Obra: Epidemic

OBRA The literary folio of The Work, the official student publication of Tarlac State University Tarlac City All rights reserved Š 2016 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author. Any copy of this book not bearing the signature of the author is unauthorized and shall be considered as proceeding from an illegal resource.

Published by Majicus Junctra Corporation 1722 President Quirino Avenue, Pandacan, Manila

THE WORK

ABOUT THE COVER We look at the mirror and see that we do not anymore own ourselves; the epidemic powerfully owns us. Its injurious teeth and sharp claws mercilessly bite and scratch our flesh. But sometimes, why would we cure the epidemic when the epidemic is a hope that cures us from within?

Chapter and cover art by Kenneth Leo Pamlas Chapter stories by Daniel Carreon

It was late. Again.

By this time, the lingering darkness could have killed a nyctophobic in this one-hour trip to barrio. It was turning 10 in the evening, yet I have not reached the house. Instead of minding gruesome roadside elements—just like the wasted puberty gang which attacked our family home ride with pebbles two years ago—I fear more of not finishing my Accounting report on time. But, thanks God for giving Philippines a killing Duterte and for the pleasures of listening to pop genres. The tricycle ride could be much safer, at least for now.

Lately, killings “beyond the law” spread like a 1995 Ebola in West Africa. The days are not passing without the television talking idiot of the “drug addicts” killed because of fighting back. Death after death, bodies bathe with their blood. Certainly, epidemic is much more than a dysentery or a Bubonic Plague. Epidemic is extrajudicial. It does not spread in a mere demography bounded by human law.

Pandemic.

Epidemic.

OBLIGACION, DAN G. EDITOR IN CHIEF

Thoughts are contagious.

This year’s The Work literary folio, OBRA: Epidemic, is an emergency room of thoughts that need to be immediately chased after. The thoughts insinuated in this very folio carry with them a message, an advocacy, and a warning even.

The messages are both explicit and implied. This folio, therefore, requires your scrutiny.

The advocacy, on the other hand, either resembles yours or opposes it.

Be careful, I warn you, for sometimes they might hurt you. They might inflict pain to your innocence. They might rape your brain and steal from you your emotional and psychological virginity. These thoughts, I know, are kind and cruel alike. They are all carried by the poems, sudden fictions, short stories and graphics that are both kind and cruel, too.

Moreover in a wider perspective, this folio renders a whole wide venue of hospital where illnesses and diseases are roaming around, surgeries and operations are transpiring, hospital equipment are occupying conspicuous space, hygiene and beauty products are looking for bodies and faces to reside in, and medicines together with cures and healings are waiting to be utilized.

It is but proper to say that this folio aims to expose the wounds of the world. The chapter stories, especially, lay bare to the readers the rotting of the society. They will leave you with questions as “Who might be Albert in this society?”, “What resembles the mother?”, “Is there really a Doctor?” and “Is there a way to know the unknown and cure it?”

Thoughts are indeed contagious, and whatever that is contagious may never stop spreading.

Be contagious and never stop reading.

Be the cure of your own disease. Let not this folio be.

BERTOLFO, JAHRED F. LITERARY EDITOR

We choose to live well.

All of us want to live and survive. Sometimes, our eagerness to live leads us to a wrong verdict. Not all our choices are right. Most of the time, we are influenced by others. We have a lot of options, and all we need to do is to take a choice. We choose what seems to be the best for us, but in the end, there are still things that are beyond our control.

As we, people, tend to live free in this diverse society, we don’t actually realize we are starting to develop an epidemic. This is not a simple disease that can be cured by just taking a medicine or any drug. Symptoms can be seen in our physical body or maybe in the inner side as the disease grows but until now, we can’t name the unknown.

We have our own disease. Yes, each of us has it. Maybe at this point, not all of us are immediately dealing with it because the infection may be slow in development. In a not particular reason, it disperses like a smoke. Our naked eye can’t see the root of it, but we can now feel how threatening it becomes. The only thing that we hope for is to know the unknown and find its cure.

Sadly, we even don’t know where or how it started. It spreads as we grow, as our community grows. It is now an outbreak. The only thing we need to do now is to find a cure— cure for an end—but the questions are: What is it? Is there any healing for it that exists?

The variation of the media used represents the diversity of the identity of each artist behind this folio and whatever it is that they modify. The graphics are visual representations of something that may not only be seen but also rather felt.

As you turn to the next pages, I hope you can find the answer that you are looking for.

No matter what you’ll discover at the end, just live well.

MANZANO, PAULINE GRACE B. GRAPHICS EDITOR

To write a literary work of art means taking the time to accomplish it. There are long, quiet and sleepless nights that a writer must endure.

But those long nights have finally paid off with another compilation of poems, short stories and illustrations of OBRA- the Literary Folio of THE WORK. This time, the folio will take your hand and lead you to a journey of “epidemics�.

The human body needs someone or something to cure its many illnesses whether physical or psychological. This is the reason why doctors are around to answer these problems. This is very much similar in every society. There are societal illnesses or imbalances which need interventions that may lead to its cure.

I might as well add that the press has a very important contribution in these interventions and I am going to leave the elaboration to you, readers.

CABANIZAS, GLADIE NATHERINE G. ADVISER, THE WORK

1 | EPIDEMIC

CHAPTER 1: ALBERT Since the time I got this disease, I can smell death everywhere.

Mostly, people die with obvious reasons—accidents, cancers, murders. These people die in different ways, too. And I have to say they are lucky because they know the reasons of their deaths before they die.

And I envy them for that.

My life is a tired story of a dying sick man who doesn’t know his deadly sickness.

“I’m afraid you need to tell your mother about this,” the first of many doctors I saw told me in his quivering tone. All of them were wearing their gloves and face masks while looking at me like I’m a war-torn island, no way to reconstruct and bring back to earth again.

I cannot blame them for that, because even I cannot describe myself anymore—how I look like today mainly because mirrors became unpardonable sins to my eyes.

But tonight I thought: I will sin.

I’m looking at the mirror, and I have missed mirrors after weeks of not using them, because I’m afraid the person I’d be looking at is not the Albert I used to know.

And I am right. The mirror knows Albert has died even before I do. The mirror knows I need to miss mirrors more.

This unknown disease made my hair fall off, leaving only small circles of my scalp haired.

My eyebrows are gone. My nose is a like blunt pencil. My lips crack and mysteriously extend to my hollow cheeks. My neck has scattered tiny holes as if they’re my nostrils. But what made me worry was when I removed my bonnet: my left ear falls off of its place.

I said I can smell death everywhere, but I didn’t notice that I just smell myself. I am surviving and dying at the same time.

I stare at my eyes in the mirror, and my eyes are asking me back: what happened to you?

Where did you get this illness? Of all people, why you?

But these thoughts suddenly got their voices. “What are those, Albert?! What happened to you?!” said a shivering voice at my back.

My mother looks at me from the mirror, and I look back. And immediately, silence dawned on both of us, until only her eyes talked to mine.

And I am suddenly afraid of what I heard: her eyes shout of worry. *continue on page 34

EPIDEMIC | 2

Teacher’s Dementia Jhayvi C. DIZON

Who was I? Of the 49 students Of the sections I’ve handled In almost 20 vast Selfless years, Who was I To each?

Who was I? On this very last breath, I ask, “What was I?” To be worthy of your homicide. *In commemoration to the Cagayan de Oro high school teacher incident.

Graphics by GAB & LINE Watercolor

3 | EPIDEMIC

EPIDEMIC | 4

OCD

Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

Alas nuwebe ng gabi nang binulungan mo ako.

Dali-dali kong nilukas ang mga butones ng aking uniporme Hindi ako mapakali Sabik na sabik na akong humiga sa kama Nangulila ako ng pito’t kalahating oras Upang marinig lamang ang boses mo “Hawakan mo na�

Naudlot ang pagpikit ng aking mga mata Sa tinig mong nakakapanindig balahibo Nakapapawi ng lakas.

Hindi kita matanggihan, kahit gaano pa kasidhi ang aking pagod Dahil sa kaloob-looban ko Alam kong nababalisa ako sa tuwing gagawin ko ang nais mo Tumayo ako sa aking kinahihigaan At marahan akong lumapit papunta sa iyo

5 | EPIDEMIC

“Ano pa ang hinihintay mo?

Huwag ka nang magpakipot, alam kong hindi ka makakatulog ‘pag hindi mo ginawa” “Huwag kang maingay ha?

Baka kasi magising sina lola sa kabilang kuwarto,” wika ko sayo Inilapit ko ang kaliwa kong kamay, Dahan dahan kong kinakapa Ang ulo mong nakaumbok mula sa ilalim “Ahh higpitan mo pa, sige na” Mas pinagbutihan ko ang pagsakmal Paniguradong hindi ka na makakapagsalita pagkatapos nito Hanggang...

Nakarinig ako ng mga yapak Naudlot ang pagmamaniobra ko sayo Nahuli ako ni lola “ANAK NG PUSA NAMAN BECKY?????

Pampitong beses mo nang pinatay ang shellane!

Matulog ka na nga!”

EPIDEMIC | 6

Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and ink

Phronemophobia Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Have you ever played with your thoughts, say, hide-and-seek?

7 | EPIDEMIC

I always do. In fact, there are mornings when I don’t find them; but when day turns into night just to keep a routine going they would appear before my eyes from under my fluffy pillows late in the dark evening There are thoughts I never would want to find and grip for they are blades in the hands.

They are thorns without roses or, sometimes, even without a dying stalk There are, then, thoughts that would form an image of you.

They would resemble your perfectly crafted face.

They would draw how your lips, eyes, nose, eyebrows—and everything— are put exactly in their proper places.

That is the time when I know I have to wake myself up.

You have always been the kind of thought that’s never hidden but I always seek Why can’t I play with you?

EPIDEMIC | 8

“EXTRAJUDICIAL KILLINGS” Photo by Audrey DEL ROSARIO

9 | EPIDEMIC

Pigsa

Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

Nalabbaga, agnan-nana— nu pis-item, maikkat ya nga talaga?

E P I D E M I C | 10

Congenital Heart Disease Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Purplish lips Complexion a tinge nearly sky blue They say he wouldn’t die But they didn’t say he’d live He was born with a broken heart Like he’s had enough pain for a few days old When it’s more than just a blemish He wouldn’t know relief even if it’s staring at his face He was born with a broken heart A void, in the literal sense would you want it compared to the deep pang, hollow in the throat The hole, enough for a needle to pass through You’d not know, what he wouldn’t chance for a common heartbreak.

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Athazagoraphobia Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

I carved a name across every inch of skin I could find Solid proof, it’s origin is unknown The search engine might provide something along the line: The Query does not exist You must’ve typed wrong Your number is etched in the corners of my mind My number, I’ve painted in the panes of your bedroom window Call me when you have time We’ll meet in a precise 721 minutes from now While it’s not the middle of the night 3:30 is yet a long time to forget someone I spent the last four minutes planning the seconds we’d play Now I lie back again, trying to calm my fleeing thoughts Morphine could never numb that heartfelt plea - please take my hand and never flee.

E P I D E M I C | 12

LBM Jahred F. BERTOLFO

“You can’t just talk about intestines here, Mr. Benitez. I told you to report on common diseases in digestive system, too, right? Is that hard to do!?

Malaking poste si Francis. Pinagpapawisan at inis na inis na sa teacher. Naghahanap ng tiyempo para makalabas ng room.

“And why do you seem to be in a hurry while reporting? Late ka nang dumating sa 7am class na ‘to, ’di ba? May lakad ka ba, Mr. Benitez?”

Malaki at pinagpapawisang poste pa rin si Francis. Walang sinasagot ni isa sa mga tanong.

Gustung-gusto na niyang kumaripas palabas ng room sa sobrang kahihiyan.

“Loose Bowel Movement, Mr. Benitez! Explain to your classmates why LBM happens! Hindi ka aalis d’yan hanggat ‘di mo naipapaliwanag!”

Hindi na nakapagpigil si Francis at tuluyang nilamon ng hiya. Kumaripas siya ng takbo palabas habang naiwang mabaho ang room.

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Lung Cancer Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Inhale, Exhale Friends teach what your parents won’t Inhale. Exhale.

I thought it’d be cool to wear smoke as perfume In hale. Ex hale.

My lungs filled to the brim with emotions In hale.

Ex hale.

My mouth is lonely with no feeling Inhale.

Exhale.

I wake in the mornings coughing Inhale.

Exhale.

A portrait of me will probably end up in packs of cigarettes.

E P I D E M I C | 14

GRAPHICS

Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

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Mental Block Cristine Emmanuelle D.V. FLORES

Check response. Establish an a irway.

Konting ulit pa, memoryado ko na ang proseso, Check for breathing.

May sumigaw ng tulong sa kanto namin. Si Lola Atang, nahimatay daw. Napatakbo ako nang mabilis. Kagyat na napahinto ako nang makita ang katawang buhat-buhat ni itay.

Walang malay ang pigurang isinasakay niya sa tricycle. Natulala ako, nanigas. Ano na kasi ang unang hakbang?

Nakaalis na ang tricycle pero nakatayo pa rin ako sa kantong iyon. Iniisip at inaalala ang proseso ng CPR.

E P I D E M I C | 16

Dyslexia Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

Paumanhin po, ‘tay.

Kung hindi ko mapantayan at hindi kailanman mapapantayan ang mga nakamit nina ate’t kuya. Wala ka man lang maikwento tungkol sa akin na maituturing na katumbas ng tagumpay ng isang registered nars at ng isang hayskul valedictorian sa hapag ninyo habang nag-iinuman kina Tito Erwin.

Sa halip ay maaalala mo ako kapag mahapdi na ang pagguhit ng empoy sa lalamunan mo, kapag masakit na ang ulo mo’t umiikot na ang iyong paningin, na sa aking pag-aakala’y sa pagkalasing mo’y hindi mo ako mahahagip na nagtatago sa likod ng pintuan.

“Halika, Isaac” “Wala pong tao rito, wala pong Isaac dito, maniwala ho kayo” mabilis kong tugon.

