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DAPITAN: CAPTURED © COPYRIGHT 2021 by The Flame. All rights reserved.

Dapitan is the official literary folio of the Flame, the official publication of the Faculty of Arts and Letters, University of Santo Tomas.

The copyright reverts to the Flame and the individual authors appearing in this folio. The works may not be published or reproduced in any form without the consent of the Flame or the authors. Copies of this issue may not be entered into any kind of business transaction.

Correspondence and contribution may be addressed to: Dapitan ℅ The Flame G/F St. Raymund de Peñafort Building, University of Santo Tomas, España, Manila, Philippines or to dapitan@abtheflame.net Book cover and layout by Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera and Ella Marie M. Mercado.

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FOREWORD The world has changed as we know it. What was once considered a simple touch can be considered life threatening. Riding the bus, conversing with strangers, and even leaving the safety of our homes has got us scared out of our wits. In a snap, the pandemic has changed a lot of things that we used to consider as normal, obscuring what used to be, and creating a brand new culture that will probably go down in history.

For months, the streets were empty, wallets filled with cobwebs, stomachs growling, doctors begging for help, and sadly a collapsing healthcare system. People were trapped in a never-ending cycle of uncertainty. Fatima Baduria’s “Sa Lunduyan ng Laban” describes how everyone is exhausted, especially the country’s healthcare workers: “Bigla akong nanghina. May bumabalot na sakit sa aking buong katawan, pinipiga ang aking lakas at inaangkin ito. Hindi makalaban ang aking mga kamay at paa, maging ang isipan.” While Ramon Christian Placido’s “Liwanag” recalls the struggles of Filipinos who are dependent on the local government unit’s ayuda: “Nagtutubig ang mata sa mga kapalarang hinaharap niya. Matapos niyang maibsan ang kanyang sikmura, pinili na lamang niyang kumawala sa kasalukuyang araw.”

On the other hand, those who were stuck at home were given the opportunity to look inside themselves without the disturbance of the outside life. However, there are times when memories of the past can haunt a person’s mind, a reminder of what life used to be: “Umaabot sa panaginip ko ang mga multo at anino ng Maynila.” Sophia Eugenio says in her piece titled “Mga Panaginip ng Gising”. She recalls how life was in Manila before the pandemic forced students to flee back to their hometowns. While Denise Tabor’s “After Class” reminisces her time with the people she once accompanied face-to-face, “If only I knew that it was the last time I could be in your company, I would not have asked to leave

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so soon. I would have been selfish and asked you to stay a little longer.”

As days of isolation prolong, some may experience the deprivation of socialization and the longing for human touch which Joel Benedict Cabo wrote in “Cloud Campus™ Depression” and “Mga T-shirt sa Aparador”

by Matthew T. Rivera. Furthermore, the youth are trapped inside their homes, unable to interact and learn in an academic setting.

But the idea of being captured doesn’t only pertain to being stuck in the four corners of our room, it can be interpreted in so many ways. For others, it’s being trapped and controlled by society and authority figures like parents as Abigail Adriatico wrote in her flash fiction, “Strings”’, Patrick Miguel’s “Called by the Siren”. At times, it’s being stuck in a flawed and broken system like Taffy Arella Bernales’s “Gunning for Truth” and Nikko Miguel M. Garcia’s “Mistaken Identity”: “Lagi silang may paalala.

Iisa pa rin ang eksaktong tagubilin. Ang dapat kilalanin. Kahit paulit-ulit nagpapalit ng ngalan at imahen.”

Now that times have changed, we were and are still being captured in numerous ways. The struggles everyone faced the past year were all different, nevertheless, they are all valid and have shaped something new in us.

For the better or for the worse, there is no denying that things will never be the same.

Maria Pamela S. Reyes July, 2021

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MARIA PAMELA S. REYES is a 4th year AB Journalism student at the University of Santo Tomas. Currently she is The Flame’s literary editor and works part-time for a local broadsheet company. Her life as a writer isn’t as colorful as others and she prefers it that way. She believes that those who are meant for a bigger part in life deserve the praise, she rather stay in the shadows and help others grow—like a teacher to their students. In short, she likes nurturing future writers to their potential. As online classes continue, you can find her juggling her academics, being an editor, a part-timer, while playing video games, reading novels, watching numerous Asian dramas, and being the eldest daughter in an Asian household.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

POETRY

Schrödinger’s link Screensaver

Reach Only to Find Everything

43 Cups and Counting

Jared Leto curls into the fetal position

(After the Requiem)

Parable of the Atypical Courageous

Blue Ghazal

CREATIVE NONFICTION

15 17 18 21 25 27 28

After Class

Mga Panaginip ng Gising

“Remembering March 9th

(and How It’s Going So Far)”

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50 62 64

PROSE

And OutGrew Sequin Scales Cloud Campus™ Depression Afloat

FLASH FICTION

The Great Flood Strings Zoom

The Flower’s Augury

A Maussoleum of Memories

Gunning for Truth

Called by the Siren

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74 76 80 82 86 88 92

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TULA

Mistaken Identity

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DAGLI

Mga T-shirt sa Aparador

KATHA

Sa Lunduyan ng Laban

“Pag-ibig, Pag-asa, at Isang Bulag” Liwanag Inakay

DULANG MAY ISANG YUGTO

103 108 113 119 123

PAGTINGIN

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CONTRIBUTOR PAGE

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ART AND PHOTO INDEX

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS PAGE

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DAPITAN STAFF

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Poetry

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Schrödinger’s link Sofia Bernice F. Navarro

Insisting “here—!!” only goes to waste when no one would bother to lift eyes, blink; no one either can speak and tell which among is the missing face.

The screen of silence rippling parroted pleas: “I’m sorry. Can I be seen? Heard? My device…”

Russian roulette of what’s sacrificed for the other: A grade, job, love? Nobody’s fault lipped your apologies.

Trapped in this sky-blue error, the looped dots, standstill locked in a room devoid of warmth.

Unmoving here, the virtual you, something else; Frozen, a digital pinnacle, cage and escape, caught.

A stranger made out of a portrait of pixels A mirror of those projected, maybe, of your own.

Lives lived and dreams made, summed up with cruel indifference. This complexity made fickle.

None one knows, everyone knows, “speaking, I’m present.” Suspension of life through cyber presence, a mystery, whether it’s true, false, or we’re all in-between flows.

