng isang kuwentong tumatalakay sa isang makasaysayang kaganapan. Ikalawa, naging problema rin ang pagpapalawak ng naratibo. Nagsimula ang may-akda sa maliit na detalye ng pagbibihis – babae ng mga Katipunero upang makatakas mula sa sibil at ng muntik na paglunsad ng pagpupunit ng sedula sa Malabon kaysa sa Caloocan. Sinubok niyang palawakin ang detayeng ito upang makapag-kuwento ngunit ito ang naging lubak sa kanyang proyekto.

Naging pokus ng pagsasalaysayasay ng kasaysayan ng mga pangyayaring ito kaya naisakripisyo ang ilang elemento ng maikling kuwento. Marahil kapag inalis ang dialogo, tila excerpt na lamang ito mula sa mas malaking naratibo sa libro ng kasysayan. Sa pagsasaayos ng akda, pagtutuunan ng manunulat ang pagdebelop ng mga karakter at ng mas organikong plot nang hindi pinapakawalan ang makasaysayang aspeto ng kuwento. Nais niyang makabuo ng isang akdang

kaya (o kinakayang) paglapatin ang kuwento ng nakaraan at kuwento ng kaniyang munting bayan.

Hindi raw marami ang nagsusulat tungkol sa mga makasaysayang kaganapan sa Pilipinas. Paano nga ba bubuhayin ang nakaraan mula sa pira-pirasong alaalang nakakalat sa mga libro ng kasaysayan? Paano lilikha ng naratibong sarili mula sa maraming boses na nakalikha na ng kani-kanilang naratibo ukol sa nag-iisang pangyayaring nakalipas? Ito ang hamon sa manunulat na ito sa kasalukuyan. Ito at ang ninanais niyang patuloy na pagsasanib ng buhay niya sa kanyang mga likha. Hindi disinterisado ang pagsusulat. Malaki ang ginugugol na oras, emosyon, rebisyon, at pagod tungo sa inaasam-asam na aktwalisasyon.

17

Regina Bengzon

What DO you do with a BA in English?

Nica thinks she'll always be a reader, but she writes occasionally, to make sense of things.

s e ving l o c s n a i l ild p fter Susan K

w

a

I have let my clothes wash up against the rocks by the beach, where they gather sand in the folds that chafe most closely against skin. I am running to leave you behind, knowing love only as that which trails behind me with every step, bleeding all too quietly into the sand. Nothing embraces here; nothing can. Water collapses closeness, and I am only so much broken coral to the ocean. The tide will take me without asking first — what it carries away in the crescents of much colder arms than yours, where to find a heartbeat with pale lips in the hollow of my throat, what name it can cry as waves recede from shore.

It is enough to say you are not here. You are not here. You are not here.

Sometimes I think it isn’t the words we fight against, but their impossibility,

Booke

nds

that which clatters down through our fingers into gaps in the floor.

I’m told silence is the world’s gift to girls with tight lips and austere eyes — the truth is, too many words going unsaid is nothing to smile about. You and I tire of ink – constellations, blossoming dark on the sides of our hands. Tell me about yourself. Write me a letter, if we can’t find it in ourselves to write poems.

You push a piece of paper across the table: Here are the things I have no names for.

My brother’s eyes. The cracks in my roof, the rain that there collects, how I shut my ears against drowning in the sound. My mother’s hair, touched by a sun I’ve never seen. I answer: A warmth, morning coffee and fresh bread. What it means to listen to the sea speak from inside a shell.

The angels we wrestle with, and the heavens they leave us for. When I try to write a poem my fingers wonder — How heavy are words, that we place them with such care in these lines in these pages in each other’s hands?

If you read them you may hear my name, how the sounds link arms, an imagined voice in your real ear. Perhaps then we’ll find that we’d become real without knowing it, to one another if not in the pages of books.

21

REGINA BENGZON

I find I have an unsettling (and perhaps potentially awkward) habit of writing poems for (or about, or addressed to) people. “wild places” and “Bookends” are both poems for people.

They’re almost like gestures of setting down the lines those people have put in my head, always with varying degrees of success — and always, as a sort of disclaimer, kind of corny or coded or fragmentary. “wild places” for instance is the strange lovechild of a class assignment, an intense nature-princessy fixation with the sea that I’ve always had, and the uncomfortable assailing thought of a particular Someone that at the moment I was trying to hide from. At a convenient time that I was looking for a way to revise the assignment (which I revised twice in the course of the class and still wasn’t quite happy with) I’d just picked up a copy of Susan Kinsolving’s Dailies and Rushes. I attached myself in particular to her poem “Leaving,” which uses a symmetrical

sequence of alternating long and short lines to talk about the experience of being left behind by a loved one. In tentative counterpoint, I wanted to borrow the same form to write about running away, and about how the sea makes you feel like no one, in ways that you need sometimes. Meanwhile “Bookends” is a tribute to one of my best friends, who over the years has also been one of my most compassionate and understanding readers. I think one of the most acute sources of struggle for anyone who hopes to write is how paltry the words on the page are in comparison to the things you try to render, especially when you think of them trying to reach a reader. At moments like that you become very thankful and full of warm and fuzzy feelings when you think of the people who are willing to ride those sorts of waves with you, and who are brave enough to try and help you make sense of the things you can’t quite say.

FROM THE AUTHOR

Both poems I tried to contain within a particular form, whether in the broken lines or the series of couplets. “wild places” has undergone any number of major revisions, reworkings and overhaulings in which the only things that have stayed the same have been the first few lines and the repeating statement “You are not here.” Of all the forms that it’s taken in the course of its life (?), I think I figured it was finished enough when I decided that its current form was the one I was willing to work within from now on. With “Bookends”, I kept it in couplets to stay true to the notion of matched pairs, and stopped pretty much when the poem ran out of breath — that is, when my internal organs said so.

Needless to say neither of these poems is quite finished.

After having both of them workshopped at the last AHWW, and after looking at them again, it’s much easier to see the little hitches in their internal clockwork. Over-poeticizing has always

been a bad habit of mine, as has the unconscious preference for sound over sense at times. Much of the time I neaten or prettify my poems so much that they close themselves to engagement.

I’m still trying to gather my courage enough to risk newer ways of expression, or an “ugly” line or two that hews closer to what I really mean to say. One of the funniest takeaway lines from the workshop I have in my notes is that I can afford a little dirty language in my poems — I’m certainly trying, and my revisions will be an attempt. (I’ve already revised “Bookends” to show a little more claw, but it doesn’t have quite as many teeth as I’d like just yet.)

23

Abner Dormiendo

Si Abner ay isang estudyante ng AB Philosophy na nag-aambisyong maging isang sikat na manunulat.

Pero kung hindi siya itinakdang maging manunulat... ewan. Di na niya alam ang gagawin niya sa buhay niya.

Bahala na.

(Saka ko na pasasalamatan ang mga tao dahil di kasya sa 500 characters ang pasasalamat ko. Pero kilala niyo kung sino kayo. Salamat. Salamat.)

Abangan ang kaniyang compilation ng maiikling kuwento, antolohiya ng tula, at ang una niyang nobela ilang taon mula ngayon. #chosÂ

ta sa s i t n e han w u Nakita ko na ang a u T K g g n n a a mga pangyayari bago ko p s I a y a ng m a a pa ito tuluyang maisalaysay: isang gabi y N i h g n a y Eulo habang pauwi ang isang lalaki mula sa pinapasukan i n g Ka niyang paaralan, habang tumatawid patungo sa n l o r Bu kabilang dako ng kalsada, nag – vibrate ang cellphone

niya. Hindi niya binabago ang settings ng cellphone niya upang tumunog sa tuwing may tumatawag o nagtetext sa kaniya. Bumagal siya sa kaniyang pagtawid habang hinahalungkat niya ang cellphone sa kaniyang bag. Ang mga sumunod na pangyayari ay hindi na niya namalayan. Dahil kung namalayan niya iyon, walang aksidenteng magaganap. Walang kuwento kung nagkataon. At kung namalayan din ng driver nitong Toyota Innova ang kaniyang biglang pagbagal, malamang ay maiiwasan niyang mabundol itong kawawang lalaki. Wala ring kuwento kung nagkataon.

Sa totoo lang, walang kuwentong magaganap kung ang lahat ng tauhan ay may malay sa mga nasa paligid nila. Iyon ang dapat maintindihan ng isang manunulat: sa pagbibigay niya ng buhay sa mga tauhang isinusulat niya, tinatanggalan niya ito ng sariling malay, ng kalayaang makapili ng kanilang landasin. Dahil kahit anong ipilit mo, nasa mga daliri pa rin ng kuwentista ang kahihinatnan ng tauhan.

Bakit? Kung sakali ngang may malay itong lalaking isinulat ko, sa tingin mo’y mag-aabala siyang tignan ang kaniyang cellphone habang tumatawid? Hindi, siyempre. Dahil alam niyang madidisgrasya siya.

Ngunit ang kapalit ng kawalang – kalayaan ay isang kuwento, isang kasaysayan, marahil, na hindi mo na lang pag-iisipan kung totoo o hindi. Basta sa isang punto ng panahon sa isang uniberso, kung saan man at kung kailan man, nangyari ito.

Kung tutuusin, tapos na ang kuwento noong nasagasaan ang lalaki. Ngunit kahit sa likod ng isinulat, lagpas sa kaniyang mga palugit, sa pagitan ng mga espasyo nito, naroroon ang mga tagpong pinutol na lamang ng manunulat. Pinili na lamang niyang hindi ilahad pa’t pagtuonan ng higit na detalye dahil kapag nagpatuloy pa siyang isalaysay ang kuwento matapos ang katapusan, hahaba pa ito, at malamang ay aabot ito sa puntong hindi na matatapos ang pagsasalaysay nito. Kailangan ding magpahinga ng mga kuwentista.

Ang mga tauhan sa isang akda, hindi. Buhay sila kahit nakasara ang mga pahina ng libro. Alam ko iyon. May mga gabing matapos kong magsulat, binabagabag pa rin ako ng mundong ginawa ko kahit matapos ko na silang ilapat sa panulat. Maraming mga bagay na hindi pa nailalahad, at ayaw ko nang isinasalaysay pa.

Masalimuot masyado ang ikuwento isa-isa ang buhay ng bawat tauhan. Kunsabagay, masalimuot nga rin naman talaga ang buhay; iyon nga lang, hindi talaga sila buháy. Hindi sa paraan kung paanong tayo ay buháy.

Ngunit ngayon, babasagin ko ang aking maliit ngunit mahalagang patakaran. Napatay ko na ang lalaki, ngunit hindi pa rin ako pinagpapahinga ng mga tagpo matapos nito, ng mga tauhang hindi – magkandaugaga sa pagtakbo sa aking isip.

Pinipilit nila ako: ikuwento mo kami, ikuwento mo kami. Kaya napagdesisyunan kong magsalaysay pa, magpatuloy kung saan dapat natapos ang isang kuwento. Kaya kahit hindi ako imbitado, dumalo pa rin ako sa pagluluksa nitong lalaking nasagasaan.

Napakabihirang magpakita ng isang manunulat sa kuwentong isinusulat niya, puwera na lang kung siya ang pangunahing tauhan. Ngunit hindi naman talaga ako kasali sa kuwento, kaya magiging masalimuot ang buong engkwentro na ito, nararamdaman ko na. Ang totoo’y gusto ko lang magsalita. Gusto kong isiping inanyayahan ako ng mga tauhang iniwan nitong lalaki sa paglalamay nito upang magsalaysay at sagutin ang mga tanong nitong mga tauhan na naririto. Nang sa gayo’y makapagpahinga na rin ako.

Ganito ko ilalarawan ang bûrol niya: nasa isang maliit na kapilya lang malapit sa kanilang bahay.

Maputi ang buong kuwarto, maaliwalas, mula sa tiled na sahig, sa pader, hanggang sa mababa nitong kisame. Kinukumutan naman ng dilaw na ilaw ang buong kuwarto, iyong ilaw mula sa mga lampara sa tabi ng kabaong. Puti ang kaniyang kabaong na may gintong hawakan na kumikinang sa liwanag ng mga ilaw. Nakaangat ang takip nitong kabaong. Sa ibabaw ng salamin naroroon ang kaniyang larawan, nakangiti, iyong tipo ng ngiti na hindi mo aakalaing papanaw nang ganoon kabata dahil nag-uumapaw sa kabataan.

Ilang taon nga lamang ba siya? Mga dise-nuwebe siguro, o magbebeinte anyos. Sa tabi ng mga istante ng ilaw, nakalagay ang mga bulaklak na hindi mo alam kung tunay o peke. Naroroon din ang hile-hilerang upuan ng kapilya. Sa pinakaharap ang pamilya: nanay, tatay, ang nakababata nitong babaeng kapatid na akay-akay ang tatlong taong gulang na kapatid nilang lalaki. Lahat din sila, nakaputing may bahid ng dilaw na ilaw. Sa likod, ang kaniyag mga kaibigan mula sa paaralang pinapasukan niya ngayon. Sa likod nila, ang mga kaklase sa paaralan niya noong high school siya. Sa pinakalikuran ng kapilya naghalo ang mga kaibigan ng pamilyang tunay na nakikiramay sa mga taong nakikiusiyoso lang, o sa mga lintang naroon lang para makahingi ng meriendang biskwit at kape, at makakukot ng mani’t butong pakwan.

Ito na nga ang huling gabi ng paglalamay ng lalaki.

Inanyayahan ang mga pinakamalalapit na kaibiga’t kamag-anak para magsalita. Inuna siyempre ang mga kaklase nitong malapit sa kaniya. Pagkatapos, ang kaniyang kapatid na babae, ang tatay, at ang nanay sa huli. Ito ang mga pananalitang hindi ko na bibigyang – diin dahil hahaba pa lalo ang daloy ng kuwento.

Maaari na sanang doon na nagtapos sa ina ang pananalita, ngunit gusto ko – hindi, kailangan ko – na magwika ng iilang saloobin para sa lalaki, ukol sa lalaki, ukol sa mga pangyayari. Kailangan kong isingit ang aking pananalita, ang aking pagtayo sa aking kinauupuan upang tumayo sa pulpito’t magsimulang manalumpati. Tumayo ako, kinuha ang mikropono sa istante, at sinubukang hagilapin sa aking isip ang mga salitang ipambubungad.

“Magandang gabi.” Babatiin ko sila. Mababaling ang aking tingin sa pamilya sa harapan ko. Kailangang gulat ang kanilang mga mukha. At gulat nga sila. “Sa mga hindi pa nakakaalam, ako po ang nagsulat sa kuwento nitong lalaking ito.”

Maraming mamamangha sa aking sinabi: siya pala ang kuwentista! Siya pala ang gumawa ng lahat ng ito!

Maraming maguguluhan: paano siya makakapasok sa kinatha niyang mundo? Hindi ba niya sinisira ang pader na namamagitan sa mundo ng katotohanan at katha?

Ngunit iba ang magiging reaksiyon ng ina.

Pagkamuhi. “Ikaw. Ikaw ang pumatay sa anak ko!”

“Oo, aaminin ko. May responsabilidad ako sa pagkamatay niya.”

“Bakit mo ginawa iyon?” Sunod niyang itatanong sa akin.

“Dahil kailangan ko ng kuwento.”

Gusto kong makarinig ng bulungan, para mukhang may kabuluhan ang aking sinasabi, upang magmukhang kontrobersyal. Lalagyan ko ng bulungan na hindi ko na pipiliting bigyang – linaw. Wala rin akong naiisip na puwedeng pagbulungan sa aking sinabi. Basta, gusto ko lang magtunog na mahalaga ang aking sinabi, na malalim at nakakabagabag marahil.

“Sakim ka!” Sisigaw ang ina. Papipigilan ko kaya sa kaniyang pamilya ang kaniyang paghihisterikal? Hindi na. Hindi nga siya pinigilan ng kaniyang pamilya nang bigla siyang magwala sa kapilya. “Pinatay mo ang anak ko para lang sa sarili mong kuwento! Hindi mo man lang naisip na mas mahalaga ang buhay niya?

Ni hindi mo nga siya nakuhang bigyan ng pangalan!”

Oo nga. Oo nga. Gusto kong marinig na bulungan mula sa mga tao. Oo nga. Ngunit kailangan pa bang bigyan ng pangalan?

“Kung gusto mo ng pangalan para sa anak mo, Daniel. Daniel ang kaniyang pangalan.”

27

ABNER DORMIENDO

Daniel. Wala na ring bisa ang pangalan sa kuwento, kung tutuusin. Tapos na ang kuwento. Patay na siya.

Bakit pa niya gusto ng pangalan? Magbubulungan ang mga nakikipaglamay: Daniel, Daniel… na parang iyon ang unang beses na binigyan ko ng pangalan ang isang tauhan sa aking mga naisulat na. Na parang mga ibong ginagaya ang huling salitang sinabi ko. Namamangha.

Daniel... Daniel… Bahagyang mapapayapa ang ina, ngunit hindi pa siya tapos.

“Bakit mo pinatay si Daniel?” At iiyak siya ng isang pag-iyak na tanging ang isang inang namatayan ng anak ang tanging makagagawa.

“Dahil nangangailangan nga ako ng isang magandang kuwento. Paano ako makasusulat ng magandang kuwento kung mananatili siyang buhay?”

Gusto kong matahimik ang ina kahit panandali lang. Iyong tipong pinag-iisipan ang mga sinabi ko. Nanahimik nga ang ina, pinagbubulayan pa ang kakaunti pang mga sinabi ko. Mukhang mas maganda kung may saglit na katahimikan sa kapilya matapos ang tensiyon na ito. Mga ilang segundo marahil, habang sinasamsam ko pa ang aking gunita. Habang iniisip ko pa kung ano namang mga tanong, mga paratang, mga salita ang ilalagay ko sa bibig nitong mga tauhan na naririto sa burol.

“Sana ako na lang.” Sisingit ang ama nito. Gusto ko rin namang marinig magsalita ang ama, kaya sa kaniya ko na binigay ang linyang iyon.

“Ngunit walang kagandahan sa kuwento kung ikaw ang pipiliin kong patayin. Kaya nga maganda rin ang kuwento, dahil bata pa ang namatay.

Nakapanghihinayang.”

“Pero bata pa siya. Marami pa siyang magagawang kuwento kung hindi mo agad siya pinatay.” Idurugtong nito.

“Oo. Ngunit kumpara dito sa kuwento ng pagkamatay niya, hindi magiging kasingganda at kasingmakabuluhan ang kaniyang magagawang kuwento.”

Matatahimik ang lahat. Dapat ay mag-isip pa sila ng itatanong sa akin bilang tagalikha ni Daniel, at bilang responsable sa kaniyang pagpanaw. Dapat magisip pa ako ng tanong.

“Sana man lang nabigyan mo kami ng pagkakataong makapagpaalam sa kaniya na alam niya.” Sasabihin ng kaibigan nito sa likod ng pamilya.

“Kailangan niyong matuto sa kaniyang pagpanaw.

Ito ang punto kung bakit siya namatay. Ito ang punto kung bakit may kuwento: dahil may kailangang matutunan.” Gusto ko ng katahimikan.

Katahimikan.

“Napakalupit mo.” Iyon ang mga salitang gusto kong marinig. Malupit ako dahil isa akong kuwentista.

Hindi ko naman ikakaila iyon. Masama ang maging isang manunulat. Gumagawa ka ng isang mundo kung saan gagawin mong masaklap ang buhay ng mga tauhan upang magkaroon ng kabuluhan ang kuwento. At magagawa mo iyon sa pagtanggal mo sa kanilang kalayaan. Tinatanggalan mo na nga sila ng kalayaan, may karapatan ka pang patayin ang bawat isa sa mga tauhang ginawa mo. Kung hindi patayin, pahirapan. Bigyan ng maraming-maraming problema nang magkaroon ng epekto. Kung anumang epekto iyon, hindi ako sigurado. Ngunit kung kinakailangang may mamatay, kung kinakailangang tambakan ng pagsubok ang mga tauhan, bakit hindi? Maraming taong kailangang matuto bukod sa mga tauhan sa loob ng kuwento. Hindi lang naman ang mga tauhan sa loob ng isang kuwento ang nakikinabang sa mundong kanilang kinagagalawan, sa mundong binuo ng isang manunulat. Ng mundong binuo ko.

Ngunit walang magsasabi noon sa mga tao doon.

Walang tatawag sa akin na malupit, na masama.

Bukod nga sa ina ni Daniel, ngunit dahil masyado lang siyang nadala sa mga pangyayari. Maaari ba nilang tawaging masama ang taong naglalang sa kanila?

“Ang lahat ng ito ay para sa inyo. Ang lahat ng ginagawa ko, kahit itong kamatayan ni Daniel – ” Napatigil ako nang bahagya sa bahaging ito.

Pinagmasdan ko ang mukha ng ina, na ngayo’y nahimasmasan na. “ — lahat ng ito’y para sa ikabubuti.” Sa totoo lang, hindi ko na rin alam ang aking pinagsasasabi. Gusto ko lang na may masabi.

At sa tingin ko nama’y nasabi ko na lahat. Maaari na siguro akong bumaba sa pulpito nitong kapilya.

Ngunit kailangan kong tapusin ang aking talumpati.

EULOHIYA NG ISANG KUWENTISTA SA BUROL NG KANIYANG NAMAYAPANG TAUHAN

Paano?

“Kapag natapos na itong kuwentong ito, malilimutan niyo na ang kalungkutan niyo.”

Kapag natapos na itong kuwentong ito, malilimutan na nilang lahat ang kalungkutan nila.

Ngunit sa iba marahil, kapag natapos na itong kuwentong ito, hindi nila malilimutan ang kalungkutang dala nito.

Ako, bilang manunulat, obligado akong lumimot at makaalala. Kailangan kong kalimutan ang aking isinulat upang magbigay ng espasyo sa aking isipan para sa mga darating pang mga kuwento. Kahit itong mga nangyari rito. Kailangan kong kalimutan ang ina, ang mga tanong, ang kapilya, si Daniel. Ngunit kailangan kong alalahanin na minsan nagsulat ako.