Humalagpak kayo ng napakalakas pagkasabi ko.

“Kay sakim talaga ng kapalaran, hindi mo maaaring hilingin na magkaroon ng isang perpektong anak kung walang kapalit na parusa; suwerte ko nga at dalawa silang mahusay at tanging isa lamang ang inutil” Inutil.

Paborito itong salita ni ina. Ito ang babanggitin niya pagkaraan ng tatlong oras ng pagtuturo niya sa aking magbasa ng limang stanza ng Ibong Adarna, subalit ni isang salita, hindi ko magawang mailabas sa aking bibig.

Inutil.

Naaalala ko ang mga bulungan, mga pangungutya ng mga kaklase ko sa tuwing tatawagin ako upang basahin ang mga salita sa pisara, ang unti-unting pagdapo ng pamalo ni Ma’am na nagiwan ng malubhang bakas sa aking binti noong sinabi kong wala akong nakikitang letra, sapagkat kusa silang naglilipana na parang may sariling pag-iisip tuwing susubukan ko silang banggitin.

Inutil.

Inutil pa rin ako nang hindi ako pumasok ng ilang buwan para magsariling-sikap sa pagaaral kahit alam kong ito ang pinakamainam na gawin. Inutil pa rin ako sa aking mga kaklase noong bumalik ako sa paaralan, at hindi pa rin ako tinatantanan ng mga bulungan at pangungutya.

17 | E P I D E M I C

Inutil pa rin ako nang gumradweyt at nakatanggap ng diploma na aking pinagsumikapang makamtan. Inutil pa rin ako kina nanay at tatay dahil wala akong gintong medalyang naiuwi, ‘di tulad ng aking mga kapatid. Inutil pa rin ako kahit tinutulungan ko na ang aking sarili.

Inutil pa rin ako sa paningin nila, at mananatili akong inutil habang naaalala nila ang aking mga pagkakamali.

Napabuntong-hininga ako sa likod ng nabarnisang pintong kahoy naming pinagtataguan ko.

Paumanhin ‘tay, dahil akala ko nasasabi mo lang ang mga ‘yon buhat ng pagkalunod mo sa espirito ng alak. Tama po kayo.

Ngunit hindi lang po iyan ang ipagpapaumanhin ko.

Patawad po, sapagkat sa kabila ng tiyaga’t sakripisyo ninyo sa akin upang matuto akong magbasa, ni minsan, hindi ko po kayo tinuruan kung paano mang-unawa.

Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

E P I D E M I C | 18

Graphics by Princess Gabrielle P. MASANQUE Watercolor

Amnesia Jahred F. BERTOLFO

unti-unting maglalaho sa kanyang isipan ang mga nangyari, ang mga kahulugan; para bang walang sulat na pisarang may mga bakas ng pagburang magaan. maraming mga imahe ang mabubuo sa kanyang buhul-buhol na gunita: usok, nagkakagulong mga taong lahat ng mga mukha’y nawawala. bago pa maalala’y malilimutan niya ang biglaang naganap na pagsabog, ang sinabayang sigawan at pagtakbo ang pagtawag niya sa mga kilalang santo. walang pagdadalamhati sa kanya kahit kaunting bakas ng pangungulila dahil hindi niya kayang maalalang may pamilya’t buhay siyang nawala.

19 | E P I D E M I C

Anorexia Jhayvi C. DIZON

I’m Going to throw upUp to the very Last particle From the bulimia Of your criticism.

I’m going to Endure The urge for pleasure, The urge for satisfaction To satisfy what your eyes Want to lure.

I am Not going to be, For I will be inexistent.

I am going to curb ‘Til there is no more curve ‘Til the bones exert less effort to be seen.

I am.

‘Til I am no more. ‘ Til I occupy But A space Of smudge.

Someday, I will be Fat again.

E P I D E M I C | 20

“HYPERPIGMENTATION”

Photo by Audrey S. DEL ROSARIO

21 | E P I D E M I C

E P I D E M I C | 22

“Nasa Langit Na Ba Ako?”

by Jayme Emille C. LUCAS

49th Shell National Students Art Competion Winning Entry (Acrylic Paint)

23 | E P I D E M I C

Emphysema Pauline Grace B. MANZANO

Hindi ko Mapigilan. Hinahanap-hanap ng Aking lalamunan. Hinihithit Ang malamig na usok.

Ibinubuga.

Ilalabas pa ang Isang kaha. Susunugin na naman Ang baga. Sasabihin Na isang hirit na lamang.

Ibinubuga.

Hindi na namalayan Ang problema. Bigla na lang Lumala. Pero hindi ako Nagpapigil. Ginawa ko ang gusto ko.

Ibinubuga.

Hanggang sa tuluyan pa ring naging Barado. Sumikip ang aking Dibdib. Nahirapang huminga, kaya Pilit kong inilalabas.

Ibinubuga.

Ngunit hindi pa rin mapigilan Ang sarili. Hanggang ngayon ay nawiwili. Sa amoy at dampi mo sa aking labi. Hinahanap ka bawat sandali.

Hinihithit kita habang pilit kang ibinubuga.

E P I D E M I C | 24

Psychosis Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Mommy cries, her wails reverberating, through walls and fixtures like nails on a chalkboard Daddy shouts his bellows struck blows, bruising through the thick blanket wrapped around my body like an embrace I can’t feel, focus even there’s a creepy thin man staring from my closet At the dead of the night I knew nightmares happen when I’m awake

25 | E P I D E M I C

I remember the last time I went out the busy buses, trains, the never-ending honking carnage in the detritus of the city People spilling, a stream continuous flowing Eyes filled with lust, piercing pinpricks I can’t breathe, I can’t function I could hear them, plotting murder to my face They are after me They’re after me They scream rape for my wisdom I hate how vultures scavenge the rest of my reasons I see red, the color of blood in my hands I see them seep, soaking the satin sheets of my bed I see them bleed, creatures whose necks grow limp at my touch I could smell the breeze: cold and biting; warm and inviting; sweet and spicy; a sharp tang to the senses Mommy cries, as I drive needle Daddy shouts, I smashed through his crown I can’t perceive the flames licking at my skin There are monsters peeking from under my bed.

E P I D E M I C | 26

Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art 27 | E P I D E M I C

Vertigo

Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

I thought it was love The way the world spins an endless blur The way I feel butterflies millions that flutter in my stomach bursting out my throat I could barely hear my head pounding with your voice tunelessly whispering tumultuous thoughts And with a slight tilt would kiss the ground

E P I D E M I C | 28

29 | E P I D E M I C

Scoliosis Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

“Tumayo ka nang matuwid.” bigkas mong mariin Habang dinidiin sa likuran ko ang palad mong malamig At mapipilitan akong iunat ang mga buto, Maibsan lamang ang mababaw mong pagsumamo.

Ngunit hindi, hindi ako tatayo nang matuwid Tulad ng naglalakihang mga gusaling abot himpapawid, Ng mga punongkahoy at mga kable ng kuryente, Ng matayog na poste ng watawat na wumawagayway sa ere Dahil darating ang panahong ang lupa’y malakas na yayanig.

Maging ang pinakamatatag na tore’y lulupasay sa sahig At mga gusali’t poste’y hindi na makatitindig Upang masilayang muli ang matulin nilang daigdig.

‘Pagkat ako na nilalang ay kagaya rin nilang Sakit ay malubha, pundasyon ay mahina-Na madaplisan lang ng piranggot na pitik, Sa pagkakatayo’y di na muling makababalik Magkamali lamang ng sagot sa pisara’t bigkas ng salita Hindi na pilit hahamakin upang mga ‘toy maitama-Kaya huwag mong sasabihin sa tonong mariin Na tumayo ng matuwid ‘pagkat ‘di kaakit-akit sa paningin Sa halip ay sabihin mo’ng tumayo ako nang matuwid Ang masalimuot na pighati ay lilipas rin, na tumayo Nang matuwid ‘pagkat maraming dahilan upang bumangon Mula sa mga piraso ng nayurak na kahapon At tumayo ako’ng tuwid upang lungkot ay humupa nang mabilis Hindi dahil sa ayaw mo akong magkaroon ng Scoliosis

Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and Ink E P I D E M I C | 30

Graphics by Princess Gabrielle MASANQUE Watercolor

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Depression Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Ready-made templates with bodies not unlike You and Me Feet made to wander Thoughts framed for hard work where its wheels would always turn in infinite circles No matter how empty the chiseled façade festers, a dark cloud warped as warm blanket Like an invisible thread wrapped around, a noose It swings from end to end, phasing instantaneously Tighter! It screams in pure angst Loose! The exhilaration is a gift fleeting as the littlest touch They walk like humans would, in and out of the daily routines Pallor as sane as the living flesh Deep inside, reality’s a simmering hell An overflow from a pot of burning flesh Each step, puddles left traces of sanity like footprints in the sand washed away over and over and depression is a sinkhole.

E P I D E M I C | 32

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CHAPTER 2: NORMA I worry at what I saw, not who I saw.

For a second I am frozen by the door, for a minute I am afraid, and for the long time I am worried. My son, my dear Albert, what happened to him?

He abruptly put on all his clothes when he saw me from the mirror—his jacket, his bonnet, his socks. And then hides his face away from mine. He doesn’t know what to do, and I don’t know what to do as well.

“What happened to you?” I tell him in a calm voice, walking towards him while he walks away from me. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Don’t touch me!” he shouts at me while he’s anxiously walking to and fro. “Don’t touch me, ma! Don’t touch me!” I thought at first he was angry at me, but when his feigned voice cracks and bleeds and hurts, I know he is trying to protect me from what I’d get if I near him.

But how can I know if I don’t know what is happening to him?

“It’s okay,” I say, my sight blurs from my tears. “It’s okay, Bert. It’s totally okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he tells me back. “You don’t know what okay is! You don’t know how it feels like until you wear my body! I’m a monster! I’m not your son! I’m a monster!”

“Albert!” I shout. “I am your mother! If anyone, I’d be the person who would understand you! Yes, I don’t know how you feel what you feel right now, but I am your mother, Albert! I did not only wear your body; I made your body and born you and gave you a name! You’re not a monster; you are my son!”

He stops walking back and forth, as if his muscles finally heard my voice. He looks at me, and it’s the first time I saw his face again after many nights he goes home late: his cheeks scaly and scathed, his nose without skin, his mouth swollen and bruised red, and his ear…his left ear falls off, dangling like an earring.

I want to spit the words in my mouth, but I swallow them hard, and I feel them travelling back my throat down to my heart. It’s painful to watch my son in pain, but it’s more painful to me to watch my pained son seeing me in pain because of his condition. I knuckle my tears away before they drop again.

I walk towards him, closer, mindless of the smell that exudes from his body. “I’m rotten,” he mumbles. “I’m dying, ma. The doctors don’t know what it is.”

With his voice falling down, his tears fell down as well. “We can do ,” I tell him, nodding constantly. And when I finally touched his face, he looks at me and shakes his head. I throw my arms around him and hug him tightly as I could.

I can hear his sobs in my ears, his tears wetting my neck, and his warm breath burning my shoulders.

And then, between sobs and cries, he asks, “Ma, why is the world so unfair?”

I did not answer the question, because I thought he’s not pertaining to the world. *continue on page 66

E P I D E M I C | 34

Bulak Jahred F. BERTOLFO

ipasipsip mo sa akin ang dugo mula sa sariwa mong sugat sa ‘yong nakidigmang mukha, sa ‘yong siko’t sa ‘yong palad pagkatapos ay paliguan ako ng nauubos nang alcohol at patawarin sana’t di ko kayang gamutin ang ‘yong paang putol

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Catheter Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

I’m donned at the most intimate part of you Connecting the air inside and out unwittingly though, it’s where you expel what you don’t want missed I’d say you’re unhappy with my unwanted intrusion it might spell relief when moments come it’ll become hard when I’d have to leave I can’t imagine how you’d feel pain when you let me go.

Graphics by Cristine Emmanuelle FLORES Pen and ink

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Ambulance Daniel C. CARREON

A Syrian boy sits bloodied on the ambulance A stranger was shot in your neighborhood Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt broke up Many read a Holy Book A stranger was shot in your neighborhood Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt broke up Many read a Holy Book A Syrian boy sits bloodied on the ambulance Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt broke up Many read a Holy Book A Syrian boy sits bloodied on the ambulance A stranger was shot in your neighborhood Many read a Holy Book A Syrian boy sits bloodied on the ambulance A stranger was shot in your neighborhood Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt broke up

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle P. MASANQUE Watercolor

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Anesthesia Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Hindi naiintindihan ng karamihan na minsan, Paulit-ulit ding nasaktan ang mga taong manhid Na paulit-ulit nilang tinahi ang kanilang mga sugat Ng puting sinulid na paulit-ulit ding naging pula.

Nakakatawang isiping pula ang kulay ng pag-ibig At pula ang kulay ng sakit; kaya sa mga taong manhid, hindi na alam kung alin ang sakit, kung alin ang pag-ibig Ang sabi mo, manhid ako at wala nang pakiramdam Totoo. Sa inaraw-araw na pagturok ng anesthesia Na nagpapamanhid sa katawan, nakakalimutan Ko nang maalalang may damdamin pala akong Bumubuhay pa sa akin. At pakiusap, paumanhin Kung nakakalimutan ko nang kayang hilumin Ng pag-ibig ang kahit na anumang sakit Kahit pa pag-ibig din ang nagdudulot ng minsang pait Ng mga alaala, ng mga alaalang nagpapaalalang Nasaktan ako, nawasak, nadurog at nagkapira-piraso Paumanhin kung nakakalimutan kong kailangan Kong magmahal at kailangan akong mahalin Dahil ito ang mga itinuro sa akin ng mga sugat Na naiwang kumpul-kumpol dito sa ‘king balat: Mas malalim ang sugat na dulot ng mas minamahal.

Hindi ka kayang sugatin ng taong hindi mo mahal.