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Screensaver Franz Austin De Mesa As I fill the line with text, shifting the keys with my finger nails I often wonder if you see me as a screen. When you read my words galvanized into tiny pixels on your Messenger, do you see the compressed zip file containing my emotions? Do you see the full-resolution image of my expressions?

Or when you listen to the ellipsis between your reply and mine, do you hear an mp3 of my breath in anticipation? Or my heartbeat accelerating, rhythming with the rap of my fingers as they type?

Laughter, the fine thread of hahaha that connects us, did you really chuckle or did you just smile? When you constructed the fragments and sentences of your anxiety, the password-encrypted memories you opened up to me, the screensaver between each word, what invisible emoticon were you showing beneath, I wonder?

And yet, despite the screen that separates us—the screen that processes every pixel of our being into mere numbers and commands reducing our voices to radio waves and our faces into light particles—the screen made us near to each other, enclosed in a space: a place of our own, in a world where distance is the norm, where stars too have disappeared behind a screen of smoke, and the sun shines on empty streets. Here, we are alone, away from all distractions, all worry—where we can be as intimate as the kilobytes permit between us.

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Reach Only to Find Everything Christian Ryan Ram Malli

There it is again, the closeness vacancy proposes: Nothing is near.

Loss isn’t emptiness, it is an entire room stocked with books, clothes strewn

haphazardly on the abundance of edges;

resting on a hook is the jacket he gave, slumped, without an upper body

breathing in its fibers. When I don’t speak the room carries his silence. I watch light fill

voids with its many suggestions, always

too much of what he isn’t. Nothing is not nothing but everything all at once.

I would wake up to find no words in my mouth, only the dryness that aged

with dreams. Never in one did I know

how to scream my body awake to find him resting beside me, his face,

a peace I chased away wars for.

Now, to wake is to find that no movement

will escape the bone until mother’s

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shrill sounds. Until then, instinct is a body that doesn’t recognize itself. I taste

the endings of my dreams, a foul wind whistling out of my lips. I am harassed

by images, I can barely take the panorama

of everything he will never be, which is this room, the next moment, and the moment after,

the next open mouth I will discover with closed, faithful eyes. At 4 AM, I would

turn my lamp off after a day of yanking

myself out of stillness. Reaching out, my arms wriggle and they blend with Nothing.

Tomorrow will burn with a thousand images. I will mistake each sound for arrivals,

and hours will cup my limping angle

until I slip into dreamful sorrow, the bed narrating my tiny collapses with each squeak.

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43 Cups and Counting Hannah S. Garcia

Supermarket taho is fake taho.

In a 2-ply plastic cup it waits at the far end of the grocery with rows of French milk and New Zealander butter.

Supermarket taho is not taho because it’s served cold.

And when you open the lid, you’ll find a square plastic of liquefied sugar sans sago, capitalist’s arnibal.

Real taho finds you every morning, Disturbing your beauty sleep Distributed by calloused hands in a cheap plastic cup, so thin that the curdled soy scorches your palm through it.

Hell is when Mamang Taho runs out of plastic straws for you. Because you can’t stir your taho and you’ll have to slurp the arnibal first. Then drink more ‘til you get to the layer of soy and sago. By then, you’ve run out of the sweet syrup but that’s just part of the authentic taho experience.

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Supermarket taho is a lie.

Yet I worship the faux edible relic.

I’ve kept all the cups Each one prompts me to think of you and the way you tolerate(d) counterfeit taho in fear of hepatitis.

The way you fussed, those two lines marking the space between your brows as you watch me sip the bacteria, good and bad, from my taho cup in Asturias.

And the way I cried when you left so soon.

Because you left too soon.

And I couldn’t chase you.

I couldn’t run the way I ran after every taho man who walked too fast.

My feet are no match for a man strapped to his bed, shrouded in plastic.

Real taho finds me every morning on sunny days at 7 AM. But for now, I don’t want to be found.

So I hide under an extra layer of blanket Forty-three cups of supermarket taho stacked beside my bed, they’re little lies keeping me warm and chilly at the same time.

I don’t think I’ll ever eat street taho again.

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Jared Leto curls into the fetal position (After Requiem for a Dream) Juan Carlos Felipe Montenegro When the last glimmer of Dream has wilted away And every piece of bliss Has been cast out, Harry is left With these jarring sequence of highs— An Ostinato of sounds Overlapping one another Can you hear me? Can you see me? White mountains thrashing on A glass field and split into Sections, pupils dilating— a gasp, the intensity of hyperfocus Trying to send jangled nerves Back into sensation, until the arm Hisses with gangrene and refuses To grant asylum, the moans Of absence and wanting, becoming Almost music– —Okay for work.

Harry thinks of his mother: Lonely Sara Goldfarb watching The TV that promised her Appearance one day.

Be! Excited! Be be! Excited!

Her teeth grinding with Restless anticipation, Her fingers grazing over an untouched box of chocolates She declined. Only a few more Days and she’s somebody. Only A few more before she can fit Back into the red dress she wore At her son’s graduation.

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He’ll have to miss that, too.

A steady flame Boils oases into A thousand oblivions, inhaling Divinity from its remaining vapors. Harry has ensnared himself into A prison without bars, A pit Where escape is within almost

At arm’s reach, stuck with A TV with the same show, and A mailbox expecting for The release letter but never Arrives.

Harry whimpers, calls for Marion Wearing his mother’s dress at The end of the pier before He slips into the abyss Of soundless nothings.

He wakes up, Answered by the cold Silence lingering where His arm used to plead For respite.

He curls into a crescent, His requiem reaches Its coda.

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Parable of the Atypical Courageous Mary Anjanette Santos

Under the blankets but not asleep, perpetually in the now For we crawl beneath our fears using metaphors But even during dusk we shall not run away This life has gifted us with daggers and spears under our tongues Our screams founded in blood So even if we float in fickleness, we can keep our senses armed Even in the leaving, we make it beautiful In the living with the haunting, we’d be sacred Anointed by the probable great.

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Blue Ghazal Normandale Angelo T.Tioco

The world breathes as the cities lock down and the roads are left empty.

Meanwhile, in the Philippines, the famous Manila Bay turns blue.

In a lightning strike, the sparkling color floods the busy internet.

The Earth is healing, many have claimed, mesmerized by the sudden blue.

Scientists say otherwise: algae drunk with the El Niño sun rays mingled with dumped chlorine, excreted this pool of unforeseen blue.