Na minsan, naging bahagi si Daniel ng isa sa aking mga kuwento. Kailangan kong paalalahanan ang aking sarili na may ganitong kaganapan. Na may ganitong katotohanan: ang katotohanang ako ang pumatay kay Daniel, at ang katotohanang marami pang susunod sa kaniyang mamamatay at mahihirapan. Na marami pa akong papatayin at pahihirapan.

Nagpaalam na ako kay Daniel. Ilalarawan ko ang kaniyang hitsura sa loob ng ataul: maputi, patongpatong na kolorete sa kaniyang mukha. Alam mong siya iyon, ngunit masyadong binago ng kung ano. Siguro kapag idinadaan sa morge ang isang bangkay, kapag pinaembalsamo mo na, nagbabago nang bahagya.

Nagbabago, iyong pagbabago na hindi ganoon kalaki upang hindi mo na makilala ang bangkay, at hindi rin ganoon kaliit upang hindi ka matulig kung buhay pa nga ang tao sa loob o hindi na talaga. Hindi ko naman masasabing para lamang siyang natutulog, dahil hindi talaga. Hindi nagmumukhang natutulog ang mga bangkay. Sino bang buhay na tao ang matutulog nang may kolorete sa mukha?

Paalam, Daniel. Gusto kong sabihin iyon. Isa na lamang siya sa maraming tauhang aking pinatay para sa isang kuwento. Maraming salamat sa pagpapahiram ng mumunti mong buhay para sa aking kuwento.

Sa totoo lang, hindi ko alam kung paano magpapaalam sa mga taong naririto sa burol. Hindi naman sila talaga totoo, hindi buháy katulad nga ng

sinabi ko. Ngunit maiiwasan ba ng isang manunulat na hindi magkaroon ng attachment, isang pagkagiliw, sa kaniyang isinulat? Sa tingin ko’y hindi. Ang bawat akda’y kapiraso ng kaluluwa ng isang manunulat.

Maaaring kalimutan, ngunit hindi maaaring takasan.

Hindi ko sila maaaring takasan.

“Hanggang sa muli nating pagkikita.” Bibigkasin ko sa mikropono. Walang iimik sa mga tao. Sa tingin ko hindi nila ako nanaising makita sa lalong madaling panahon. Ngunit alam kong gusto nilang magamit balang araw sa isang kuwento, mamatay alang-alang sa pag-usad ng aking isusulat, maging isang makatuturang aral para sa ibang tao. At alam ko ring hindi nila alam kung paano ko sila isusulat: kung papatayin ko ba sila sa isang aksidente, tulad ni Daniel, o kung gagawin ko silang mamamatay – tao, o isang puta, o isa lamang na pangalawang tauhan, sumusuporta lang sa banghay nitong bida. Natatakot sila sa mangyayari sa kanila, sa walang – kasiguraduhang pagkakalas ng kuwento nila. Ngunit wala silang magagawa kundi ipaubaya sa akin ang pagsusulat.

At ito ang paghihirap na handa akong pasanin bilang kuwentista. Libu-libong imahinaryong kaluluwa ang naghihintay na mapangalanan sa papel, sa panitik.

At wala naman akong ibang magagawa kundi ang sumulat nang sumulat. Na parang iyon lang ang dapat kong gawin. Na para bang itinakda akong lumikha ng maraming tauhan sa kuwento, na paglao’y akin namang sisirain. Bubuuin ko nang buong pagkahilig at sisirain nang buong pagkahumaling, nang buong kagustuhan.

Alang-alang sa marami pang Daniel na darating sa akin. Alang-alang sa pagkabuo ng isang kuwento.

29 29

Mga B

a n y a g a

n a l a g n a P g n Wala

Palubog na ang araw.

Nagsisimula nang mag-agawan ang liwanag at dilim sa langit. Naglalabasan na rin isa-isa ang mga bitwin. Habang hindi pa ako sinusumon sa loob, pinalipas ko na lamang ang mga makapigilhiningang mga minuto sa pagtitig sa mga tala tulad ng aking ginagawa noong naririto pa si Estrella.

Estrella. Bitwin sa Kastila. At angkop din ang pangalan sa kaniya: kung paanong kumukutitap ang kaniyang mga mata sa tuwing may nadidiskubre siyang para sa kaniya’y kamangha-mangha, ang kaniyang mahinhing paggalaw mula sa isang kwarto patungo sa kabilang dako na parang naglalahong liwanag, pati na rin ang kaniyang kaalaman sa mga bitwin at mga planeta. Maraming gabi niya akong dadalhin sa balkonahe ng kanilang tahanan at uupo kami sa isang mahabang bangko. Bitbit niya ang isang lampara habang ipadadala niya sa akin ang kaniyang makapal at alikabuking libro tungkol sa kalawakan. Pagkatapos masigurado na maayos at ligtas na ang kalagayan ng mga Huk sa aking silong, matapos siguraduhin na tago sila’t nakakain na nang maigi, saka ako pupuslit ng pagbisita kina Estrella. Walang nakakaalam sa aking ginagawang pagkukubli sa mga tulisan. Kahit si Estrella.

At ayaw ko ring madamay siya sa aking trabaho. Sapat nang binibigyan niya ako ng ganitong uri ng aliw.

“Oy!” Lumabas sa pinto sa aking tabi ang isang lalaking nakasundalong porma: sumbrero sa kaniyang ulo, dyaket at pantalon na kulay – kaki na may sinturong nakapalibot sa kaniyang baywang, at isang pares ng nangingintab na sapatos. Nakasukbit sa kaniyang kaliwang balikat ang isang bayoneta.

Nanginig ang aking kalamnan nang makita ko ang pagkinang ng patalim sa dulo ng baril. Demonyo.

Demonyo ang gumawa ng sandatang ito. Sinenyasan ako ng sundalong tumayo’t sundan siya, ngunit sa bayoneta pa lang sa kaniyang balikat, hindi na akong mag-aalangang sumunod.

Nilakad namin ang hile-hilerang mga bahay na may mabababang bubong: tahimik, walang kulay.

Parang tinakasan ng buhay. Lumiligid sa hangin ang amoy ng pulbura at abo. Tuluyan nang lumubog ang araw, naglaho na ang huling mga sinag at isa-isa nang nagsisindihan ang mga lampara sa poste ng bawat mabababang gusali. Kumatok ang sundalo sa isang kwarto, at bumungad ang isang lalaking kamukhangkamukha nitong kasama ko, mula sa sumbrero at sa sapatos, hanggang sa kanilang mga postura, ang kanilang mahahabang mukha, singkit na mata, at

sakang na mga binti. Magkamukhang-magkamukha sila. Aakalain mong magkapatid, pero sadyang iisa lang talaga ang hulmahan ng mga magkakababayan.

Nangusap ang dalawang sakang sa isang lenggwaheng hindi ko maintindihan. At siguro, kahit naiintindihan ko, hindi ko pa rin masusundan ang kanilang sinasabi sa bilis ng kanilang pananalita. Maliban sa kanilang pagtatawanan, wala akong naintindihan sa pagpapalitang naganap. Matapos ang ilang segundo, bumalik ang lalaki sa loob at bumalik nang may dalang lumang lampara. Iyon lang pala ang hiniram, inabot pa kami ng siyam-siyam.

Matapos sindihan ng sundalo ang lampara, nagpatuloy na muli kami sa paglakad. May kakaibang pag-imbay ang lampara sa bawat hakbang na gagawin ng sundalo; kahit wala sa giyera, may disiplina pa rin sa paglakad. Matindi ang pag-ugoy ng lampara sa kamay ng lalaki. Bayolente.

Malikot. Ibang-iba sa pag-akay ni Estrella.

May kakaibang rikit ang pagdala ni Estrella sa lampara. Daig pa ang inang nag-aakay sa kaniyang sanggol kung bitbitin niya ang lampara. Kakatok ako sa tarangkahan ng kanilang tahanan, at babatiin niya ako ng isang ngiting tinatanglawan ng dilaw na liwanag mula sa ilawang tangan niya sa kaniyang maliit na kamay. Gamit ang kabilang kamay, hahawakan niya ang kamay ko at mahinhin niya akong hahatakin paakyat sa kanilang tahanan. Matagal ko nang napansing hindi umuugoy ang liwanag sa lamparang hawak nito. Parang isang bangka kung uminog sa banayad na alon ng kaniyang paglalakad.

Titigil kami sa harap ng kanilang aklatan at ituturo niya sa akin ang librong kukunin ko sa gabing iyon.

At saka kami magtutungo sa balkonahe niya. Doon niya sisimulang ituturo sa akin kung paanong hanapin ang Polaris, o kung ano ang mga pangalan ng mga bitwin sa Orion. Ikukwento pa niya na patay na raw ang mga talang tinitignan namin, at kumukinang lang sila dahil ngayon lang nakaabot sa atin ang kanilang matagal nang patay na liwanag. Hindi ko pa rin iyon lubos na maintindihan hanggang ngayon. Minsan, kung maaliwalas ang kalangitan, maghahanap kami ng bulalakaw, o kung suswertehin, papangalanan ang mga planetang makikita namin. Parati kong hinahanap ang mga gabing iyon, tulad ng paghahanap namin sa mga konstelasyong walang mga pangalan.

Nang bigla akong napalingat, tumambad sa aming harapan ang isang tahanang di hamak na mas malaki kumpara sa mga hanay na kwartong nadaanan namin patungo rito. Sa harap ng pinto matikas na nakatayo ang dalawang sundalo. Nagpalitan ng iilang salita ang mga sundalo at saka lang kami pinapasok. Malamig ang pinasukan naming gusali: nagtataasan ang mga

pader na gawa sa bato kung saan umaalingawngaw ang bawat yapak na gagawin ng aming mga paa. Sa bawat pulgadang pag-usad naming dalawa, mas lumalamig ang paligid. Nagsisimula nang magsitindigan ang balahibo sa aking balat. Bumabaliktad ang sikmura ko. Malayo na ang aking narating. Wala nang atrasan.

Bumaba kami sa isang hagdan sa ilalim ng sahig, at binati kami ng malamig na hangin. Sumikip ang aking dibdib. At kung anong isinikip ng dibdib ko, ganoon din kakitid ang lagusang aming binaybay.

Halos yakapin na kami ng malamig at mamasa-masang batong pader. Halos hindi ako makagalaw nang maayos, ngunit halatang sanay na ang sundalo sa aming nilalakad: parang tubig siyang kumilos sa pagitan ng nag-uumpugang bato, walang kahirap-hirap.

Hindi naman niya binagalan ang kaniyang pagbagal para lang magkasabay kami. Parang gusto ko siyang sigawan: sandali lang! May kasama ka rin, ano? Kaso naalala ko kung sino – o ano – ang kasama ko. Hindi mo mapakikiusapan ang mga taong may bayoneta.

Lumuwag-luwag na ang dinadaanan namin, at naging mas maliwanag ang lahat. Hindi ko alam kung dahil mas dumami ang mga kandilang nakaistante sa pader o dahil nasanay na ang aking paningin sa dilim, ngunit kung ano man ang nakita ko ay mas nagpaigting sa nararamdaman kong takot. May mga kulungan sa pader ng lagusan na halos dalawang dipa ang layo sa isa’t isa. Madilim ang loob ng bawat kulungan, ngunit maaaninag mo ang mga mukha ng mga taong nakasadlak doon. Hindi. Maririnig mo sila.

Maririnig mo ang mga panaghoy nila: mga daing ng sakit, ng kalungkutan, ng pangungulila. Ipinikit ko na lang ang aking panimdim. May bumabalik sa gunita na ayaw ko nang balikan.

Oo. Naalala ko iyong gabing iyon. Dumalaw ako kina Estrella. Manonood muli kami ng mga tala at mga bulalakaw. Kumatok ako sa tarangkahan ng kanilang tahanan. Makalawa, makatlo akong kumatok, ngunit walang sumagot. Umingit ang pinto at bahagya itong bumuka. Mukhang hindi naikandado ni Estrella ang pinto ng kanilang tahanan. Pumasok na rin ako sa loob kahit wala pa siya. May kakaibang katahimikan noong pumasok ako sa tahanan nila. Wala ang lamparang laging bitbit ni Estrella kaya halos wala akong makita sa silid – tanggapan. Lumabas kaya si Estrella? Imposible. Hindi siya pinapalabas ng kaniyang magulang, lalo na’t gabi na. Isa pa, alam niyang dadalaw ako sa kanilang tahanan ngayong gabi kaya hindi maaaring umalis siya.

Tahimik kong hinanap si Estrella sa madilim na kabahayan. Maingat akong nangapa sa mga muwebles at baka may mabangga. Patungo ako sa kanilang kusina

31

ABNER DORMIENDO

(sa kusina ba iyon? Hindi ko alam, sobrang dilim noon) nang may nasagap ako mula sa gilid ng aking mga mata. Parang pagkinang ng nag-iisang bitwin sa kalawakan. May mapanglaw na liwanag na pumukaw sa aking mga mata sa dilim ng bahay ni Estrella. Hindi ako maaaring magkamali. Iyon ang lampara niya.

Dahan-dahan kong tinungo ang kaniyang silid.

Gugulatin ko sana siya. Unti-unting lumaki ang liwanag ng lampara. May naaninag akong isang aninong kumikilos sa dilim. Nang abot – kamay na ang pintuan ng silid, bigla kong binuksan ang pinto.

Nakita ko si Estrella: lupasay, hindi kumikilos. Hindi gumagalaw ang kaniyang mukha at ang katawan niyang hubad. Daig pa niya ang isang bangkay kung hindi makakilos. Tanging ang aninong nakapatong sa kaniya ang nagpapakilos sa pinag-isa nilang katawan.

Kilala ko iyong aninong iyon. Pinatira ko ang aninong iyon sa aking tahanan kasama ng ilan niyang mga kasamahang hindi ko maalala ang pangalan, mga pangalang ayaw ko nang maalala, ni ayaw ko nang alalahanin. Napatigil ang anino sa kaniyang ginagawa kay Estrella, na parang isang tigreng nagambala sa paglapa ng walang – kalaban-labang usa, at lumingon sa sulok na aking pinagtataguan, iyong sulok kung saan pinanonood ko ang kababuyang nagaganap sa aking harapan. Nakilala ko ang kaniyang mukha.

Naalala ko na ang kaniyang pangalan. Julian. Ang hayop na si Julian. Si Julian na pinatira ko sa aking tahanan kasama ng kaniyang mga katoto. Ngunit hindi niya ako nakilala. Hindi niya ako napangalanan. At nakatakbo na ako paalis ng tahanan bago pa niya ako lubusang makilala. Nanakbo sa takot, sa pagkalito, sa pandidiri, na hinabol naman ako gaano man kabilis ang aking pagtakbo papalayo sa tahanang iyon.

Hindi ko mabura ang mukha ni Estrella habang ginagahis siya ni Julian: ang kaniyang mapayapang mukha, mga matang nakapikit kung saan tumagas ang isang kumikinang na luha, ang makinis niyang kutis na tadtad ng sugat na nangingintab sa dilim, at ang kaniyang labing umuungol. Mahinang-mahina, halos hindi maririnig sa layo ng aking pagkakatayo mula sa kaniya. Ngunit nababasa ko ang paggalaw ng kaniyang namumulang mga labi. Tinatawag niya ako.

Sinasambit niya ang aking pangalan.

“Oy!” Naramdaman ko ang pagbangga ng siko sa aking dibdib. Narating na pala namin ang dulo ng lagusan, hindi ko namalayan. May mababang pinto sa aming harapan, na bumukas matapos katukin ng sundalo, at saka kami pumasok. Mas maliwanag ang loob ng silid, ngunit naroon pa rin ang kahungkagan, ang kadiliman. May iilan lang na bagay sa loob nito: mga tatlo o apat na lampara na nakasabit sa pader, isang bakal na upuan, at isang kahoy na mesa na may iilang abubot sa ibabaw. Sa upuan nakaupo ang isang matandang sundalo. Yumukod ang sundalong kasama ko, at binatukan ako upang mapayukod din sa kung sino mang damuho ang nasa harapan namin. Nagusap ang dalawa, titingin sa aking direksiyon habang nagsasalita na para bang ako ang pina-uusapan.

Samantalang tiim – bagang ko namang tiniis ang kumikirot ko pa ring ulo mula sa pambabatok.

“You!” Tinawag ako ng sundalo. Sa unang pagkakataon sa gabing ito, may naintindihan ako sa sinabi nila.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Halatang pilit ang kaniyang pag-i-Ingles, pero hindi ko magawang tumawa. Putris. Ikaw ba naman ang maharap sa ganitong sitwasyon, makakatawa ka pa kaya? Matapos mawala ang taong pinakamamahal mo, matapos kang pagtaksilan ng mga taong tinulungan mo, may itatawa ka pa ba? May dahilan ka pa ba para magpatuloy?

Mag-aalangan ka pa bang gawin ang kahit ano kung wala na namang mawawala sa iyo?

“Yes.” Ang pinakaunang salitang sinabi ko ngayong gabi. Nagpalitan ng tingin ang dalawang sundalo. Naaalibadbaran ako sa ginagawa nilang iyon, pero sige lang.

“Before you do this, you wear this.” Sabay turo sa isang bagay na mukhang kanina pa nakapatong sa ibabaw ng mesa ngunit ngayon ko lang napansin.

Isang bayong na may dalawang butas sa isang gilid.

Alam ko namang kailangan ko iyong suotin, ngunit nag-aalangan pa rin ako. At animo’y naramdaman ang aking pag-aalinlangan, binunot ng sundalo ang bayoneta mula sa pagkakasukbit nito sa kaniyang balikat at itinutok sa akin. Wala rin naman akong

MGA BAGAY NA WALANG PANGALAN

magagawa kundi ang sumunod. At kunsabagay, gagawin ko naman ito kahit walang dahas na magpipilit sa aking gawin ito. Hindi ko lang talagang mapigilan ang sarili kong matakot. Sinukbit ko na sa aking namamawis na ulo ang bayong. Naramdaman ko ang makati na buri sa balat ng aking mukha at anit.

Lumiit ang lawak ng aking paningin sa dalawang maliit na butas sa bayong. Narinig ko lalo ang mabigat kong paghinga na ikinulong ng sawaling bayong. Sinilip ako ng sundalo mula sa dalawang butas, at sinenyasan akong sumunod sa kaniya. Dahil na rin sa wala ako masyadong makita, napayuko ako upang tignan ang aking nilalakaran. Lumabas kami sa kabilang pinto, doon sa hindi namin pinanggalingan.

Tumingala na lamang ako nang nakita ko ang pagtigil ng pares ng paa sa aking harapan. Lupa na pala ang aking inaapakan at hindi na bato. Lumuwag na rin ang lugar. Mukhang nasa labas na yata kami ng lagusan. May nakahilerang mga lalaki sa aming harapan. Binilang ko sila mula sa mga butas ng bayong: mga walo silang lalaki, labing-anim na pares na mga matang nakatingin sa akin. Sa kanilang likuran, may mga nakatayong sundalo. Binasa ko ang mga mata ng bawat isa sa dilim: takot, galit, tapang. Alam nilang darating din ang araw na ito. Alam nila kung bakit naroroon sila, at alam nila kung bakit ako naroroon.

Nakaramdam ako ng pagpatong ng kamay sa aking balikat. Biglang bumait kuno ang sundalo.

“You point.” Sabi ng isang boses sa barok na Ingles.

“Who is Japan’s enemy?”

Namuo ang pawis sa aking noo, na hindi ko naman mapunasan dahil sa nakaharang na maskara sa aking ulo. Tinignan ko nang mabuti ang mga lalaki. Kilala ko halos lahat sila. Ito. Itong kalbo na may mahabang peklat sa mata. Tumaas ang aking hintuturo patungo sa lalaking ito. “Wala akong alam diyan! Wala akong kasalanan! Hayop ka! Duwag ka! Ipakita mo ang sarili mo! Huwag kang magtago sa likod ng bayong na iyan!”

Kinaladkad siya palayo ng mga sundalo mula sa pulutong patungo sa likod. Hindi naman lumingon ang mga lalaki sa hanay, marahil sa takot. Nakita ko kung paanong tumurok ang bayoneta sa kaniyang dibdib. At kasabay ng umalingawngaw na putok, kumislap ang isang

liwanag mula sa dulo ng sandata. Parang bulalakaw na tumama sa pisngi ng isang planeta. At lumupasay ang planeta sa lupa nang matamaan ng bala.

Sa isang iglap, napalitan ng takot ang kung anumang ipinipinta ng mukha ng mga lalaki. Naramdaman ko ang kapangyarihan sa aking mga daliri. Itong payat na lalaki. Si Bangkay kung tawagin siya sa aking bahay ng kaniyang mga kasamahan. Ipinamalas nang muli ng aking mga daliri ang kanilang kapangyarihan. Walang imik na nagpahatak si Bangkay sa mga sundalo, at bago dumarak ang patalim sa kaniyang kalamnan, isang sigaw ang namutawi sa kaniyang bibig: Mabuhay ang Pilipinas! At sa isang pagputok, napalitan ang kaniyang sigaw ng katapangan ng alingawngaw ng pangamba.

Isa na lang naman ang kailangang managot.

Nasilayan ko ang kaniyang mukha sa mga butas ng aking maskara. At parang nagbalik ang lahat noong gabing iyon: ang mukha ni Estrella sa liwanag ng lampara. Iyon na nga ang huling pagkakataon na nakita ko siyang buhay. At ang mukha ng aninong iyon, ang aninong nasa aking harapan ngayon. Hindi niya ako nakilala noong gabing iyon. At ngayong gabi, mananatili akong walang pangalan sa kaniya.

Ibinaba na ng aking mga daliri ang hustisya kay Julian. Nagpupumiglas siya habang hinaltak siya patalikod ng mga sundalo, at nakatitig lang ako sa kaniya habang walang lakas siyang lumalaban. Napako na siya sa lupa ng iba pang sundalo at nakatitig siya sa akin. Hindi ako ang taksil, Julian. Ikaw. Ikaw ang sukab.