Hindi sugat ang hindi nasusukliang pagmamahal Sugat ang pagmamahal na hindi tama ang sukli

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Ang sabi mo, manhid ako at wala nang pakiramdam Totoo. Sige! Tawagin mo akong duwag!

Tawagin mo akong takot! Tawagin mo akong manhid!

Pero huwag akong susubukang paratangang Hindi marunong magmahal, hindi marunong umibig!

Marunong akong magmahal at ngayon, natuto na Bago ka tulungang walang madama ng anesthesia Masasaktan ka muna sa marahang pagtusok niya Marunong akong magmahal at ngayon, natuto na Ayoko nang masugatan pa dahil punong-puno na Ng mga puting sinulid ang katawang kulay pula.

Marunong akong magmahal at ngayon, natuto na Ang pagmamahal ay mabigat na responsibilidad At hindi na gustong maging isang kawawang ama Marunong akong magmahal at ngayon, natuto na Hihintaying maghilom at hahayaang magpahinga Ang pusong ang silbi na lang ay upang makahinga pa Marunong akong magmahal at ngayon, natuto na Alam kong minsan, paulit-ulit din akong nasaktan Na paulit-ulit ko ring tinahi ang aking mga sugat Ng puting sinulid na paulit-ulit ding naging pula.

Hindi dapat ako matawang isiping pula Ang kulay ng pag-ibig at pula ang kulay ng sakit At kailangang-kailangan kong malaman Kung alin ang sakit, kung alin ang pag-ibig At kung alin ka sa dalawang nabanggit Bago pa ako ibigin ng iyong pananakit.

Bago pa ako saktan ng iyong pag-ibig.

E P I D E M I C | 40

Hospital Beds Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Miracles happen in hospital beds Life and Death, with some things in between It reeks of illusion It reeks of chimera It reeks of phantasm, things tied down and unseen It’s a genre of fables, of parables, of bibliographies written in the specks of saliva jumping out of the exit Often macabre, songs that shuffle in repeat Used, abused, removed, purged, reused The life span of futile protests squeaking curses from unspoken complaints Sometim es history repeats with no marker His story with a sigh weaved into words Each body bears heat where it seeps in the cold metal rails Sometimes fantasy gives birth to realms spirits that loomed and nurses Life leaves when death knocks Death leaves when Life never knocks And cadavers grin at the sight of their stagnant souls.

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“PATIENT”

Photo by Pauline Grace MANZANO

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art 43 | E P I D E M I C

CT Scanner Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

Madilim, nagmamadali ang mga sasakyan sa kasagsagan ng EDSA. Sumasabay ako sa bugso ng trapiko nang walang anu-ano’y sa bilis ng tinatakbo ng sasakyan ko, sumalubong sa akin ang isang malaking truck.

Wasak ang windshield ng sasakyan ko.

At nakita sa CT-scanner, wasak din ang ulo ko.

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Stethoscope Gianne Merielle P. GONZALEZ

He moves his body to me.

Closer and closer.

Till we’re only inches apart.

He reached for my heart, And I open it up for him.

Can you hear them?

Untamed sobs I secretly endured Behind my saccharine smile?

Can you hear them?

The screams and beads of sweat I hid behind my pillows So that you’ll see me jubilant, when the sun shines.

Can you hear them?

Broken apologies and crumpling promises I uttered for the people I love Just to make them hopeful.

Can you hear them?

My seeking and struggling heart.

Can you hear that?

Can you hear that doctor?

Can you hear my heart beating healthily?

But has been stitched and repaired too many times That my hands can’t even count of.

Can you hear that Doctor?

Can you hear my heart still trying to live?

He looked and smiled to me Like he heard them.

Right there, I know he already understands.

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

Pithing Needle Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Barely needing anesthetics numb with the pain inflicted upon Your mischievous purpose Only, You adore your tiny punctures Where you plunge deep into the psycheand crush what dreams may have lived.

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Injection Pauline Grace B. MANZANO

Bata pa lang ako, takot na talaga ako sa mga doktor. Hindi ko alam kung bakit; hindi lang siguro ako mapakali sa tuwing nakikita ko na may hawak silang injection. Kadalasan nga tuwing may libreng bakuna sa aming paaralan, isa ako sa mga ayaw pumila at magpabakuna. Nakilala na nga ako bilang isang duwag, mas matapang pa daw umano sa akin ang mga babae.

“Huwag kang mag-alala, parang kagat lang ito ng langgam”. Ito ang palaging paalala sa akin ni nanay pati na rin ni doktora. Sabi ni nanay, kailangan ko raw maging matibay. Kahit na ano man ang mangyari sa akin, ‘wag akong matatakot. Patunayan ko raw ang pagkalalaki ko. Kaya siguro ganoon na lang ako naging katapang sa paglipas ng panahon. Wala akong sinasanto. Hindi ako nagpapaapi.

Hindi ako natakot na pumasok sa mga bagay na alam kong mapanganib. Lahat ng gusto ko, ginagawa ko. Natuto akong gumamit at magbenta ng mga pinagbabawal na gamot. Pakiramdam ko noon wala akong problema at ako ang hari ng mundong ginagalawan ko. Gusto ko lahat ng gusto ko makuha ko, pera, kaibigan, atensyon at pagmamahal. Gusto ko ipamukha na wala na ang dating Jose na kinukutya nila at kaya kong subukan lahat. Sumugal ako kahit na alam ko na batas na ng Diyos ang nilalabag ko.

Hindi ako natakot na pumasok sa mga bagay na alam kong mapanganib. Lahat ng gusto ko ginawa ko. Hindi ko na inisip ang mga limitasyon, ang tanging gusto ko lang ay maghari at mapasunod ang mga tao. Gusto ko lahat ng gusto ko makuha ko—pera, kaibigan, atensyon at pagmamahal. Gusto ko ipamukha na wala na ang dating Jose na kinukutya nila. Sumugal ako hanggang sa batas na rin pala ng Diyos ang nilalabag ko.

“Huwag kang mag-alala, parang kagat lang ito ng langgam, pagkatapos nga nito ay wala ka nang mararamdaman”.Kasalukuyan akong nasa apat na sulok ng masikip na kwarto, naghihintay kung ano pa ba ang susunod na mangyayari sa akin at kung kailan pa ba matatapos ang katahimikang ito.

Hindi ko naman alam na hanggang sa pagtanda ko, dadalhin ko ‘to. Heto ako ngayon, nakakulong sa apat na sulok ng maliit na kwarto. Nang biglang pumasok ang isang babae na nakaputi kasama ang dalawang pulis.

Doon ko na huling narinig ang paalala sa’kin ni nanay.

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Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

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Graphics by Jayme Emille LUCAS Watercolor

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Hospital Prayer Room

Jahred F. BERTOLFO

“Ama, kunin niyo na po siya.”

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Ultrasound Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

Aligagang tinatapik-tapik ni Maria ang paa sa sahig, mabilis pa sa tik-tok ng orasan sa opisina ng kaniyang ob-gyne.

Nararamdaman niyang malapit nang maisakatuparan ang propesiya; na siya ang magluluwal sa ipinangakong kaligtasan ng kaniyang kaluluwa, ang liwanag na magbabadyang banta sa sinumang maghihimok na gumawa ng kamalian at siya ring liwanag na papawi sa kanilang mga pagkakasala.

Sa pagbukas ng pinto ay sinalubong siya ni Dra. Elizabeth hawak-hawak ang resulta ng kaniyang ultrasound.

“Doc, ano po ang resulta? Kumusta na po si baby?” aniya nang may halong sabik at kaba sa tono ng pananalita.

Hindi umimik ang doktora.

Tumigil ang pagtapik ni Maria sa sahig, pati narin ang pagtunog ng wall clock.

“Wala na si baby,” bulong nito sa x-ray ng kaniyang sinapupunan sa kaniyang kamay, habang marahang tumutulo ang luha ng pighati sa mga mata.

Unti-unti niya itong binitawan mula sa mahigpit na pagkakahawak hanggang malaglag ito sa sahig, gaya ng paglaglag niya sa kaniyang panganay na anak, si Hesus.

“HESUS”

Photo by Audrey S. DEL ROSARIO

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle MASANQUE Watercolor

Knife Daniel C. CARREON

Nina’s tired, and home is a roaring rhythm she wants to hear So she got home finally from festive vacation far from near She walked on the lit foyer wearing a tired body with eyes droopy Her stubby hands locked on her fat luggage very heavy and bulky As she nears her door, all she hears is her hissing head, “Do not eat yet, no, no, you must run and hug your bed!”

She cannot wait to sleep as her room is tidy and clean Her mother had swept the floor, the plants she made green

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Surely, she cannot wait to hug her cozy bed; it’s been a long time, So now that she misses home, surely kissing it won’t be a crime Finally, she stands in front of the brown big door, the keys are solid rock, But surprisingly, her mother might have left the door open, yes, unlocked She unbolted the door and inhaled the familiar perfume, This is the smell of home, her mother left it greatly groomed She sat on the cushion, trying to rest her body for a while, Her skull is nauseous; she might puke and spill the inner bile, But something made her hairs stand, horrifying indeed, When from a room surfaced a man in black with great speed, The stranger’s eyes widened, his forehead a rolling dots of sweat, But if she moves a muscle against him, surely her death will soon be set The stranger walked slowly, slowly towards her, quiet and immobile She wants to scream as he nears, but her faith immediately goes fragile, She knows as the stranger inches toward her, her life will be redeemed, She can smell his perfume that is made of death it seemed!

But the stranger might have thought that Nina is a complete idiot, So then the stranger ran to the other side without thinking of a riot, But the stranger seemed not to know the house completely Nina’s telling herself this is not the time to act silly.

The stranger then went to the place where he’s missing and alone, As Nina pretended to sit comfy on cushion, discreetly fishes for her phone, But she can hear the stranger clinking the utensils, maybe for a sharp knife, To finish Nina’s tired body in this cushion this dark night, She can now hear him open her fridge for some food, For some food? What kind of thief is this one, has he lost his brain’s good?

The stranger gulped something for a second, maybe some water, Is the stranger tired after he bagged her jewelries in the locker?

For a second, she wants to look at him, she wants to peek at the stranger’s face, But all she could do is to plan an escape, to run for his life like a race, Because clearly the stranger won’t go far unless he hasn’t gotten All the things inside her house, even those which have already rotten “Please go now,” the stranger said, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can leave now,” he continued, “Don’t look back, too.”

What kind of imbecile thief this stranger has become, He is heartless, uncouth, and dirty, without a gram of conscience, Nina got more jittery than ever, she still cannot move her feet, The room has become a noise between his knife and her clashing teeth, She is cursing the stranger for doing this inside her walls,

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How could he be so shameless, for taking a girl in one of his pitfalls!

But she needs to run, and surely the door is left ajar; she hasn’t locked it yet, If this is running away to save her life, she has big chance to win the bet.

So before her breathing gets axed from time’s numbers, She abruptly stood up and ran and shouted and cursed, She sprinted so fast she thought she lost her soul behind, In her house she’s a victim, where atrocity she can only find As tears fell down her cheeks, she still shouts until her throat got scraped Surely she must shout after her nervous death escape, But then she stopped when she saw this lady getting out of a room, Her eyes were in shock as if she saw someone in her doom, “What are you doing? Nina, are you okay?

Where were you? I’ve been in your room all day!

Waiting for you to come home, but, God, have I overstayed, I just want to see you before in your bed you lay!”

She got baffled, she got shocked, she even felt ashamed, She felt the feelings begin to melt, feelings she can’t anymore name, Because all this time, she’s shouting because she’s in the wrong room, Where she stayed, got scared, went judging, and obviously doomed, Her face was damp with perspiration, as it dawns to her what she did, That she is the one who’s shameless, uncouth, dirty, and morbid She’s the most dangerous part was when as she judged she’s in danger, When all this time, inside that house, she’s actually the stranger

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Stretcher Arsenio S. SANTIAGO JR.

Nakapikit ako ngunit saksi ako sa liwanag ng paligid Nakita kong muli ang ngiti ng mga mahal ko sa buhay Sabik sa aking pagdating.

Hahakbang na ako ngunit may tinig na tumatangis mula sa kawalan kasabay ng pagpatak ng malagkit na likido mula sa itaas.

Dahan-dahan kong iminulat ang aking mga mata.

Naaninag ko ang aking ina, humihikbi, “Anak, lumaban ka. Huwag kang susuko.�

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Swero

Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

Naalala ko noong unang beses kang kinabitan ng swero. Iyak ka nang iyak. Halos ‘di na alam nina mama kung paano ka patahanin. Ako naman, takot na takot din para sa’yo. Sumisigawsigaw ka pa. Medyo naiinis na nga ‘yung nars na nagkakabit ng swero mo. ‘Di mo pa nga siya pinaniniwalaan na parang kagat lang ng langgam.

Naaalala mo pa ba kung paano ka pinatahan? Sinabi sa’yo ni Itay, “Dalian mong magpagaling.

Pagkalabas mo dito, bibili tayo ng madaming isaw sa kanto. Pero, sikreto lang natin ha? Hindi natin ipapaalam sa mama mo, baka magsumbong sa doktor ‘yan.” Tumawa tayong tatlo. At mabuti naman, naniwala ka na.

Naniwala rin ako.

Tinanong ko si Itay kalaunan kung kailan ka ba lalabas ng ospital. Nakakasawa na kasing maghintay. Si mama, halos ‘di na umuwi kakabantay sa ’yo. “Basta, anak, kapag natanggal na sa kapatid mo yung swero sa kamay niya, doon na siya lalabas. Abangan mo ha?”

Naniwala na naman ako.

Hindi ko alam kung ilang araw at buwan ko ring binantayan ‘yang pagpatak ng likido diyan sa swero mo. Minsan, binibilang ko pa. Minsan nga alam ko pa kung ilan ‘yung papatak kada minuto! Malapit na akong magsawa, pero hindi pwede. Hindi ka namin pwedeng sukuan.

Dahil naniniwala kami sa ’yo.