It’s April. Second month of lockdown. Spring on the other side of the world.

Sprouting flowers are offered to Covid-19 patients whose lips have gone blue.

Each minute outside is a land mine. Each touch a sludge to be washed off.

So bodies must bear the distance of stars that burn powder blue.

Friends and relatives recede into choppy calls or pixelated screens.

What can we do for specks of light to shine beyond all this pouring blue?

It must be sweet to be a Kingfisher - innocent, carefree, a tiny body blessed to funnel all the solace out of the boundless sky’s blue.

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creative nonfiction

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After Class Denisse Tabor

I exited the building after the last class of the day.

It was completely dark but there were still a lot of students outside.

Dancers from different organizations were training at the Quadricentennial Park, their contemporaneous music enough to cause a headache. A group of friends were debating where to eat right by the entrance while another group was exchanging hugs and goodbyes on the sidewalk, much to the annoyance of passersby scrambling to get home.

Taking out my phone from my pocket, I stood beside the letter standees to read a text message.

A smile immediately found its way across my lips after reading it. I lifted my head up and glanced upon the benches and gazebos, spotting your face that I have been yearning to see all day. You were staring listlessly at the soles of your shoes as you rubbed them against each other, and I cannot help but

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I called out your name. You scanned the crowd as if you did not recognize whose voice it was. Turning your gaze across the street, your eyes finally met mine.

Your face always brightened up at the sight of me, but today was a bit different. There was a speck of indifference in it. Just another one of those intrusive thoughts, I suppose. It was a little past seven; you were probably just exhausted because of today’s demands.

I made my way towards you with my lips curled upwards once more.

When I came closer, your familiar scent greeted me before your words could.

“The usual?” You asked as you took the thick books I was carrying.

“The usual.” I replied with a reassuring smile.

We sauntered down the walkway, passing by the dancers and their earsplitting music. The lampposts cast a warm glow on your skin each time we walk under them, and in those fleeting moments, I would turn my head towards you and steal a glance or two. The atmosphere was far from saturnine and yet somehow, you looked as if something was troubling you.

Away from the bustling crowd, we ate the food you bought from our favorite chicken place. The grass was cool and wet so you spread your jacket for me to sit on. If it were not for the darkness of the night, you would have probably noticed the faint red on my cheeks after that gesture.

I told you stories about my blockmates, the names of whom you have already memorized by now. I figured you were not really in the mood for you did not respond with enthusiasm like you always do. You would ask what happened next and even let out an occasional laugh, but the tension you exude betrays your efforts to conceal whatever it was that was keeping you guarded.

I would have asked, but I did not think it was something I would want to hear.

Maybe a little space might do it for you, but you were too considerate of my feelings to tell me that yourself. Under the pretense of hectic schedules and approaching deadlines, I asked you if we could go home a little earlier.

The walk to my dorm was silent, as if the black velvet sky descended to enshroud only us from the youngness of the night. The lampposts were a

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little dimmer; the air, a little colder.

I bid you goodnight when we reached the entrance, but you did not let go of my hand that was wrapped in yours. Instead, you came closer and closer until we were inches apart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as you rested your head on mine.

That night, all the sadness hung in the air for me to breathe in. I have always known that it would always be you who would end things, for I loved you too much to be capable of breaking your heart the way you easily broke mine.

It has been a year since then, and I have not heard from you the whole while except for our little exchange of holiday greetings.

If only I knew that it was the last time I could be in your company, I would not have asked to leave so soon. I would have been selfish and asked you to stay a little longer. A little extension would not matter anyway; it would have always led to the same ending for ours seemed to be a fate unfavored by the stars.

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Mga Panaginip ng Gising Sophia Eugenio

Umaabot sa panaginip ko ang mga multo at anino ng Maynila. May mga gabi na nararamdaman ko ang simoy ng pinaghalong usok-kotse at bagong haing-ulam na hangin na bumabalot sa balat kong may bakas pa ng lamig ng de-aircon na kwarto sa unibersidad. May mga gabi na nauulinigan ko ang mga ugong ng walang katapusang parada ng mga sasakyan, ang magdamagang kwentuhan ng mga tricycle driver na naghihintay ng pasahero sa ibaba ng overpass sa España, at pati na rin ang tunog ng kampana ng simbahan sa may Legarda kung saan ako bumababa para lakarin ang natitirang metrong layo pauwi sa inuupahan kong dorm sa Sampaloc. May mga gabi na nagigising ako sa Timog, sa Makati, sa Taguig, sa Cubao, at sa Katipunan, at lilipas ang oras na kapiling ko ang mga estranghero sa gitna ng sayawan, o hindi

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36 kaya ay nasa punuan akong bus sa Skyway at bumabaon sa balakang ko ang mabigat na bagahe ng katabi ko. May mga gabi naman na payapa lamang akong nakadungaw mag-isa sa bintana ng ikalabinlimang palapag ng Forbes Hall, nagpapahele sa mga ilaw ng mga nagtataasang gusali.

Sa umaga, dilat kong nakikita ang pira-piraso ng buhay ko sa Maynila na tinatangay na lamang ngayon ng hangin sa paglipas ng panahon. Malinaw pa rin sa akin kung papaano binago ng panandaliang paninirahan sa siyudad ang pananaw ko sa mundo, lalo na sa konsepto ng pagbuo ng panibagong tahanan sa dating lubos kong kinatatakutan na lugar. Maraming beses kong tinangka na umuwi sa Laguna dahil hindi ko kayang tagalan ang yakap ng Maynila.

Malamig ang mga bisig ng estrangherong ito at mahigpit kung kumapit, tumatagos ang bigat at lungkot na dala niya sa kaibuturan ng mga buto kong gusto lamang ay mamahinga. Sa mga piling araw at gabi na nagpadala ako sa aruga ng Maynila, binuksan ko ang puso ko para mas makilala ang misteryosong siyudad na ito, ang mga bulong at daing niya sa kawalan at ang kislap ng mga mata niyang laging may tinatagong pamamaalam. Nag-umpisa ako sa paglalakad.

May kalayuan ang dorm at unibersidad ko. Maaari itong lakarin, ngunit dahil mataas ang takong ng sapatos kong pamasok ay pinipili ko na lamang na sumakay ng jeep o hindi kaya ay tricycle para hindi ito mapudpod kaagad at hindi rin ako mangalay. Nag-umpisa akong masanay sa paglalakad pauwi mula nang napapadalas na akong naaabutan ng mahabang pila sa tricycle at jeep. Maliwanag ang dinadaanan ko at tahimik, kaya ligtas ang paglalakad ko kahit na sabihing gabi na iyon at nasa kalakhang Maynila pa ako nanunuluyan.

