Joshua Patrick C. Santillan

Ydna Jane R. Hierro

pink hues were covered in blues and blues turn blacks not seen coming through how it felt like an attack

for a lamb who knows nothing in this place of ruins but knows this one thing and here to hint some clue in

about her life that’s not good but whose existence is? yet we are bound to find that good out of the window or by accident

things that turn our world from black and white to technicolor— hoping for it to last awhile

to come and to say, “Efface thy shadows, welcome the sparkle” then pink hues will be visible.

Nicole Rose D. Fenita

Ikaw ay nakakabighani. Maputi ka man, maitim, o kayumanggi.

Ikaw ay naririnig. Kung sayo’y berde o asul ang diwa ng umiibig.

Ikaw ay mahalaga. Kahit para sayo ay hindi dilaw ang kulay ng pagiging masaya.

Ikaw ay nakakaakit. Kahit sumasagisag ka sa kulay ng bahaghari.

Sundin mo ang sigaw ng puso, Pero tandaang huwag mang-abuso. Hindi mo kailangang matinag sa iba, Dahil ikaw ay kakaiba.

Anumang kulay ang iyong ibinabahagi, Ikaw ay natatangi. Dahil sa iisang paleta, Tayo ay magkakasama. Carl Evans Jover

Dianne Nayeli Montero

Nico Julleza

You have the nerve to take a thousand sorrows in my heart, and sealed a million scars in my every part. After all that and I’m the one to blame. I patched it up the best way I can; to make you jealous of me. Roses I swallowed and even the thorns, drinking my fury to level my shame. After all that and you’re the one to blame. You had your part and I had mine. Taking chances what you and I can give; for such a miniscule time. Put out the smoke from the dying embers of our pleasured nights. After all that suppose we’re both to blame. Easy are the days I tend to forget you, but harder every night weeping about you. We were never ready, but I forgive you for that.

Leona Joy H. Patricio

Nakatingala sa madilim na kalangitan Pinagmamasdan ang mabilis na pag buhos ng ulan Ang bughaw na ulap na nagbibigay liwanag Napalitan ng dilim at tuluyang di maaninag

Kadiliman ang siyang bumabalot Hamog at ambon ang siyang nakapalibot Nakakulong sa madilim na kahapon Nagmistulang bulag nadi maka ahon

Hinagpis ng panahon ay tuluyang natikman Hirap at pagsisisi ang kinalunuran Sa madilim at masakit na ating nararanasan May liwanag at pag asa pabang makakamtan?

Sa paghinto ng ulan at pag sikat ng araw Bahaghari’y masisilayan ng iyong matang nakadungaw Nagpapahiwatig na huwag magpadala sa masalimuot na karanasan Sapagkat may panibagong pag asang naka abang

Sa madilim na nakaraan Liwanag ay unti unti ng nasisilayan Mga kulay ng bahagharing kay gandang pagmasdan Nagmistulang pag asa sa aking karimlan

Bawat kulay na dala ng bahagharing kay ganda May isinisiwalat na katangiang tayo ang magsasalba Sa landas na madilim na ating tinatahak Sa dulo ng bahaghari makakamtan ang pag asa at liwanag.

Natasha Del Valle

Ooh As I perch upon this oak tree I see you gaze up on me Your blue eyes, Your cherry lips, Your smile captivated me.

As if on cue, I fell for you Planned by the heavens above My body, unmoving. My eyes, still looking. My wings, were clipped by you.

Ooh As I perch upon this oak tree I see you gaze up on me Your ebony hair, Your icy stare, Your smile intrigued me

As if on cue, the stone fell too The sky turned grey and gloomy My eyes, now void. My breath, now short. My soul, now hopeless and blue.

Ooh As I perch upon this old oak tree I saw you gaze upon me Blood like wine Chills down my spine Your smile terrified me.

I heard a cry, a distant sigh And now I’m dead and lonely.

Athena Christy L. Soledad

The blinds were open by a slit, letting in a small sliver of light into the somewhat dim room. They used to be white, but took on a grayish hue throughout the years. My masters never bothered to change it. As I peeked through the small gap, I saw a scene straight out of the dystopian movies my master always watches.