Isang araw galing eskwela, dumiretso agad ako sa ospital para bantayan ka. Pagdating ko doon, aba! Tinatanggal na ‘yang swero mo! Matutupad na ‘yung isaw natin sa kanto! Tuwang-tuwa ako. Pero bakit gano’n? Hindi ka naman mukhang masaya. Bakit mukhang tulog ka’t namumutla?

Akala ko bang gagaling ka kapag tatanggalin na ‘yang swero mo?

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GRAPHICS

Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

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Blood Transfer Device Jahred F. BERTOLFO

how can you

ask for blood

when you don’t

even know your

bloody blood type

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“UNIV

ER

SAL R EC Photo

by Air EIVER” a S. PIN PIN

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Graphics by Nikkie Joy T. PACIFICO Pen and ink

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Surgery Couch Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

I was once a ruler of my kingdom; I sit on a chair adorned with golden beads.

But at the present day, I’m not a king anymore ‘coz I don’t sit on a golden chair any longer, but on a surgery couch I am now a queen.

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Heringgilya Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Mag-iiba ang tulis ng mga salitang Pinapupurol ng pagtanggap.

Ang mga mura ay magkakaroon Ng tonong hahagod, yayakap

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Sa iyong taingang nasasanay na Sa mga tulis at talim niyang sambit Tuwing makikita siya sa telebisyong Palaging may heringgilyang bitbit— Ang heringgilyang palaging dala, Itutusok sa ‘yong puso’t sa madlang Tatahimik, aamo’t kakalma Animo’y tinuturukan ng droga Na pinupuksa niyang panginoong May bitbit na heringgilya Habang itinuturok sa iyo ang droga— Sa ‘yong walang malay ni pagpuna.

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CHAPTER 3: DOCTOR I cannot speak a word, flutter my eyes, or even breathe normally when he lifted his head.

His body is like an unfinished painting left waiting for the artist to come back, like a plant that is not shed sunlight and now barely breathes, like a huge book that’s difficult to read.

After talking to him about what he feels, he told me, unlike before, he’s not anymore all right. And his mother beside him knows he is far from just being not all right.

He coughs regularly after spitting two words. And every time he coughs, a tiny hole in his neck bubbles. The rims of his eyes are deep scarlet, and his sclera, the white part of the eye, blooms green. But what surprised me the most were his ears and his nose: they’re gone. They’re now only dark holes with apparent scabies that, if my eyes see it right, are being wormed.

“When did it start?” I ask, looking at him, trying to look comfortable to him as much as possible.

“I don’t know,” he said, his throat being scraped from the painful cough. “I r-really d-don’t know. I w-woke up o-once and I saw these o-on my body.”

“Anyone…or anything you probably had a contact with?” I ask, scratching my back and left ear.

“Nothing l-like that,” he answers sharply. “D-don’t remember having sex with someone, or ea-eating f-foreign to me or h-harmful to my wellness.”

I’ve asked him more questions, and every question leads me to asking more, and more questions lead me to being more frightened.

I’m not frightened of him; I’m frightened of what this is because whatever this is, it has already made him dead while still living.

So I told him I will find ways to cure him.

“Thank you, doc,” Albert tells me. “By the way, you’re the first doctor who didn’t wear a glove and a mask.”

I smile at him, and ask my assistant to get his weight and height before we continue with our check-up. When Albert is out of the room, I finally talk to his mother.

His mother sits on the chair across me, sleepless and exhausted, consumed by the obvious ticking of the clock, a wristwatch of worrying and crying overnight.

“This is bad,” I tell her straightforwardly, looking at the depth of her swollen eyes. Every word that stumbles off my mouth makes her look as if her lungs get pulled by an invisible entity inside her very intestines.

“He’s going to live, right?” Norma asks fervently, holding her tears and holding my hands as if I’m a saint she’s devoted to.

“Doc, he’s my only child,” she continues, begging. “He needs to live no matter what. And you can do it, right?”

People sometimes forget I’m not a god, and that’s okay. But in Albert’s case, I can say I cannot god this over because I have no clue what it is. “I don’t know,” I reply tersely and honestly, “but I will see what I can do.”

Norma understands my limitations, and I appreciate her for that.

Sad and melancholic, she has stood up from her seat to look for her son outside. And when she turned her back from me, I saw what shocked my eyes the most: the back of her head is already bald and her scalp is already decaying. *continue on page 100

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Misdiagnosis Jhayvi C. DIZON

I lie here Then you lied,

On when you suddenly Had a placard on me.

It was from the roots

Of your evil.

Your worldly desires

To equate a life.

To even run.

With blue and red…

With the murmurs; came, “He deserves it.”

“Case closed for a drug dealer.”

When the autopsy should’ve said otherwise.

Justice has been served,

On the fraudulent side.

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle P. MASANQUE Watercolor

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

Tuli

Jahred F. BERTOLFO

"Parang kagat lang ng langgam, Nay ah?" paninigurado ni Anton.

"Parang langgam lang, 'nak."

"Pa'no niyo naman po nasabi, Nay?" Makulit si Anton.

"Nagpatuli na rin ako dati, 'nak! Parang langgam lang!"

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Vasectomy Aira S. PINPIN

Dapat umisip ako ng plano kung paano mapuputol ang ugnayang mayroon tayo upang ang kwentong ating nasimulan ay ‘di na sana nasundan Ngayon ako’y punung-puno ng pagsisisi kung ba’t di pinigilan ang sarili na magmahal, magmahal ng isang taong takot at di kayang sumugal Sana’y di ko hinayaang may mabuo sa pagitan nating dalawa nang ‘di na ko nagdamdam noong sinabi mong, “Di pa ‘ko handa”

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“HEART ATTACK”

Photo by Aira S. PINPIN

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Watercolor

Blood Transfusion Daniel C. CARREON

It’s easy to die when you are the one who kills.

When they say carry the gun, I carry the gun. When they say throw the knife, I throw the knife.

When they say make him bleed, I make him bleed. When they say make them unrecognizable, I make them unrecognizable.

Killing has always been an integral part of my life. I slit a throat for breakfast, a stomach for lunch, and a head for supper. It’s what makes me live, what makes me eat and what makes me sleep.

I thought at first being a hitman was a very difficult job, but then I remember nothing is difficult if you want to breathe the next day.

In my world, blood is the reason why money exists. If I had killed someone on the list today, I would be paid more than thirty-thousand pesos. Well, fifty-thousand if I shot a famous head. And if I had killed more than two, I would be paid twice as much.

Sometimes, my wife smiles at me after sex and asks, “Ton, where do you get all this money?”

She then sits across me, her eyes piercing through my bare skin. “Are you really my husband?” she adds.

When she starts interrogating me just like that, I would kiss her on the mouth and have sex again. I wouldn’t tell her what I’m doing. I didn’t even tell her why I transferred her to another house just to be safe. What she knows is that I’m a construction worker and I work extremely hard.

Apart from that, she doesn’t anymore know what I do.

“I hope I can make as much as you,” she says, her eyes pale from her tiring work in the nearby market.

“You can, if you work hard,” I mumble. And then her pale eyes sparkled when I fish a diamond-studded necklace from my pocket.

“Oh my God, Anton, where did you get this?” Her face is a combination of the shell-shocked and the happy and the nervous. I laugh out loud she has slapped me.

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I compose myself and whirl around another fictional story from hundreds of fictions I already told her about me. “I think someone dropped it in the construction site. I was the only one who saw it, you know? I think it’s really for me to find.”

She is suddenly tongue-tied that she can’t even drop a sound from her constant stumbling mouth.

“It’s okay; it’s yours now, Tere,” I beam wide as I am handing her the necklace.

She has held it, and it feels like it’s a ribbon that slipped between her fingers. She then has run her fingers across it and rubbed it against her neck to feel the stones she hasn’t felt ever in her life.

She has worn the necklace, and she looked stunning.

“Ton,” she says, “You are married to mystery. You always surprise me with what you do, every day.”

I am not married to mystery because I myself am the mystery, I tell myself.

She has planted a kiss on my lips then, and the night became a thousand brighter than the day.

As I have been eating my breakfast, observing my wife’s happiness across me, my phone vibrates incessantly. I grab it immediately from the dining table to read the message.

“Benjie: Meet me later, 2 am, new money.”

Benjie doesn’t usually command me to take the gun at 2 a.m. He always messages me to do it at 12 midnight or 1, not 2 a.m. when everybody’s sleeping in their eyeballs.

But money is money, and I can’t make myself eyeless with this message. The attraction of money is more alluring than the smell of blood in my hands.

“Sandra,” I tell my wife. “I won’t be going home tonight. My boss told us we need to go to another site to help his other building be finished immediately. It’s very tir—“ Sandra has cut me midsentence and said, “It’s okay, Ton. I’ll be here to wait for you when you come home, anyway.”

I tell Sandra to lock the doors up, close the windows, and never ever let anyone get in.

Although sometimes she gets cynical about it, I just shrug it off and act normal.

When I got out of the house, the sky is smashed against the road, and I have brought out my face mask for me to be in cognito.

A ball of noise has reached me when I got to the building. A group of macho and alpha males cockblocking each sentence whenever someone speaks. This is where I work, in this dude-heavy atmosphere where cursing means ‘Good morning!’

When I arrived, Benjie is orienting five dwarfish men what to do. And when he saw me, he just smiles and winks weirdly.

“Gago!” I shout at him, to which he laughs uncontrollably.

Benjie is the leader of the drug lords in Barangay San Antonio. His face is tattooed and his arms are bursting with lewdness. “You’ll get a bunch of money later, Anton. A big buuuuunch of money!”

This is always his opening line, but today he’s more exaggerated and blissful that it makes me nervous.

“Who will I kill? Where and how?” I ask, removing my construction worker uniform.

“You will kill the mistress of Mayor Arthur Camus Elira, you know him?” he asks, his voice a dreamy hyperbole.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Name?”

“No name. No picture. No nothing. But she always goes out with him from the luxury hotel in San Rafael. We will threaten the hell out of this retard mayor. He’s trying to bust us.”

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Curses and vitriol are spat from his mouth.

“What the hell are you talking about? What if I kill another person?” My face is warm and red.

“You won’t kill the wrong person, don’t worry! There are no people in that hotel!” he shouts, but it sounds more like squealing.

I am not able to answer back anymore, because Benjie, after all, is still my boss. “How?” “Gun. Sniper. Don’t worry, I will be with you later. You will shoot, I will drive. That’s just how easy it is,” he is saying this as if he’s teaching a kindergarten how to color properly. “Oh, wait!”

“What?”

“You will have to put a cardboard around her neck. Make your handwriting clean and sure,” he spits, gesticulating his hands writing in the air.

“What to put, then?” I ask.

“I am the mistress of the mayor. I am a drug pusher. Don’t imitate me,” he says, flashing a smile that extends to his temple. “This is our new gambit, Ton. The people that boss Allan tells us to kill out of revenge against the mayor who tries to bust us will be the ones we need to kill, to divert the attention from us to him. God! I can’t wait how the mayor would react after everybody knows about his secret beautiful mistress with pornstar boobs.”

“Give me the gun; let me study it.”

I have been studying the gun for a very long time while waiting for the mayor to get out of this boring hotel where no one comes in. The black Vios of the mayor is parked nearby, while Benjie and I are here in this black Fortuner, waiting for our walking money to come out.

“When you shoot her, shoot her in the head. Bangbangbangbang! Four shots!” Benjie commands, his hand throwing in the air.

“Of course,” I murmured. “This is elementary.”

Four hours have passed, and all I can see are the blinking lights of the hotel. It’s very illuminated, as if you have adjusted a phone to full brightness. Everything is dark, and it is the only star in the sky. This hotel really is luxurious.

I wonder when will we get inside this kind of hotel? Maybe someday, when I’m not anymore here.

Benjie places the cigarette between his lips, puffing up snakes of smoke that only exacerbates the dank smell of the Fortuner.

“Their asses were pasted on the bedsheets, I guess,” Benjie says, his face turning scarlet because of his mother acnes.

“Patience, boss. Patience,” I say comically. “Money is sweet when it’s gained—“ “THERE! THERE!” Benjie shrieks, getting his binoculars. “GET YOUR SNIPER READY!” I immediately turn the window down and aim the sniper at the woman. I look through the lenses, and I can see two people coming down: a fat man and a bodacious woman from behind.

“There she is,” Benjie murmurs, his voice very soft. “That’s the woman. Can you see her?”

“The woman in red, yes,” I reply. “She’s looking at her back, how did you know it’s she?”

“Ton, he’s the only one who goes out of that hotel during this time, I’m pretty sure,” he says.

I adjust the sniper to make my arms comfortable. These hands have already slaughtered thousands, and now is the time for another. Kill, then cash. Kill, then cash.

“There, there, there,” Benjie cries. “The mayor goes off. Now shoot her in the head. In three…”

I look through the lenses and I see the familiar hands of the woman who the mayor left.

“Two…” I see her lips. Her lips. Those lips.

“One…”

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And then her face. Her face. That face.

“Shoot.”

I cannot pull the trigger. My hands and fingers are frigid ice. For a moment, I lost my breath.

“What are you waiting for? Shoot now! Shoot now! Shoot now!” Benjie harangues. “Shoot now, you stupid shi—“ “That’s not her, right?” I ask, my eyes turning away from the sniper.

Benjie grabs the sniper from me, and showers me with bitter curses and threats. I want to stop him. I really do. But then my body suddenly disappeared.

And then BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG! Those are six shots. Six shots. Not four.

Benjie hops off the Fortuner and tags along with him the cardboard.

I cannot talk. I cannot move. All this time, I thought I was married to mystery without knowing that my wife was the mystery herself.

I can Benjie coming back now, and he’s angry and red. But what made me jump off my sit and shoot him in the head was when he threw something to me.

“Here,” Benjie reprimands. “A necklace. That’s your payment, you stupid hitman.”