Tinignan niya ako bago bumaba ang bayoneta sa kaniyang nanginginig na katawan, at nakita ko sa kaniyang mga mata, nabasa ko ang aking pangalan sa kaniyang mukha. Nakilala niya ako.

Kuminang ang patalim sa kadiliman, at bago pa niya ako tuluyang napangalanan, mabilis na sumaksak ito sa tiyan ni Julian. At nanahimik ang paligid matapos ang isang putok.

Pinagpatong-patong ng mga sundalo ang tatlong bangkay sa gilid habang pinagmartsa pabalik sa kulungan ang natitirang mga lalaki. Nanatili ako at ang ilang sundalo sa pinangyarihan ng paghuhukom.

Wala na ang mga preso. Tinungo ko ang mga bangkay ng mga pinaslang ngayong gabi at pinagmasdan sila

3 33

ABNER DORMIENDO

tulad ng aking pagmamasid sa mga patay na tala noong naririto pa si Estrella. Hindi ko na lang pinansin ang nangyayaring palitan mula sa mga sundalo sa aking likod. Hinubad ko ang aking bayong at itinapon sa gilid. Malamig sa aking pisngi ang pagbati ng hangin ng gabi. Sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon mula noong gabing iyon, nakaramdam ako ng ginhawa. Napapikit ako. Alam kong kung nasaan man ngayon si Estrella, mapayapa na siyang nahihimlay.

Mabilis na nangyari ang lahat pagkatapos noon.

May isang matigas na bagay ang bumangga sa likod ko.

Napatikwas ako’t patihayang bumagsak sa lupa. Nakita ko ang mga sundalo sa aking paligid. Nakita ko ang kumikinang nilang mga bayoneta sa ilalim ng liwanag ng buwan. At naramdaman ko na lang ang matalim na pagbagsak nito sa akin, ang mainit na pagtagas ng dugo, at ang unti-unting pagdidilim ng lahat.

Bumabagal ang aking paghinga habang nakatingin sa mga bitwin, ninanamnam ang huling mga minuto ng liwanag bago tuluyang lamunin ng dilim. Nakita ko ang mukha ni Estrella, bumabakas sa mga sinag ng mga tala. Nakatingin siya pabalik sa akin, nakangiti.

Nakikita mo iyon, Estrella? Kumikinang sila para sa atin. Huwag ka nang malungkot. Maayos na muli ang lahat. Tapos na, Estrella. Tapos na. Halika, dalhin mo muli ako sa inyong balkonahe. Magmasid muli tayo ng mga tala. Hindi. Dalhin mo ako sa kalawakan, Estrella.

Isayaw mo ako sa kanilang mga piling. Makakapagsama na muli tayo, Estrella. Estrella‌

MULA SA MAY-AKDA

Sabi

sa

At minsan, sa pagbabalik – tanaw ko sa aking mga naisulat na,

pagsulat ng kuwento’y kung paano ito sisimulan, dahil kailangan

ng

maraming

manunulat,

napagtatanto kong hindi ko pa nga talaga kilala ang aking isinulat.

makapukaw – atensyon

ang

ang

pambungad

pinakamahirap para

daw

ang

Oo nga pala. Sapat lang ang alam ko sa kaniya. Hindi mo kailanman

mambabasang ituloy ito. Sabi naman ng iba, ang gitnang bahagi

maengganyo

makikilala ng lubusan ang isang kaibigan, lalo na kung ang sarili mo

raw ang pinakamahirap dahil doon ang pinakarurok ng kuwento na

lang ang pagbabasehan mo ng iyong kaalaman tungkol sa kaniya. Sa

kailangan ay kapana-panabik para sa magbabasa. Samantalang ang

madaling salita, kailangan mo ang tulong ng iba upang mas makilala

iba, sa dulo naman ang sinasabing pinakamahirap, dahil kung maganda

mo ang isang tao. Kailangan kong ipakita sa ibang tao ang aking

nga ang simula’t gitna ngunit walang kuwenta naman ang katapusan,

naisulat upang mas makilala ko ito.

wala rin. Nawawala iyong bisa na naroroon sa umpisa.

Kaya labis ang pasasalamat ko sa AHWW — sa mga panelists,

Ngunit ang totoo niyan, mahirap ang pagsulat ng kuwento. Period.

co – fellows, at team — dahil sa pagkakataong ipakita ang aking mga

Kung gayon, mahirap ang maging isang kuwentista. Kaya rin siguro

isinulat at maisalang ito sa opinyon at kritisismo ng ibang tao.

hindi ko tinatawag ang aking sarili bilang isang ganap na kuwentista.

Noong una’y kinakabahan ako noong pinag-uusapan na ang Mga

Kumbaga, nagtatangka lang akong sumulat. Kahit na nakasama ako sa

Bagay na Walang Pangalan, dahil alam ko na rin ang mga lakas at

18th Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop, hindi ko pa rin maituring ang

kahinaan nito, lalo na’t para sa isang historikal na akda ay hindi ako

sarili ko bilang kuwentista.

masyadong nakapagsaliksik ukol sa panahon ng pananakop ng mga

Dahil ano nga lang ba ang ginagawa ko? Nagsasamsam lang ako ng

Hapones. At ang inaakala kong lakas niya’y kahinaan pala, at ang mga

mga bagay na araw-araw kong nakikita, naririnig, naaamoy, nasasalat,

hindi ko nakikitang positibong aspeto ng aking akda’y kalakasan din pala.

nalalasahan, nababasa, nadarama. Kumbaga sa agham, collection of data.

Marami akong nalaman, at kung anumang mga bagay ang alam ko na’y

Nangongolekta ng iba’t ibang mga bagay pagkatapos ay itinatabi sa isip.

nakita ko nang mas malinaw at mas maayos. Ganoon din noong isinalang

Nakakita ako ng mga larawan ng mga bitwin, planeta, bulalakaw — itabi.

ang Eulohiya, na mas kinabahan ako dahil ito ang isa sa mga pagtatangka kong sumulat ng metafiction. At ito ang isang genre na gusto ko talagang

Ang Toyota Innova ng aking kaibigan — isamsam.

paglinangin. Kaya noong nagbibigay na ang mga panelists ng komento

Ang pagsasalin ng “bitwin” sa Kastila: “estrella”, ang hitsura ng

ukol dito, sinigurado kong nakuha ko lahat-lahat ng kanilang sinabi.

kapilyang kinakantahan ko noong nasa choir pa ako, ang nabasa ko

Binalikan ko uli ang akda matapos ng workshop, at nakita ko sila sa

tungkol sa mga Makapili noong panahon ng mga Hapon, ang alaala ng

isang panibagong lente. Naalala kong hindi ko nga pala tuluyang kilala

mga dinaluhan kong burol. Lahat nang iyo’y nagmula sa aking alaala,

ang aking mga akda. Bagaman hindi ko pa narerebisa ang aking mga akda

na bagaman hiwa-hiwalay kong naranasan ay naghahalo sa aking

ayon sa mga komento ng mga panelists at co – fellows, hindi ko maikakaila

mapaglarong isipan — imagination, kung iyon nga ang tamang itawag

na marami akong natutuhan sa AHWW. Hindi lang tungkol sa aking mga

doon. Sabi nga ni Padre Ferriols, kailangan mong tumingin, magmasid,

isinulat, kundi sa pagsusulat mismo. Sa panitikan sa pangkalahatan.

magtanong, dumanas. Sa tingin ko dito ako nagsisimulang magsulat: kapag lumabo na ang hangganan ng haraya’t katotohanan sa aking isip, ng alaala’t imahinasyon. At saka ko naman sisimulang palabuin ang hangganan ng isip at salita sa panulat.

Madalas bago ako magsulat, may nakikita na akong patutunguhan ng aking kuwento; literary vision yata ang tawag doon. Ngunit minsan,

Na hindi madali ang nakaatang na responsabilidad sa mga manunulat, sa mga kuwentista.

Na ang kagandahan ng panitikan ay ang pagsasalamuha ng mga tao sa ngalan nito, ang pakikibahagi ng bawat isa sa kaniyang kariktan, at hindi ang pagsasarili ng isang akda, dahil ang akdang ikinubli mula sa liwanag ay hindi magyayabong.

habang sinusulat ko na ang kuwento, iyong mismong nasa proseso na

Na mahirap man ang magsulat ng kuwento mula umpisa, gitna,

ako ng pagsusulat, saka ko nakikita ang isa pang maaaring patunguhan

hanggang dulo, at mahirap man ang maging kuwentista, sa huli’y

ng kuwento — at minsan, mas maganda pa ito kaysa sa una kong

sulit ang lahat-lahat ng paghihirap. Dahil alam mong sa isang dako ng

pinagplanuhang landas ng akda. Siguro’y mas nakikilala ko ang akda

daigdig, sa isang punto ng panahon, ay may nagbasa ng iyong isinulat.

habang nabubuo ito. Parang isang kaibigang mas nakikilala mo habang

At kung binabasa mo ito ngayon, kung sino ka man, nasaan ka

mas pinagtutuonan mo ng panahon upang makabuo ka ng ugnayan sa

man — mambabasa, maraming salamat. Ipagpatuloy nawa natin ang

pagitan ninyong dalawa. At kapag sa tingin ko’y sapat ko nang nakilala

pagtataya sa ngalan ng panitikan.

ang akda — sapat dahil hindi ako naniniwalang makikilala ko ang kahit na anong isinulat ko sa kaniyang kabuuan — ito ang “pagtatapos” ng aking pagsusulat. Pagkatapos ay itatabi ko siya kasama ng marami ko pang naisulat dati, bibsitahin paminsan-minsan upang basahin muli, ayusin, at itanong muli’t muli sa sarili kung bakit ko uli isinulat ito.

35 35

Jenina Iba単ez

"For she belonged wherever she was, Or rather, wherever she was Belonged to her" – Edith Tiempo, "Speck of Rain Roaring" Thanks to Verso Recto, Block B, Heights, and everyone at AHWW. To all my teachers, especially Sir Robert, Sir DM, Sir Egay (#ikawnaangmagaling), and good ol’ mom and dad. Para sa mga taong hindi ko malilimutan.

L

a r a P iham

_ _ _ _ _ y a K

“I happened to be reading a news report on the fascinating discovery of what appeared to be the “Higgs boson” — the missing subatomic particle that could explain the origin of the world. So crucial is the Higgs boson to accounts of the formation of mass that it has sometimes been referred to as the “God particle.”

– Randy David, Philippine Daily Inquirer July 7, 2012 Palagi tayong humihingi ng paliwanag.

Isang pananaliksik. Minamasdan natin ang isa’t isa sa pag-asa na mahagilap ang nakalipas.

Hindi natin masagot ang sariling mga tanong: Bakit nawawalan ng bisa ang wika, Gaano kalayo mula rito hanggang sa pagguho ng pag-iibigan, Saan bumabagtas ang ating mga kapalaran.

At sa kabila ng lahat ng ito, naniniwala ka pa rin.

Pananampalataya.

Nais kong maniwala Na nagpatuloy tayo mula sa nag-iisang kaganapan.

Hinahalughog natin ang mga sarili sa paghahanap ng katunayan.

Natuklasan na lumalawak ang uniberso nang namasid na ang lahat ng bagay ay walang hanggang lumalayo sa isa’t isa.

Hindi na ako maghahanap.

Hindi pamamanhik ang lahat ng panalangin.

Hinikayat ko ang aking mga palad na matutuhan muli ang sining ng paniniwala.

“Iniibig kita, iniibig kita.”

Ang P (Base roseso ng P sa Pal eonto aghukay n g Ibin lohiya aon sa ) L

imot

Ang pinakamahirap ay ang paghahanap.

Na matagpuan sa malawak na heograpiya ng iyong alaala na rito, dito siya unang nabuhay, sa masikot na sibilisasyon ng ikaw at ako.

Minsan, aksidente ang pagtagpo.

Naglalakad ka sa mall at maririnig ang akala mong boses niya: nanginginig sa galit at pinipigilan ang pagsigaw.

Pero madalas, kapag hindi ka makatulog, gumagala ang iyong mga daliri sa mga naiwan niyang galos.

At sa panaginip ay naghuhukay ka.

Dahan-dahan lang. Gumamit ng tamang instrumento. Ayaw natin masira ang ebidensya ng memorya.

Bakit tayo nahihila pabalik sa pagdurusa ng kasaysayan?

Nangongolekta ng buto. Ng mga artepakto ng pagkabigo.

Minsan, minahal mo siya.

Hypothesis: may panahon na minahal ka rin niya.

Ang pinakamahirap ay ang paghahanap.

39

JENINA IBANEZ

Halos lahat ng inspirasyon ko sa pagsulat ng mga tula para sa AHWW ay nanggaling sa klase. Nagsimula sa Fil14 class ni Sir Edgar Samar. Naiiba kasi ang pagbibigay niya ng grado para sa class participation. Kailangan daw magpasa ng blog entry-kahit anong medium, basta maipapasa sa internet. Natuwa naman ako dahil tahimik lang talaga ako sa klase at sinabi niya na maaaring tumula.

Pinabasa sa amin ni Sir ang inaugural speech ni Former President Estrada. May sinabi si Sir tungkol sa collective amnesia ng mamamayan. Kapag madaling makalimot, madaling magpatawad. Nabighani siguro ako sa konsepto ng alaala.

May namayaning linya sa isip ko: ang paghukay ng ibinaon sa limot. Gagawin ko sana siyang isang linya sa loob ng tula. Pero naisip kong ipaghambing ang personal na alaala sa kolektibong alaala gamit ang Paleontolohiya. Naisip kong pagtabihin ang

siyentipiko at ang emosyonal para masiyasat ang mga dahilan sa pilit nating paghahanap ng mabuti sa mga alaalang hindi.

Ang pagkukulang sa tulang Ang Proseso..., ayon sa mga panelist, ang “pagbanat� ng conceit. May malawak na bokabularyo ang Paleontolohiya na hindi ko ginamit.

Kailangan ko pang dagdagan ng mga siyentipikong aspeto na maitatabi ko sa sentimyento ng tula. Sa pagrerebisa, balak kong magsaliksik ng aktwal na proseso na ginagamit sa Paleontolohiya. Ililista ko ang bawat hakbang sa prosesong ito at itatabi sa isang naratibo o paglalarawan ng sitwasyon ng persona na sumasalamin sa siyentipikong proseso. Susubukan kong hanapan ng paraan upang pagsamahin ang dalawa at hayaang mag-interact ang mga konsepto.

Sa Theo121 ko naman nakuha ang inspirasyon para sa Liham Para Kay ____. Pinadala sa amin ng Theo prof ko

MULA SA MAY-AKDA

ang isang artikulo ni Randy David mula sa Inquirer. Naging interesado ako rito dahil maraming nagtutunggaling ideya tungkol sa relihiyon ang nakakaimpluwensiya sa akin ngayon.

Wala akong kongkretong relihiyon o paniniwala. Naging relihiyon ko na lang ang pagtatanong at pagbabago ng isip.

Pero hindi naman siguro limitado sa relihiyon ang ganitong klaseng pagtatanong. Doon ko nakuha ang ideya na magsulat ng isang tula tungkol sa paniniwala ng magkasintahan.

Sa umpisa, ang Liham Para Kay____ ay koleksiyon ng mga linyang hindi masyadong konektado pero umiikot sa isang tema. Mga apat na saknong pa lang ito bago ako nagpasiya na iwan muna ito at ituloy sa ibang araw. Nang balikan ko, unti-unti kong pinagdugtong ang mga linya at inayos ang daloy ng tula. Dinagdag ko ang mga saknong na sa tingin ko ay makapagbubuo ng sentimyento at tono ng tula. Sa huli ko na

pinag-isipan ang title. Gagawin ko na sanang patlang ang title pero ginusto kong klarong maibigay ang kontekstong romantiko at pagka-liham ng tula bago tumuloy ang mambabasa sa relihiyosong/siyentipikong epigraph.

Natuwa ako na nagustuhan ng mga panelist ang tono at pagkabuo ng kabatiran ng tula. Pero tama sila na biglaan ang “Hindi na ako maghahanap...� kaya hahanapan ko ng paraan na dugtungan ang mga naunang linya para mapangatwiranan ang desisyon ng persona na tumiwalag. Aayusin ko ang istruktura ng mga huling saknong at iiwasan ang masyadong mabibigat na linya. Gagamitin ko rin ang ilan pang komento at ideya ng mga panelist--katulad ng mungkahing ipasok ang epigraph as katawan ng tula-- para sa pagrebisa ng tulang ito at sa sunod ko pang pagsulat.

41

Marc Lopez

Isang batang makikitang palaboy-laboy kung saan-saan habang nag-iisip kung tunay o imahinasyon lamang ang mga bagay-bagay.

Nagpapasalamat siya sa mga panelist ng 18th AHWW na naglatag sa kanya ng direksyong matatahak sa mga panimulang hakbang niya sa pagsusulat. Higit sa lahat, nagpapasalamat siya sa kanyang mga kapwa-fellow, sapagkat nakatagpo siya sa mga ito ng mga bagong kaibigan at mga posibleng karamay sa pagkabaliw sa sining (at buhay?).

Realization: Given H = {pagmamahal sa pagsusulat , pangakong di titigil} , H is a subset of the set of real sa buhay niya.

Proof: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER – Isaac Asimov, The Last Question

e t s o k e t n e P Dilim ang dulot ng gabi Ingay ang dulot ng bawat patak ng ulan.

Humaharurot ang ambulansya sakay-sakay itong lola.

Ilang minuto na lamang ang nalalabi at tuluyan na siyang tatawid.

Siga’t naka wang-wang, nagbibigay – daan ang bawat sasakyan.

Boom!

Bininyagan itong bata sa kanyang dugo na pinapaagos ng ulan sa estero.

Sandaling katahimikan.

Kuyugan at kaguluhan.

Bulong ng isang usyusera: “Sana’y sa minutong iyon ay di na lamang siya tumawid.”

Almus

al

“Your order will arrive within 30 minutes…”

Ang pintig ng puso ay nakikisabay sa bawat tiktak ng orasan.

Unti-unting umaakyat ang araw, ginigising ng bawat silahis ang mga katawang nakahimlay.

Nagsasagutan ang mga aso at ang mga kotseng bumubusina.

Lumilikha ng kagiliw-giliw na tugtugin!

At kumalembang ang mga kampana ng simbahan: “Ave Maria!”

Tunog ng isang motorsiklong humimpil.

Isang malakas na katok.

Sabay ihip sa sindi ng kandila sa altar.

Handa na ang masarap na almusal.

Bang!

45

MARC LOPEZ

One quote I’ve grown to have attachment with is that of Mahatma Gandhi, which goes as “In the attitude of silence, the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness...”. Probably, it’s because it has influenced me so much with how I go about my life. To some extent, it has also influenced the way I writemy “writing philosophy”, although I don’t think I’m already entitled to having one.

Silence. Most of the time, it has been my door to another world — a world of endless questioning and introspection. It’s a world where I see the other me (or probably the real me) who wants to dig deeper into the world without disrupting its flow.

It’s a world where I am free to transform from Marc, the Applied Math student, to Marc, the flaneur. It’s a world where I can feel free to ask the questions that continue to puzzle me up to now, without the fear of being perceived as weird. This is where everything starts for me — in silence.

Chatbox 1: Marc Lopez: “What if an ambulance that’s supposed to save you ends up being the cause of your death?”.

Marc Lopez: “Isn’t religion, or any social institution for that matter, or probably even life in general, like that

sometimes — how it can be damaging with all that it imposes, how it baptizes us with seemingly endless restrictions, and with how by being marked with it, we are killed a few moments after we have our first glimpse of the world? No one can go against it (or them) and succeed.”.

Marc Lopez: “But they’re the only things we can hold on to in our last moments”.

Marc Lopez: “Isn’t the realization of how some things are contrary to how they’re presented an equally valuable period in one’s life? Couldn’t they be treated as our personal pentecost’s- the awakening of our spirits?”

Chatbox 2: Marc Lopez: “What is life all about?”

Marc Lopez: “It has lost its essence, while death has preserved the glory attached to it” Marc Lopez: “It’s still the much-awaited escape” Marc Lopez: “The good thing about our society today is that death is easily accessible. It’s like you order it via delivery.”

MULA SA MAY-AKDA

Since I started writing poetry, I’ve worked in this same process of talking to myself (with all those senti moments). As they gave me a databank of realizations and what-if’s (from which I draw my inspirations), I considered it as the creative process, weird as it may seem. The bottom line perhaps is that I’ve been writing in a way I feel like doing — even experimenting with sounds (Boom!

Bang!), italics, spaces and indentations. True enough, it makes me feel good, and I thought that was the point of writing. Such superficial view on the craft changed though when I participated in the Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop.

Having two of your works intensively critiqued by the panelists and the other fellows was priceless. Each of the sessions allotted for my works provided me points for improvement mostly centering on creating a figurative dimension, laying out details systematically and using imagery effectively. Among the many valuable insights I received during the sessions, one thing which I’d never forget (perhaps because it could summarize everything) is “Buksan ang sarili sa wika. Ito ang nagbubukas sa mga posibilidad”.

Reading the works of the other fellows (and listening to how they were critiqued) also exposed me to different writing styles.

Some were even unimaginable to me. At some points, I felt slightly

disheartened, in the sense that their level of writing was very far from mine. But the stronger feeling was that of admiration. I can't help but admire the ability of these people to create great art, or maybe it was the spirit of art that I admired. Those works made me realize how art truly makes us more human.

I can’t think of a better way of spending that long weekend.

The whole experience led me to a deeper engagement with writing. It led me to the recognition of where I stand as a writer.