Something was off.

It was a scene I’ve seen since the day I was born. Yet these past few months, it seemed so foreign and different. The stretch of road that used to be full of those roaring human inventions, was silent and empty. The neighbors who used to live with the windows flung open, but now they kept it closed. My masters used to go out so often, but now they remained at home, huddling together and whispering to themselves. I couldn’t make out what their hushed voices meant to convey, but every now and then, I would sense a burst of shock, and then their heads would hang in sorrow.

They still watched the moving things on the bright screen with such intensity, but not like they used to. They used to laugh while watching it, or sometimes they would gather and settle beneath the blankets, screaming in surprise whenever something popped up on screen. But things have been different these past few months. They were watching the same old thing, but they rarely expressed any bit of emotion. They just watched, silent, although sometimes I would notice their foreheads crease and their eyebrows furrow and their corners of their mouths pulling downwards in a frown.

Other than my masters, I rarely saw any other humans. They rarely pass by the sidewalk outside my window, and when they do, they cover their faces and walk briskly. I used to hear loud chatter and banter from outside the window, either from the neighbors or the passersby, but lately, they have been passing each other as if they were ghosts, as if they were unaware of each other’s existence. Sometimes, they would even steer clear of each other.

Angel Octoso

There were no more little humans who would play games in their backyards. The neighbors no longer held their Sunday tea parties in their lawns. I no longer see the group of schoolboys who used to walk home together. The sidewalk was empty, and everything was silent.

It was as if the world held its breath as something sinister ravaged the world. It was as if an unseen force caused the humans to cower and hide behind their blinds. Humans are powerful creatures, they do not back down so easily. Yet, as I licked my paw, I wondered, What happened to the humans?

While the outside world took on a darker hue, the blinds of my window remained the same. Still a grayish white, taunting me with their silence as I asked the same question over and over again. It’s hopeless. It ends here. No, says the voice inside my head. Yes, I say for now I have lost my way. Left in the dark, stuck in this gloomy place, there is nothing to do now than to have myself erased. Stop, it says again. For once I listened, and I succumbed in eternal silence. A force so strong sucked me in and the feeling of having a blanket wrapped around me came. So I sat and stared at the dark soil of land that extends endlessly. Come to think of it; the clouds, the sky, the soil under my feet, the grass, and the flowers are all painted in black and gray. Dark. Just like my thoughts a while ago. Ding, I heard something. Then something sprouted from below. A sapling but different. So little yet so beautiful. In the land of darkness, I am relieved to see something that glows. Ding, another sound again and time started to pass quickly. The sapling grew from a little glowing plant to a flower with petals the colors of the rainbow. The first of its kind.

I looked at it, astonished. It was then I wished for it to stop growing. It’s as if many seasons have passed. Many winds blew. Now, the flower bids me adieu. Its petals fell slowly and when it hit the ground, the winds started to rise. From the spot where the fallen petal fell, colors escaped from it, flowing like a single streak of water, seeping into the soil. I float, the force taking me away as I witness how, from all of the pieces of the dead flower, colors engulf the land. I can see how everything is alive from up here.

Another gust blew, waking me up.

You, a precious flower. It can be tough sometimes. It can be dark sometimes. But in the confines of the very room that makes you feel trapped, I believe that you can get out of it. I believe that you can paint every color, every hue, in the darkest of the dark. You can grow and be that someone who can paint someone’s life, even your life, with all of the hue in the color spectrum. Flourish, my arc-en-ciel.

Mary Nicole M. Estrella

Ulyses Sillonar

Mary Nicole M. Estrella

I thought you’d be back in February but I guess not because finally you left me.

I reminisce to the time we shared. I look back to the times that you were there. It’s painful, I know. But I just can’t help myself. With you, everything is in full color. You took me from a place where I really thought dull and gray would be with me until the day I die. I can still remember the time we first met and you don’t know how happy I am because finally, someone has seen me; pulled me out of the hell I am living in.