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Graphics by Gabriel INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

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Amputation Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

I remember the shrub overlooking the window The gardener used shears to trim over the excess Over time, the leaves grew bolder as its branches stood higher In a blink of an eye, it’s as if a shear won’t matter I remember that lizard, tail stuck between a crevice It’s as if a fearful glare passed like a shadow and it ran away, no tail at its wake I knew it won’t ever grieve what was never lost I remember you Lips as full as the butterflies fluttering in my stomach We’d spent the nights apart and the endless days like melted honey In a single heartbeat, our bubble just broke You’d still come back if you would I remember I had limbs, that morning when I woke They would never be back.

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Heart Transplant Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

The doctor entered my room and told me to get ready because few days from now, I’ll be having my heart transplant.

The day came. I was inexplicably shaking and nervous until it’s done. Then I asked, “Where’s mom?”

They all started crying.

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Graphics by Nikkie Joy PACIFICO and Ink Graphics by Nikkie Joy T.Pen PACIFICO Pen and ink

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“AVIAN INFLUENZA” Photo by Aira S. PINPIN

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Graphics by Cristine Emmanuelle D.V. FLORES Pen and ink

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Euthanasia Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Life is a journey of rocky roads, white light vast fields of flowers, crops the myriads of paddies A paradise meant to be traipsed accidents waiting to happen Life is a journey the constant beep, a hum, a song Stuck in the mirage of no direction a ride with no inception Where miracle fosters until it festers And endings are clipped, indefinite hibernation Life is a journey.

Abruptly ending.

Just.

By. Pulling the plug.

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Open Heart Surgery Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

Damn it, Doctor, You broke my heart.

I’ll see and sue you in afterlife.

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Sex Change Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Today, I shall be ready To become the man I was not Yesterday.

Today, I shall be The man I was not Yesterday.

Today, I am The man I was not Yesterday.

Today, I am the Man I should have been Yesterday.

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“KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY”

Photo by Aira S. PINPIN

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Cardiac Transplant Pauline Grace B. MANZANO

Labing limang taon na akong doktor sa Maynila. Ito na ang naging buhay ko simula nang grumaduate ako sa kolehiyo. Dahil na rin sa propesyon kong ito, nakilala ang aking naging asawa.

Ngunit hindi nagtagal ang aming pagsasama simula nang mamatay siya sa panganganak. Hindi ko alam kung paano pa ako makakabangon noon, pero pinili kong magpakatatag para sa aming anak na si Celine.

Kagaya ng mga ibang bata, gusto kong maging masaya si Celine. Ngunit talaga sigurong mapaglaro ang tadhana dahil lumaki siyang may butas sa puso. Sa pag-akyat niya ng ikapitong

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gulang lalo pang lumala ang kanyang kalagayan. Labas-masok na siya sa hospital. Halos naging kapitbahay na rin niya ang mga naging alaga ko sa pangalawa kong tahanan.

Sa dami ng mga taong nagkakasakit at sinusugod sa aking hospital, hindi maiiwasan na may mga pasiyenteng napapalapit na sa akin. Gaya na lang ni Nina. Kasing edad siya ni Celine. Nakikita ko sa kanya ang anak ko. Minsan ko na rin siyang nakakwentuhan. Natutuwa ako sa bata dahil lumalaban daw siya para sa pamilya niya dahil alam niyang gagaling pa siya.

Nang maglaon, nagkakilala na sila ng anak ko na si Celine. Laging sinasabi ni Celine na buti pa raw si Nina, malapit nang gumaling. Samantalang siya, ilang buwan nang naghihintay kung makakamit niya ang ninanais niyang operasyon at nagtitiis dahil wala pa akong nakikitang katugma ng dugo niya para sa transplant.

Lagi kong ikinukwento sa kanya si Nina para bigyan siya ng pag-asa upang maniwalang malalampasan niya rin ito. May mga pagkakataong kapag hindi sinusumpong ng kanyang sakit si Celine ay dinadalaw niya si Nina. Naging matalik na magkaibigan sila. Para tuloy akong nagkaroon muli ng isa pang anak.

AB negative ang blood type ni Celine. Nakuha niya ito sa kanyang ina. Nagsisisi ako bakit ba hindi ko ito nalaman noong bata pa lamang si Celine. Mas inuna ko pang pinagtuunan ng pansin ang mga pasiyente. Bakit nga ba hindi ko namamalayan na may nararamdaman na pala ang anak ko?

Isang gabi bago matulog si Celine, paalis na ako ng kwarto nang pinigilan niya ako at sinabing, “Pa, ‘di ba doktor ka? Napapagaling mo po lahat ng pasiyenteng pumupunta dito. Pagalingin niyo rin po ako.”

“Gagaling ka anak. Maniwala ka lang kay Papa. Sige matulog ka na.” Ito lang ang nabitawan kong salita bago siya patulugin.

Nang gabing iyon, hindi ako umalis sa tabi ni Celine. Hindi ko alam kung ano pa ba ang kailangan kong gawin. Pumasok na rin sa isip ko na ibigay na mismo ang puso ko para sa kanya lalo na’t ngayon ay wala na akong makitang donor para sa kanyang operasyon. Hawak ko ang kamay ng anak habang natutulog nang biglang sumugod ang isa sa mga nars sa kwarto.

“Dok! ‘Yung pasiyente po sa room 204!”

Dali-dali akong tumakbo sa emergency room. Heto na naman, kailangang sumagip ng buhay.

Tumagal ng isang oras ang operasyon, Natapos ang tension, pero kasabay nito ay ang pagdilim ng paningin ko. Naalala ko ang anak kong si Celine. Hanggang sa bigla akong humantong sa isang desisyon.

Muli, nagsimula ang isang operasyon. Sa pagkakataong ito, ako na lang ang nasa loob ng kwarto. Walang akong ibang katulong kung hindi ang aking konsensiya. Hindi ko alam kung saan ako magsisimula. Hanggang sa nagmadali na lang akong kunin ang isang unan at tinapal sa mukha ng aking pasiyente. Sobra akong nanginginig sa gigil ngunit naalala ko ang kabutihan ng pasiyente kong iyon. Huli na ang lahat bago ko pa mabawi ang ginawa ko.

Pagkalabas ko ng kwarto ay siya namang pagtawag sa akin ng isa na naman sa mga nars.

“Dok, si Celine po!”

Ako’y nagmadali para sagipin ang buhay ng aking anak. Sa pagkakataong ito, sinigurado kong mabubuhay siya. Kailangan niyang mabuhay. Inoperahan ko si Celine na may dalang kaba at pangamba sa isip hanggang sa lumipas na naman ang ilang oras. Naging matagumpay naman ang operasyon. Ngunit dala ko pa rin ang pangamba sa aking puso.

Pagkalipas ng tatlong araw, gumising na si Celine mula sa kanyang operasyon.

“Kamusta ka na anak?”

“Maayos naman dok, kamusta si Celine?”

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Bloodletting Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

For it isn’t red that is rebellion nor rage But an unraveling of a new reveling age Of apples ripening, of roses arising Of flames of a hope from the inside, burning Not the same flame that downright devastates Nor the same flame that demands and to annihilate Let red no longer be the depiction of fury Rather, let its warmth thaw our prudent insanity Let red be the pigment of passionate devotion That dissolves all ambitions of total abomination And let it be red which the color of blood contain But let not blood be the epitome of excruciating pain For if blood is spilled for another blood’s sake Will one consider it blood gotten to waste?

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Rhinoplasty Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

"Ay ba naman soy, kasanting mu arung a!"

"Wa naman soy, limang libu ya mu yan, hehe. Ken mung babo palengke."

"Naydo, lolokwan da ka mu! Mangamatis ya!"

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Brain Surgery Daniel C. CARREON

First fact you need to know: I don’t sleep. Never have. Never will. Not even a fraction of second. (Please don’t be afraid already!)

Sometimes, I think it’s even hard to blink once or twice, because I might lose the chance to see a soul who’s wandering alone in the bare ash of life failures. But when I see the souls and the souls see me—oh god, don’t even let me start!—they all cry! Actually, even if you still have flesh and blood right now, you cry when you see me! What’s wrong with you people?! It’s you why I’m here. Yes, you are the reason!

Okay, okay. I’m fine. Second fact you need to know: you will see me. Sooner or later. But I hope you’ll never see me. Wanna know why? Because you’re always, always afraid of me! You are always afraid of me, remember? You’re all the same—all of you. I’m the antagonist to and of everything and everyone. You always think I’m beside you, and you are just waiting for me to blow the air of forgetfulness which you don’t want to inhale.

I thought of that for a long time, while collecting some souls for a billion o’clock ago, asking them to fall in line so I can know their thoughts. Asking them questions like: when did you come? What happened to you? Do you know why this is happening?

But they, especially the womanizers and murderers and thieves, ask me back, but answer their questions anyway: who are you? You’re Death! Death, why am I here? This is heaven, right?

What happened to me? I was probably killed when I was caught by my wife! Was I? Yes? Do you know what’s happening to me? I’m dead! Oh, Lord, have mercy!

And then the weeping begins. Lucky you that we don’t have a mirror here above, because if you had seen your faces? Ha-ha-ha!

But, anyway, do you know what most of you have in common? It is that when you know what happened to you—how painful and hurtful it is deep inside—you use the other path. You don’t anymore want to go back to breathe real oxygen. Especially if your age is 80 above, I’m not kidding.

But this time, it’s different.

Imagine me, sitting on the black chair, polishing my scythe with a lacquer, rubbing the shine against my black robe.

“Penelope,” I shout in my famous deep, hollow and empty voice.

A little twelve-year-old girl walks in, her bald head is bleeding from the fleshing-out serrat-

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ed wound on her forehead. I think her skull’s broken, or maybe she was one of those lost souls that I’ve forgotten to collect when the Second World War ended.

She looks at me like I’m a normal person, like I’m an acquaintance she finally found after two thousand years. “When did you come—“ I ask, but she cut me midsentence.

“I’m from 2015, I have a brain tumor, and I think I am already dead because I was left rotting in the hospital because my parents don’t have money to buy my medicines,” she replies in one long, unemotional sentence in a stolid and stunned face. She even pronounced hospital as owspital.

I can’t speak. She’s the first soul I saw who did not cry. Well, some did not cry, but when they tell me what happened to them, when everything starts to dawn to them that they’re possibly, vaguely dead, they would cry eventually. But now, it’s different.

She is different.

“D-do you know w-where you are?” I ask. “D-do you know w-what happened to you?”

“I think I do,” she says, her eyes rummage the place we are in. “I think you are Mr. Death, and you’re here to claim me, won’t you? Nice place by the way.” She says the last sentence while studying the white, appeased place where we’re in.

My tongue is lost for a while. My heart beats fast (although I don’t have a heart, but isn’t that how humans express it in sentence when they’re getting dramatic?).

She’s just extremely different from the children I know. “I—I am here to ask you—uhm— what happened to your head?”

Stupid me. I already know what happened to her. It’s written on the paper I’m holding. Maybe I just need to hear the story from her. What really happened to her, not what the paper says what happened to her.

“I did not survive the surgery,” she says. “My mom told me that she loves me, and my dad told me he’ll always be there for me, which I think is the secret code that I’m dying.”

This little girl is obviously a decorated scholar. “Are you not afraid you’re dead?”

“Not really,” she replies. “I think I’ve mastered fear since I was born.”

As I look at her bald head, I know that the cancer corrupted her body. Everything is sad about this little girl. I look at the paper I’m holding, and it is penned here that she’s been fighting this brain cancer since she was seven.

She’s a fighter, this little girl Penelope. And I think she has already accepted her fate to die.

“I don’t think you remember me anymore,” Penelope suddenly mutters, while I’m thinking of what to ask her next.

“I’m sorry?” I say, pretending I did not hear her words when they’re crystal clear.

“I already saw your face when I was eight, when I nearly died from the first surgery I had,” she says.

No. I don’t remember you. I try to look stern, to look quizzical, and to look like how people picture me: laughing while I’m cutting people’s heads off. But I can’t. “You see, there are lots of people who die, and merely die every day,” I say, rubbing my broad, white forehead.

She smiles weakly. “I want to go to the light, Mr. Death,” she says.

“Don’t you want to go back to earth? Don’t you want to enjoy your life with your parents?” I ask.

“I think this is too much for them,” she says. “I think you would meet me again just after two or three years if I’d choose to go back.”

Yesteryears, when I was assigned to do this work, my lips were burnt with purple liquid. I remember asking, “What is this for? Why did you paint my lips purple?”

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He answered, “That’s because you have so many people you’ll talk to, and one day, I know that you’ll find the only person to use this kiss. On earth, they call it a kiss. But for you, it will be called the Death’s kiss, the most powerful one, understand?”

As I’m looking at this little girl in front of me, I almost want to cry, like most of the souls I meet.

Today, Death is crying. And most surprisingly, Death is dying.

I think it is so unfair for her to be here. She is a fighter, unlike other children and grownups who I have talked to.

“Mr. Death, is there something wrong?” Penelope asks.

I wipe my tears with the back of my scrawny hands, and smile at her. “Why don’t you come here and give me a hug, Penelope?”

I don’t do this. I don’t want to entertain the souls. But for now, I think I need to hug Penelope, not because she died and she wants to go to the other path, but because she has been so tired doing so many things just to fight for her life.

Her hug is so tight as if we’ve been friends for a long time. And when she has released me from her grip, I look at the serrated wound on her bald head. I try to touch the wound, and I try to blow it as if I know what I’m doing.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, even though I know it doesn’t hurt because it’s her soul I’m talking to, not her physical body.

“Not really, Mr. Death,” she says, beaming at me.

“Penelope,” I tell her, while rubbing the marks of the surgery on her head. “It’s not yet your time. I admire you for doing everything you can just to fight for your life. Someone has given me this one and only gift, Penelope, and I am thankful for it. I thought I would never use it, but now, I want to give it to you.”

I slowly plant a kiss on Penelope’s forehead, and smile at her as my lips are dehydrating, cracking from the dryness of stale air.

“Now, go back to earth,” I say, although I know she has already vanished.

She doesn’t know she’s going back to earth, to her hospital bed in her hospital gown.