Bukod sa makunat na tunog ng takong ko sa aspalto, ang ibang kasabayan nito ay ang mga ilang napapadaan na punuang sasakyan lamang at mga Manilenyo na nagchichismisan sa labas ng kani-kanilang mga tahanan. Sa mga oras na iyon, pakiramdam ko na rin ay isa na akong Manilenyo, kahit na probinsyanang probinsyana pa rin ang pang-intindi ko sa kultura ng mga nasa Sampaloc. Kapag wala akong kailangang habulin na deadline, binabagalan ko ang paglalakad ko at hinahayaan ko lamang na samahan ako ng gabi.

Napakaraming hapon na ang dumadaan na hinihiling ko na nasa Maynila ulit ako, ngunit palagi at palagi, nasa Laguna pa rin ako. Ilang bersyon na rin ng dapithapon sa magkakaibang kulay ng kahel, dilaw, at rosas ang hindi ko nasaksihan mula sa bintana ng ikalabinlimang palapag ng dorm ko, ang ilang mga sandali na hindi ko pinapalagpas sa tuwing wala akong pasok at nakayuko lamang ako maghapon sa mesa ko, nalulunod sa dami ng papel at mga kailangang habulin na deadline. Tatayo ako mula sa nakakangalay at nakakakuba kong pagkakaupo, mag-iinat inat habang naglalakad palapit sa

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Madalas akong bumabalik ng Maynila tuwing Lunes ng umaga para makapag-umpisa ng mga gawaing hindi ko dinala pauwi ng Laguna, kapalit ng pagkakaroon ng mas maraming oras kasama ang pamilya ko. Kahit napamahal na ako sa buhay ko sa Maynila, may mga gabi pa rin na hindi ko kinakaya ang dalang lungkot nito, lalo na kapag mag-isa ako magdamag dahil mas maagang nagsiuwian sa kani-kanilang mga probinsya ang mga ka-dorm ko. Kapag hindi ko nadadaan sa tulog ang bigat ng mga bisig ng siyudad, magdedesisyon ako na bumiyahe kahit gabi na, para lamang makauwi sa Laguna at hindi mapag-isa sa pagtulog. Hindi na bago sa akin ang pagbiyahe, at ang biyahe pauwi ng Laguna kapag gabi ay nakakakalma para sa akin na palaging may tinutunton ang tingin. Malungkot nga naman talaga ang Maynila kapag gabi, ngunit hindi ko sinabing hindi ito magandang tignan kahit may kirot sa dibdib itong dala.

Sa Maynila ako natutong mabuhay sa gabi. May mga pagkakataon na bigla akong aalis kahit mag-a-alas dose na ng gabi para makipagkita sa ilang mga kaibigan sa malayo-layong parte pa ng siyudad, lulan ng inarkila kong Angkas. Ni minsan ay hindi ko pinatulan ang Grab, dahil bilang isang probinsyanang kuripot, hindi hamak na mas pabor sa akin palagi ang mas murang mapagpipilian, at dahil na rin mas masaya talaga ang sumakay sa Angkas kahit pa na may posibilidad na sumemplang ako sa isang maling liko o preno ng driver. Sa likod ng masyadong mabigat at masyadong malaking helmet, nagniningning ang mga mata kong abala sa pasikot-sikot sa paligid habang dinidiskartehan ng driver ang traffic sa Maynila. Nang minsang umabot kami sa EDSA dahil ang pupuntahan ko noon ay Taguig, tuwang tuwa ako sa dami ng ilaw sa paligid na hatid sa akin ng mga nagtataasang gusali at billboard. Kapag umaga naman at babalik na ako sa dorm, naeenganyo pa rin ako sa mga nakikita ko sa paligid dahil may kabagalan din minsan gumising ang kalakhang Maynila, lalo na kapag Sabado. Mas mainit ang sikat ng araw sa siyudad, ngunit mas malamig ang balot ng gabi. Ngunit kahit ano pa man ang oras, probinsyanang probinsyana pa rin lagi ang dating ng mga reaksyon ko sa Maynila kahit na madalas naman akong nakakarating sa kung saan saan.

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Sa Maynila ko unang natutunang maglaba ng damit. Tuwing Lunes at Miyerkules naman na wala akong pasok, pinagsasabay ko ang paglalaba sa pagka-cram ng mga papeles ko. Maliit lamang ang unit naming tatlo ng kadorm ko, kaya naglalaba kami sa dalawang maliit na palanggana sa banyo.

Dito na rin namin pinapatuyo ang mga damit, saka lamang namin ilalabas kapag may gagamit na ng banyo para maligo. Kapag hindi naman ako inabot ng maghapon sa unibersidad, sinasampay ko na lamang ang sinuot kong uniporme para mahanginan at magamit pa kinabukasan. Maaaring para makatipid ako sa sabon, tubig, at hanger, ngunit maaari rin naman na masyado na akong pagod para magbabad pa ng uniporme pagkagaling sa klase. May ilang gabi rin na ang una kong ginagawa pagkauwi ng unit ay ang magbabad ng labahin, dahil ilang araw ko na itong nakakaligtaang gawin at wala na akong masusuot kinabukasan. Paghihiwa-hiwalayin ko ang mga puti sa de-kolor, ang mga pang-itaas sa pang-ibaba, at saka ko sila ibababad kada pangkat ng sampu hanggang labinlimang minuto. Hindi rin nagtagal ay napamahal ako sa paglalaba sa dorm dahil madalas ko itong gawing pampatanggal ng stress tuwing hell week ko sa unibersidad. Kahit ang dami kong nakapilang gawain sa mesa ko ay tatayo at tatayo pa rin ako para maglaba. Iba namang klase ng saya ang dala ng pagtutupi at pag-aayos ng mga bagong laba kong damit mga isa hanggang dalawang araw matapos kong maglaba.