We painted on our own canvas. Our different colors merge, chasing away the gray I am so familiar with in the days that I am awake and in the nights that I rest. You taught me that despite having to live in a monochrome world, there are still ways and opportunities to paint it with every color known. I realize how amazing it is to know each color one by one. Of knowing the value of life one by one. And I did it with you.

On the day you left, the beautiful picture we painted started to grow dull and mold. Somehow in my loneliness, the colors fade. Maybe because I am not with you. As I count the days, the weeks, the months that eventually grew into years, I did not notice how the picture in our own canvas is drowned by a jetblack paint. Only parts of it can be seen now. But I have already forgotten how it looked. I wish for you to come again and let me remember those colorful days but you never really came.

February, the month you officially told me that we’re going our separate ways. My whole world crashed. If I were Atlas, I could’ve said my shoulders cannot take it anymore. At that very moment, I knew I was drowning in the dark chasm again. Drowned by the color I resent so much because you introduce blue, red, green, and yellow to my system.

I hate gray.

Years passed, now I realized. Without having the gray parts of my life, I wouldn’t have the hunger to see all the colors. For without it, I cannot shine. For without it, I cannot paint the world on my own. For without it, I can’t bleed with the colors of the rainbow.

I have been devoid of color. I have been painting every hue with you. I slipped and stopped shining. Now, with only the memory of us I choose to keep bleeding every color you have shown me.

Leona Joy H. Patricio

Nanginginig ang mga paa ko habang pababa ng sasakyan. Nakatayo ako at parang ayaw ng humakbang. Biglang umihip ang malakas na hangin at akoy napapikit. Dala ng pagtabing ng aking buhok sa aking mukha. Niyakap ko ang aking sarili ng maramdaman ko ang dapya ng hangin sa aking balat. Napa upo ako sa berdeng damo at inilapag ang nagtitingkarang kulay pulang rosas.

“Mahal,” biglang sumikdo ang aking puso ng marinig ko ang kanyang boses. Hinarap ko siya at pinagmasdang mabuti. Napakaganda ng kanyang mapungay na kulay asul na mga mata, mapupulang mga labi, ang balat niyang kayumanggi, maitim din ang kanyang buhok, at nag pupulahan ang kanyang mga pisngi. Napaka gwapo niya talaga sa aking paningin na tila siya lang ang nakikita ng dalawa kong mga mata. Kung hindi ko lang naalala na wala kaming maayos na pag uusap kahapon ay matutuwa akong makita siya ngayon, ngunit ng maalala ko biglang napangiwi ako.

“Anong problema?, hindi mo ba nais na masilayan ang mukha kong maihahalintulad sa araw na nakakasilaw?” Klarong klaro sa repleksyon niya ang pagod at saya na kay linaw dala ng kanyang mga ngiti.

“Nasaan ka ba kahapon? Mukhang marami ka yatang ginagawa?” kalmado ngunit seryosong tanong ko sabay baling sa kanya.

“May mahalagang ginawa lang kung kaya’t hindi agad ako makapunta sayo, Mahal.” aniya at niyakap ako ng mahigpit, mas mahigpit pa sa normal na yakap na binibigay niya, na animoy ito na ang huli naming pagkikita.

“Aalis na ako,” Paalam niya sa akin. Habang papalayo ang kanyang bulto ay sinundan ko siya ng tanaw palabas. Ng akoy papanhik na sana sa itaas ay biglang may malakas na salpokan ang aking narinig kumabog ng

Cherry Ann Pauya

malakas ang aking dibdib at tumakbo palabas upang tingnan ito. Biglang tumigil sa pag takbo ang oras at pag ikot ang mundo, wala akong naririnig at tila nag uunahan sa pag patak ang mga luha ko

nanlalabo ang aking paningin nag umpisa na akong mapaluhod at napahiyaw ng makita ko ang pulang likido sa iyong katawan. Ang dating maliwanag at makulay kong mundo, biglang napalitan ng dilim dahil sa pagluluksa ko.