She doesn’t know I sent her to be alive, that cancer won’t bother her anymore, that life would be life for her again.

I think it would be seventy or eighty years before I see her again, but she is the strongest person I’ve ever known.

People are often afraid of me, almost like I’m a predator who’ll swallow their souls whole without chewing. But they don’t know that I’m always here to help them. They don’t know how much I wanted to kiss myself to be the one to go to earth and live, but I know someone deserves it more than I do.

Even Death wants to live; but most of the sometimes, even Death wants to die also, because I don’t want to see people who die.

“Next, Anthony,” I shout while clearing my voice and flipping the souls’ papers. “Don’t cry, Anthony,” I say, without looking at his soul anymore. How I wish I could save him, too.

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Mixed Art

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CHAPTER 4: NORMA The back of my head is already bald and rotten after only seven days. I was forced by doc to take anti-bacterial and anti-inflammatory medicines, but the flesh wounds don’t heal; they just get worse every hour.

Yesterday, I went to the flea market to buy a hair bonnet to conceal whatever this is. People look at me the same way they look at a rugged crazy man who saunters the roads naked. They raise their eyebrows, divert paths, cover their noses, cover their mouths, talk trash, and laugh loud.

And suddenly, I realize how whispers are louder than shouts, how critical eyes can wound a skin far deeper, and most of all, how slow my illness develops because of how fast the illness of people grow.

A deep core in my heart is suddenly tugged. Now I understand my son, Albert.

He is right. You do not understand okay until okay is the only word that you can’t catch.

Everything is all right if it’s I who come across these narrow-minded people because I can’t imagine them doing that to my own son. And during these times, that is the only thing not okay for me.

I’m not going to tell my son about me; I will tell him about me when he’s healed.

But we are both victims of the unknown. And no one can change that unfortunately.

I’m sad and indignant because I’m frustrated by the fact that we have medicines for things we don’t need to heal, yet we don’t have medicines for illnesses we really need to cure.

I get home by night and see my son writing on his notebook. Albert cannot anymore speak, and the doctor doesn’t know why.

He sees me when I took the third step inside, and beckons me to come near him.

“We need to go to the hospital,” he writes, his notebook wet from his tears.

“Why?” I ask him, brushing his face against my scrawny fingers.

He writes, “Because I want you to live longer.” *continue on page 130

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle P. MASANQUE Watercolor

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Listerine Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Minata ni Tina ang presyo ng 250 mL na Listerine: Isandaan at limampung piso.

Lumuwa ang singkit na mata, Saka malutong na napamura.

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Palmolive Shampoo Aira S. PINPIN

Tila isang lantang gulay si Sarah na nakahilata sa kanyang hinihigaan at pinipilit abutin ang remote ng TV sa mesa. Namamag-asa na siya’y malibang at mapawi ang kalungkutan. Nang maabot ito’y kanyang binuksan ang TV at tumambad sa kanya ang isang TV Commercial.

“Basta Palmolive naturals hair ko’y check na check!”

Tinitigang maigi ni Sarah ang buhok ng dalaga, kung gaano ito kahaba’t kaganda, kung paano n’ya ito hawiin na para bang nililipad ng hangin.

Lalo lamang siyang nalungkot sa kanyang nakita. Hinaplos-haplos niya ang kanyang ulo.

Iniisip kung kailan tutubo ang buhok niyang naglagas dahil sa chemo.

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

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“DENTAL FLAWS”

Photo by Aira S. PINPIN

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Toothbrush Jahred F. BERTOLFO

“Nak, mag-toothbrush ka na d’yan, ha?”

“Wala po ‘yung toothbrush ko dito, Nay!” “Ha? Nasa’n na naman?”

“Nay naman eh. Kelan ba kasi uuwi si Ate?” “Bukas pa pala. Sige, ‘yung akin muna gamitin mo. Wag kalimutan ang dila, ha?”

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Tsani

Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

mahal, hinahanap ka na nina Angel. pasensya ka na dahil hindi kita naipagtanggol, nailigtas. walang hiya, pulis pa naman ako. hindi ko man lang nagamit ang armas ko. hindi ko man lang napansin ang bomba sa paligid. hindi ko na nasabing gustung-gusto kong tinatanggal ang balahibo sa kili-kili mo. mahal, pasensya ka na. hindi ko na natupad 'yung pangako kong pupunta tayo ng dagat sa kaarawan mo. kinulit-kulit mo pa naman ako. bakit kasi napatay ka, dalawang linggo bago ang kaarawan mo. *para sa isang biktima ng Davao Bombing noong Setyembre.

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“Hand Sanitizer”

by Jayme Emille C. LUCAS

49th Shell National Students Art Competion Winning Entry (Acrylic Paint)

Lubricant Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

“Uy babe, isa lang. Promise.”

“Ayoko nga. Baka masakit.”

“Eto oh,” sabay abot ng isang bote ng lubricant.

Kinuha niya ito at hinubaran na ang kanyang sarili—pati ang mga matang sa kanya’y nakatingin. Habang nababalutan ang isang madilim na silid ng mga yakap at halinghing na siyang naging apoy sa isang malamig na gabi ng Disyembre, makikita ang mga nakakalat na long sleeves, neck tie, pants at dalawang boxer briefs.

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Perfume Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

We have the urge to stand out whatever we do dare to be different dare to be true We have the urge to cower when rain falls dare to be hidden dare to change pace We have the urge to assimilate when critically challenged We have the urge to mask our presence our fragrance our scent our taste We stank like roses on a bright summer day.

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle MASANQUE Watercolor

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Contour

Daniel C. CARREON

Dear Diary, I’ve only been ten hours with this dating app and I couldn’t believe how rapid my bubbling interest would ferociously roll down from the Everest.

Tinder is an amazing app for someone desperate to find love—the Disney kind of love, the spark-in-the-eye kind of love, the love-at-first-sight kind of love—as if someone who downloads it would eventually think of discovering a discotheque universe of hope (like me), a huge relief from being single for a long time (like me), and an answered prayer that took a decade of kneeling even in the bathroom (like me.) In my eyes, when Tinder pops out, I always thought it shouts: Welcome to Tinder! Say goodbye to your driest years! We offer desperate woman (like me) to find a hot hunk sweating of abs who would date or even marry you if you had a Beyonce body (not me!)

The problem is I don’t possess a Beyonce body and Beyonce face which Tinder people look for, as if it’s a very imperative company requirement to be employed. I would conclude I would look like Beyonce if her she were stung by a million of bees to be quite honest. But because I have dark fleshy bags under my eyes, sagging skin on my neck, bumpy welts of acne across my face (yes, I’m ugly, Diary, you can judge me after years of bathing you with ink), no one appreciates me.

The truth is I got into this dating app because I’m 45 and I still don’t have a husband—never even had a boyfriend for Christ’s sake! I don’t understand why because every time I send them a photo of me, in my perfect angle and immaculate orange filter, they would abruptly log out.

Sometimes, I don’t even tell them my name; I tell them right away my bachelor’s degree in journalism (which is real) and my magna cum laude award (which is not real), yet they’d still do the same thing.

I swear to God, I even chatted a guy that lasted for five seconds because he wanted someone with a Kylie Jenner lips! Where in God’s green earth can I find lips like hers?!

If only my diploma were an astounding beauty to them, I would have had attracted 700 men and am happily chatting them all by now.

But—okay, okay—I’m also honestly in Tinder because I’m a desperate woman who needs a man.

That’s a hard thing to admit even to myself, actually. I think if my ‘feminist’ friend Monica were 111 | E P I D E M I C

here beside me, watching me Tinder my way to a man, she would raise an eyebrow and tell me—just like what many forty- women I know tell everybody: “A strong woman needs not a man to survive this world!”

Liars! Trust me, I’ve tried living that way for two decades now, and that statement was already over-scratched for my ears to hear more. Even Jane Austen would laugh at that adage turned joke.

Let me clear this up: As a strong 45-year old woman, I can provide for myself, buy anything I want, but I need a man as much as a man needs a woman! And that doesn’t make me less strong.

And I’m very sure there are also desperate men who question the same thing as I do (actually I know loads of them who cry harder than I do when turned down.) And I’m telling you, those who say otherwise are those who were drugged by the movie Achy Breaky Heart. This society tells a lot of lies quite frankly, lies that even swim their ways into movie houses.

Before I lay on the couch, I decided to shut my phone down, rub my tearful eyes from the intense radiation, and stare at the window. Why don’t they like me? What’s wrong with— When suddenly my phone pinged, I thought I got a message from my brother, asking me to jog tomorrow. Too lazy to reply, too lazy to wake up early, but still, I thought I needed to tell him that I’m a little sick.

I opened my phone, and a man asked—A MAN ASKED ME FOR A DATE! OH MY GOODNESS! I WAS FREAKING ASKED TO A FREAKING DATE BY A FREAKING HOT MAN WITHOUT ME INTRODUCING MY FREAKING SELF! GROUNDBREAKING! I immediately checked his profile out, and oh, boy, was he hot! I was sweating beads! He looked a little old, maybe just my age range, but his eyes—his eyes!—I can look at them all day long!

They’re so blue that Atlantic Ocean would be embarrassed!

Have he seen my profile? What does he think? No idea. Probably he’s starting to judge me right now, how I look like a sad fish with an orange photo filter.

So I replied: Yeah, why not?

He answered back: Maybe we can be friends first?

Friends? I’m forty-five, haven’t you seen it on my profile, you hot mess?! I don’t have time for friendship! But I said: Sure. That’s how it always starts, right? (smile emoticon) Stupid, stupid reply. I shouldn’t have added the smile emoticon, should I? In a jiff, he messaged: Can we meet? SM, Starbucks. I’ll be there at eight.

Me: Great! See you, Charles!

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD! Red dress? White shirt? Oh, I already wore that last time.

Maybe the spaghetti would look nice? No, that’s too seductive for a first date. I didn’t want to be too seductive. I’m a journalist, not a porn star after all. Would the royal blue dress good enough? Yeah, blue it is.

I’m telling you, these thoughts ran in my brain like a frantic train without stop-overs. After I took a shower for ten minutes, I decided to choose the red dress instead. It looks seductive and youthful and body-hugging, which I prefer more for this night. Ha! Wait for me, Charles, I’m gonna give you a Disney moment when you see me! Those blue Atlantic eyes would sparkle red! Yay! Yay! Yay! I wore the red dress, and I thought I gained a few pounds since it’s gone too tight, revealing my rotund belly dangling as if a fetus were left unpulled. So I wore a tight girdle to keep it in. And Jesus knows how I kept my stomach in and breathed in short, pained breaths like a poor asthmatic child.

I pulled my hair into a chignon, because it made me look vibrant and young. Yes, young was my goal. This make-up coverage must better work as well and cover my age from 45 to 15.

But as I was applying the one for contouring, I could feel a little sting on my cheekbone, and instantly turned into a burning sensation, the one you’d feel when you accidentally touch the surface E P I D E M I C | 112

of a rice cooker lid.

My eyes welled up with droplets of tears. I swore several times from the increasing intensity of pain.

I tried to touch my cheeks, but they’re just scorching hot as they were being scalded by I didn’t know. “Nononono, what’s happening!” I shrieked as I can hear my phone pinging several times.

Maybe Charles was on his way. What a stupid excuse if I were late tonight! Please, God, make me beautiful today! Don’t ruin my face, not yet!

I ran to the sink and turned the faucet up for water. I splashed the water across my face, and I could see from the ugly mirror as my face was steaming off heat.

I touched my face with my forefingers, slowly, slowly, slowly. And it doesn’t hurt anymore. But when I looked at my forefingers, I saw my skin came off with it, like an actual skin that was peeled off.

I looked at the removed skin for a moment, not believing what’s happening. It felt like my leather bag flaking off. It’s a huge part that came off of my face, like a quarter sheet of paper. And when I turned it over, it has dried and congealing maroon blood.

I didn’t want to look at the mirror, no. I am alright, I am alright, I am alright.

And when I finally amassed all the courage to face the mirror, I thought I was not alright at all. Looking at my face, it seemed like a jigsaw puzzle that could have been completed if three pieces were not missing.

I grabbed the make-up kit for contouring, and it said there I would look beautifully radiant and that peeling of skin is natural so I just need to continue peeling it off for better results. My face was an onion that cried to be peeled, and I did so.

But here’s the weird thing: It didn’t hurt at all when I peeled it off.

But here’s the weirder thing: No blood was dripping off my face.

But here’s the weirdest thing: I think there’s another face peeking underneath my falling face.

I pulled the skin hanging off my cheeks, and as I did, a pinkish and more emphasized cheek surfaced out. I continued peeling, and suddenly my brows, too, were going bushy yet edgy and brown, matching my hair color. The big extended family of acne on my forehead suddenly became porcelain clean that even Toni Gonzaga’s Ponds would care to know my secret. And the most amazing thing was my pug nose which turned into a pointed American nose as if it had undergone several rhinoplastic surgeries. Oh, I love this product!

As I gawked at my face, I instantly transformed from a sad vinegar face to an apple cider look! I could not help looking at myself, to be quite honest. I really did look expensive. Disney said magical moments come from fairy godmothers, which is what happened to Cinderella. But for me, fairy godmothers came into the form of this magical contour! I decided I would buy a box of these tomorrow!

There’s a pile of skin near my sink, and I gathered all of it and put it in my bag so that I can dispose it outside. I put on my shoes, my blue dress, and my bag, and rocked my way out of the house.

I walked out of the door as I decided not to wear make-up anymore. This was actually the first time in my entire life I didn’t use my concealer to hide the bumps on my face. I looked more natural, more beautiful, more model-esque as if I were an endorser of Eskinol! Goodbye, Julia!

Here’s another news: people—men and women—were looking at me as I passed by them.

Really? Do I look like Liza Soberano now? Oh, come on, I do! Thanks!

I felt I looked like a beautiful escaped zoo animal! And I was loving the fairy tale moment, loving every glance I gather from the street vendors to the white-collared men! This was the first time it happened to me, because clearly I never had attention’s center—well, I did once when I 113 | E P I D E M I C

tripped while I stepped on the escalator.