I definitely have a lot of things to work on if I decide to take writing more seriously (which is something I'd love to do). This may entail a need to refine the way I write, a 360-degree turn even, but I am willing to undergo the (long and hard) process. I am ready to invest the time and effort needed in order to merit the oneness with the craft. I recognize the need for constant reinvention even if some lines are hard to let go. Overall, the workshop helped me solidify my love for writing, as well as my commitment to the resolve of not stopping.

If my attempts would fall short, I always have the silence of my heart to run back to.

47

Aidan Manglinong

Si Aidan Panaligan Manglinong ay kasalukuyang nasa Ikatlong-taon ng kursong BFA Creative Writing sa Pamantasan ng Ateneo de Manila. Madami siyang bisyo at hilig ngunit pinakamalala na siguro ang pagsusulat ng kahit ano at ang pagbabasa ng komiks. (Halos) lahat ng kanyang likha ay (medyo) dedikado para sa mga ka-tropa niyang nakasama sa katarantaduhan sa PWU – JASMS High School Batch 2010, na nagturo sa kanya na minsan ang buhay ay pinakamasaya sa gitna ng dumi at dugo, at kung bakit ito dapat ma-itaga sa bato.

a t a Stigm Mata lamang ang nanatiling magmamasid sa gitna ng usok at abo. Naiiwang pumipintig ang iyong mga daliri, mga galamay na pinanganak sa kawalan ngunit alam mong ang apoy ay siya nang lumisan. Luluwa mula sa iyong bibig ang isang libo’t isang pangarap at pangako ngunit lahat sila’y maglalaho sa ilalim ng dagat ng kahihiyan na ngayo’y nakapintura sa iyong mga bisig, na nagmantsa sa iyong mga palad at pantalon, sa ilalim ng iyong mga labing nakipaglandian sa nakakalunod na apoy. Mababakas na lamang ng madla ang buhay mong akala mo’y inilibing sa talambuhay mong ginintuan sa dati’y puti mong kasuotan.

Spola

rium

Mababakas ang iyong landas sa pawis sa iyong nuo. Mababasa at maawit sa kalyado mong mga palad ang balangkas ng iyong bukas. Latak ng iyong kahapong pininturahan ng suka, dugo, pawis.

Mabubulok sa ilalim ng iyong mga kuko ang mga pangarap at dasal na dati’y pinilit sambitin ng mga labing sugat. Mga hymnong inaawit sa mga panginoong tulog. Hahampas ang ulan, hangin, kulog, kidlat ngunit mananatiling sementado ang iyong mga paa sa lupa.

Isang monumentong nagpipilit lumaban sa pag-agnas.

Maninigas ang mga luha sa iyong pisngi. Ang basang lupa na kumakain sa iyong mga talampakan ay dagat ng kawalan na iyong lalabanan ngunit alam mong ika’y hindi martyr, hindi bayani, hindi diyos, hindi santo. Ang kanilang mga dasalin ay latak na naipon sa iyong mga takong.

Marurupok at sugatan ang mga kamay na tataga sa bato.

51

AIDAN MANGLINONG

So, bakit at paano ko nga ba nasulat ang mga tula na aking isinumite sa 18th Ateneo Heights Writer’s Workshop?

Coincidentally ang dalawang akda na napiling i-workshop, ang ‘Spoliarium’ at ‘Stigmata’ ay magkasunod na sinulat, sa iisang gabi. Wala pa akong akademikong pagsasanay sa pagsusulat ng tula, kaya pasensiya na lamang kung hindi pa ako makakapagnamedrop ng mga teorya’t teknik ng mga eksperto sa tula, ngunit kung ako ang tatanungin ay laging nagsisimula ang pagsusulat sa pagkakaroon ng emosyon na nais mo isuka, na nais mailagay sa papel. Ganun na lamang ng gabing yaon, isang gabing ako’y sadyang ‘BV’, ay napili kong gawing paksa ang mga emosyon ng paghihirap sa harap ng opresyon, at ang kahihiyan in general.

Masyado sigurong mahaba kung ilalahad ko pa ang istorya sa likod ng mga tulang ito. Ngunit sa abot ng aking makakaya ay pinilit kong maisalin sa mga imahe ang dramatikong sitwasyon na laging hinahanap sa mga workshop. Sa ‘Spoliarium’, na isang pagsubok sa ekphrassis, pinilit kong mailahad ang kung ano kaya ang dumadaan sa utak ng mga taong tinatawag na ‘bayani’, o kaya ‘martir,’ sa oras na umabot sa sukdulan ang kanilang mga pagpapapasakit. Sumagi sa aking isip isang gabi na subukan sisirin ang iniisip ng isang imaheng pinintura. Sa ‘Stigmata’ sinubukan kong pag-aralan ang dumadaan sa utak ng mga tao sa gitna ng matinding kahihiyan.

Anuman ang ideya, o pangyayari, o sentimyento na nais mong talakayin sa iyong akda ay dapat magkaroon ng pagpapaliwanag, ng pagsasalaysay, sa pamamagitan ng mga

imahe, para sa akin. Muli, hindi ako eksperto sa tula, at marahil mayroon ng naunang nagsambit ng mga ito(o sumira sa mga payong inilatag ko), ngunit sa aking palagay ay ganito talaga ang proseso. Naramdaman ko nalang na ‘tapos’ na ang akda ng naubos na ang bokabularyo ko at naubusan na ako ng mga lohikal na imahe, at nang akin nang nadama nasabi ko na ang gusto ko masabi. Kaya ayun. Tara punta naman tayo sa topic ng rebisyon, at sa AHWW. Ibang lebel ang AHWW sa mga workshop na napuntahan ko.

Kadalasan sa mga workshop sa aking mga klase o kaya sa aking mga org ay porma, estetika, mga salitang pinili, at pagiging klaro ng mga imahe at dramatic situation ang napupuna o nagiging tuon ng diskusyon. Ngayon lamang ako nakaranas ng workshop kung saan nahukay at nakatay ang kontento at ang kanyang mga politika’t mga pilosopiya ng ganoon kabigat. Kung tama ang aking memorya ay doon ko lang din narasan ang mapuna ang aking gawa dahil sa mga politika at pilosopiya sa likod ng aking mga konsepto. Natauhan ako na marahil kailangan ko pa magbasa at magsaliksik. Doon ko rin nakita ang pagpasok ng teorya sa panitikan. Nagising ako sa ibang mundo. Kaharap ko ang ilan sa mga pinaka malaking pangalan sa panitikan. Naks.

Madami akong naisulat na komento mula sa mga panelist.

Muli kong nakita ang aking mga lakas at kahinaan bilang manunulat. Natauhan ako sa ilang mga bagay na matagal ko na dapat naiayos sa aking pagsusulat.

MULA SA MAY-AKDA

Sa rebisyon ay marahil kailangan magsimula sa mga napuna na ako na mismo ang pumuna habang sinusulat.

Mayroong mga bagay talaga sa aking sariling pagsusulat na nagdulot sa akin ng siphayo. Unang-una na ang linecuts. Di ko alam kung bakit pero laging pasakit sa akin ang paghahati ng linya, lalo na pag isinasalin ko na ang tula sa MS Word. Parang laging nasisira ang konsentrasyon ko pag nakikita ko yung mga puting espasyo. Alam ko ng pupunahin ang aking line cuts sa isang punto ng workshop(na talaga ngang nangyari). Sumunod ang aking pagpili sa ilang salita(oo, malugod kong inaamin na mababaw ang aking bokabularyo sa Wikang Pilipino).

Kung ikaw na mismo ang pumuna ay marahil talagang may kakulangan sa iyong akda. Sunod ang dramatikong sitwasyon.

Di mapagkakaila na di lagi tama ang pagbasa sa dramatikong sitwasyon kapag iniharap mo na ang iyong akda sa iba. Ngunit kung mayroon pang mga mabibigat na kumento ay senyas lamang iyon na mayroong hindi tama. Pinaalala sa akin ng AHWW ang kahalagahan ng dramatikong sitwasyon, at ang kahalagahan ng mga salitang pinipili mong gamitin upang maglarawan. Maari magbago sa isang iglap ang pagkakabasa sa mga emosyon o ideya na nais mong iparating.

At higit sa lahat, ginising ako ng AHWW sa katotohanang kailangan ko pa magsaliksik at magbasa. Na ako, bilang manunulat ay obligadong malinang ang aking kaalaman. Di porket art na ito ay pwede ko na isulat ang kahit ano, o bumuwag na lamang ng mga konseptong tinakda ng mga nauna sa akin.

Di lahat ng kumento ay marahil masasama mo sa iyong akda. Trabaho na rin ng may-akda na hanapin ang kanyang mga pagkakamali at tanggapin ang mga nararapat na pagwawaksi.

May mga obligasyon at pamantayan ang akda na dapat gampanan ukol sa ebalwasyon ng kanyang sariling akda. Siguro yun ang pinakamahalaga kong natutunan sa AHWW bilang manunulat.

Ganun lang din talaga sa kaso ng mga akdang nasalang sa AHWW. Babasahin ko ang mga kumento, at babaguhin ang mga kamaliang aking nakita sa aking mga likha. Aamin ko na hindi ko marahil masusunod lahat ng kumento, ngunit hahanapin ko ang mga tumuro sa akin sa aking mga nalimutan at hindi napagisipan ng mabuti. Mula doon magsisimula ang mahabahabang repleksyon ukol sa content at mga konsepto. Sana nga lang ay humupa na ang Hell Month na ito para magkaroon uli ako ng oras makapag – revise at makasulat ng walang orals o long test sa Theo na umiistorbo sa akin.

So paano ba ako magtatapos? Payo? Muli, di ako eksperto.

Baka mayari pa kayo lalo pag ako ang sinunod niyo. Generic advice: magbasa lang kayo ng magbasa. Wag sumuko sa pagsusulat. Makikita niyo nalamang kung bakit ito ang laging sambit ng mga nakatatandang manunulat balang araw. At kailangan mo sa buhay mo ang mga workshop.

53

Matthew Olivares

Matthew prefers to be called “Matt” or by his unofficial real name, “Mateo”. You can also call him “Dani”, “Jesus”, “Gotye”, or even “John Mayer”. If you know the name of the curly-haired singer of the New Wave group Tears For Fears, you can call him by that name too.

Though primarily a fictionist, he also wants to become adept with poetry, nonfiction, and drama. Idol niya si Oscar Wilde.

He terribly misses the 18th AHWW and his fellow fellows. He wants to experience the literary thug life with them again and sing sawi songs (dahil sawi siya, sobra) and the Pokemon theme song on a karaoke.

Hindi po siya adik. Mukha lang. MUKHA LANG.

e i n n Bo

t a C the

“Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, thou art not so…”

– John Donne November 12, 2012 It was a horrible day for the denizens of Limbo, especially for me. My master returned and everyone had to witness a scene from a horror movie. With the iPod that Steve Jobs gave him before he brought the technological visionary to Heaven, he danced to Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger” as he walked towards us; a grotesque performance art and a futile attempt to exhibit graceful body movements; you could even hear his bones crackle. Not only that, he sang in the most horrible falsetto anyone of us had ever heard; horrible enough that the corpse population of the Aokigahara Forest will increase by a hundred fold. And here I thought Mephistopheles had the worst voice in the entirety of the cosmos; I was wrong. Well, he isn’t called the “Grim Reaper” for nothing.

Many of the angels fainted while some stabbed themselves with knives, hoping that they would die even though they knew that they wouldn’t. Some of the demons took off their heads and buried them underground so that they wouldn’t have to hear the infernal off – key singing. He even woke up his best friend and the laziest demon in the world, Belphegor; something that any of us would consider as an achievement. Me? I just wanted to tell everyone that I’m not his pet and that I’m just a random black cat who always appeared in front of his doorstep to be fed some fish bones. We were thankful that he stopped dancing and singing after a few minutes but our shock and awe was prolonged when he told us that he was quitting his job.

– Bonnie November 13, 2012 Death remained in Limbo the entire day. He left his scythe in our toolshed and spent most of the day watching Law & Order in his room. An angel and a

demon; messengers from Hell arrived and asked me why not a single soul was brought into their domains today. Master knew that those two would arrive and made up an excuse; a terrible excuse that he tripped on a rock and broke his ankle, and asked me to tell them. I did, but they wanted to see for themselves that it was indeed broken, so they barged into our house. Before the two entered his room, he did break his ankle and even took off one of the toes on his left foot. He told them that he can’t stand up with a broken foot, so he will be on a short leave for about five to six days. “That’s enough time for me to regenerate,” he says. The angel and the demon said that they will return in six days to hand him a list of people whose souls should be harvested. Once they went back to their respective domains, my master immediately fixed his foot and continued to watch Law & Order. ****** Late in the evening, Belphegor and my master went out for a drink at LimBar, Limbo’s premiere pub for us neutrals. Master dragged me along, although I didn’t want to at first, I was interested to know why he mentioned that he’s quitting his job. Apparently, he never liked it. “It’s not fun to kill people or animals. It doesn’t matter if you do it yourself or if you manipulate a person or an object to carry it out, it isn’t fun.” I wouldn’t know. I don’t kill people, but I found it weird that the last time I was in the human world, bad things happened to the people who were nearby (e.g. a coconut fell on someone’s head and lapsed into a coma, someone slipped and fell face first onto the pavement).

“The worst part is killing the children! They’re so young; full of hopes and dreams, yet those two want them dead and in their kingdoms. I’d rather take their lives when they have succeeded in their goals and when they’re satisfied with life!” Belphegor and I told him that it’s his job and that he has to do it, but he keeps bringing up God’s Fifth Commandment: THOU SHALL NOT KILL THY NEIGHBOR. “Technically, the humans are our neighbors. So what if we reside in another plane of existence? Our worlds live across the street from each other.” Who knew my master had a soft side? I find it funny because his name is “Death,” and with that name alone, it kind of says that you are to be feared.

“If they want them so much, why don’t they go take their souls themselves?! They’re lazier than you!” he says, pointing to Belphegor. He went through the same phase years back. His job was to give lazy people ingenious ideas that will make them successful

in exchange for their souls. After thousands of years, he began to think about the world and the people he “helped.” What if Bill Gates never invented that Microsoft? What if Stephen Hawking failed his doctorate course? What if Kurt Cobain never came up with that song, Smells Like Teen Spirit? He wanted to see what would happen to the world. Could people come up with great ideas without his help? That’s the reason why he stopped; and it turned out that people can do just fine without his help, but compare that to my master’s job, they’re worlds apart. Life and death is a more important matter than great ideas. Master’s job is more important and he knows it, but he was serious about quitting; we didn’t know what to tell him anymore.

– Bonnie November 14, 2012 If I were a human being, normally I’d say that I’m watching the clouds and imagining what they look like, but this is Limbo; the sky is grey in the morning and there are neither clouds to watch nor a sun to brighten up our world. Instead, I’m sitting here on my porch writing this, and watching my master do all sorts of things; things I’ve never seen him do when he was still working since he’s only home three hours a day.

He does something different every hour.

• 9 A.M., he listened to the entire “Hands All Over” album by Maroon 5 while playing with a yoyo. Where in the world did he get that CD? He stole it on the job along with other records from a shop in New York City. His target was working at that shop during that time as the cashier.

• 10 A.M., he cooked the both of us a glorious breakfast and brought them to the porch for us to eat. Nothing beats eating on the porch; the air is fresh. He had bacon, eggs, waffles and pancakes with some honey, which he also stole while on the job. I had dead fish wrapped in pita bread. I’ve been curious about how my master eats. I can’t even call his bites “bites” because the food disappears into the darkness of his hood, but I could hear him munching on them.

• 11 A.M., he went fishing at the nearby lake. The skelecanth is my favorite. Usually, I go hunting for them, but now that my master is home, he thought of catching some for me as a treat. ******

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I fell asleep and woke up to the smell of the food that my master was cooking; it was already 6 P.M. and Belphegor was there at the dining table waiting for him to finish; my master invited him over for dinner to celebrate the first day of his lifelong sabbatical. We enjoyed our meal because it was different from the usual dinners that we have; my master was the one cooking.

Belphegor and I never thought that he even possessed the skill of cooking, but this morning proved me wrong.

I have to admit, my master makes a great cook.

As we ate our delicious meals, we watched the news on television and laughed at the segments that we thought of as completely retarded, such as the one where our friend Tyrone, an angel, attempted to commit suicide by jumping from the rooftop of his own house because his wife wouldn’t shut up about him not putting up the toilet seat whenever he went for a pee. His neighbor reported to the local police that he heard the two yelling at each other and breaking fragile objects all the way from his own house. We saw him jump and hit the pavement head first but he didn’t die. We laughed so hard because we really find it silly and pathetic if somebody in Limbo attempts to commit suicide; we’re all immortal.

After a while of eating and laughing, we had a serious discussion on what my master should do upon the return of God and Lucifer’s messengers. “They’re going to return in five days. You know that God and Lucy won’t approve your ‘retirement.’ You can’t just tell their cronies that you quit,” says Belphegor. “What are you going to tell them?” “My friend, I’ll find a way,” replied my master.

– Bonnie November 18, 2012 There are no cows in Limbo. I wish that there were because I’m starting to crave for some milk. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had some. My master stole a box of Jollycow from an SM Supermarket in the Philippines when he was tasked to take the souls of some journalists who wanted to report on a corrupt

politician and his family. Oh, God how I loved that milk. I kept it in our refrigerator for a week and only poured a little bit once a day to savor it. I wonder why it’s called Jollycow. Were the cows happy while they were being milked by the Filipino farmers? If that’s the case, then each country should have Filipino farmers so that cows of whatever nationality will be happy while being milked. If the cows are happy, they produce milk that makes the consumer happy, because I felt a rush of happiness surge right through me whenever I took a sip. It beats that Coca – Cola drink. I didn’t like the feeling of acid going down your throat.

Now that my master’s not working, how on earth can I get my hands on some milk? I really want some of that Jollycow milk. I’m going to be one happy black fur ball if I have some here. I could ask master to go get some but if he makes one step on the human world, people are bound to die; those who are old may suddenly perish in their sleep, diseases would resume eating the lives of their hosts. Out of respect for my master, I’ll just bear with it. At least he catches me some fish by the river. I wouldn’t want him to set foot on the Philippines. The Filipino farmers might die, and if they die, who else could possibly make the cows happy while milking them?

– Bonnie November 19, 2012 A stairway from heaven appeared and a bright light shined down on all of us; down came the Son of God. At the same time, the earth shook and split in half, and from the abyss sprang the Prince of Darkness. I expected and wanted them to fight. I wanted to see Jesus smack Lucy with a giant Bible, and I wanted to see Lucy poke Jesus with a pitchfork, but apparently they’re the best of friends. They even exchanged pleasantries!

“Why, hello there, Jesus. You know, father should realize that I should also be called the “Son of God,” says Lucifer to his younger brother.

“Oh, my older brother, how I would like to share

BONNIE THE CAT

that title with you, but you know the Old Man. His words are beyond contestation.”

“Never mind that. Prince of Darkness has a cool ring to it. Why are you here anyway?”

“Well, pops said He has much more important matters to attend to.”

“Like what? Sleep on His rocking chair? Seriously, you believe him?”

“You know Father doesn’t lie.”

“No. You don’t lie. And He does. We don’t really know what goes on in His head.”

“Don’t question Father, older brother. You know he doesn’t like it when someone does.”

“I’ve always questioned him, and he never did like it. Anyway, you’re here to talk to Death as well, am I correct?”

“Why, yes. Where is the old chap?”

“I’m right here.” My master stepped out of our house to greet the two.

“I’ll go first, little brother.”

“Go ahead.”

“Hello, Death. I’ve been informed that you were incapacitated for quite some time.”

“Six days is quite some time to you?”

“Well, yes. Pops and I both want our souls, you know? Anyway, I emailed His yahweh.com account about your injury and we both took into account your injury.”

“Don’t you think you’re lucky that He was able to answer your mail? After all, he receives a lot of prayers every day.”

“Oh, He puts them in a spam folder. You just don’t know. Anyway, this isn’t really about Pops. This is about your job. We’re going to make your life easier by giving you the list of the souls we want. You have the call on how many should die each day, not us! You can even skip days in between the targets. As long as you complete the job before the Grand Harvest, we’re fine with it. This shouldn’t be a problem for you because they’re all children from ages seven to sixteen! You don’t have to manipulate anything like a car to kill them, although I’d appreciate it more if you would.

Just tap them on the shoulder or snap your fingers like

you do most of the time, and they’re dead!”

“Alright.”

“Here’s the list. I shall be going now. Have fun, Death!

Oh, and Jesus, let’s share a drink one of these days. I’d like to catch up on what’s going on up there. Cheerio!”

“I’d love to! See you around!”

Lucifer descended back into the abyss and into Hell. Wow. Lucifer and Jesus sharing a drink. I can’t imagine, really.

“I guess it’s my turn. First off, I’d like to say on behalf of Father and of myself, hello.”

“Hello, Christ.”

“Pops just wanted me to tell you that you do whatever you want. He’s not going to tell you how he wants them to die. He just wants them up here.”

“Why does He want them up there, again?”

“I don’t know myself. I can’t ask Him. Everyone is forbidden to.”

“Uh – huh.”

“Well. You can rest for today, but please if you could, start tomorrow.”

“I’ll start in two days.”

“Ok. Oh, He’s praying for your foot’s speedy rejuvenation. I pray for it, as well.”

“Thank you, Christ. You’re kind as always. And I’m sure your Father is as well.”

“God bless you, friend. I bless you as well.”

Jesus hands my master the list of God’s targets and climbs the stairway back to heaven; it disappears right after.

When both of them finally left, my master snapped and yelled, “I HATE THOSE TWO! WHY CAN’T THEY DO IT THEMSELVES?!” Belphegor calmed him down and told him he will look for somebody to do the job for him. “There’s no need, my friend.” My master looked at me. “Bonnie, would you mind doing the job for me? I’ll give you anything you want as a reward.” I could have anything I want? I just had to seize this opportunity. I’ve been craving for so long that I just had to ask if he could give me a three month supply of Jollycow milk, and the deal was made.