“Kamusta kana?” sambit ko habang sinisindihan ang puting kandila.

“Siguroy, masaya kana riyan sa iyong bagong mundo.” napatingala ako at pinagmasdan ang kulay asul na ulap habang pinipigilan ang aking pag iyak. Unti unti itong nagdidilim at nais pa yata akong damayan sa aking hinagpis.

Ilang taon na ang nakalipas ng muli kung masilayan ang maamo mong mukha, siguro nga tama na ang pagtahak ko sa madilim na mundo. At bigyan ko naman ng liwanag ang nasirang buhay ko.

Maire O. Kan’t

Last night, I was only 115cm tall, but I’m 116cm now. I drink a cup of milk, just what my mom said, and it helps me grow, but I also sneak cola in the fridge. Also, when I wake up, I’m already six years old after sleeping a day. Voila! I’m a real man within this subtle body of mine. It’s also this day where I’ll meet my doctor.

“Raul-honey, please move faster. We’re going to be late,” mom panicking while I’m choosing the right pair of socks. Alas! I think this is the appropriate combination. I hurriedly put it on with my shoes.

“Baby, you can’t put on a different colored pair. Wear the stripes instead,” she’s mocking my fashion choice, but it’s better to wear something identical than not.

“Don’t forget your crayons on the desk,” she adds.

Along the way, I’m curious how I can identify these eight colors within this box. I raise the crayon with ‘red’ in its packaging.

“Mom, how can I know that this is red?” mom wonders how she can explain it.

“Red is blood, like when you cut your knees. It’s the color of my love for you. Here you go, your face is all red!” then she laughs after pinching my cheeks.

“How about this, mom?” I ask while hiding my blushing face and pointing another crayon.

“That’s orange, like the fruit. It’s like your friend Joy, a color of joy.” She answers while waving to Joy’s mom on the side of the road.

“Sun is yellow while blue is the sky,” we look at the bright spot in the never-ending atmosphere, and here we are, pinching our eyes.

“My skin is brown, and my hair is black?” while pointing both my arms and head.

“Yes, Raul, but skins also have fair shades like whites and darker ones like blacks, and hair can be any color which the person favors,” she ends as we reached my doctor’s clinic.

The doctor is smiling and hands me something, “Go! Try it on.”

This is what I’ve been missing these past years. Watching myself in the mirror, I can clearly see red gradually engulfing my face as brown irises in my eyes start filling with clear liquid that gently caresses my brown face. I’m wearing my favorite shirt, which I think is green, but it’s blue-colored, and the character print is a blue cow instead of the typical brown that my teacher taught. My favorite crayon I’ve been using for a long time is brown rather than orange. Mom is crying with her flushed face while hugging my back.

Cherry Ann Pauya

Since I started to understand my environment, I could only see through grayscales because of achromatopsia. But, the rays began to spread in the spectrum of these glasses covering my eyes. My monochromatic world became a polychromatic paradise that led to more infinite possibilities.

I grab my crayon box, “Let’s buy the 24 crayons’ box, mom.”

“We will get the biggest one honey,” she wipes her tears and smiles.

Joshua Patrick Santillan

Aleihsa Beatrice Alba

To My Dearest,

Remember the night we met? It was the 70s – the decade of disco, bell-bottoms, and an unfortunate time for those sensitive to light as bars with flickering disco balls fill every corner of the city. God, my eyes! The pain was excruciating, I had to clutch them hard but it keeps on growing. Then a touch, unfamiliar yet a dose of warmth. Unknown souls bonded that night and beyond. For the first time, I saw the world in a different light.

My parents used to tell me that being completely colorblind doesn’t change anything – it’s merely colors, they say. The day technology has once again proven itself and made me distinguish colors, I can attest that my parents were right. I cried because beautiful was an understatement. Yes, the world is the same, but even better as I get to appreciate colors and diversity. You were pretty in black and white, but even in color, you have made me feel the same way. You hesitated, scared you might offend me, but proceeded otherwise and said you wished a lot of people were colorblind. If only they see colors the way I do – unified despite clashing hues, and not used for oppressions – we would live in a better world. Maybe the reason why they take advantage of colors is because they don’t know what it’s like to see only one. The world was unnecessarily cruel especially to people with the same color as you, and though I couldn’t perceive colors, I knew what you meant. It wasn’t supposed to be like that but somehow it’s the reality we live in.