Nabuhay ako sa mga silog meals ng mga katapat na karinderya ng Forbes Hall. Dahil malapit kami sa NU, maraming kainan sa paligid at pawang mga estudyante rin tulad ko na naghahahanap ng mura ngunit nakakabusog at masarap na pagkain ang kasabay ko mag-ikot minsan para kumain ng hapunan. Kapag madaling araw na at tutok pa rin ako sa mga papeles ko, sa cup noodles at eggnog ako natutong kumapit para tuloy-tuloy ang paggawa ko kahit na may nginunguya. Nasisiyahan din ako sa malapit na 7-11 na nilalakad ko paminsan minsan para bumili ng mga makukutkot, o ng extra cup noodles sa umaga kapag hangover ang nagkataon na gumising sa akin.

Tuwing walang pasok, ang palagi kong binibiling pang-almusal o tanghalian

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(depende sa oras na sipagin akong bumaba ng unit) ay spamsilog. Sa halagang 60 pesos, may dalawang malaking hiwa na ako ng legit na Spam, isang tasa ng kanin, at malasadong itlog. Iuuwi ko ito sa unit at sasabayan ko ng timpla ng mainit na gatas, at doon ay busog na ako. Ngunit kahit anong sarap man ng masaktuhan kong ulam sa mga karinderya sa Maynila, hinahanap ko pa rin ang lutong bahay sa amin, lalo na at wala pa ring nakakatalo sa mataas kong pamantayan sa Adobong Manok. Kaya napag-isipan ko na magbaon ng paborito kong ulam tuwing Lunes ng umaga sa pagbalik ko sa Maynila para maibsan ang bigat sa pakiramdam ng unang araw ng linggo ng pagiging layo ko muli sa pamilya ko.

Kapag Disyembre na, walang duda na mas lumalamig ang simoy ng hangin, mas tumitingkad ang mga ilaw sa gabi, at mas napupuno ng buhay ang bawat sulok ng Maynila. Dumarami na ang mga batang nagpapagabi lalo sa kalsada, bitbit ang mga tambol, karakas, lata, at bote na kasabay nilang magpakitang gilas kapalit ng ilang mga barya, at mas dumarami na rin ang mga nagbebenta ng streetfood sa mga kanto ng G. Tuazon kaya umuuwi na ako ng amoy barbecue ang buong uniporme ko kahit na hindi naman ako kumakain ng ganoon. Mas may dalang kilig ang mga pagbiyahe ko sa gabi dala ng mga bagong nakikitang ilaw ng mga mata ko, lalo na sa paligid ng Manila City Hall at sa harap ng Post Office, pati na rin sa kahabaan ng Taft at U-Belt area. Kahit hindi ko na nasusundan ang dumadaang mga araw o petsa dahil patapos na rin ang semestre at dumodoble ang gawain ko sa loob ng unit, unti-unti ko na ring mapapansin ang mga palamuti sa loob at labas ng dorm ko, at saka ko mararamdaman ang tila isang maliit na kurot sa dibdib ko: Pasko na, makakauwi na ako.

Marso na ngayon, taong 2021. Nasa Laguna ako, kapiling ang pamilya ko – malayo sa ingay, liwanag, at usok ng Maynila, ngunit dilat na akong naaabot ng mga multo at anino nito.

Marso na. Makakauwi pa kaya ako?

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Remembering March 9th (and How It’s Going So Far) Djulienne Flor Foster

A year has passed since the country has been put into lockdown. Who knew we’d last this long, especially with all that’s going on in our lives and the government’s plan of action (or lack thereof). Our lives are completely different now compared to then but our minds are still stuck on that day in March. I remember the last day of classes clearly. Surely, it was a Monday. I had no classes but I had to go to campus to render my services as a scholar. I was on duty at the library for eight hours, from 8 am to 4 pm. The day started off as it usually did. I went on my usual two-hour commute on the crowded MRT and LRT, arriving at Tayuman, then making my way to Dapitan.

The morning was quite tame. The sunlight bathed Miguel de Benavides Library in its warm glow. I quickly ran to the sixth floor (afraid that I might be late), feeling the rush of cold air against my skin as I entered the section.

As I timed in at our daily time report, the sunlight has seeped through the windows, warming my feet. With my co-scholar, we did our usual routine.

We opened up all the computers and readied them for the use of our library patrons. We sorted newspapers, and replaced old issues at the General Reference section with new ones to be displayed. While he went down to Gen Ref with the day’s newspapers, I grabbed the piles of small paper on my librarian’s desk; they were Saturday’s records of borrowed and photocopied journals and other serials. I am tasked with doing every day’s statistics.

Nobody else ever does it since the last person who was assigned to it had made some errors and probably got a scolding from our librarian.

There was nothing much to put down for statistics. Since it was a Saturday, only a few ever came by to the sixth floor. Honestly, not many people come by our section except for some researchers, a few professors, and a fair

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42 amount of students from Accountancy and Civil Law. It wasn’t as busy as the Filipiniana or Humanities section, but the work is a little more chill (except perhaps for days when hoards of people would come by to the library to borrow multiple newspapers).

After our morning tasks, we proceeded to do other miscellaneous jobs, like arranging journals, cleaning shelves, or repairing ripped and tattered magazines. Afternoon slowly rolled by on that uneventful morning. My coscholar had to leave since he was only assigned for four hours. I was left alone for the remainder of my duty. As the day went on, I heard news from other scholars that Isko Moreno, the city mayor of Manila, was planning to suspend classes. I saw it as an opportunity to get home early, since I rarely go home with the sun still out. Yet with no official announcement, I shrugged it off and proceeded to do my tasks for the day. Once the suspension was announced, I turned off the air conditioning and lights, making sure that not one missed (or else faced the wrath of my librarian). I looked back, checking if I forgot anything. The whole section was dim now, only the light from the hallway was keeping it from being completely dark. My duty has officially ended, not knowing that that was the last time I would be seeing the section I worked in for two years. With the library closing in a few minutes, I made my way out of there.

Weirded out that the sun is still in the sky, I didn’t immediately go home. I even went to a small cafe at P. Noval to drink iced coffee before commuting home. Who knew that that was the last time I’d ever set foot on campus?

What seemed like only a day of suspension stretched into weeks, until those weeks have been stretched into months. Everyone was forced to stay at home. Students studied online and some adults worked at home. Some lost their jobs in the process.

Meanwhile, the once bustling campus was now devoid of its students.

All the streets that surround UST were not as lively as before. Dorms and condominiums were slowly emptied out as people went back home to their families. No Thomasian in sight. Quarantine has turned it into a ghost town.

Everything has surely changed.