– Bonnie

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November 20, 2012

November 21, 2012

So I had two lists with me, both from Heaven and Hell.

Target: Pierre Levesque Age: 15 Location: France, Lille Time Found: 12:42 P.M.

Lucy’s List • Alice Anais (15 years old; Las Vegas, United States of America) • Henry Irvine (14 years old; Montreal, Canada) • Jeffrey Daniels (11 years old; Montreal, Canada) • Jason Orias (7 years old; Manila, Philippines) God’s List • Manny Bo (13 years old; Las Vegas, United States of America) • Nina Kosonen (16 years old; Espoo, Finland) • Pierre Levesque (15 years old; Lille, France) Four for Lucy and three for God. I guess I can handle that. Hey, anything for the Jollycow, but there’s one problem. I’m just a black cat. Even if bad things happen when I’m around in the human world, no one would die. What my master did was he transferred a little bit of his power in me. He didn’t see the need for him to lend me his scythe because I’m just a cat; even if he did, how in the world can I even carry that giant weapon?

He said that I can now rip open portals that will lead me to my targets, and by just being near them, they will die. But how will I know if my targets are nearby? I don’t have any of their pictures. Master told me, that I will be able to sense if this certain person is my target. He even gave me a small back pack so that I have a container for the souls I’m going to harvest. I don’t even have to open it. He said that it would immediately suck the soul inside.

So I just have to be near my target, and they will die. Well, saves me the time and effort. I’m excited!

– Bonnie

YAY! My first day on job! Today, I went to Lille, France to look for a fifteen year old kid named “Pierre Levesque.” It was kind of cold because of the snow.

It’s already the 21st Century but the people here still build gothic architecture. Not that it’s a bad thing; I’ve got to hand it to the French for reliving the past. According to my master, years ago, Lille was elected as the European Capital of Culture back in 2004 because of the different cultural events that took place there during that year. I think that it deserves the title because most of the people here are formally dressed; and there are more fine – dining restaurants than fast food centers, that’s why the body masses of the people here are normal compared to The United States of America, where morbid obesity runs rampant. Oh, I can still remember the last time I was in New York; I couldn’t breathe because each person inhaled an enormous amount of air. I kid, I kid. I don’t really need oxygen.

Pierre Levesque was rather small, but a bit taller than Napoleon Bonaparte. He had brown hair that covered half of his face; wore a beret, a black long sleeved shirt, shorts that reached the top of his knee and a pair of sandals. I found him inside a coffee shop called Starbucks Coffee. He sat alone on a couch in a corner with a pen in hand. He had a pile of papers in front of him, and he was writing on them. It might be a novel that he’s writing.

Given the thickness of the pile, it might be as long as Les Miserables. He was sipping on a cup of coffee while eating a donut with chocolate icing. It looked delicious and I wanted to try but I didn’t want to frighten him. I mean, wouldn’t you be frightened if the donut you were eating suddenly disappeared. You could infer that the donut was eaten telepathically by someone else, but Occam’s Razor would suggest that the donut ate itself, which is also unlikely to have happened.

BONNIE THE CAT

I sat beside him and stayed there for hours, waiting for him to die. I felt dizzy so I decided to sleep for two hours, and when I woke up, he was still there writing his novel. I even saw the page number: 1488. I wonder how much time this kid spent writing?

I noticed that there were more cups of coffee on the table; from three it became fourteen. Who knows how many donuts he ate while I was asleep? I stared at his face and noticed that his eye bags were terribly large. I think he hasn’t slept for days. Now that’s what I call dedication to one’s own work. A few minutes later, he dropped his pen and his head fell on the pile of papers. I thought he fell asleep because of exhaustion, but no. He died. His soul rose up from his body and got sucked into my backpack. I felt bad because he could have been the next Victor Hugo. I decided to pack his work inside the bag and left. It would be a shame if his novel went to waste.

– Bonnie

little Jeffrey pouring snow inside a chimney. He was wearing winter season apparel; well who wouldn’t at this time of the year. I couldn’t see his face because his scarf covered everything except his eyes. He roamed around town with a ladder that he used to climb roofs and to get down right after he poured snow down the chimneys. I can infer that this kid is one of the trouble maker types because the owners of the houses have been cursing at him as he walked around the town.

I followed him from rooftop to rooftop for about an hour, and my, it was tiring. My paws were freezing because of the snow. I even wondered if he was getting tired walking to each house, climbing up and down the ladder he had, and carrying and pouring all that snow.

He did die eventually. We were at the thirty-third house he was messing up. He slipped on one step on the ladder and down he went; his face breaking each step of the ladder. Quite funny, actually. It was like watching a cartoon character make a simple mistake and get hurt because of it. The only difference was with Jeffrey is that he died; his neck broke.

November 23, 2012 – Bonnie My master took Pierre’s soul from my backpack and called for an angel to fetch it. So that’s what he does after collecting souls. I tried to read Pierre’s novel but it was in French, so I couldn’t understand a single word. Too bad.

– Bonnie November 24, 2012 Target: Jeffrey Daniels Age: 11 Location: Montreal, Canada Time Found: 3:29 P.M.

November 26, 2012 I took a two – day break from work and stayed at home sleeping on our couch most of the time. If I wasn’t sleeping, I was watching Law & Order with my master on the Human Channel #23. There were other TV series such as CSI, NYPD Blue and NCIS. They all featured cops and agents. It must be something hip in the Human World these days.

– Bonnie

Just like in France, it was snowing in Montreal. All the trees, all the cars, and all the rooftops of houses were covered in snow. On top of one roof, I found

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November 27, 2012

November 28, 2012

Target: Henry Irvine Age: 14 Location: Montreal, Canada Time Found: 11:44 A.M.

My paws hurt from all the walking and waiting. I just wanted to stay on our couch and lay there for the entire day. I guess one of the reasons why my master wanted to quit was that he had to walk around to look for certain humans; the special people that God and Lucifer really wanted. It’s like what I’m doing right now. I don’t think three hours of rest was enough for my master to feel a little bit refreshed for the next day.

“Feeling any better, Bonnie?” No. Oh, how I wanted my paws massaged.

My master was on a Rowan Atkinson marathon and asked me if I wanted to watch Johnny English Reborn with him. I kind of missed watching Mr. Atkinson. I used to watch a lot of Mr. Bean with Belphegor when I was still a kitten. Before master left for work, he would ask Belphegor to watch over me and the house, and that while doing so, he can do whatever he wants.

I even remembered how funny Mr. Atkinson was in Johnny English, so I decided to watch the sequel and see if he still had the capacity to make me laugh. He’s kind of old already; almost sixty?

“You don’t have to worry about Mr. Atkinson dying.

Since none of your targets are located in Great Britain, he won’t be dying anytime soon.” I sure hope that he won’t. Human comedy won’t be the same when he’s gone.

I’m back in Montreal. If Pierre were still alive, I’m sure he’d be happy to live here. The people here not only speak in English, but also in French.

Henry Irvine is one of those bullies in school who would beat up other kids younger than him for their lunch money, or their actual lunch. Sometimes he would go so far as to beat them with a steel pipe on the leg; a true juvenile delinquent. He had a peculiar hairstyle; he was bald on the sides of his head but in the middle, he had hair shaped like spikes. He could stab people by giving them headbutts.

I found him in a school beating up a kid in the playground area. He took twelve dollars from the kid, as well as three of his teeth “to give to the tooth fairy for extra money.” What kind of a fourteen year old believes in the tooth fairy?

I think he decided to skip classes because he left the school before lunch time. Everyone else was in the cafeteria or in class, but he was outside causing trouble in the streets, harassing old women, kicking trash cans and taking leaks on fire hydrants. I followed him around town and watched him break shop windows, smoke cigarettes, kick a dog owned a blind man, and even take a dump in front of a barber shop. How disgusting is this child? He’s not an animal like me who can defecate anywhere. While taking a dump in front of the barber shop, a car swerved and hit him by accident, knocking him to the other side of the street and hit his head on a fire hydrant. The driver of the car didn’t even bother to step down from his car and check on Henry. Henry died because his head hit the fire hydrant so hard; he fell asleep forever. Ironically, the blind owner of the dog that he kicked passed by, and the dog took a leak on him as I watched his soul rise up from his body and get sucked into my backpack.

– Bonnie

– Bonnie December 2, 2012 Target: Alice Anais Age: 15 Location: The United States of America, Las Vegas Time Found: 10:26 A.M. I don’t know what term I should use to call her and the previous people, but Alice Anais was my fourth “victim” for this job. I found her in an alley with a dead end beside a dumpster in Las Vegas, Nevada.

BONNIE THE CAT

It took me a while to find her because there were so many people roaming the streets. She was an odd girl who had huge eye bags and a raspy voice. Her hair was a mess and had cheese curls hanging on them.

Her pants had a lot of holes and she wore a shirt that only reached up to her belly button; it must be the current trend nowadays for young girls. I don’t like it; she looked like trailer park trash gone wrong. If I were her, I’d rather dress up like the women during the Victorian Age. I sat on top of the dumpster and watched her take out a bag of white powder. She began to sniff some of it and laughed like she was a prisoner from a mental institution. Suddenly, she started to dance the… what was it called? The Epilepsy. Yes, the Epilepsy. She continued shaking and flailing for three minutes. The dance moves were so simple that I thought that even animals could imitate it, so I did. I was having fun when she suddenly stopped. I thought she fell asleep but I realized she was dead when I saw her soul rise up from her body and got sucked into my bag. I knew she was going to die but I didn’t think it would be that fast. I don’t even know what she did wrong in her life for Lucifer to have the official custody over her soul. ****** I returned home as soon as I got her soul. I told my master about Anais and the white powder she was sniffing over lunch at our house. He told me that the powder is called “cocaine” and it makes people nuts.

People who can’t handle stress or pain will use it to feel relaxed. It’s addictive that’s why people rely on it.

One more thing, it’s illegal. No wonder Lucifer wants her in Hell; she’s a criminal!

Master called on for a demon from Hell so that he could have the soul of Anais delivered to Lucifer.

– Bonnie

December 3, 2012 Lucifer and Jesus paid us a visit and invited my master to a drink at LimBar. I joined them but I just sat on the table listening and pretending that I don’t understand a word they were saying.

“What brings you two here?”

“The two of us are here to remind you about the Grand Harvest.”

“Oh, yes. Father said that it’s coming soon and wants you to be prepared.”

“Jesus, tell Pops that I want a 50/50 split. Tell Him not to be selfish for once.”

“Pops isn’t selfish.”

“Yeah? Then why does He want to be the only one worshipped?”

“Because He’s the King.”

“And so is the other God on his side of the Spirit World.”

“He should be in Hell with you.”

“Why? What did he do to offend the Old Man?” “By existing.”

“He’s such a jerk. That’s what He said before He banished me to Hell, although, I like it down there. I don’t have to listen to His boring sermons.”

“You’ll get the 50/50 split. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, my friend. See? Why can’t Pops be like Death? He knows the mechanics of sharing.”

“I don’t think you should be deciding, Death.”

“Why not? I’m the one busting my ass grabbing souls for your Dad and your brother every day. Why can’t I have a say in this?”

“Fine, fine. You don’t have to use foul language, you know?”

“Sorry. I’m just stressed out.”

I got bored listening to them, so I decided to go home and sleep. Jesus and Lucy started to ask each other what’s good to watch on television nowadays; my master engaged them in a conversation about Law & Order. I didn’t want to listen to that.

– Bonnie

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one. I wonder where the other guy’s soul will end up.

December 4, 2012 I remembered the conversation that those three had last night. Something about a “Grand Harvest,” was it? I wonder what that is. It sounds like a fancy celebration to look forward to. I don’t know. Whenever I ask my master, he just keeps silent and tells me “it’s nothing, really.”

– Bonnie December 8, 2012

****** I told my master that Manny’s friend committed suicide by jumping to his death. “Oh, suicide? Now that one’s going to Hell. To take your own life is a mortal sin, and according to the Big Old Man up there, that’s enough for Lucifer to have custody of one’s soul.” So he called for both the messengers of Heaven and Hell to have them delivered. “Woah. Master Lucy’s going to be happy for this,” said the messenger from Hell.

Target: Manny Bo Age: 13 Location: The United States of America, Las Vegas Time Found: 2:47 P.M.

– Bonnie

It’s been almost a week since I’ve last taken a soul.

Master said I have to finish capturing souls before the twenty-first. I don’t really know why, but it might be because of that Grand Harvest thing.

I found Manny Bo inside a humongous shopping mall playing with his friends in a bowling alley on the third floor. He was a nice black kid who would always let his friends bowl first before him; he was always last.

He would cheer for them and give them high – fives even if they didn’t get the strike. One of his friends always missed because he lacked power in his bowling abilities that’s why he ends up hitting only two to three bottles or none at all. When it was his turn again, Manny stood behind him and cheered for him; telling him to add a lot of power to his roll. With all his might, Manny’s friend finally scored a strike; a strike on Manny’s skull. Manny stood too close to his friend and got hit by the heavy and hard bowling ball on the forehead, which shattered his skull. A crowd gathered and Manny’s friends called for an ambulance. Before they even arrived, I saw Manny’s soul rise from his body and got sucked into my backpack. Manny’s friend was guilty for what he had done and jumped to his death from the second floor. Today was double payday for the paramedics and a bonus on my part; I got two souls but I only needed

I find it funny that everyone calls Lucifer “Lucy.” I’m sure they know it’s a girl’s name. I’m not even sure if Lucifer is aware that people call him that. If he is, he’s probably queer; he’s not doing anything about it.

December 9, 2012

– Bonnie December 14 Target: Nina Kosonen Age: 16 Location: Finland, Espoo Time Found: 3:11 P.M. Minus the snowfall, the clouds, and the human beings, Finland is basically the same as Limbo. It’s one of the few countries where the sun doesn’t shine; the sun is blocked out by a massive swarm of gigantic clouds so thick that light cannot pass through them.

Instead, the clouds absorbed the light; turning into a mini light bulb that illuminates the country by the slightest bit. According to my master, the country is peaceful with an extremely low crime rate, except that the crimes here are big whenever there are. He

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said that back in the 60s, three out of four people were murdered in a nearby lake in Espoo, which is where I found Nina Kosonen. Apparently, the case was never solved. The sole survivor of the crime became mentally ill and there are no concrete evidences that lead to the killer. The case was closed but even up to now, many people are attempting to look for pieces of evidence to solve it.

I was sitting on a rock admiring the frozen lake.

Beside me was a tall old man in a brown leather jacket. He had long, ash grey hair which covered his face so I can’t tell if he’s ugly or not. He must be full of wrinkles because when I looked at his hands, I could see his varicose veins. I guess he was admiring the lake as well. I heard somebody walking behind me.

To my surprise, it was Nina Kosonen. I didn’t have to look for her around the city anymore. She had long blonde hair, a pretty face and blue eyes, like most of the Finnish girls have. She wore a beanie, a blue parka and shorts that only covered one-fourth of her legs. Her skin was fair and white as snow; she was so pretty that I just stared at her. I remembered that I’m supposed to take her soul so I followed her around the banks of the lake. She brought out a camera from her bag; it wasn’t a Polaroid camera and it looked smaller than one. It must be a new model. I watched her take pictures of the lake. She smiled and spoke in Finnish; I couldn’t understand her.

The man in the brown jacket suddenly appeared.

He walked towards Nina and revealed a knife and a cane. He started to stab and beat her with them. I got scared because the man had red bulging eyes, so I ran behind a tree. Nina was able to stand up and run away even with the injuries she sustained from the attack. The man didn’t follow her and walked to the opposite direction. I followed the trail of blood and found Nina walking towards the police station.

I went inside with her and she immediately told the police that she was assaulted by an old man. One of the officers called for an ambulance because she was bleeding profusely. Nina somehow managed to snap an image of the attacker and showed it to an officer.

“Keep it, it might be useful.” were her last words. She

fell to the floor and out poured her blood. Her soul left her body and went into the backpack. I couldn’t stand looking at her beaten corpse so I ran away and decided to return home.

– Bonnie December 15, 2012 Back at home, I watched the Human Channel #28: News of our community. The headline of the news report that we were watching was: “Lake Bodom Murders finally solved.” The video featured the police arresting the old man that attacked Nina; beating him up inside his own house. The police confiscated the firearms and the blades that the old man owned, and not only that; they searched his basement and found the disfigured corpses of teenagers, who were said to be missing for years, hanging from the basement’s ceiling. The prime minister of Finland, who was with the police, announced that this old man could possibly be the mastermind behind the Lake Bodom Murders and they thank Nina Kosonen for being able to picture the face of the old man. Good for you, Nina.

You’re a hero now. It would have been better if you were still alive though.

– Bonnie December 16, 2012 I don’t really feel like doing anything today, but I made a deal with my master that I should finish the job; and I want to get this over with because I’m already bored with what I’m doing. I’m just here, following people and waiting for them to die. I think it would have been more interesting to see what all those children could have become in future. I wonder. Nina could have been the most famous detective in Finland. Who knows, maybe those two Canadians could have been great politicians that would make Canada better than the

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MATTHEW OLIVARES

United States. Manny could have been the future Pope, and maybe that girl Anais could have been a doctor, or a dancer, or whatever. And Manny’s friend, he could have been the best bowler in the planet. For a minute there, I regret accepting the deal with my master. ****** I went to Manila, Philippines today at 11:53 in the morning. This is where the Jollycow milk came from.

I spent the entire day thinking about whether or not a three – month supply of milk was worth the lives of these children.

I was supposed to look for a kid named Jason Orias, but I decided that I’m going to quit this job and tell my master that I’ve had enough. I walked around the city until I reached Manila Bay, and there I sat on the docks and from there I watched the boats drift farther and farther away until they looked like little dots in my eyes. A few minutes later, my master appeared with a three bags that contained Jollycow. “You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to find out for yourself how terrible my job is.

Come on now; let’s go back before people start dying.

I feel like thousands have already perished since I’m here again.” Oh yeah, he also took Jason Orias’ soul. I don’t know how, but he just said that he did and told me not to worry about it.

– Bonnie December 19, 2012 Lucy and Jesus paid us a visit again to congratulate my master for finishing the job before the Grand Harvest.

Even up to now, I still don’t know what that is.

“Father would like to congratulate you for bringing four souls when he only asked for three,” said Jesus.

“I saw that he only had three on the list, so I felt like giving him an additional soul so that both of you have four souls each. If you don’t mind me asking, how are the two of you related?”

“Oh, Lucifer and I are half – brothers.”

“Yes, Father can reproduce asexually.”

“Watch your mouth, brother. He might get angry.”

“He can’t hear me. He’s too old.”

“Oh, I’m not going to tell on you. Just be careful.”

“Guys, what do you want from me? I don’t really feel like exchanging pleasantries with anyone.”

“We’re here to remind you about the Grand Harvest.

It’s in two days.”

“I am aware of that, Lucy.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Why not? I think it’s adorable for someone like you, brother.”

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Holy Man. Anyway, Death, you will conduct the Grand Harvest at the top of the Burj Khalifa in Dubai.”

“Why there?”

“I don’t know. It’s just cool if you would do it atop the tallest structure in the world.”

“Uh – huh. Tell me, Lucy – fer. Why are you a part of the Grand Harvest? Your Dad was the one who told me about it thousands of years ago. He never told me that you had a say in it.”

“It’s kind of abrupt, really. He only let me in it exactly a hundred years ago. I don’t really care much about it; but Pops scares me whenever He raises His voice. He doesn’t have to go to Hell to yell at me; I can hear him all the way from up there. So, yeah.

Anything to make him shut up and leave me alone.”

“That’s because Pops believes that not everyone deserves to go to Heaven.”

“And why is that?”

“That’s because people continued to sin even after I allowed myself to be crucified.”

“Too bad, little brother. The world will never change. If you couldn’t do it, you think the humans can?”

“Sad but true, brother. Sad but true.”

“Well, I’ll be on my way. I’ll be seeing you two in three days.”

“Bye, Lucy.”

“Jesus Christ, shut up!” Lucy descends back to Hell.

BONNIE THE CAT

“Aren’t you excited Death? This is your last job!”

“Oh, yes. I’m QUITE excited.”

“I’m sure you are. Well, I’ll be on my way as well.”

“Bye, Christ.”

So, my master’s last job is this Grand Harvest thing? It sounds like a really big deal. I wonder if he’ll push through with it. After all, he already quit.

– Bonnie December 21, 2012 Today’s the Grand Harvest! But my master just stayed at home and watched Law & Order. I nudged him to go to work but he said he doesn’t feel like it and that he already quit. I don’t really get how this Grand Harvest thing is his “last job.” What does that mean? I asked master and he told me that “it’s nothing, really.”

– Bonnie December 22, 2012 I woke up because there was a commotion in the town square. Lucy and Jesus were there talking to my master, but something was strange. Lucy was pacing around and stuttered whenever he talked. Jesus was kneeling down crying and praying to forgive my master.

“Oh, Almighty Father may you forgive my good friend, Death for he did not mean to disobey your word.”

“Cut that shit out, brother. That’s going to his spam folder!”

“Why are the both of you making a fuss?”

“You were supposed to give God the souls of half the human race yesterday! And half to me! What were you doing?! Why didn’t you do it?!”

“Because I don’t want to. I never did. Why can’t you do the job yourselves? More importantly, why can’t He do the job Himself? Is He too old that He can no longer stand?”

“Oh, Almighty Father, forgive my good friend Death for he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Can’t I just do it another time? I really don’t feel like doing my job for a very long time.”

“You can’t. He was so excited yesterday! The moment has passed and it cannot be undone!” Jesus cried harder and harder.

“Excited? Excited because people will die? Quite loving, He is.”

“I told you Pops isn’t really that nice.”

“Oh, Almighty Father, forgive my good friend Death and my brother; your other son, Lucifer.”

The grey sky of Limbo suddenly became white as a huge ball of light descended from above. It was the Big Old Man Himself, although we couldn’t really see what He looked like because it was too bright.

“Lucifer! Jesus! Go back to where you belong!”