I am writing to you because you aren’t answering my calls and I heard you’re seeing the world in darkness, an impending doom, reminding you of terrors you experienced, and neglecting everyone because of the rising brutality. Truth be told, we are not getting any younger and the world is getting scarier. My dearest, if there’s something I’ve learned from you, it’s to see the world beyond shades of grey. All the colors unimaginable and unknown to me just made sense – it’s proof that everything does get better – maybe not now but eventually. I know that this is hard for you and different for me but please, lean on me as I’ve leaned on you. There’s still light to shed. Even if it’s not you who should adjust in this world but your oppressors, there’s still so much to fight for. The reason why it ends is because we continuously fight and there is a universal effort. We owe this to ourselves and the future to never give up.

Dylan Jacob Suarez

Bradlean G. Espejo

Dumadagundong ang kalangitan na parang kakoponiya ng ingay na pumapatak, lumalason sa lupang uhaw. Isang yugto ng panahon ang nabalot ng pangamba. Dilim ay para bang namuno sa aking puso. Kalaban ay hindi matablan ng alinmang hiwaga ng espada. Namuo ang takot sa aking isipan. Nagsarado lahat ng pintuan. Nabalot ang paligid ng nakakabinging katahimikan. Hindi mahanap ang pag-asa. Hindi makita ang ligaya. Sapagkat sa bawat pitik sa kuwadradong teknolohiya, numero ng kasawian ang nababasa.

Isang araw.

O sa makalawa.

O baka sa susunod na linggo, matatapos rin ang kalbaryo dulot ng mikrobyo. Ngunit lumipas ang taon, aking mga luha’y nakakulong pa rin sa seldang iisang bombilya lamang ang nagsisilbing ilaw. Itinago ko ang lungkot sa piling ng mga bituing nagmamasid sa nalulumbay na mundo. Ngunit sa sulok ng rosas na silid, aking natanaw ang liwanag na nakatambak sa mga pahinang binalot ng nagsasayawang alikabok. Akin itong ibinuklat—natutunan ko ang lumipad patungong alapaap at maglakad sa ibang mundo. Nasa ibabaw ng mga palad ko ang bahaghari ng mga pangarap. Nakapinta sa mga salita ang mukha ng pag-asa na para bang mga kulay na nagliliwanag sa ligaya kasabay ng pagkisap ng mga mata. Mga alpabetong nagsisipaglaruan sa aking pagbasa at inilipad ang aking kaluluwa sa mga tanawing nakapinta. Nagsara man ang bawat pintuan ng paligid ngunit bumakas naman ang bintana ng pag-asa. At sa pagdagundong ng kalangitan pumapatak ang musikang humahalik at dumidilig ng mga kulay sa lupang nalulumbay.

Pia Victoria E. Graza

Puting bestida. Luntiang sandalya. Lilang bayong. Dilaw na Mirasol. Handa na ako sa aming muling pagtatagpo.

Marahan kong binaybay ang alat ng tabing dagat at napabuntung hininga sa mabigat na hampas ng hangin. Nagkaroon ng kaunting kirot ang puso kong kailanma’y hindi nagpatinag ngunit ipinagpatuloy ko na lang ang pag-apak sa buhanging perlas. Sa kalayuan, may naaaninag akong isang diwatang marahang tumatampisaw sa tubig. Dahan dahan niyang inilagay ang kaniyang hintuturo sa bestida at mayuming umikot na parang hindi pasan ang mundo. Tila sumasabay siya sa ritmo ng uyayi.