When I arrived at SM, I thought it’s mobbed by so many people it suffocated me. But this time, I was loving it. Just look at this goddess that comes your way!

After some flips of hair, I finally got into Starbucks. Just then did I realize that Charles doesn’t know I looked like this right now: exquisite, sexy, bombshell!

I imagined if I’d try to talk to him and tell him I really am the woman she chatted, it would go like this: Me: Hey, sorry, I kept you waiting. It’s me! Tadah! (pivots) Charles: But you don’t look like that on the picture… (AMAZED!) Me: Oh, that? That was my nanny, I guess. She looks like a sad clown no one wants to date her so she used my account. But, hey, I’m already here. What’s up?

Charles: (offers me a drink, continues to be bedazzled) We had a night of laughter and we kissed as he dropped me home. The end.

I was smiling by myself when my eyes shifted to this man sitting on the farthest corner of the room. He was tapping his phone as mine kept on pinging. He’s probably texting me.

I smiled a big one while I made my way to him. As I walked towards him, imagining I was listening to Mariah Carey’s Fantasy song, I swear I even clanked my heels so loud for him to look at me and find my approaching dramatic. But he didn’t look at me. He looked outside.

Tragic.

But I still made my way to him. As I neared the seat obviously made for two, he suddenly lifted his face, and I immediately felt myself screaming red. His eyes were just the same as his picture on Tinder, and his hair told me he’s probably older than I am. But who cares when he is so damn hot!

Charles looked around and asked in his honeyed and relaxing voice, “May I help you?”

“Hey, is this seat occupied?” I looked at him, fluttering my eyes, trying to look cute.

He shrugged. “Yeah, I have a date. She’ll be sitting there, sorry.”

I just stared at him for quite a while. Appalled.

My mind went blank. My smile vanished. My previous self-confidence slowly grew back.

He doesn’t want the girl I am right now, I thought. I mean, I looked like a celebrity and none of this worked for him?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “I thought you’re someone else. Sorry.”

I ran my way to the bathroom and locked it up as soon as I got there. I breathed deeply, trying to think of what to do. I opened my phone and read his texts that went like this: 7:35 – I’m on my way.

7:50 – Hey, I’m here. Just tell me when you’re already near so I can raise my hand. (smile emoticon) 8:00 – (smile emoticon) 8:10 – I’m just at the left corner of the café. Just tell me if you’re near so I can stand by the door to wait. (smile emoticon) He’s really waiting for me. Waiting for me. For me. Me! The ‘me’ who looks like a piranha to myself.

Stop condescending yourself. Stop it. Just go back to who you are. Please.

I opened my bag where I placed my face. I ran to the mirror and placed the removed skin on the surface. I asked myself: Who are you?

If I go back to my old face, maybe it would be better. I thought I was a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces without realizing that I am already completed. So I made my mind up and placed each portion of my skin to the right place on my face. I certainly did seem like patching it up, E P I D E M I C | 114

knitting back everything I torn up.

When I was done and when every skin was all back, I powdered my face and fixed my hair.

Rapidly, like in just a minute, I turned back to who I really am. The me I always am and always will be.

If he wouldn’t like me, then okay. Plenty of fish in the ocean, anyway. But deep inside, I hoped he would at least like me.

I messaged him: I’m here.

I walked out of the bathroom with plenty of angry women lined up, waiting outside. “Sorry,” I murmured.

My hands were jittery and my legs were noodles, because I was thinking he’d just leave me be and laugh on his way home.

He was still sitting there. Probably still hadn’t read my message. So I went towards him, careless of my heart ripping my bosom.

“Hello, Charles,” I said, clearing my throat in between.

He looked at me, surprised. Is it my face you’re surprised of or my sudden appearance? Or both? “Oh,” he said, his deer-in-the-headlight eyes widened as he stood up. “I—I’m sorry, I think I’m not receiving your messages. Have you been texting m—“ “No, it’s okay,” I mumbled, trying to look cool, trying to sound cool. “It’s completely fine.”

He beamed at me. “Please,” he said, gesticulating the seat. “Uhmm, what do you want? Coffee, pastry, anything?”

If you look at my body size, I would gladly tell you to order everything on the menu. “Just water,” I said, demure, trying to play the first-date-I’m-on-a-diet kind of woman.

He looked like he didn’t know what he’s doing, and I certainly did look the same. But my hands started to sweat when he frowned at me, because instead of asking ‘Are you sure?’ he asked: “What’s wrong with your face?”

That was the time I realized that a portion of my skin fell off and landed onto my lap. I did not move a muscle. I turned my head down. I was stuttering while saying I don’t anymore remember. Actually, I don’t anymore remember what happened in those seconds, except that my whole face was scarlet.

He looked at me as I cried. Maybe I was crying because I could feel the warm tears cascading down my cheeks.

What a desperate woman was I to think he would find me attractive the way you are! You should not have come. You should not have downloaded this stupid app. You should not have read too many books about How-To-Get-A-Date. You should just have bought a popcorn tonight and watch Legally Blonde and drool yourself to sleep!

But then, he looked at the torn skin on my lap and took it by his fingers. I turned my head up, and he looked at me. His gaze flushed the blood out of my face. Is he going to laugh? He will. He will laugh so hard.

He did not. He placed the torn part of my skin back to my cheek and brushed his fingers across my face.

“That’s much better,” he said, smiling amiably.

And that was the time I confirmed I was crying, like really crying—this time, not of feeling old and unattractive, but of finally feeling appreciated. He wiped the tears on my cheek and smiled at me: It’s okay. It’s okay.

We both smiled at each other. And then I started the conversation again.

“I’m Melissa. Nice meeting you, Charles.” I said, beaming at him in awe as he nodded. “I love blueberry cheesecake.”

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Graphics by Jayme Emille LUCAS Watercolor

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Ph ot “H ob A y ND Ai ra W S. AS PI NP H” IN

Baby Powder Pauline Grace B. MANZANO

Hindi na ako muling mag-aaksaya ng polbo.

Hindi dahil alam kong magagalit si nanay. Hindi rin dahil sa ayaw kong magmukhang espasol ang aking mukha.

Hindi na ako muling mag-aaksaya ng polbo.

Na ihahagis-hagis ko sa hangin. Ibabato ko sayo, hanggang sa magmukhang mausok ang ating paligid.

Hindi na ako muling mag-aaksaya ng polbo.

Na ilalagay ko sa aming sahig kung saan ako magpapadulas, kasama ng mga kaibigan kong makulit. Magsasaya.

Hindi na ako muling magaaksaya ng polbo.

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Na ipapahid ko nang sobra sa aking mukha. Hanggang sa matakpan ang bakas ng aking mga luhang bunga ng ating pagaaway.

Hindi na ako muling magaaksaya ng Polbo.

At ipapahid ito nang sobra sa aking mukha. Dahil ayaw ko nang maalala ang nangyari sa iyong mukha; makita kung paano ka nilamon ng puting usok noong nasabugan ka.

Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art

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Oral-B Jahred F. BERTOLFO

“Pagmumog mo ito, John. Mga dalawang minuto, ayos na.”

Kinuha ng hubo’t hubad na si John ang mouthwash saka pinulot ang nakakalat niyang mahabang puting damit sa sahig.

“Salamat po,” sumabay ang alingawngaw ng tunog ng kampana.

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Nail Cutter Jan Gusfel C. DUNGCA

Untagging the nights unwanted coldness Those dirty hidden sheets Covering her mucous flesh Of the forbidden sword of Jr. Â consists of a concave clipper perpendicular to the principal axis Mouth is wide open Until blood flows unto Innocent fingertip.

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“VIRUS”

Photo by Audrey S. DEL ROSARIO

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Safeguard Pauline Grace B. MANZANO

“Tayo na’t maghugas ng kamay, Sabon ay ating parating isabay.

Tanggal dumi, Tanggal amoy.”

Sabay namin itong kinanta ni Ramon. Paulit-ulit lang, Hanggang sa maalis ang mga dugo at lansa ng aming mga kamay pagkatapos katayin si Bantay.

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Graphics by Jayme Emille C. LUCAS Watercolor

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Concealer Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

Ali ne nanaman pante ing kule ku kareng pasang ikwa ku keng dos por dos mu.

Karagul na pa itang banda mata ku.

King aldo-aldo kung pagkabit kasabe na ing pag-uli mu kayabe ing kabit mu, megisan ne ing concealer ku.

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Efficascent Oil Jan Gusfel C. DUNGCA

Hinagod sa balat ang nakakikiliting haplos Damang dama ang bawat pagsusumamo Ng mga kamay Sa leeg, tainga Patungo sa nagngangalit na mga braso Hanggang dumampi sa kayumangging laman Dumudulas, pababa nang pababa Walang maibulalas Nang napaluhod ang manggagamot.

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CHAPTER 5: ALBERT My mother dreams for me to live longer. Doc dreams for me to live longer. Strangers dream for me to live longer. With all of them, I think I don’t anymore dream for myself; others dream for me.

What I only dream of is for my mother to live longer and for me to die immediately.

But no one knows what will happen to the both of us.

Right now, we are in the hospital. In our hospital room. On our hospital beds.

My mother is on the left bed, and I’m on the right. I look at her every night at the corners of my eyes, and see how weakened and wilted she has become daily.

I want to tell her to soldier on, to keep fighting, but both of us cannot speak anymore.

The unknown has scratched out language from our bodies. But if I can exchange my life just to tell her how much I love her and squeeze her to keep on fighting for her life, I would gladly do it.

At night, doc enters the room to check us up. He’s a kind doctor, because he told us he will pay for our bills just to cure the unknown. And after he checks us up, he leaves the room with a flash of smile on his face. “Keep on fighting for your life. We will find the cure, I promise,” he says encouragingly.

Tonight, while I am staring at the ceiling, I feel clatters on my left side. It’s my mother, stretching her arms out to mine. I don’t know what she wants, but I know she needs help.

Painfully, I lift my sore hand and reach out for hers. When she got a hold of my hand, she has squeezed it tightly and moans.

I can feel her nerves jangling, flesh shaking from the confusing pain of the physical and emotional. She’s trying to speak a word, but she can’t. She just moans and makes sounds of agony.

And then she cries the words away.

I cry when I held her hands. Her hands are weak and cold, withering away. I want to tell her to calm down and fight, I want to tell her this disease will not hold her back, I want to tell her she’s the strongest woman I know so how can she die, she needs to live and breathe. Of all the people I know who can survive, it has to be her.

We both cry in our hospital room, and we both can’t do anything to hug each other or hold each other closer. It is painful to see my mother cry of pain and can’t do anything to make her feel better.

I held her hand tightly, and without speaking a word, we suddenly understand the pain in our language.

Courageously, I move my right hand to grab my notebook and pen. I write some words on the paper: I love you, ma. I’m sorry if I can’t do anything now. I’m fine now, you can rest now.

I was writing them with my heart in my palm. And when I was about to let her read it, she lets go of my hand and closes her eyes forever. *continue on page 162

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Agnostic Capsule Jhayvi C. DIZON

No I am not Going to ask For your forgiveness.

First, and for the most, - It was your sin.

No; It was not me It was I. - Your creation.

- Your mistake.

No, I will not ask For a cleansing – An intervention – to feed Your honor, But yes, Forgive – It was not – Me. It’s within.

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Graphics by Princess Gabrielle P. MASANQUE Watercolor E P I D E M I C | 132

Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

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Bioflu

Oliver John S. TABAQUERO

Parang matutumba na si Ed dahil sa trangkaso. Maghapon itong nagtrabaho habang kulang ito sa tulog kagabi dala ng pag-aaway nila ng kanyang misis. Pinilit lang niyang pumasok dahil ayaw niyang manatili sa bahay kasama ang talakera niyang asawa.

Napansin ni Kenneth na medyo malamya gumalaw si Ed. Lumapit ito para kamustahin ang kaibigan.

“Bro, pag may trangkaso at papunta na sa flu, magbioflu agad,” wika ni Kenneth habang sinusuri ang temperatura ni Ed. “Salamat,” sagot ni Ed. Ngumiti si Ed. Gano’n din si Kenneth.

Pareho na silang mainit ngayon.

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Truth Serum Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

maybe I’ll get used to this. i won’t wonder why you turn away whenever I ask if you see me in the same room with lights dimmed, fingers intertwined ten years from now. i won’t wonder why you can’t stay whenever I ask you to. i won’t wonder why you can’t ask about my day when all i do is let you tell yours. i never asked for the truth but i think you owe me one. but today, love, i think i need to miss my daily dose. because you're the kind of revelation i think i can't handle. messy, raw, confusing, uncomfortable. maybe i’ll get satisfaction from the lies we tell each other.

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Sleeping Pills Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Writing off a fantasy script with stars too bright to exist in reality And when paradox fails, try counting sheep I wish I had a record a droning litany of historic texts Lest wait, until the sandman comes.

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Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

Methamphetamine Francis Ethan John A. GARCIA

gurd Me d o w n

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Graphics by Pauline Grace MANZANO Digital art 139 | E P I D E M I C

Water Therapy Jahred F. BERTOLFO

Sabi ni Nanay, mainam Ang walong baso ng tubig Ang sakit ‘ka niya’y maiiwasan Sa walong baso ng tubig Itong higit walong basong tubig Umaabot hanggang baywang Ay kulay kape at putik Na lumulunod sa talampakan Itong higit walong basong tubig Na lumulunod na sa baywang Ay ‘di na raw puwedeng inumin Kaya’t lalanguyan na lamang

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“DEAR MA,”

Photo by Aira S. PINPIN

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Biogesic

Oliver John S. TABAQUERO

Maalinsangan sa terminal. Tanghaling tapat. Habang hinihintay ko ang bus papuntang Pasay ay nagpasya akong lumipat ng upuan dahil biglang tumapat ang sikat ng araw sa aking kinauupuan.

Tumabi ako isang babae. Namumutla ang kanyang mukha at ‘di gaanong kumikibo.