“Yes, Father!” said the two brothers in unison. The both of them left and went back to their respective domains while the Almighty One stayed behind. He was really scary.

His voice sounded like five hundred thunderbolts crashing down from the sky. Everyone hid inside their houses out of fear except for me and my master.

“Death, you dare disobey Me, the Almighty One?” “I just slept through the day, Christ. Can’t you cut me some slack?”

“You disobeyed the law! And if you disobey the law, there won’t be any order! The earth will continue to exist when it shouldn’t!”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Don’t you dare question me! You will suffer the consequences of your disobedience and insolence!”

“What are you going to do about it? KILL me?”

Oh, how fun it is to watch these two bicker. I’ll stop writing for today and see what happens.

– Bonnie

67 67

There is nothing beautiful to admire from an ocean that’s gray. The allure of its azure hue, all of its significance along with all my joys; the tender moments spent with you watching the waves crash on monumental rocks, the long walks by the shore hand – in – hand; you took them all with you as Scylla’s tentacles coiled around your ankles and dragged you into the womb of the ocean. Since then, every night I sit by the shore waiting for my turn to be pulled into the abyss, hoping to lay with you again and admire the ocean beneath its depths.

w o t r Unde

FROM THE AUTHOR

ON BONNIE THE CAT

ON UNDERTOW

Why? How?

Why? How?

Sometimes, I get bored logging onto social networks, reading Wikipedia

I wrote this piece for my FA106 class under ma’am Daryll Delgado. She

entries and articles posted on Rappler and the Washington Post, and

gave my class a writing exercise where we had to pick a body or an

playing Skyrim. Whenever I do get bored, I log onto Youtube and explore

element of nature and come up with a list of emotions and events that

its artsy – fartsy hipster sections that feature Indie, Electronica and

it symbolizes, and a drabble (a short story in a hundred words) that

Post – Rock groups that deserve to be heard; and also look at videos of cats

presents any of the emotions/events and the body/element of nature

doing silly things such as barking and playing patty cake.I’m more of a

that we listed down. I picked the ocean as the body of nature, and I

dog person kind of guy, but I do love cats as well. From what I’ve seen,

immediately associated it with longing, loss, depression, sinking ships,

cats do more ridiculous things than dogs. I’ve never seen a dog meow, but

and the Greek mythological creature, Scylla. All these associations were

I’ve seen a cat bark. Not in real life though. Just through a viral video.

appropriate to the way I was feeling months ago; sawing-sawi ako noon.

Days before writing this piece, I was contemplating on the concept

So, I decided that this drabble should be depressing.

of death. A relative of mine had just died and I didn’t take it lightly.

I used to be in love (or maybe, I still am. I don’t really know

I didn’t want to be depressed about it. I wanted to make fun of death

anymore. LOL DRAMA.) with a girl who loves the ocean and all its

instead because what’s the point of feeling bad about it? Feeling sad

wonders, so I drew inspiration from her.

won’t bring the dead back to life.

Before and during the process of writing Undertow, I was tripping

Of course, wheneverIthink about death, sometimes I can’t avoid

on post – metal bands such as Intronaut, Tool, and Isis. Isis had an

thinking about the grim reaper. So I thought: “What if Death never

album entitled “Oceanic”, while Tool had an album entitled “Undertow”.

really wanted to do his job? What if he quits his job?” Since I also kept

I don’t really know why, but I really like the word “Undertow”, and I’ve

on watching videos of cats, I thought: “What if Death owns a cat? What

always wanted to write a piece under that title so I took this exercise as

if he asks his cat to perform his job instead because he doesn’t want to

an opportunity to be able to use that title, and I have ma’am Delgado

do it anymore?” My story idea sprang from there. I asked myself, “Hey!

and Tool to thank. Plus, I found it fancier to say than “Oceanic”.

What if I write about Death quitting his job and his cat took over the reaping?” Then, BOOM. Bonnie appeared.

I wanted the story to be set in the present day, that’s why you will

For the benefit of those who do not know, undertow is another word for “under current”, and I likened it to the tentacles of Scylla dragging someone into the ocean.

encounter a lot of references to popular culture when you read it. I also

I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning, around the witching

chose European countries because they were the ones that popped into

hour. I usually write at that time because my creative juices don’t run

my head first, and because they were familiar to me.

out unlike during the day where my mind is beaten by academics. No coffee was used during the process, and certainly no cannabis.

After receiving the comments from the workshop…

I was hoping to write a children’s story, but since the characters that die here

After receiving the comments from the workshop…

are children, I guess it will scar them forever. I’m just kidding, but yeah.

I know that this piece has a lot of inconsistencies and things that need

The panels were expecting something that’s Filipino because one

to be cleared up because I was limited to only one-hundred words. I took

of Bonnie’s targets is located in the Philippines. I rushed that part and

into account all the comments from the panelists and I’ve decided that I

didn’t really show much that’s Filipino, so nasayangansila. I’ve taken

will break the one-hundred word limit. I’m already done with FA106, so

into account that expectation and in the process of revision, I shall add

I guess the rule no longer applies to this piece.

a whole lot more to the Philippines segment of the story to hopefully

I recall that one of the panelists said that this piece is a dark

appease the want of the panelists and those who have read and are

reinterpretation of William Shakespeare’s “Full Fathom Five” if I’m

about to read the story. I think I need to do that because I believe that

not mistaken. I haven’t really read that piece by Shakespeare yet, so

it’s the duty of a Filipino writer to add a little bit of Filipino sensibility

I will check it out soon. I will also read up more on the myth of Scylla,

to some of his/her works, if not all.

and possibly add Charybdis to the piece during the revision. I will also

I will also add a little more cultural background to the other

research on the mechanics of the undertow so that I can make the title

places in the story to make it more detailed while still maintaining the

of the piece convincing. I want to try and make this piece different from

randomness and the flippantness of the story. Clarity in chaos.Haha!

the usual works that are based on Greek myths through reimagining

Overall, I’m really happy that people (hopefully) enjoyed it, and I’m hoping that those who are about to read it will too. It will get better

the myth of Scylla and by taking advantage of the piece being a dark reinterpretation of a Shakespeare work.

and funnier. I promise.

69

Elijah Pascual

Elijah Pascual is a sophomore currently taking up BFA Creative Writing. He used to think very highly of himself and his poetry, until the AHWW panellists gave his ego a good deflating. For that, he is very thankful.

He would also like to thank his former English editors, Carissa and Deirdre, and his current English editors, Sab and Cedric, for sharing their gifts of writing and critical analysis, and for being very cool people in general.

k l a T Pillow Your mouth is filled with feathers to soften the blow of your words.

They were once the ruffled costumes of birds who took off to retreat from the looming cold.

Having found the golden shores and palm trees I never gave you, they stripped themselves naked and plucked themselves clean of residue from previous seasons. They have resigned to just walking away.

Poem Going for a Mana gemen on He r Juni t or Ter Major m Abr oad We’ve buried our impulses under the weight of old lovers, I’ve gotten fresh caution under my fingernails. We’ve given so much. But the time I’ve invested — and it strikes me as silly — will come back yielding songs without the beat of your loudening, quickening footsteps, stone gardens without moss patches. The quiet soaks these clothes heavy, clouds swollen with semesters in Munich. Yet I know the silence, which screams from the hollow cavern’s end of a month yet to pass, the nascent dampness in a pair of eyes still unprepared to strangle the vertigo of an empty runway, will wash these hands. I want to wrap them around the throat of loneliness, knit scarves from its breath and pattern them with verses I’ve yet to write, so I hope this poem keeps you warm. If it doesn’t, I’ll still be here.

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ELIJAH PASCUAL

I guess the main thing I banked on when I wrote Pillow Talk and the JTA poem was that the feeling was fresh. I felt that I had to get it down before the emotion escaped or else the writing would sound contrived if I tried writing it another day. Pillow Talk was written after a break – up during freshman year. The JTA poem was intended to be a gift for my current girlfriend, who left for Germany some time during August.

Truth be told, I never intended to submit either poem to anything. But the opportunity to submit to the workshop was there and I knew I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t give it a shot. Revising the poems was difficult, considering how much emotion (yuck) I had personally invested into writing them. But I had edited them knowing they’d be criticized by a

ridiculously talented roster of panelists; these were writers who I looked up to and respected. So going over those poems again and prepping them up for submission, I felt like I was being watched, if that makes any sense.

The comment that stuck with me the most after the workshop was given by Sir DM Reyes, in which he said I “sacrificed the literal for the metaphorical.” Which is true. Looking at the images again that I employed in the poem, they make little to no sense on a literary level. Feathers in a mouth? How the fuck does that happen?

I’m slowly figuring out that poetry isn’t all about figures of speech and that comparing one thing to a completely different thing doesn’t automatically make it deep. Before the workshop,

FROM THE AUTHOR

my poems looked like beginner’s luck. After the workshop, they looked like rookie mistakes.

It was brought up that my poems had a certain lyrical quality to them, though. That’s another thing I’m always going to keep in mind whenever I write. The way the words sound and flow with each other whether read aloud or in the mind. It was always something I paid attention to. And it made sense that attention to prosody always its way into my writing, considering how my first influences were songwriters, then spoken word poets like Andrea Gibson and Shane Koyczan. Getting into the classics and moderns who actually kept their stuff on paper came later.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Emily Dickinson, Jeffrey McDaniel, others I could only hope to be as good as.

Revising my works after the workshop presents a new challenge. The comments I’ve gotten about my work were intellectual and reasonable and in no way discouraging, though I feel like I’m better off scrapping these poems altogether. Delete them and maybe employ the same images but in a different manner. There are more ways to illustrate the feeling of distance than with just an empty airport runway. And there are certainly better ways to describe a break – up than with… birds.

It’s no longer a matter of trying to bring back the feeling I had while writing those pieces. It’s one thing for emotion to inform writing. But letting emotions totally govern the way you write, that usually ends up with a flowery, trite, overindulgent piece that makes sense only to you.

75

Stephanie Shi

Steph is a junior Creative Writing student, a late bloomer when it comes to writing.

She wholeheartedly thanks God, Heights, her support system (friends and professors) for giving the time of day to help better the writing and being.

Body

A fine line might distinguish humility, modesty, and chastity from one another; a chain can link them together to render them dependent on each other. Whichever is so, the three have their own characteristics. To tie and knot them to a control bar that is shame, they let the marionette cover itself in a pose: head down, arm across chest, hand over groin, one leg crossed over another. My mind holds that position. My body, although it hasn’t grown weary from years of bearing the weight and grasp of fabric, wishes for air; should it feel stiff from the heat or humidity, it would only be for the greater probability of breaking at a puff or the snap of a string.

My clothes didn’t always blanket every inch of me. Naïveté and innocence allowed me to frolic without a clue on what is considered now as flaw, so there was hardly anything to be ashamed of. Perhaps being a child allowed certain avenues of exposure like the sight of legs. The public accept babies in diapers only, so it seems being around that age with some body parts flashed is fine, if not the norm.

When I reached pre – adolescence, despite revelling in the signatures of my body’s activities — the little swirl of a hill on my thumbprint and the darkened speck right underneath my palms from much writing or drawing — there were spots I tried to keep hidden: two rubicund bumps on the left arm. No strand of hair makes its way out through the light miniscule slashes on the surface that are the furrows. I was always asked what they were; “keloid” demanded more questions as did “scars.” “Chicken pox,” the root of all answers, caused aversion as though its scabs meant its existence instead of its ending. For a while, when I was still replying to my peers at that time, I settled with “mosquito bites.” No one ever wondered why they never subsided just like mosquito bites.

I wouldn’t have covered the bumps then if it weren’t for the ugliness associated to them. My mother insisted I use a viscous transparent cream that was supposed to lighten and flatten any mark after assiduous application. The scars are on my skin because I popped the white iridescent bubbles out and scraped their vestiges off their red outlines out of boredom and curiosity when I was waiting the days by to recovery.

Being signs of childhood exploration and strength, first of all of choice, my keloidal scars were no longer topped with the medicine after a few months, when red turned to beige lumps, a shade darker than my skin tone. Such fancies of mine were not, however, able to

aid me against the notions of beauty that’s equivalent to flawlessness, and to the sense of shame promulgated in and by the Catholic girl school I was studying.

Those who have gardens tend to them by removing weeds and mowing the grass. The same abatement happens on the body — for hygienic and grooming purposes, as I conceived — with similar tools for the process: shears and tweezers, mower and razor. To ensure healthiness, watering is necessary but only to an extent that the roots of plants, especially the plants themselves, aren’t submerged for too long a time. As with us people, it’s unnecessary to say that lack of oxygen from such drowning will eventually lead to the rotting and death of plants. However, watering isn’t just a matter of aiming the hose and shooting water out of it or turning on the sprinklers to rain divine life to the ground.

Garden hoses carry water from the spigot and out the other end. For watering plants, a sprayer is a better head than a pistol, since the former produces fine droplets; the gentle fashion from reduced pressure avoids damaging the roots. Nonetheless, it is necessary to dig into the ground and fill it with water; the wet top soil doesn’t mean water has penetrated it, let alone the roots getting the benefits of water.

In order to let the roots dig deeper into the ground, one must water in the direction he wants the roots to go. Suffice to say that brushing the hose and spraying water everywhere in the garden would most likely let the roots spread wide, not deep.

There, too, is a schedule. Plants are either watered in the cool of the morning or evening when winds are calm and evaporation is likely to occur slowly.

An inch – deep pool is needed by lawn grasses each week; soil must be kept moist lest it dry out and deteriorate plant, as well as animal, life. Such times allow one to spray water on the leaves to wash dirt and dust off without harming the plants; water droplets on leaves left in the harsh afternoon sun act like little magnifying glasses that may scald foliage.

Disease – susceptible plants are the exception, though.

They shouldn’t be watered at night. The presence of a pool for hours will trigger bacterial life to thrive, hence allowing fungal diseases to contaminate leaves, flowers, and fruits.

Pests infect one’s property, thereby the invention of pesticides to prevent and destroy them. Pesticides are either made from chemical or biological substances, examples of which are viruses, bacteria, antimicrobials, that have the effect of killing pests like disease – carrying mosquitoes that cause malaria, wasps

and ants that cause allergic reactions. By preventing crop losses to insects and the like, pesticides help farmers save money which would be allotted elsewhere rather than spent to replant what’s gone.

The idea of banning pesticides was conceived due to side effects that pervade to human health.

Minor effects include skin and eye irritation; severe, reproductive problems and leukaemia. A compromise was proposed. It has been advised to limit one’s pesticide exposure, to use the least toxic pesticide or a non – chemical one — here we have a matter of organism versus organism, but also organism protecting another.

I saw a very tiny black line on my underarm when I was around eleven. Curious, I tried flicking it with my finger to see if doing so would hurt. I’ve seen my mother tweeze in the past; she said there was no pain.

I knew from viewing commercials that underarms of women were supposed to be fair and hair – free. Without any tool whatsoever to let me pluck what I couldn’t believe then was hair, I spent hours with my arm up, pressing the tips of my thumb and index fingernails together to get the strand out. When my biceps grew sore, I leaned my arm to a wall and continued. My skin reddened as though I had the rashes; I pinched it too many times. As I finally pulled the strand out, I was much more relieved than I was disgusted; the said tiny hair was only the tip.

Two weeks later three strands were jutting out of my underarms, one on the left, two on the right. In panic and fear of the possible extent of hair growth, and in much bashfulness, I sneaked into my mother’s dresser for tweezers. There were two pairs. I stole one — the one with the looser screw to glaze my sin.

The hairless underarms silenced my conscience.

The tweezers were hardly used; hair clumped elsewhere. There were lines on my legs like stalks on a meadow. Ridding had to be done. My mother couldn’t do so much as to hold her tongue when she saw my unshaven legs — “yuck,” she said. Eventually she bought me boxes of Veet shaving cream that I constantly used. After the first shave, I marvelled at my whiteness. Ironically, without the dark brown (or black — no one notices the difference) hair that impeded the view to my skin and served as an object of comparing hues, my skin looked fairer, even luminous.

The two aesthetics that enveloped me produced the same effect. I crossed between the nuances of proclamations like “reveal nothing.” Instinct told me to show my limbs; I did. The idea of waiting to be in my forties, fifties or beyond, when hair growth would’ve

79

STEPHANIE SHI

slowed down or ceased, or when hair would’ve fallen, to wear a pair of shorts is preposterous; I would’ve lost all mold of youth, gained all the jiggle of age. I may rid myself of the black lines, but lines, much fairer than my skin, would’ve embedded themselves by then.

Deep inside me lurked the need to show. Showing meant the propensity of being watched. Being watched opened the chances of being liked — and what was there not to like in toned fair hairless gams? In a way, as my jeans cropped to Bermuda shorts in high school, then to short shorts now in college, clearly following the uprooting of hair, I have been revealing nothing — maybe better: nothingness.

I’ve laid my eyes nearly on every spot of my body.

On occasion, it was to be amazed at the concavities and to realize that underneath all the hair was something considered beautiful. Immediately after shaving, which eventually turned to waxing since shaving curled the growing hair, there was always a reintroduction between myself and a body, the body with myself.

Just as scientists of today haven’t seen the center of the Earth because of the untravelled 6, 378 kilometers under mankind’s toes and the soaring temperature of the core ranging from 2, 726.85 to 4, 726.85 degrees Celsius, nature, too, has disabled me: I don’t know how it, the vagina, looks like. Images have been flashed: a collage of animated blobs with arrows and labels; videos rolled to feature an infant coming out of a seemingly deranged woman. I always looked away to preserve my innocence, which some would call ignorance. I have bowed my head neither in reverence as one would gesticulate before a holy place nor to finally look at mine, but simply to retract out of squeamishness.

I was asked how I clean it without looking, as though I needed to see it in order to wash it. It’s simple: Each morning and evening, I spread my legs a little bit past shoulder – width, bend my knees slightly, and slowly move my right hand about my privates. Feeling the folds of skin, I bury my middle and ring fingers in places they would penetrate my body and let water in.

My left hand clutches the showerhead; it lingers below the spots I feel should be cleansed further, flicks to

and fro so that the water shooting upward glides and brushes my skin — a gentle fountain I pray cleans.

I haven’t soaped it in years. My body had always jerked when my soapy fingers forced themselves in.

When I found out what feminine wash was — I was fifteen when I saw a little pink bottle labelled “pH 5.5” in my parents’ bathroom and read its directions of usage — I thought of squeezing out a pea – sized drop for myself; it was about time I used something other than water. Commercials have emphasized enough the cleanliness and freshness gained upon application, always the image of a lady in a light – colored dress that balloons as she spins under the arm of a man who later embraces her while she endorses the bathroom product that allegedly resulted to their intimacy.

The bottle was returned, not a drop subtracted. My body has always been fine, I reasoned; I never had an infection. There was no point changing how I’ve done things, especially when I knew nothing about the acidity of skin and my privates. I feared feeling again the burning sensation body soap provided. Although I could have asked or researched on anatomy and washes, I didn’t; my biology teacher taught that feminine washes tend to kill even the good bacteria that protect the vagina, that they can infect and irritate the area; in addition, no one was going to care; I wasn’t going to have sex. Even when I did have a boyfriend, feminine wash still didn’t matter: he was never around; my legs only opened in the shower. I have always been clean.

A blur of black and beige alternated with each other like the waves of a troubled sea, only frozen; overlapped one another and clumped together like the leaves of an acacia. I should have known — perhaps I did — that the coils of hair that marred the center of my body foreshadowed the convolution of what was beneath it. The details of the reflection on the mirror that I held in between my legs one night when an old lover told me not to be ashamed of my body, especially the private parts, never imprinted themselves in my mind.

The unsharpened image resulted from the lack of focus of squinted eyes, noise from pubic hair never trimmed.

BODY

In dresses that hug the body tightly, I, like many others, have been bothered by a bulge. Mine’s not the stomach, though. A little triangle protrudes inches below the belly and points to my privates, an arrow, pubic hair, marking the spot. Brazilian wax was never an option, so was laser treatment for pecuniary reasons, nor do I have tools for shaving; the ones from Veet were only for the limbs. Trimming was most feasible in terms of getting hair out, but it didn’t seem hygienic to me to use the same pair of hair scissors as I did my bangs. Hair growth in that area would have posed another burden; it was already cumbersome to schedule a day for waxing my legs: it had to be a few days after my period, never before; when I didn’t have homework to do for the process takes long; my father not around to tell me to cover up; I felt brave and ready to rip strips off my skin (which wasn’t always the case). Cut pubic hair probably meant approximately two weeks of not being bothered by it, as well as a lifetime of having to worry about and tend to the thick sharp ends that would go through my underwear; I’ve settled to flattening it with my hand, twirling some strands to gather them better as I repeatedly pressed down.

As I have managed to live with pubic hair, I have often wondered how matters would have been if I never touched the hair on my legs. Perhaps the color wasn’t so dark against my skin. Maybe the strands didn’t grow more than an inch long and that there weren’t a lot of them enough to have a yard on my shins and thighs; my mother did look very closely when she expressed her repulsion. I’ve seen fair girls wear shorts, skirt, or a dress despite having hairy legs; no one seemed to mind. Some of them have a boyfriend; he didn’t seem to mind either.

I am not they; they are not I, I have told myself.

Not everyone has been endowed with flawlessness or meekness that draws the attention of certain kinds of people, who, upon focusing on a certain individual, disregard all other things that they fall open arms to embrace the ground.

I have my own rendition of the world’s landmarks.

My hunched and tilted spine from scoliosis resembles the undulating Great Wall. While it may have caused one side of my waist to be unmistakably more curved than the other, alarmed me of the probability of tilting further until I need surgery or wither like fallen foliage, scoliosis continues to push me to be concerned with my posture, if not my physical health altogether. Fragile from a spine curvature, I’ve gained an explanation regarding my inability to fully bend my back, touch my toes with locked knees; saved myself from carrying heavy things and being teased for apparent lack of flexibility.