Bumuhos ng nagsasayawang kulay ang puso ko ng nakita ko siyang ngumisi. Naramdaman ko ang daplis ng kaniyang hiningang puno ng halimuyak. Siya ang natatanging ilaw sa puso kong luhaan. Itinapi ko ang mga buhangin at dahan-dahang inilagay ang bayong na may bestida at sandalya. Ipinatong ko rito ang mirasol na kaniyang paborito. Ito ang mga bagay na kaniyang ihinagubilin bago niya iniwan ang mundong ating ginagalawan.

Limang taon na ng siya’y lumisan, ngunit aninag niya’y nakaukit pa rin. Sa pagpatak ng bukang liwayway, tuluyan ko nang ipinaubaya ang pag-iibigang kinitil ng panahon.

Siya ang aking bahaghari, ngunit kailangan ko pa bang lumuha ng lubos bago siya muling mahaplos?

Ydna Jane R. Hierro

I had never seen him cry after all that had happened. All that I had seen from him was his smiles and glistening eyes. There is no hint of tears or loneliness starting from that day. He acts as if nothing happened and goes back to our routine every morning, where he cooks my favorite egg sandwich topped with his love. Yet, minus the sweet voice of my mom.

I see him back to his post, sitting, thinking, glancing back at me, smiling.

“Oh no big girl, don’t give me that look,” he said and asked me to come next to him.

In front of the unfinished canvas, it seemed like a mess with spilled black paint back from when he heard the news and rushed over to never noticing how it ruined this almost masterpiece.

“So you’re going back to scratch now?” I asked him as we both looked at the canvas in front of us.

“You know, Rile, black and whites are not colors, but they are shades. They exist to augment colors for them to look better. They function as colors, yet they are more than that,” he explains, preparing the brushes from the cans and trays.

I stared at his work that I could not distinguish from art or emptiness. But then he starts to paint one stroke and another. Here and there, like how his hands slowly dance and flow cursively to create something that is out of words.

“Truth be told, my dear Rile, I miss your mom. So much. But this is life. There are always things that can be spilled over, paint our lives dark, and make us feel empty.” He gazed at me talking, my eyes were teary, and looked away. To see what he just painted.

He turns this blackened canvas into a picture of us three, slowly opening the curtain of black to see the colors of the rainbow hidden behind this blinding light.

I tried to compose myself, but as I looked at my father’s eyes, I felt the feelings he bottled up inside, and it made me burst into tears, cradling to his arms and giving him a tight hug.

“I know that dad, she was the bravest,” I said through his

eyes.

“And so are you, our dear Riley,” and I finally see his tears.