The first few weeks of quarantine was okay (if one could even call it that).

Having no classes was quite nice at first, considering I was overworked with attending class and going to work about six times a week. It was great to have a rest from all that but every day was bombarded with news of the virus and

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44 the rising number of cases. Each day brought out fear and constant worry.

Were we ever going to go back to our normal lives? I highly doubted that.

With the way things were, it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. But of course, life must go on either way, and so did education. And so the second half of our second year of college was spent online. As much as we students resented it, we had no choice but to get on with it. If online classes were difficult for us in universities and private schools, how much more for public schools who had never experienced studying online?

My mother, who was a public school teacher, and her colleagues had no idea how to proceed with it all. Even she was stressed by it, having to pass numerous reports and documents, and to deal with platforms she had never seen before (and of course, I was required to help her, being the only techie person). I was just as busy at home, with helping my mother with her work and with studying my lessons.

Difficult as it may be, we survived (barely), yet we were in for another semester of online learning. Thankfully, I was still a scholar; my tuition fee was paid off, yet with no work, I had no allowance. It was fine with me. It was better than completely losing the scholarship and having to pay for it.

But even so, every semester brought out nervousness in us, worrying if we’d still be renewed for the next term. I remember talking in the group chat with fellow scholars who work (and used to work) in the same section as I did.

“Paano scholarship natin niyan?” one of us would ask. “Mare-renew pa kaya tayo?”

Since the library was closed, we scholars who worked in the library became unassigned for the time being, unless the Office of Student Affairs would need us to render our services for other departments. Only a few continued to have duty during the pandemic since only a few offices in the university were open. The lack of work made us anxious and constantly worried that our scholarships wouldn’t be guaranteed, even if the university has assured us that we’ll be keeping our scholarships.

As a third year college student, we had to deal with more major subjects.

Good thing I didn’t have duty for this semester because our professors definitely gave a lot of activities. I’m afraid I won’t be able to balance both studies and work with how the world is right now. It is so difficult to study like this. I am always so used to going to school everyday; rendering my services at the library in the morning, studying in the afternoon, and heading

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45 home by night. My whole routine has been changed because of quarantine.

Honestly, I much prefer being at school because I can learn efficiently and better manage my time. I used to be aware of the concept of time, yet now I just wake up to see that the sun has already risen and sleep when the sun is about to rise. I can’t keep track of anything now.

My body too is not used to how I live my life now in quarantine. With me constantly eating at every other hour, sleeping for most of the time, and the lack of exercise, my stomach slowly became very bloated. Whether I eat or not, my stomach bulges out and is quite obvious from the clothes that I wear. Some of my clothes actually don’t fit me anymore, now that I have a bulging stomach and big arms and thighs. My father constantly teases me about it, saying I look pregnant, though my mother tells me that he’s just joking around and is actually happy to see me looking like that since I looked thinner when I still had classes.

I am actually insecure about how I look now. My jogging pants from junior high school, which were once loose, now perfectly fitted my thighs.

Each of my shirts accentuated my arms and stomach. My shorts became so difficult to get in and out of, that my mother had bought me new ones.

With my sudden weight increase (not exactly surprising, considering I kept eating as much as I wanted during quarantine), my face started to be filled with pimples and my period became irregular. At that point, I was thinking I was unhealthier at home than I was when I still went to school (at least, back then, I got my daily exercise from running from Lacson to the library in an attempt to not be late for work for the nth time in a row).

I very much wish that life could go back the way it was. I didn’t like the way things were. I suppose I wanted a sense of normalcy. At first, I could never seem to find things that made me feel that things were okay (the world is actually not okay). After all, the pandemic was a change that I (or any of us) was not ready to handle. It was like the universe had dealt me The Tower in reverse. One day, I had my life in order. The next thing I knew was everything went into a downward spiral. Since then, I no longer had a routine to follow. It’s as if I was an adventurer wandering aimlessly in a foreign place with no idea of what to do or where to go (there were only a few places one can go at these trying times). No more did I commute to campus, come to school early for work in the library, study in the afternoon, or travel home at night. I sincerely missed pre-pandemic life and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

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With each waking moment till I drift off to sleep, all I see now are the white walls and ceilings of my bedroom. I sat almost everyday for most of the time in front of my desk, my laptop in front of me, multiple tabs and applications open as I faced calendars and weekly planners filled with tasks and looming deadlines. This was my life now. My perpetual tiredness seemed to grow greater by the day. It was a tiredness that never seemed to be cured no matter how much coffee I drank or how many naps I took. With a baseless routine and existential dread, I feel like I was going insane.

You could say I got used to the chaos of it all in the end, but I sought out comfort in the little things that took my mind off everything. I watched the shows I always wanted to watch but never got to. I played video games (sometimes with my blockmates when we were all stressed out with the amount of work). I watched movies and shows with my mom (which we never usually did since we were all busy before). I played with my brother (whom I never spend much time with since I was occupied with library duty and studies).

It’s the little things that get me going. Refusing to succumb to this insanity, I do things that make life something to look forward to, no matter how little they may seem to others, like choosing what earrings to wear for the day, cooking up a meal I’m badly craving for, or curating playlists for myself. But I still yearn for the day that we will meet again and set foot on campus once more.

But for now, we stay in the safety of our own homes, doubting whether or not the government can get their act together.

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Prose

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And OutGrew Sequin Scales Muriel Gwyn Fernandez

Rayon white ruffles grate against my skin. One more costume until my train of thought crashes in this glass coffin. The doorknob shakes behind me and opens—this place can’t even buy a decent lock.

“I. Can’t. Believe. This,” Ate Nars squeaks through her purple lips and snaps a photo. “You’re actually wearing the clown suit!”

“You said this was Victorian-inspired,” I unbutton the top and toss it to the floor.

“Hey, the tag clearly states it came from a party store,” she snickers, tapping away in her phone—probably sending it to a group chat I’m not a part of. “I can just leave if you don’t want my help with the baby shower, Nora—“ “Nem… it’s Nem,” heat crackles my neck. “I’ll call if I need a different size, and no ruffles this time. I don’t need people looking at my chest again.”

She pinches my cheek with her manicured nails and walks away, the clickclack of her stilettos taunting me. I read just the two sports bras on my chest.

Thank goodness it’s only B-cups.

The door clicks behind me, the lights flickering.