What I’ve come to love are the three little dots on my left arm that form a straight line like the three largest pyramids of the Giza complex that are believed to point to the three stars that compose Orion’s belt.

They sprouted on my sand – colored skin most likely due to much scalding by the sun; they could either be moles or freckles, or perhaps a combination of both.

My body has traces of culture. The lines on my belly button form the character for “down” in Chinese, as though instructing whoever would see me naked to look in the said direction — of course, he would have to be Chinese to understand; rather, he’s supposed to be.

I once had two moles beside each other on my lower right cheek. I was told that a pair of moles means I have a rival. On the other hand, my grandmother and my mother wanted it cauterized, since it’s believed that a woman who has moles which are in the path of tears will become a widow. They rubbed my cheeks hoping to erase the pair; it remained. Still a child, I was barely bothered by the moles than I was with their constant pinching. My classmates didn’t care about them, as they were much too young to have observed such a little detail. Instead, they pointed their fingers and jeered at some other kid who had a button – sized birthmark a lot like a mole on her cheek; she became my best friend in our adolescence and I realized that we weren’t alone having the urge to hide or rid ourselves of our flaws, hairy legs being one of them and thankfully concealed by our long eggplant – colored skirts in school.

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STEPHANIE SHI

With the pair of moles that caused alarm gone, I may have lost a rival in that friendship was eventually established, yet I still have it in myself to loathe, to compete; I have other pairs elsewhere: one on the forehead, stomach, and right calf; two at the back of my left arm.

Only time will tell of my being a widow that although the moles may or may not have anything to do with it, I’m certain that the spirit behind such an idea will come to mind — a reincarnation, if not resurrection, of a person to an age – old belief to keep me company.

A brown scapular embellishes my body, dangles around my neck, and converges at the clasp of a rectangle framing the image of the Virgin Mother and the child Jesus. It has no beads. The string has twirled upon itself in five groups of ten, which trickle down my torso — suspended little acorns mimicking beads of sweat. The cross hangs until my navel, blessing my body. Reminiscent of a dagger, it defends me as it reminds anyone who tries to conquer that body, like land, must be nurtured. As in a weapon, its carrier would feel naked without it. It must be close to oneself preferably away from public eye, and only used when necessary as a last resort hence the need for me to draw a curtain on my flesh to impede view and temptation directed not only to a foreigner but also to myself to dislike and be embarrassed of my natural state, that opulence of hair.

Much digging into the earth leads to finding fossils, bones, these telltale signs of death and decay, harm that occurred during the remote past, lack of protection. People’s attention has been directed to the little intricacies that have marred the artifact. After brushing off dirt and dust from it, they investigate and surmise. Possibilities expand and welcome people to another world that once clothed the bones and bound them together. Desire invests itself upon the unknown. Desire exists with but is polar from Mystery.

Of the artifact, as it is possessed, there is hardly any desire. The only physical contact it has experienced involves the preparators’ scraping off of layers of matrix, gluing broken pieces back together,

and reassembling. It is set on a pedestal for all to see; there is no room for selfishness, hoarding, and depriving others of knowledge and insight that can be derived from it. No outsider touches and violates; everyone exercises utmost care in its presence.

Growing up, I was hardly fond of being touched. Most of the physical contact involved spanking and hitting, I suppose the usual punishments for disobedience and unsatisfactory performance in school — the number of spanks equalled that of errors in tests. In music class back when I was in prep, I was kicked (perfect 45s that sent me tumbling) by two classmates for being one of the few to understand and read beats and rhythms; a girl with a sharp Mongol stabbed my arm where, years later, a mole took the place of the nick.

For threats and peer pressure to like so and so or do this and that, arms were contorted where begging for mercy did nothing.

Although I have evaded the touch of the opposite sex, my body craves to be held. Naturally or not, when a granduncle pinned me on my parents’ couch when I was six, kissed my face, my ears, and my neck, granted I tried to whisk myself away, but I also laughed from the tickling caused by his wet lips, tongue, and breath against my skin — a dissonance that has resurfaced after years of assumed dormancy. On the same sofa, another man also held me as I kept my arms around him, or at least tried to lock him in my short arms. I swung my feet whenever he kissed my head.

My carnal desires were tempered most probably as a result of wanting to offer myself to God alone or to my future spouse, both for and out of love. These teachings in school which I took to heart made it easier for me at the time to appear covered and be reserved, yet upon being removed from that environment full of maternal figures clearly from a different generation and culture, I currently grapple with time and vanity, am even tempted to display my youth especially to those who only told me about its curse, that certain exposures of flesh mean I’m “asking for it” hence deserving of a life – long burden.

I considered ridding myself of some flesh if only to

BODY

inspire love rather than lust, a taking care, a mounting over me to protect instead of subjugate me. I’ve lessened my food intake; my outline has become more and more evident. The mountain range of knuckles grows defined much like my ribcage, yet my clavicle and sternum still don’t exude fragility. Nonetheless I’d like to believe perhaps out of sheer optimism and hope that my convex curves fit into someone else’s concave ones; my concave his convex. To ascertain my dazzling an explorer — one who is neither ashamed by anatomy like I — I will have to let him know about my uncharted territories, the facts and superstitions which place my identity, elude the touch in his fantasies for there is nothing on me to touch, let alone desire. That he may be enamored is unconceivable, but I would be titillated were it to happen.

83 83

Wh

e s i o ite N

1

True love waits. True love is a discipline. True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations; it is seen

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STEPHANIE SHI

with white hairs and is always young at heart. The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread. Let your love be like the misty rains, coming softly, but flooding the river. Friendship often ends in love. Love is much like a wild rose, beautiful and calm, but willing to draw blood in its defense. There’s always room for love. Life without love is like a tree without fruit. Love is like the sun coming out of the clouds and warming your soul. Love builds bridges where there are none. You don’t love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her. Only love lets us see normal things in an extraordinary way.

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end. Love — a wildly misunderstood although highly desirable malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain, causes eyes to sparkle, cheeks to glow, blood pressure to rise and the lips to pucker. Love is a sweet tyranny, because the lover endureth his torments. The lover is a monotheist who knows that other people worship different gods but cannot himself imagine that there could be other gods. Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit. The glances of women are like certain seemingly peaceful but really formidable machines. Every day you pass them in peace, with impunity, and without suspicion of danger. There comes a moment when you forget even that they are there. You come and go, you muse, and talk, and laugh. Suddenly you feel caught up! It is all over. The wheels have you, the glance has captured you. It has caught you, no matter how or where, by some wandering of your thought, through a momentary distraction. You are lost. You will be drawn in entirely. A train of mysterious forces has gained possession of you. You will struggle in vain. No human succor is possible. You will be drawn down from wheel to wheel, from anguish to anguish, from torture to torture. You, your mind, your fortune, your future, your soul; and you will not leave the awesome machine, until depend —

WHITE NOISE

What of her, she who abruptly plunged into the middle of a spread, invitation through the black on white on the page on her eye; a pineapple for two, then seeds scattered on separate plates — separate; side by side — her reflection on the glass in between, his the other side, a kiss on the rim; words and bodies running closely parallel to each other making waves from crisp ecru sheets — single – spaced, otherwise overlapping otherwise equal otherwise one always — always the old page on the older in the end; or she with the permutations of conflict resolved, unresolved conflict, thunderstorms and winks of light, then white noise

2

ing on whether you are in the power of a malevolent creature, or a noble heart, you are disfigured by shame or transfigured by love.

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STEPHANIE SHI

3

A week of love, and gone again, such happiness so quickly over. Eight days of bliss are worth the pain, but hours of love should last forever, should last forever, last forever 4

4

5

Love cannot live where there is no trust. Such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object of interest.6

6

7

Redundant. End it at “but hours of love should last forever.” Add a period.

Sentences contradict one another. Remove what you don’t believe in or what you don’t want to believe in.

Also, strictly speaking, what comes before and after a semicolon is an independent clause.

The art of love...8 is largely the art of persistence.

8

No text was omitted; remove ellipsis.

WHITE NOISE

Escalating numbers from brass to rust on plates where left is odd, what is even is right; oddness is left, she whispers as she walks beside the him, he who looks straight through the houses their windows arched to a snarl no longer transparent; few are open but black inside a decay she knows well enough not to be deceived by the aprons and slacks and briefs dangling side by side on clotheslines like makeshift banners; it is a walk home to her as it was to him for it was a better home then with white walls care of a different her whose presence is in the absence

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STEPHANIE SHI

9

All love that has not friendship for its base, is like a mansion built upon sand. Love is not enough. It must be the foundation, the cornerstone—but not the complete structure. It is much too pliable, too yielding. Falling

WHITE NOISE

in love is so hard on the knees. To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides. And love is a thing that can never go wrong. When love is in excess it brings a man no honor nor worthiness. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. True love is not supposed to be hard work, especially in the earlier days.

True love never dies. Love grows by giving. The love we give away is the only love we keep. The only way to retain love is to give it away. Love is a gross exaggeration of the difference between one person and everybody else. The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost. Love is a noble act of self-giving.

Love people and they will love you back. Love makes his assaults so suddenly. Love is blind. Love isn’t blind, it’s retarded. Love withers with predictability. All for love...10 and nothing for reward. Sometimes love is stronger than a man’s convictions. Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence. Don’t fall in love at the drop of a hat.

10

See eighth note. Check what ellipsis means.

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STEPHANIE SHI

Hers was of porcelain with little pink roses blooming by the brim under ovate eyes while she try as she might she had shards of glass scattered some on her eyes on her mouth — his kiss returned, yet delayed so returned again to her lips drawn back from curves to lines to block covert words always chasing overlapping numbers increasing volume of varied voices — hers included — enough to deafen without a rest for the ears to breathe to listen as she clutches what remains of the broken glass mug; the ear its curve her body takes, reverberating another’s still, vibrating as the air is still

FROM THE AUTHOR

I intended "Body" to confront and contest the conservative belief that was taught to me that the body is something filthy, something that causes one to sin hence should be concealed, and let one feel shame. By interspersing vignettes about gardening, cleaning fossils, and the like with my own exploration and discussion of my body, I hoped to present that body, like land, should be taken care of. This taking care stretches to the idea of loving the body and finally feeling not only comfortable with it, but also tickled should someone else love it, too. Since this essay was conceptualized and written under a struggling consciousness regarding the matter, some clinical terms and tones were used to precisely show the need of the consciousness to be somehow objective in tackling and pursuing the edge of a touchy subject that may make people uneasy.

I wrote "White Noise" to experiment with the footnote form because of my interest in what's not directly stated, what is perhaps kept to oneself. The footnote on a footnote was inspired

by Conchitina Cruz' "Inventory of a Year" and "This hand" found in her book Elsewhere Held and Lingered. The editing aspect in the footnote form was inspired by House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. "White Noise" took its progression from the very definition of white noise and a number of clichés on love that contradict one another. (All clichés were Googled under "love quotes".) Both were supposed to lead to the outbursts or tangents — the personal aspect or the so – called love story — that

express frustration because of the confusion from the unfinished argument about something so abstract. This essay, with pages of love clichés, also aimed to tire, repulse, or irritate the reader — a similar reaction upon hearing too much white noise.

The revision for both works can’t be done at the moment; I’m still in the process of filtering what the panelists have suggested, in general to focus more on using a particular language or tone, to let the essay move this way and that, to omit certain paragraphs that are too graphic bordering on pornography, to end in such and such a manner. The disagreements in their points on what to change and leave as is give me the urgency as a writer to decide as soon as possible how to fix the works. Before I can even tend to the fixing, I have to answer on my own what I value. Certainly more difficult would be to restructure the form of both essays: “Body,” for example, was asked to be poetry/prose poetry considering the central image and my unflinching gaze; “White Noise” to not have so much white space to ease the readers into the piece, to end it with footnotes because of the unfinishedness (with the imagined editor). Between the two, “Body” seems more difficult to revise. To render it as prose poetry may be apt, but it may be a different project altogether.

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Rie Takumi

Four years of inactivity has lead to this excess of activity. Got into the AHWW after weeks of arguing with myself, so thank God my friends didn't stop nagging me about it. I'm eternally grateful to the panelists, who cause my heart to stop when they started talking; and to my fellow fellows and the guys who helped set it up, because those two nights were exemplary of the kind of fun unique to a setting that has beer, a karaoke machine, and several semi-private pools.

Also: I'm never getting the moniker "Fujiyama Mama" disassociated with my name ever again, am I?

a y i j u F

a m a M a m

“I've been to Nagasaki, Hiroshima too, the same I did to them baby I can

do to you…”

Mom’s voice carries through the nearly – empty house.

You’re stupefied. How she managed to sing this song until now you’ll never know. A part of you thinks that you’re stupid for not closing your door that one time you decided to indulge your curiosity and search for the songs on the old set list your mother pinned up on the fridge door. It was practically an invitation to insanity — and you unwittingly led this lunacy in on a red carpet.

“And when I start erupting ain't nobody gonna make me stop...”

Your hands idle over your sketchpad, where a woman was holding half an umbrella and neon signs above her lacked the effect of bursting light. Today is Friday, which usually meant that Dad went home earlier than usual, but he called in earlier, saying he’s got a meeting he can’t escape.

You don’t believe him, of course. Bastard’s been meeting with the hot chick you dated three weeks ago.

It probably added to your mom’s decision to show – off her iron lungs: your dad usually took her out this time of the week to meet her old workmates.

“Well you can say I'm crazy stone deaf and dumb, but I can cause destruction just like the atom bomb, ‘cause I'm a Fujiyama mam — AAAAAAHHHH” The scream tore through the thoughts forming in your mind, and you nearly throw yourself outside your door. You jump the last few steps of the staircase, hitting the opposing wall and bouncing; you recover in time to use the recoil to run your way to the kitchen.

“Shit,” you mutter. Your mom probably left the gas on and lit up the air — it was something you did when you tried to cook, and since you came out of her, she probably did the same thing. You’re worried. The last meal you had was dinner last night, and your body is remembering that cramming has prevented it from attending to — excepting one — your natural needs.

“Ma, anyar — You stop in front of the doorway to the kitchen, mouth open in a shout, when a broom surges through the air and hits you in the face.

“AY! Anong ginagawa mo diyan?! Pumasok ka nga dito at patayin mo yung ipis, bilis!”

The wooden handle of the broomstick was somewhat slick with your saliva as you use it to swat a cockroach flying above an open casserole. Your mother shouts obscenities (to whom, you’re not sure), and while it’s

good that she’s finally stopped singing, you’re not sure if her swearing on the Virgin Mary’s lady bits was any better. The cockroach finally takes pity on you and it flies out of the kitchen through an open window; strangely enough, your pride feels bruised.

Mom starts fidgeting over the stove again, and you throw the broom you’re holding aside to sit on a counter to check your injuries. In addition to the cut on your head, your mouth was still watering from where the broom hit your face. Your mother takes a glance at you and shouts again.

During dinner, your mouth is nearly covered with ice packs, held together by Scotch tape and an old washcloth. You can barely eat the food in your plate, and you despair at the thought. There were things that needed doing, and the lack of food in your stomach would mean midnight snacking, which would mess your diet up. You lift a hand to remove the packs, but then your mom jabs a greasy fork at your fist. “’Wag mong tangalin ‘yan. Baka magka-bukol ka, sige ka.”

Your mind races with retorts. They all ran within the span of “my mouth isn’t wide enough” and “yes, I know that’s what he said”, but the curry you’re having tasted too good at the moment to be ruined by another sermon. Your mother starts telling you stories of when she was around your age anyway, and you filter out her voice. Her accounts of fame intersperse with Jack Kennedy’s wild years, sushi and Flashdance clashed with O’Hara and Ginsberg, Wanda Jackson, old, wrinkled, sung about Edgar J. Hoover being a Fujiyama mama…

“Ipakilala kaya kita kay Mama – san? Type niya yung mga — “ You never knew how painful a toothpick jabbed in your nose could be until your mother used one to pry the food that refused to come out of your nose after you started coughing your dinner out. Mom’s friends weren’t demonic, but they reminded you that once, your mother was young and hot, and this was the reason why you were born. This wasn’t to say that your mother deserved a place in Catholic hell for liking to remember her glory days, but your father did mention to you sometimes that he thought of driving off a bridge just to get out of meeting former Miss Go – To – Japan’s.

Sometimes, you wish he’d drive himself off a bridge, just cause.

After dinner, you clear up the dishes. While you piled them up on the strainer, you hear the familiar noise of your mother bringing her old tapes out. You tense up. Coldness crept up your fingers and toes. The sound foretold long, exhausting, emotional confrontations, and you didn’t have the capacity to deal with those at

the moment. Maybe you’re just imagining the whole ‘long, exhausting, emotional confrontations chill’ deal. Maybe it was even psychosomatic. The hollow pangs in your stomach seemed reactionary enough.

You strain your ears as you slowly walk to the fridge, waiting for a sound. A few moments pass. The sound of an obscure anime song rings from your pocket. You pull your phone out, check the SMS sent, and swear.

The text came from an emotional washout (your best friend) and as much as you’d love to abandon her, your future godchild(still unknown to her parents)’s life was on the line. She was stupid, you were not – so. You owed her boyfriend to keep a lock on something anyway.

The sound of you rummaging through the chiller made you deaf to the blare of low – fi – on – hi – fi coming from the living room. You know that sound. In fact, you know it so well you reckon you know it more than your father, though you didn’t want to bank on that fact.

This song was how you were made after all, and this was something you didn’t want to ponder on either.

Carefully, you walked up the stairs, leaving your slippers at the bottom to soundlessly paddle your way to your room. A crashing sound came from the living room, followed by swearing and the sound of breaking glass. In the hallway before you turn to the stairs, the maids were huddled together, with varying degrees of worry and amusement on their faces. You ignore them.

If mom wants to break all the furniture with dancing, it’s her call. The most important thing right now was to do that duty that made sure you didn’t need to do other, more distressing duties. Like the sketch you abandoned to save your mother from a patronizing cockroach, which needed to be passed five hours ago. Or like the ‘pregnant best friend’ thing, and the fact that, if you didn’t help her, certain pictures taken during a very secret night would flood your Facebook wall. There, in the middle of all these emotions you thought being a man saved you from ever feeling them ever, sprouted the idea that would be your friend’s saving throw.

“We can tell your parish priest first, let him tell your parents,” you type, damning the part of your mind that says it’s the worst thing anyone can ever advise another person. The door to your room is closed, muffling any sounds coming outside. The AC hums quietly, and it accompanies the clacking of your keyboard. There were no other sounds present in the room — at least, no sound present physically.

In your head, the culturally insensitive lyrics about a woman – fied atom bomb loops.

‘Fu — jiyama — yama, Fu — jiyama mama...’

“I don’t really know what you should do, but I do

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know that your baby’s probably not your boyfriend’s,” you say out loud, because you can’t exactly type this, not without it getting copy – pasted and liked. You continue typing anything that comes into mind, even though you’re sure that you’ll abandon it in favour of sketching, and you’ll regret everything in the morning.

Beside your keyboard, your phone rings to life.

The man – whore of Satan sent a message, probably reminding you that your mother needs to drink her pills and you need to go to sleep. You’re tempted to tell him to do all those things himself; that is, tell his wife to drink her medicine and sleep with her.

You’ll even graciously wear your earplugs, if it meant getting dearest papa – san home right now.

“And when I start erupting ain’t nobody gonna make me stop…” you hum quietly under your breath.

There’s a split – second moment of complete revulsion, but you drop it quickly as it came. There wasn’t any use denying the fact that you had that song stuck in your head now. It was a damn good song anyway.

The time, according to your desktop’s watch, was nearly midnight, approximately three hours since you’ve closed the door. Since then, you’ve chatted with your best friend more than you have in a month, and you’ve given nothing but empty, comforting advice.

You’re one “It’s going to be alright” from throwing your monitor outside your window, and he was still online, looking over your conversation with her. The nagging taps against your head, reminding you that you had more important things to do, remains unbidden.

By now, the only sounds you could hear were the clacking of your fingers and the hum of the AC unit.

The maids and the dog were asleep, and you presume your mother has too even if she’s forgotten to turn the Betamax off (and you’re proud of yourself for getting the old thing to work again, despite the bane it turned out to be).

The picture of a pregnant woman in the middle of a red – light district you’ve been working on is still unfinished. It’s nearly three in the morning and your joints are creaking from the silent bouncing you’ve been doing. The bouncing tells you that you could go through the whole night without sleeping, even

without the aid of blackmailing closet cases, dopey fifteen year – olds, and espresso. You decide to get a cup because you know that, out of the three, it’s the only thing that won’t leave a bad taste in your mouth.

The living room was adjacent to the kitchen anyway; you could check up on mother after getting coffee.

The coffee maker was in the pantry when you entered the kitchen. You briefly consider waking the maids up about this. You ready your mug beside the kettle, with milk and sugar dregs inside. The coffee wasn’t going to be ready anytime soon, so you decide to look at your mother and make sure she didn’t take sleeping pills. Today’s Outstanding Fatherly Moment ranked too low for those.

She was lying on the ottoman, with her head pillowed awkwardly on an armchair beside it. Her legs were sprawled, but her pants made sure this sight wasn’t that traumatic for you. There were bottles of Grand Kirin spilling all over the white shag carpet, and you hopefully won’t be there when your mother realizes what she has done.

One time, back in high school, you woke up, went downstairs, and saw your mother sprawled across the lawn, naked except for her mothballs – smelling feather boas. At least she was still awake now, fully – clothed and sated enough to be pursued to head upstairs. You pick up the bottles of imported beer, carefully placed a full one inside a vase (for later tasting), and put the rest beside the kitchen sink. The mop couldn’t really do much to take the stain off the carpet. You reckon you need to call the cleaning service again and wonder how they’ll react when you tell them it’s not sake this time.

You clean up after your mother as best as you could. Several of her prized statues and flower vases are now in the waste bin in pieces. The TV was thankfully safe, but your glass coffee table needed to be replaced. Some magazines were torn up, but they weren’t yours, so you didn’t care. There was nothing more that you could do without turning on the lights and risk startling the witch (i.e. your mother, though the alcohol might’ve dulled her into not caring).