Jon Michael Fabroa

by Yllana Kaye J. Hortilano

I am not a paid actress, but I act in this theatre called life. I was a surge of fireworks that pleased spectators, but now, I behave like a dull flicker from a bulb. I used to wear the make-up and costume that best represents the role I play in a show. On stage, I have to be careful from bleeding and stick to my part. People circle like sharks, and their fangs might snap me out of the limelight. There was a sense of superiority when I presented my part perfectly. But it seems that I have been feeding a stranger’s body. I no longer know who I am with all these shapeshifting of characters. The widespread shutdown since 2020 only made everything worse - but not for long. It was similar to a panic when a train entered a tunnel. Any moment, a python could have groped me down, and I won’t make it out alive. I have lived my whole life acting my way out to survive. Hence, to stare at the pixels instead of meeting people face-to-face shocked my system. Chameleon-like folks such as me have found the branches where they could flex more of themselves online, but I got lost in a time warp. Those people executed the smoothest ballet moves, flaunted their art, and struck viewers’ heartstrings the same with a harp. While, I got trapped backstage, unable to move forward. Demotivation has gulped me down to complete oblivion. I can only see different shades of black since that little virus wiped the color out of my soul. The silence of the pandemic was the same as the silence minutes before I perform for the crowd. Despite the screeching sounds and frigid air, all I can hear was my blood thundering in this body. No one sees my struggle. I was thought to cry behind the doors, in dim lights, and creaking chairs. After all the smiles, I also break down. With a tough facade, Icover this soft heart with a cardigan. Stars are born in the quietest moments as viewed on Earth. I know that I am a star, filled with all these internal movements of banging and crying. In that calm, I found who I am. The greatest gift the darkness brought, is the power to re-become any color I truly wanted. It is not to be a slave of the blaring image others wanted to see but to create a version of myself that benefits my story. I am not a paid actress, for I am insanely human. I was fireworks, a dimming circuit, a surge from glass prisms, and all freckles of luminescence. Staying at home, I learned to play my light. Pagbabago, blared the news. Again. It’s the same old battlecry. As noble as the objective for change is, nothing change. This merit some introspection, I start with mine. I am becoming complacent, indolent, and apathetic. I like life to be easy with one swipe of my fingers. I like my food and merchandise delivered at my door step… at another’s expense. I pour over my gadget, just a little over 5 hours screen time…everyday, and complaint of migraine the day after. Who cares if work came scarce because of pandemic? On-line selling is the trend, I’m working on it 6 months ago, while ayudas keep pouring in. Pilipinas kong mahal, we are a people geographically scattered, with unique local cultural nuances and colorful diversity (as colorful as Joseph’s coat). One tough job on unification during election. I can’t even unite my thoughts. I slowly diminish my sense of patriotism over pop culture. I confused the title of our Pambansang Awit from Lupang Hinirang to Bayang Magiliw. I asked who Patria Adorada was… was she the sister of Crisostomo Ibarra? In a way, I am stamped with talangka mentality, handed down from one generation to another, think about this enduring heritage. My glory over yours. If it can’t be mine, then it can’t be yours either. Who’s talking about teamwork? I am popularly passionate, evident in my discourse that bounded on emotionalism rather than facts and truths. I don’t like to engage in healthy discourse on issues prevalent of the current situation. It will reveal may lack of knowledge, but penchant for arm wrestling to get my own way. I am focused on feelings. Discernment and good judgment flew over the cuckoo’s nest, wherever that nest is. These are a few of mine that need to be changed. How about yours? Your bucket list is ready to be crossed- out…now.

ni Venjellie Muyco Garcia

Ara

Perhaps, you’d never loved yourself enough. Have you opened your arms heedlessly at the world, thinking it will never be against you? Have you ever thought about how you desperately waited for “the rainbow” to come after you claim yourself to be the dreary rain? Remember how those pernicious words of demise haunt you every time, like strident winds pulling you back and forth—but you said it’s alright? Have you ever thrown away those disdainful leers from pretentious faces into a rivulet of tears, knowing they would just float back into the surface each time? Are you alive, or are you just pretending to be? You probably think suffering from the words of the cynics would keep you going, but it isn’t. It’s about becoming the white sunlight, gripping the edge of the sky and letting go, one at a time, slowly…and slowly. Take a deep breath—here comes the drop. A streak of light flashes; refracted an arc of seven colors formed in the remains of tiny raindrops. You’ll get used to the perpetual motion of a headlong freefall. Just go for it. Let those preconceived notions of the accursed society drift further away.

And to be loved not in spite of this, but because of it. Whether it was Snell or Newton who proposed the theory, the bending path of light crossing an optical element will eventually disperse its white light into a spectrum of beautiful colors, creating a tyndall effect—like you. Yes, some of us may be dull, some in neutral, others are bound in etiolation. But once in a while, you’ll eventually find yourself to be iridescent.

And nothing will ever compare to it. Remember. Be your own glass prism. Let your white light shine within you.