Only she would bring me to an offbeat thrift store where the mirrors reflected an infinite corridor of sweaty handprints. Every moment the lights

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51 flickered my reflection shivered in disgust. Should’ve gone on my own, maybe then she’d shut up until I went home to watch her roll her eyes and click her tongue, then claim she was chewing bubble gum.

Next in this circus act, I pull on a long green sequin dress, so long that it drags across the floor. Not because of its excess length, but because I am too short for this nonsense.

“Hey, Ate! The dress is too long!” I shout over the echo of American Top 40. Any higher and she’ll start calling me Nora again. My lungs strain at the name.

A few moments pass and I hear a knock. Opening the door slightly, she slides a pair of ruby encrusted heels that sparkle along her silver nails.

“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the heavy pair as I hear her walk away.

One shoe on and no chair in sight, I try a death-defying balancing act when strapping on the other heel. Look on, look high, and look to the sky for the “Emerald Echidna”! All I’m missing is a feather boa, a unicycle and my dignity—the shoe drops from my hand.

Do I regret being anti-feminine as a child? Yes, early acceptance would make me feel less like a liar playing a game of dress up, but who was going to tell a toddler that growing up would ruin their body. I place my foot over my left knee. Do I still want to wear this godforsaken snake skin? Though I am fond of feminine costumes, it’s impossible to feel human when people start thinking I’ve “turned back”, as if I was a werewolf whose hair shrinks to a pixie cut under the full moon. I glare at my critic. The mirror glares back. I look away; out of sight, out of my mind. Should really stop doing that.

Balancing on one foot, I lean back against the center mirror—slamming to the ground and hitting my head against the door. Linoleum tiles scratch a shiver down the plunging back of the dress. Neck aching, I shake away the thought of a concussion as the room flashes in my eyes, probably spun around too hard.

Both heels on, I climb my hands up the teal wooden door, ankles shaking from this newfound height. Before me stood a creature, green scales slithering up their body with bloodied knives at their feet—were my hips always that big? Still, I looked good. I looked like…

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53 “Nars! Are you trying your clothes out on me again? I’m not your doll,” I say aloud to the sequined audience. She must have her head buried deep in the sale section. At least they reduced the volume before another pop song countdown.

My hands smelled like rust, probably from the shoes she picked. I rub them against the dress, plastic scratching my cold numb hands while I stare at myself. The dress hugged every lump of my body, every reluctant curve nobody warned me about. Nars has good taste in herself; that stopped being helpful when I stopped looking like her. A pity, my parents would say, could’ve been the next Olsons. If it looks good on her, they’ll be happy to see me wear it.

The dress would be a hassle to alter, nor did it match the person who walked in wearing a mustard sweater, purple corduroy slacks and black trainers. This alter-ego would bully me—I’m not sure why she would, but no one would stop her. My parents would have their daughter back if it meant I disappeared. I should really stop thinking about that. Upon closer inspection, the binder seemed to fail at—wait, I swear there was more of me in there. The green hue of the doorway still reflected in the glass, albeit darker than it used to be. The side mirrors still looked the same I suppose, estranged reflections who often caught me brushing my teeth or popping a zit. Anyways, there are too many reflections to count and remember. My head still aches.

“Ate! Got anything shorter? Hemline, not neckline!”

No response.

I open the door. Three more mirrors circled the room. My clothes sat in the right hand corner, folded neatly with my shoes on top, and the clown suit crumpled up on the left.

“Very funny, Ate,” I look back, the same clothes positioned exactly where they are. “I’ve watched those fake room videos. I’m not falling for that.”

Two pairs of everything—wish they were something else, but I’m more so impressed by her dedication to production design. She did trick me into a clown suit. I enter the room and look at my clothes. The tags faded alongside my name in permanent marker.

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54 The door clicks behind me, the lights flickering again.

She must really be enjoying this.

I try to open the door. The handle stops at a turn. The little locking tab at the center taunts me with its decoration. If that’s the case, then I must have actually fallen through an empty hole in the wall and entered the fake room. Makes you wonder how she was able to afford all this—then again she knows all sorts of people in the theater to pull this off, a very eventful Tuesday afternoon I suppose. The center mirror still looked the same.

Both hands forward I press a sweaty handprint onto the clean glass—no resistance. Left-side mirror had the same result. I move on to the right and my hand falls through, no resistance but my reflection still stands—I pull my arm back, holding my wrist with cold fingers, warmth having brushed against it. The reflection seemed to back away. No, I backed away too, quick enough I didn’t register it in shock. I measure the distance between myself and a solid mirror: one arm’s length. Between me and the right mirror, the reflection was farther back, far enough for me to walk through to close the distance between us. The green layer was closer now.

Placing one heel through the mirror, a shadow flickers in my periphery.

I whip my head around and catch my reflection which shivered in the flickering lights; my body shivered as well. It stares back at me, blinking as I do with our dark brown—no… black eyes. They would almost look like holes if my skin were white. Each lash fell as mines did in time. It’s a reflection, not much to expect or differ.

Walking through the mirror, a layer of warmth washes over me, a breeze tickling my neck. Over this field, the room felt colder than the last. And so I turn back, to collect whatever residual heat I can muster. The nowleft mirror stood solid, a sweaty handprint floating in the dimly lit space between us. With the field of warmth turning into a mirror, there ought to be some machine above me that automatically closes the mirror door, like those electric doors in supermarkets. There was no click or sliding sound, but the music was fainter now. Since there’s no point of return, I collected my thoughts instead.

One, I fell through the center mirror.

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55 Two, the door—or mirror—closes on its own once I pass.

Three… There’s less of me now? I step forward and inspect the creature before me. Though I did not count there seems to be less of me, finite reflections somehow reducing as I touch them, like they ran from me as I run through them when I otherwise serve them a passing glance, estranging them, never finding a reason to remind myself of the face I wear that follows me, and now, the green box—a miscount of my mirror selves perhaps— floats forward as if— “Ow!” I rub my throbbing temple, the right-hand mirror a solid mass trembling from the impact. All that’s left is the door and the center mirror. The door could be a way out, but I entered through the mirror first. Ate Nars’ dedication to this mess means there’s no use in calling for her—might as well play her little act.

“Ate! I’m walking through the mirror so would you please hurry it up. I’m no good with mazes—I might and will puke!” My voice bounces from one ear to the other.