Leaving your mom there was pathetic though, and your father might start World War ad infinitum if he

FUJIYAMA MAMA

finds her ragged on a piece of furniture that wasn’t in their room. You nudge her carefully with your foot.

There was something blocking your throat, preventing you from saying anything longer than “Hey” without your voice breaking like you’ve entered puberty again.

“I really was a Fujiyama mama once,” your mother says to no one in particular, her left hand raised up like it was trying to snatch the glamour of her younger self from her memories. “Pinipilahan ako dati nun. I was the top girl. Drinks came to my table, tapos ang daming gustong magpakasal sa akin. But I chose your father. He was rich.”

You feel tiny pinpricks of something you refuse to identify stem from the corner of your eyes. You pat your mother’s knee in place of an “Okay”, and she replies with, “I'll blow your head off, baby, with nitroglycerine.”

There was nothing that you could say. The betamax had stuck, leaving a still shot of a woman, raised on the shoulders of young, handsome, and drunk salarymen, laughing and holding a mic in her hands. You shuffle over to the TV, stumbling on an unseen crack in the floor, and turned everything off. Your mother mumbles a soft protest. You stay still, listening for tell – tale signs of her dozing off to sleep, before making your next move.

You take one last survey of the room before you left: the end tables and consoles were bereft of their usual decorations, there was no coffee table between the TV and the sofa, and your mom was in your arms.

You carry her drunk, passed – out, body up the stairs.

It was a weird Friday night, and you had a dilemma waiting to be solved upstairs. The coffee maker beeps as you amble your way upstairs, careful not to bump your mother’s head on the railings.

The coffee maker was self – sufficient. It could wait.

9 99

A Jo

g n i n r o M e h t n i b

The empty carnival grounds loomed over Roland even in his dreams.

The candy cane – colored tents were mottled and foreboding, the soggy green – brown ground mawkish and cracked with drought in impossible places; the rides looked frail, skeletal, defeated — they seemed more like displays than working machinery. Out of every place he’s been to since he agreed to help Paul move soon – to – be cadavers, the carnival was the strangest, and he’d been in places no sane person should be allowed to habituate.

He should have expected this, of course. Saying yes to a strange little man after saving him from drowning in a mountain of garbage was bound to get Roland in these situations That day outside 7-11 was the last day of normalcy in his life, and he wasn’t quite sure if he missed not hauling dead people or not.

What he didn’t miss was this stupid carnival, which hardly changed since the last time they’d been here.

The rides were still wasted, the grounds muddied only by spilled drinks; at least the tents had a few more holes in them. A few suited men were clustered in odd places with others in track suits and jean jackets.

Roland was able to hear a few things from their whispered conversations, though he tried to pretend that he didn’t. Long – stocked gun barrels stuck out from some of the men’s jackets; he’d rather see them from afar than feel them pressed against his chest.

Those men were new additions to the park — at least, the more interesting additions to the park. Four midgets on a lion walked past them; it was a testament to how much Paul concentrated on not looking lost that he didn’t bat an eye at the sight. The other times they were here, people scrambled to get out, not to stay in. The security in the place couldn’t possibly be a reason for these guys — the ones with the guns — to be here. A few corpses in the local medical school, and one in China, attested to that.

“These guys might be plainclothes cops,” he told Paul as they walked to the owner’s trailer.

Paul looked at him suspiciously over his shoulder.

He was short, not midget – short, but short enough to wallow in a dumpster without anyone noticing for a while. His face had the sort of Ivy League drop – out quality to it that was hard to notice when he adamantly tried to bury it by bleaching his hair into Sk8r Boi – trashiness. Roland tried to point out how trashy his hair made him look, but then Paul pointed out that he still kept his bearded

band – guy look after he promised his girlfriend to look presentable, so he shut up.

“Rockstar,” he said, ignoring Roland’s disgruntled protests not to use the offending nickname, “if these guys were cops, I would know. Now shut up while I try to remember where the office is.”

This left Roland to look around and ponder on how much he hated this place. Even the air around the carnival felt like it wanted to him to keep his mouth shut. Every breath Roland drew crackled in his throat and dried his lungs as though he was on the very top of the rickety Ferris wheel in the middle of the fairgrounds. This was the tenth job they’re doing in the place, and the fourth in a month, but it still bothered him to even see an outline of the fairgrounds. It made him want to turn around and leave, go back to his house or Paul’s, maybe, and sleep, but his friend was already talking to the new owner of this desolate park.

Unlike the previous owner’s paunchiness, this man’s fat made him look like a pushover. It didn’t help that he, unlike the Italian – cut suit the man who handled business with Paul before sported, wore a track suit that made him look like a slug. It made him an easy target for his friend’s insults, which ranged from inner – city drag queen to things even hipsters won’t know. As it was, the small man’s voice was reverberating across the nearly – empty carnival grounds.

“Three — and that’s it; that’s the lowest we’re taking.”

Roland can practically feel the retort in the owner’s throat. The poor man probably thought he could scam Paul into working for nothing, but the new guy probably hadn’t heard of his friend’s near – legendary panhandling skills. At the end of the deal, a wad of bills considerably larger than just three hundred dollars made its way to his back pocket. Roland tried to count how much the fat slug gave them, but he had inkling he’d be disappointed when Paul gives him barely a hundredth of the width of the bundle.

Paul bounced on his knockoff Converse while he and Roland wondered what they were moving this time. A girl? A boy? Perhaps that old guy who worked the Tunnel of Love. The old man told him that he and the mistress were going to try the Astro – Blaster before he had his pacemaker installed.

“Remember that old guy in the Tunnel of Love?”

Roland asked, ducking under an overhanging electrical wire from a dodgy – looking Tilt – a – Whirl.

“Ain’t him,” Paul answered. He had a map of the place in one hand and a flashlight on the other. For all the good that he was when it came to petty crime, he was shit with directions and even worse with asking

for them. They stopped in the middle of a crossroads as Paul tried to work out if they passed the left they were supposed to turn to.

“We should’ve taken a job far from here. Maybe in Korea,” Roland muttered, scrubbing his parted hair.

He noticed a lunchbox containing a picture, some dirt, and a bone, open and half – buried in the middle of the crossroads. He then looked up and saw a sign that said ‘Summon the Crossroads Demon — It Really Works!’. “This place gives me the creeps.”

Paul waved him off. “You’re Caucasian – white, not Asian – white; you have dishonorable written all over your skin. ‘Sides, who the fuck sets up a fucking carnival in a magically – empty field – with real fucking weeds – near New York?”

They were getting closer and closer to the Ferris wheel, despite the layout of the place creating a labyrinth from the stalls and rides. From behind the stands, a few naked or scantly – clad people emerged, covered with mud and substances no one was impolite enough to point out. Some of the workers slept in the same area they worked in, the cupboards underneath their games or concession things functioning as lodging and storage areas. The corpse they moved five days ago had Paul scrounging through every cupboard in the place, since the former owner thought it was funny seeing them crawl.

Amidst the early – morning stragglers, Roland noted that some of the men with guns were walking around, trying to look discrete even as their pomade – slicked hair shined under barely – functioning fluorescent bulbs. Was there some kind of congregation of rockabillies in the carnival? He wanted to ask his friend what he thinks, but Paul was currently in the middle of a rant touting the importance of having a back – up plan for back – up plans. He ended up complaining that the resulting disaster from the one time they resorted to his back – up plan wasn’t entirely his fault — how was he to know that the husband of the body they were moving would grab his crotch?

Roland yawned. “Shift manager from 7-11 made me take the night shift again”. He stuffed his hands inside his hoodie as they moved again. “You and fuckin’ 7-11 lining me up with jobs. Barely shut my eyes this month, man.”

They stopped in front of the large Ferris wheel — the one Roland swore has been looking at him funny since they stepped into this god – forsaken place. It was only then that Paul turned to look at Roland to answer, with a shit – eating grin stretching his olive skin, “You’ll do nothin’ but sleep when you’re dead.”

101

RIE TAKUMI

The Ferris wheel moved slowly as the operator (one of the jean – jacketed fellows) lowered the carriage that contained their departed quarry. Roland doesn’t even remember what happened to the stiff this time: he was busy not sticking his elbow into the butter dish while Paul and the owner discussed the particulars over the phone that morning. The only thing he did remember is that this was the fourth body they had to remove from the carnival over the week.

Questions popped into his mind, of course, but over the corpses and cold coffee that he’d gone through with Paul, he’s learned not to question their source of income. It wasn’t his place to question where he got most of his profits, he reasoned. This was something he reasoned with himself since he got to his first corpse, and something he’ll reason until his last, which would hopefully come sooner than later.

“Roland, quit playing with your dick and get your ass over here!”

Paul was already in the compartment, looking like he’s about to tear off what was left of his hair as he looked at something on the floor. Roland wondered if Paul had questions too, especially when he looked like this, lips pursed and pierced eyebrows set against each other. Roland barely reached the compartment door when he noticed something odd about the scene.

“Smells like your breath in the morning,” Roland observed, “but it doesn’t smell like death. You sure this one’s dead?”

“It’s not,” came Paul’s reply, barely audible through gritted teeth.

Roland found Paul’s hands in his pants’ pockets as soon as he stepped inside the compartment.

He was about to shove him off when he saw the supposedly – dead body convulsing on the floor, and instead said, “Phone’s in my back pocket — right cheek.”

The body still breathed, though it looked more shitfaced than any 5th avenue hooker they ever saw. It was a she in five – inch platform boots, vest vomit – splattered and stretched over a protruding stomach, and shorts stained with blood coming from the crotch. Roland didn’t easily get nauseous, but the smell of puke and vagina – emanated blood turned his stomach.

“Think we should rush her to the hospital?” asked Roland. He covered his eyes.

“That’s a stupid idea. What’re we gonna say?

‘We found a fat and – or pregnant hooker in platform double – suede with either vagina or rape blood and vomit all over her in a carnival while looking for a body we were paid to dispose of by selling it to med students at universities.’ That’ll go well in the emergency room. No — we’re calling for back – up.”

“Oh. Right.” Roland blinked underneath his hands.

He forgot that Paul could be an outright insensitive prick when it came to these things. “How did you know the boots were made of suede? What’s double – suede?”

“I always wear a pair when I’m posing as a slut,” Paul sniffed and nudged the lady with the tip of his sneaks. The half – dead woman slowly rolled over and before crashing down, rocking the compartment and exposing two disfigured nipples. Roland covered his eyes with his hands. The last thing he saw was Paul dialing something, and it was only when he hummed, “Pick up the damn phone” when Roland realized something crucial to his pending freedom.

“Won’t that fat guy get mad at us for calling on the po – po? And why do you pretend to be a hooker — “ He can feel Paul’s disdainful gaze penetrate the fleshy wall of his hands. “I’m calling OUR back – up, you ‘tard.”

Roland blinked again.

The Ferris wheel operator ducked his head inside the compartment, grimaced, and said, “What’re you guys waiting for?”

Paul flipped him off and muttered, “Why don’t you call it in with your fancy little Bluetooth earphone shit, motherfucker.”

Hardly an hour later, Roland found himself watching three midgets as they pushed a barrel with another midget in it into a lion cage. Paul’s back – ups were clearing up the mess (i.e. the nearly – departed fat and – or pregnant hooker) with the owner, and being the newest one in the crew, they made him the look – out.

This, of course, meant, “Do something that won’t cost us our rent money this month”. Roland rather liked it.

A JOB IN THE MORNING

What he didn’t like was the fact that he had to do it under the devious stares of the willowy roller coaster, the bearded lady, the skeleton man, and the mustachioed aqua – man, who indeed looked like a fish with a moustache (Roland thought that he should’ve been named Catfishman instead). It was bad enough that a job went horribly wrong, but being stared at by circus freaks like he was the freak made everything worse.

Though from their standpoint, he supposes he was a freak. Here he was, twenty-five years old, a degree in graphic design and a couple of old band mates lamenting his decision to work for a twentyfour hour convenience store so he could stay close to a girlfriend who forbade him from getting any more tattoos and leave his band. What was he supposed to do? Leave her? Join a phony competition and roll around in “bitches and greens”, as Paul kindly put it?

The three midgets were about to use the barrel with their fellow midget as a treadmill, with a lion running the conveyor belt they ran on, when something about the Ferris wheel operator struck Roland. Before he can say anything, he was hurtling away from the midgets, dragged along by a frenzied Paul.

“I think the guy from the Ferris wheel is a cop,” he breathed, and Paul, despite running pell – mell towards an unknown destination, clipped him on the head.

“Why’d you think we’re running, dick cheese?” shouted Paul as gunshots split the air behind them.

This promptly shut Roland’s mouth and caused him to focus on not tripping over his laces as they raced past unhygienic concession stands, only to head for far more unsanitary comfort rooms.

“They’ll see us come in here,” Roland shouted as Paul hurled him inside the mold – infested bathroom.

Paul trapped them in a cubicle, their asses squirming on top of the toilet’s water chamber, and answered, “, and answered, “No, they won’t. They’ll be too busy chasing the others. If they did see us, they won’t follow us in this shithole.”

Roland opened his mouth to ask (which he regretted immediately — he was sure the place was a biological hazard): “We’re not seeing the others again, are we?”

Paul merely nodded in response.

“Well, damn. I thought LaToya was good – looking for a tranny.”

Paul merely nodded again.

Roland blinked as he heard people shout outside, and only by the virtue of the restroom’s hazardous odor did the people avoid it.

When the noises outside finally subsided, Roland hazarded another question: “What happened?”

Paul licked his lips before answering, “Turns out that that fat fuck — the one with the shit – and – piss track suit – is a pig from the FBI. The other Pastramis and Goodacinnis around the carnival were moles too.”

Paul was red in the face, straining, trying not to shout, “Fuck that cunt”, and it took him a few wild gesticulations before he could continue, “He was going to set us up, see? That’s why he was so easy to talk to about the money — he was hurrying us up for the set – up, so the feds can get us with the other Pegorinos. Well, fuck him. The fat chick in the carousel going to move orgasmed when Ratface fucked her while me and Jose was talking to the fat fuck.”

“I thought we got Ratface to stop fucking the stiffs,” Roland muttered. He probably needed to quit 7-11 because of this. As it was, he was running late for his shift. He wondered if his girlfriend would run away with him. She was the breadwinner between them, so he doubted she’d quit her career for her boytoy. The thought somewhat made him happy.

Paul clutched his wrist, and Roland was forced to tear his gaze away from the yellow mould moving on the floor to look at him. “You’re not listening again,” Paul said, his grin feral and a little addled. “The fat – fuckass wanted to close the deal early, so he gave me more than he said he would.”

He patted his trouser pocket, the one not pressed against Roland; it bulged with bills. “We have enough here for a little name change and a few months’ stay with my cousin in Korea,” Paul said confidently, and knowing him, Roland knew he could make it happen.

“North or South?” Roland asked as they sneaked out of the comfort rooms minutes later, when they were sure that the search party was well away from them.

10303

RIE TAKUMI

“How about Thailand? Nobody looks in Thailand.”

“Cause it’s fucking Thailand,” Paul replied. He brought a map (and where did that come from) of the park out of his jacket and worked a path out of this place. “The crazies in the South end of that place’ll need us more than Ladyboyland. They got enough garbage men in Thailand anyway. I heard pop stars there all look the same — we can get the same surgery as them. We’ll be fucking kings.”

“Think they won’t notice we’re white?”

They heard gunshots somewhere in the labyrinth of tents behind them. They marched on and passed through a gap in the fence on the outskirts of the fairgrounds. The land before them, compared to the somber nature of the carnival, was wholly unnatural, with its wide expanse of tall grass and boulders. It was a proper wasteland, which meant it looked out of place when compared to the cement pavement on the other side of the carnival.

“I don’t fuckin’ know, all that K – Pop shit looks the same to me. Fine, we go to Australia. Loads of wildlife fuckers to pull out from spider fangs or some shit, that place is crazy. We might make lower than usual though; not a big market for old pancreases.”

They trudged on nonetheless. Roland thought he’d rather take on the wilderness than step inside a carnival ever again.

“Still, dead people there have the decency to stay dead.”

FROM THE AUTHOR

To be honest, both works that got in AHWW were products of forced labor, forced here meaning there were external factors at work that got me writing these stories. The deadline of the first folio last year gave birth to Fujiyama Mama and the nagging feeling of irresponsibility churned Job in the Morning out.

Neither was planned in that there was never an outline for how they’d turn out. Whatever seemed convenient to put in next was put there and, if it didn’t work out later, was pulled out later.

Insert favorite “in – and – out” joke here.

Fujiyama’s been in stasis for a year. I started the draft that would become this story for the first folio last year, but too many conflicts in – story left it unfinished. It was in third – person perspective, had a completely different aim in mind, and neither the perspective nor the main conflict sparked my interest long enough to get me to finish it.

A year later, staff workshops came and I lost the progress I had for my submission. Disheartened, I rummaged through my WIP folder for scraps and saw the draft again. While listening to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”. As the laundrywoman, a long – time friend of my grandmother’s, sang to it. It was annoying; I was harried with school work and conflicted, as I was asked by my grandmother to do something though I was doing school work.

It wasn’t too hard to change the story after that.

A lot of things got changed after the staff workshop, obviously. The characters became less one – dimensional, for a start. The biggest problem was the song. “Dancing Queen” didn’t carry the tone I was looking for and according to some people it was too common to inspire further babble. Cue me months late, playing a retro – theme apocalyptic game, testing a unique soundtrack that had songs about the Atomic era.

I’ve been to Nagasaki, Hiroshima too, the things I did to them baby I can do to you…

Enter “Fujiyama Mama”. The rest of it is history.

A history with a lot of unnecessary words and tense jumps, as the workshop said. It wasn’t sure which mode of English it was using and it didn’t know whose story it was following: was it the son’s, the alien second – person, or the mother’s, the titular “Mama”? Why feature this night out of every other night that the same thing happened? And why the hell is the guy an artist?

There’s a lot of revisions for this piece, and I intend on revising it in the same speed as I’ve revised it before: wait a year until the jitters come off, THEN look at it again.

“Is it fanfic?”

Is still the clearest, memorable comment on Morning that it has ever received. It has a point in that it gives the character background as if the reader should know where these guys came from and it didn’t play with the structure. And it might be misconstrued as racist. Still, though.

Morning, in fact, got its wings from a song, and was built around the fact that the song was about a scary carnival that had a pretty lady with platform double – suede’s. With Philippine Spec Fic’s deadline looming in the distance, I had a pretty good intention to turn to the strange to make something that didn’t fail horribly (and notice how works are produced within a week or so of a deadline). Halfway through writing it, I changed tracks and decide to write about apathetic, fresh graduates who happened to be white trash, just to see if I can channel my senior angst into a practice of how to write people of different race.

Hospital – carnival turned into a plain carnival, mutants turned into circus freaks, and Brits turned into Americans. What didn’t change was my inability to write proper tenses and the focus I put into making readers pay attention to the plot and setting more than the characters. The characters were meant to be little more than grey and greyer but ended up being a major concern in all the times I asked people to look it over.

I thought it was a pretty straightforward story; I made sure it was read as one, deliberately depriving the reader of breathing room and putting a few footholds here and there to make some dubious jokes. It was about two guys who couldn’t make a decent living in a place where people think opportunity overflows.

This aspect came out, as noted in the workshop, but I never thought Cathedral, or Pulp Fiction, noir, or even Max Payne would come out. There were so many readings of it — noir, dystopia, allegory – that I just sat there, gaping, wondering how in the blue hell did I manage to write something that garnered more than a passing “Meh”.

Race, poverty, shame, escape, decency, and ethics — these enveloped the story without me even realizing that they did so.

There’s also the matter of needing more conviction in the details of the story to make it not racist, but all the hidden issues mined from it demands that I — again — sit on this and carefully think out just how the story could juggle its many responsibilities.

Speaking of responsibilities, I realize this essay didn’t do its responsibility of orienting you to my creative process and what people thought of it during the workshop. The thing is, much like how these stories were made, the best way to understand them (the stories and the badass comments made by the panelists and the fellows) is by reading them (the stories — if people can read other people, life would be too easy… and paranoid). Much like my bewilderment over how people mined hidden meanings in these two stories, I’m still wondering what the hell did I write exactly (and hopefully that didn’t sound as obnoxious as I thought it sounded).

So help me out here. Read them stories and see why I’m so confused.

105 105

GALLERY

WORKSHOP COMMITEE

Workshop Director

PAOLO TIAUSAS

Workshop Deliberation Committee English

Filipino

MS. TINA DEL ROSARIO MR. JOSE FERNANDO GO-OCO MR. GIAN LAO G. EMMANUEL JOHN BAGACINA G. CHRISTOFFER MITCH CERDA BB. RACHEL VALENCERINA MARRA

Workshop Committee Assistant Director Logistics And Promotion Finance

CARISSA POBRE KRISELLE DE LEON AUDREY MAE FERRIOL

WORKSHOP COMMITEE

Design Team

Logistics Team

Heights Moderators

ALFRED BENEDICT C. MARASIGAN SARA ERASMO CARA BAUTISTA NICKO CALUYA DEIRDRE CAMBA SAMUEL LIQUETE CEDRIC TAN G. ALLAN ALBERTO N. DERAIN MR. MARTIN VILLANUEVA

Since its inception in 1995, the Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop (AHWW), patterned after the tradition of writing workshops in the Philippines, has produced a number of impressive examples of writing in poetry, fiction, and creative non – fiction.

Each year, the workshop accepts ten promising writers, all students of the Ateneo de Manila University, to participate in the event, with twothree works being critiqued for each fellow. Many of the AHWW alumni have gone on to create names for themselves in the literary community of the Philippines. Similarly, many excellent writers — some of them former fellows as well — have served as panelists to this workshop, in order to assist the fellows in refining and understanding their craft through their insights and critiques. The workshop is a 3-day, 2-night event held outside school, in a venue where one may retreat to write.