Nahihilo siguro. Minabuti kong kausapin ito at bigyan ng Biogesic. Nagulat ako nang bigla itong tumayo at naglakad nang matulin palayo sa akin. “Ah, hindi nga pala ako si John Lloyd,� wika ko sa sarili.

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Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and ink

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Mercury Drug Isaih Kyle C. UMIPIG

Ang mundo ay nababalutan ng mga bagay na hindi sigurado.

Minsan ‘oo’ pero mas madalas ‘oo?’

Tinanong ka kung bakit si Duterte ang ibinoto mo.

Sagot mo, “kasi magaling siya.”

May sumunod na tanong— kung okay lang ba ang pagmumura niya.

Tapos sabi mo, “hindi, kasi ‘yun ay masama.”

Napaisip ako, bakit ganoon?

Ang gulo; ang hirap intindihin.

At napagtanto ko, sa mundong ito, isa na lang ang sigurado.

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“ANONG GAMOT SA KAGUTUMAN?” Photo by Audrey S. DEL ROSARIO

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Viagra

Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

apin buri buri daka e, sustentadu mu na ku, pati dina tatang ku. apin pala, pandala da kang adobo pota, niluto neng imang ku. i kapatad ku, mag grade 2 ne kanyan, buri buri ne pala itang seli mung sapatus ka ya. bala da seli ku la ngan deta. bala da, magobra ku king Mcdo, bala da, kaya mabebengi kung mumuli kasi mag obertaym ku. ali da balu, ika ngan. nanung oras da ka puntalan pota? sali da ka pang panulu di ba? itang via— viag—, aydo! kasakit na kasing sabyan! o ing rayuma mu, masakit ya pa? atsu la ba deng anak mu pota? gawa ku sanang asayment king sala yu.

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Graphics by Nikkie Joy T. PACIFICO Pen and ink

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Vitamin D Cristine Emmanuelle D.V. FLORES

She laid down her arms and let the heat burn her flesh. The sensation was scorching yet relieving, for it filled her blood with the satisfaction she needs from the intense desire for the vitamin, and for him.

“Done,” he said drawing out the sharpness of the puncture in her skin. She smiled, starting to feel high-strung and dazed again. Her eyes never left his angelic face even when her feelings surged. She stared as his whole being became brighter and brighter as the sun.

“Wha–what’s happening to you?” he exclaimed in agitation, but his voice still sounded melodious to her. What could possibly go wrong with this great euphoric feeling that’s flowing through her veins?

Almost as sudden as she asked the question in her head, she felt a stinging sensation that is growing in her chest; everything that was bright became so dark but clear – the Vitamin D bottle in the corner and the overused syringe on the table by the bedside, the dirty dark room where the mat she’s on lay bare on the ground, and him. With his brightness gone, his beauty left his being. She tried to shout but gagged blood out of her mouth instead, and the last thing she saw as the light left her, is him – an image of darkness.

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Xanax

Janelle Pamela R. DAVID

There are so many things That have been happening lately A nobleman who curses proudly And woman versus the people Who should’ve been her allies A bombing southward Where it is supposed to be the ‘safest’ Bombings across the oceans Kids growing in cruel places And never ending begging for help Lately I have this sinking feeling in my chest I am growing tired of this place And I hate the fact that I need Another dose of you To forget And to forgive myself For my apathy

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Withdrawal Andrea Nicole B. SAPNU

the smoke was brutal and torment cascading down my throat it felt as sharp and scorching as fiery arrows inside my mouth it felt good the ashes burnt fell into the ground as if it were snow on its own and i was suffocating to death with its remnants in thin air alone it felt good it came softly like a lover, and the city didn’t resist to come crumbling down her knees while he turned her into a wasteland of dreams it felt like home i see them emerging from the debris my brothers, at last they now breathe out of the cracks between concrete fleeing from the rubble of which they’ve hidden they are no longer afraid i turned my gaze at the sky clouds grey with littlest streaks of blue smiled to myself that i’ve almost forgotten the face of my favourite hue but that doesn’t change anything it felt radioactive, ecstatic - the chemicals were penetrating the mind as i breathe them in

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i wanted to call for help... overwhelming like a vast sea submerging me in its waves within but why does it feel so good?

--i woke up to the sounds of footsteps and tiny fingers on my face a little girl, aged four, or maybe five waking me with her inhales in fast pace “can I play in the snow?” “snow?” she ran to the beach of ashes bare feet, tattered dress never did she opt for a reply and neither did i the other children out here all of sudden, followed and in the riffraff they call snow they blissfully indulged that’s alright, i finally learned overdose with wonder once more the days of anguish were long gone so was fear that held us confined before and oh, it felt good the abomination was complete this ghost town, at ease and in the longest time, i found peace

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“RADIANT RADIATION”

Photo by Pauline Grace MANZANO

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Graphics by Gabriel Jann INOCENCIO Pen and ink

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Plan B

Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Life is as short as that moment when It hadn’t begun That morning after you took A pill to pilfer your unsuspecting crime

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Betadine Joan Robin T. MARTINEZ

Mother always kisses my wounds away

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I remember how her touch soothes, as she calms my trembling soul crippled, the fear creeping fought, demons threatening death over a scrapped knee.

She smiles warmly as she swabs at the broken crevice Gently, like to an antique porcelain brittle in existence Cooing, careful to appease fragility Her cheeks dimpling Laugh, like million silver bells tinkling dipped in magic and wonder As the cool brown tincture washes my skin The motion conjures a spell, clearing up gray skies Peace, and the subsidence of the stinging sensation I reveled in her proximity as the scent: a metallic tang, a whiff of isopropyl, wafted through my senses She finishes the memory with a hint of nostalgia a kiss over the hollow throes of my heart.

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Graphics by Gabriel Jann S. INOCENCIO Pen and Ink

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Flouride Daniel C. CARREON

Tonight, I will not brush my teeth, because I am looking for the taste at the back of my mouth that preserved the flavor of your lips.

Tonight, I will not brush my teeth, because I need to look for answers and memories that I slowly and mistakenly have brushed away every day.

Tonight, I will not brush my teeth, because I want to know— really know— why do your teeth not anymore ache by the taste of my mouth.

Tonight, I will not brush my teeth, to remember every part of your body that I have planted a kiss on.

So if tonight I would brush my teeth, I will also rinse my last hope away.

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CHAPTER 6: DOCTOR They close their eyes forever.

Norma died at 2:30 in the morning, and Albert died at 4:10 in the morning.

I entered the room and saw Albert kneeling beside her mother’s bed with his head sitting on her stomach. Albert held her mother’s arms so tightly that they cannot be separated, while his other hand held his notebook where he used to write.

I was not there when they died. I was in my house, studying the diagnosis paper I got when I went abroad ten months ago for a check-up.

I do not know what to do with these papers and their guessed diagnosis, because no matter how much my colleagues tell me that they don’t know the origin of the disease I got, I firmly believe that there is a cure.

“Doctor Phillip Santiago, I’m sorry,” was the sentence I have been hearing every single day.

“I hope I can help you, but I don’t know your disease. I don’t even know if it’s a disease.”

With that, I have worked in my laboratory for hours, met other high-minded doctors I know to discuss it further, and experimented on a lot of things just to cure the unknown.

Yet none of these worked, and I had lost my faith in curing even my own self.

Until Norma and Albert went inside my clinic.

I was not alone with the disease.

Until now, I’m looking at myself in the mirror, because if I remove my lab gown, one will see how my whole torso is sore and unrecognizable just like Albert’s. The epidemic is crawling into my neck and head, and I hope to have found the cure before that happens.

Mine started months before I saw Albert and Norma, and it is so slow in development unlike theirs. The epidemic of the unknown killed them faster than it should have killed me.

I did not find the antidote yet, but I’m still looking for it. If I had to pay for my life to find it, I will, because I think that’s the right thing to do.

I promised Norma and Albert that I will look for the healing, but I’m happy that both of them found it in the end: they are each other’s cure.

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The Work 2016-2017

PROF. GLADIE Adviser

If I were an orthopedics, I would want to make sure that the frame of the human body is intact.

DAN

Editor in Chief

If I were the school physician, I would tell students they’re sick. Totally sick.

JAHRED

Associate Editor/Literary Editor

If I were a surgeon, I would cut this world into wounds and let it bleed and bleed until bleeding hurts no more, until bleeding soothes instead.

ETHAN

Associate Editor

If I were a neurologist, I would create a machine which can wipe out memories. Selective memories.

CREISHA

Managing Editor

If I were a dermatologist, I would make my services free so everyone could be beautiful and no one will face any discrimination or bullying due to their physical appearance.

CRISTINE

Associate Managing Editor

If I were a pharmacist, I would provide a cure more efficient than medicine.

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JHAYVI

News Editor

If I were an opthalmologist, I would be that doctor with an eye problem himself, so he cures with basis and no hypocrisy.

DANIEL

Devcomm Editor

If I were a doctor, I would not forget who I am.

JOAN

Feature Editor

If I were a cardiologist, I would patch holes and mend broken hearts.

OLIVER

Sports Editor

If I were a nurse, abandoning the fragile souls under my care would never be an option for, I know, ignorance of responsibility is the worst atrocity.

PAULINE

Graphics Editor

If I were an opthalmologist, I would not cure and seek for the blind, but rather those who pretend to be purblind.

JC

Layout Editor

If I were an anesthesiologist, I would let pain induce to everyone who deserves it.

AUDREY

Senior Photojournalist

If I were a pediatrician who focuses on developmentalbehavioral, I would show to the presumptuous eyes of people that everyone is blind.

OTEP

Correspondent

If I were an optometrist, I would develop a syringe to oppose negative perceptions and let each one of us see good deeds.

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RICHMON

Correspondent

If I were a pulmonologist, I would never leave you breathless.

KYLE

Correspondent

If I were a radiologist, would I be able to see someone’s inside? I mean, it would be so nice to understand someone’s outside by seeing their inside.

ANDREA

Correspondent

If I were a pediatrician, I would not tell children that the pain of the syringe is only as painful as an ant bite.

It gets worse, and so does life.

PAM

Correspondent

If I were an oncologist, I would treat the cancer of this society.

MERIELLE

Correspondent

If I were a pediatric oncologist, I would treat every child’s cancer so they could all have a chance to live and have his/her brightest future.

ARSENIO

Correspondent

If I were a pharmacist, I would formulate a drug that can cure infinite human’s stupidity.

GUSFEL

Correspondent

If I were an ENT specialist, I would whisper words into the ears of many the truth that they never smell, on their nose and examine the judgments and injustices on their throat they provoke to public.

CRYSTEL

Correspondent

If I were a podiatrist, I would make your feet perfectly fine so that we can walk through our journey and delightfully finish it together.

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LORDDAN

Correspondent

If I were an optometrist, I would prescribe spectacles for those people who can’t clearly see someone’s mendacity.

GABRIEL Cartoonist

If I were a gynecologist, I would give birth to this society again.

NIKKIE

Cartoonist

If I were an audiologist, I would give free hearing aids to the deafs and let their inner voices be heard by other people and by themselves as well for, I believe, everyone of us has the right to speak and be heard.

JAYME

Graphic Artist

If I were a neurosurgeon, I would cure people’s mentality problems.

GABRIELLE

Graphic Artist

If I were a pharmacist, I would create a pain reliever for those who are suffering from heartbreak, because I hate to see your heart ache.

AIRA

Photojournalist

If I were a physician and you’re my patient, I would just let you die. I know you’re tired of living, and so am I. PRINCE

Layout Artist

If I were a doctor, I would do my best to attain a doctor’s goal - to save as many lives as I can.

LAY ANNE

Layout Artist

If I were an immunologist, I would make people stronger and immuned to face their problems and override their weaknesses.

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THE

WORK

E D I T O R I A L B O A R D A N D S TA F F 2016 - 2017 Dan G. Obligacion Editor in Chief Francis Ethan John A. Garcia Associate Editor for Administration

Creisha Mae S. Dimabayao Managing Editor Cristine Emmanuelle D.V. Flores Associate Managing Editor Jhayvi C. Dizon News Editor Joan Robin T. Martinez Features Editor Daniel C. Carreon Development Communication Editor Oliver John S. Tabaquero Sports Editor Joseph Carlo M. Pineda Layout Editor Pauline Grace B. Manzano Graphics Editor Audrey S. Del Rosario Senior Photojournalist

Jahred F. Bertolfo Associate Editor for Publication/ Literary Editor Joseph C. De Jesus Richmon A. Cayabyab Isaih Kyle C. Umipig Andrea Nicole B. Sapnu Janelle Pamela R. David Gianne Merielle P. Gonzales Arsenio S. Santiago, Jr. Jan Gusfel C. Dungca Lorddan U. Faller Crystel Joy T. Samodio Correspondents Gabriel Jann S. Inocencio Nikkie Joy T. Pacifico Cartoonist Jayme Emille C. Lucas Princess Gabrielle P. Masanque Graphic Artists Prince Jeyvis Karl N. Salas Lay Anne S. Tiglao Layout Artist Aira S. Pinpin Photojournalist

Prof. Gladie Natherine G. Cabanizas Adviser

INFECTION This is no less than an infection. Let us inflict sense of gratitude…

To Him who has always been the greatest cure.

To our parents who accept that we have to itch our brains and turn our blood into ink and spill it onto papers of different sorts.

To our fellow student journalists who understand that this is a dying society and who hope that writing resurrects hope itself.

To CEGP for its continuous advocacy. Sumulong! Sumulat! Manindigan! at Magmulat!

To the entirety of The Work which staff carry with them their own disease and serve as one another’s physicians and patients alike.

To TSU Administration and to whatever illness they cure for the academe’s betterment.

To friends who we look at as hospital beds, food supplements, vitamins, and everything nutritious. Hihi.

To Inay Gladie who has always been a great prevention.

To you and the potential positive EPIDEMIC we believe you can bring.

I’m not frightened of him; I’m frightened of what this is, because whatever this is, it has already made him dead while still living.

So I told him I will find ways to cure him.

THE

WORK