Dylan Jacob Suarez

Ma. Danica M. Campos

The pandemic lockdown unleashed a beast; being drunk and home causes him trouble, and his solution is to share the wealth. “How many times have I expressed my displeasure with that nonsense?” He would have yelled no matter what nonsense it was; and then, just before he attacked with his fists, he said, “I want to talk to you, honey.” There has never been pain like this, not since she was twelve when she swerved her bike to avoid a ditch and wiped out, bouncing her head off the asphalt, and opening up a cut that turned out to be precisely ten stitches long. What she remembered was a silvery jolt of pain, followed by starry dark surprise, but that pain had not been this agony. This dreadful agony. Her hand on her belly registers flesh that isn’t flesh at all; it’s as if she’s been unzipped and her living baby has been replaced with a hot rock. Oh, please, she begs. Please allow the baby to be okay. But now, as her breath finally begins to slow, she realizes that the baby is not okay, and he has made that clear. When you’re sixteen weeks pregnant, the baby is still more a part of you than it is of itself, and when you’re sitting in a corner with your hair in strings on your sweaty cheeks and it feels like you’ve swallowed a hot stone— Something is putting sinister, slick little kisses on the insides of her thighs. ‘No,’ she whispers, ‘no. Let it be sweat... or perhaps I peed myself. Yes, that’s most likely it. After he hit me for the fourth time, I peed myself and didn’t even realize it. That’s all. Except it is not sweating, and it’s not pee. It’s crimson. She’s sitting in the corner of the bedroom, gaping in front of a vase reduced to shards, and her womb is preparing to vomit up the baby it’s been carrying without complaint or problem. ‘No, God, please say no,’ she sobs. Her fingers make their way beneath her dress and up her thigh to the soaked, hot cotton of her underwear. Please, she begs. How many times has that word crossed her mind since he snatched and hurled the vase from her grasp? She has no idea, but here it is again. Please let the liquid on my fingers be clear. God, please. Please make it clear. But when she takes her hand out from under her dress, the tips of her fingers are bloody. A monstrous cramp rips through her like a hacksaw blade as she looks at them. She has to slam her teeth together to keep a scream from coming out. Boundless darkness engulfed her consciousness. After an unknown amount of time had passed, a light slowly flashed out from within the fathomless darkness. That speck of light slowly spread out as her vision gradually became clearer. In her hands is a smoking gun. Her perpetrator is lying in a pool of blood. There was a crime. But there is also a sense of freedom.

Kendra Felizimarie Magsico

célimène

célimène

Morgan Jade Abella

Maire O. Kan’t

célimène

Oscar Fajardo

Colai

célimène

Ara

Sharaine Ghail Taaca

Melissa

Kendra Felizimarie Magsico

Joshua Patrick Santillan

Tammy Matthew

From behind the thick folds of curtains, light filters through, chasing away Stygian umbrae and painting the room with brilliant hues.

Ara

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

JEFF TOLENTINO

MANAGING EDITOR

GLAIZA RAE AMABLE PAULINE MARIE ARADA

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

MRS. MA. CRISTY E. DAGUAY

MODERATOR

HECTOR COFREROS

PROGRAM MANAGEMENT DIRECTOR

EUGENIE BALURAN DIORIZZE PERANIA

STAFF WRITERS

HANNAH JHANYLLE PO

DIGITAL MEDIA DIRECTOR

SAMANTHA THEA ABIERA SYRELL DOANNE NIETES

STAFF WRITERS

PIA VICTORIA GRAZA

COMMUNITY AFFAIRS DIRECTOR

MERYL BABOL ATHENA CRISTY SOLEDAD

STAFF WRITERS

NICOLE ROSE FENITA

LITERARY DIRECTOR

SHERGEN VILLANUEVA OSCAR MARI FAJARDO

STAFF WRITERS

GEREMY GALLENERO

ART DIRECTOR

KENDRA FELIZIMARIE MAGSICO JOSHUA PATRICK SANTILLAN DIANNE NAYELLI MONTERO KRYSTAL JEAN SILAO CARL EVANS JOVER DYLAN JACOB SUAREZ

STAFF ARTISTS

ROTSEN AGREDA

PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR

JEDRO CAWALING ANGEL GRACE OCTOSO BENZ XEDRIC PUIG

DISCLAIMER: This book, unless specified otherwise in the individual works, is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

COLOPHON: This book was crafted using Addington and Typrighter typefaces. Page design and Enhancements were done using Adobe InDesign, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe Lightroom, and Adobe Photoshop.

The cover images were crafted by Joshua Patrick Santillan and Kendra Felizimarie Magsico.

Special thanks to Philip Robert Alaban for imparting his expertise and time in crafting this folio.

The overall layout and book design were done by the USA Publications.