The same clothes still sat at my feet, the hemline of this tacky dress laying over them—I rub my arms for warmth, but my hands were too cold. Despite its scent I exhale into my palms. A cold fog plumes from my mouth. It still smelt of rust. Looking back at myself, I look paler than I did before, dim lights or the cold—I spin my head back, the door a pale hue that mimicked the sequined reflection on my skin, an unnecessary surprise that the dress still managed to sparkle in the dark. No wonder Ate would wear this.

“Hey!” The voice pierced through my ear before pulling back into the void.

“Ate Nars? You there?” I shake my head, not from the cold but at my ridiculousness. “Of course you are. Let me out!”

No response.

“Ate Nars…?”

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56 Cold lumps creep up my arm—my own hand. I leaned onto the mirror, thrown off balance by a wave of assumptions. It’s just my hand, cold, sweaty, numb hands. Bent down, I pick up my sweater.

“Hey,” the voice whispers before my head.

Through the looking glass, I press on, Alice in my head and Dorothy on my heels. I call out to her in my chase, playing a game of ‘Hot and Cold’ like we did as kids. Slapping my oily palms across the mirrors did nothing to leave a breadcrumb trail. Each new room was cleaner than the rest: same clothes, same mirrors, different alignment. Her voice bounced from room to room. Warmer. Warmer. The invisible frame traces my passing arm—no, no it’s cold now.

The muffled “Hey!” floats through this finite room while I swallow my heart in a tight sequin dress: door or mirror? Mirror. Warmer. Colder.

Warm. Warm. Warm. Cold. The mirrors played a game of pinball with my eyes. If it’s not the right mirror, I bump off it and fall into the correct one, my head a marble that rolled from room to room with lights flashing in and out, my heart providing tempo. Each time I caught a rhythm my fist thrusts into solid glass to which I pull back, groaning as I hobble through the next exit—or entrance or whatever damn path she set me on. It was either the mirror, the doorway or— “Hey!” My knees hit the ground, sequins stabbing into flesh.

I sit back and slide my feet in front of me. On the right foot hangs a broken heel still sparkling in the dim light. Could’ve sworn I stepped over the mirror with my foot above the ground. It was cold, but my hair hung heavy with sweat, the plunging back collecting beads that soaked the already-heavy dress. Without thinking, I managed to fight through the labyrinth; Ate Nars was probably unable to keep up with the sudden scene changes as I refused to step through the door. Without thinking, I look up and find myself alone.

“Hey.” Static familiarity filled my gut with dread.

Before me stood a person wearing someone else’s skin: shiny plastic scales with grating shoes to match. Whenever I spoke—out of practice—Ate Nars’ nasally high voice resembled my own. I only ever heard it when I was afraid, not of her, but because it felt like lying. To whom? I’m still unsure. My hand

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57 hovers over the reflection, my figure following suit. It was safe in that voice for a time. It wasn’t me, but it was safe.

“For a funhouse this wasn’t so fun, huh?” I nod at myself. Sweat drips down my bushy brows.

“Did you see where they all went?” My head shakes, unable to speak unless I open my mouth.

“Of course you haven’t, too busy running around calling out for yourself.”

All that was left to me was a loosely locked door and a lone mirror. My chest tightens in an exhale, unable to afford nothing but bandages and a sports bra to hold myself together. I’d breathe easier if it weren’t for… I purse my lips, inspecting the creature before me in all its reluctant curves and shining scales.

A glorified disco ball—I wipe my face trying to stifle a laugh; my hands are numb and still held the scourge of rusted shoes. Even in her absence, I still judge myself—well the clothes she chooses, or maybe I’m only blaming the clothes because I wouldn’t wear them, looking like her I definitely would. I did look like her, a hand-me-down masculine joke. Spite wore me the last few family gatherings, the clown suit would be another triumph in fueling their need to criticize.

Blood felt thicker in the throat than water ever could; choke on your familial piety or die trying. It’s not judging if its family, so who else can judge me?

“You?” Pointing at my mirror self, I cackle before dissolving into the desolate absence of American Top 40.

Fitting rooms: a secular confession booth for the half-naked over thinker.

If I sat still, they would look like a picture. The cold air pricks my bare arms. I squint at an unfamiliar spot, dim lights refusing to illuminate…was there always a mole beneath my jawline? Scooting closer to the mirror, I take care not to fall through. Fingertips grazed my eyebrow, noting the scar I cut open when I fell down as a kid—forgot it was there. The more I look at myself, the more unreal I become—I guess I always did have that scar.

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58 My mouth follows as I count numbers, forming O’s and widening when I pronounce E. It moved at the same time as my mouth did, all without sound.

On the other side, this Nem wouldn’t hear or feel a thing, it looks just like me without all the pain that comes with it. If I couldn’t see myself would I— in the mirror or reality— even exist? I scratch my arm. Three red lines form from my uncut nails, my reluctant proof of life. Bet they don’t feel a thing.

Head hanging heavy, I look down at my dress. The little light that filled the room still sparkled slightly against the sequins. I bring the dress closer to my eyes. A thousand tiny faces form on the plastic surface matching my own. A thousand versions of myself in the colors that refused my face.

“I guess that’s where all of you went.”

Shedding her sequin dress, I pick up my old clothes. I turn around to face the door, feeling a cold breathe down my bare body as I slide on my past self—my present self. The thousand faces clattered to the floor, all looking back at me as I looked back at them—I kicked them behind. Though I may be alone, I wasn’t so comfortable with an audience. Their eyes bore through every pore for imperfection, unable to fit the truth they projected onto an estranged body, the same judging glare that doubted my flattened chest and deepened voice—eyes that carved a buried name. Even now their eyes still ripple through me.

The sweat formed in my shivering hands subsided as I sat down and threw the soaked dress atop its harlequin cousin. Warmth returns to my body. I look at myself again, a playful blink-off I know both of us would lose. All I can hear is my breath.

“I’m not used to looking at people’s eyes,” I clench my hand. “They say eye contact is important but they never talk about how raw it is, to be staring at yourself in their retinas knowing you’re still there… even when you don’t want to. It’s even harder with strangers.”

I look away. “It still is.”

My eyes feel dry. Standing up, I rub until tears form, and dust off my clothes. The stalemate lasted long enough I could practically paint myself from memory alone. Behind me, the door still looked the same. There were no lights to illuminate the surviving glass, yet it still shone with precision. No mirrors stood by my side, except for the finite darkness I dare not

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59 touch—to fall or to be pressed against either side, I’d suffocate either way.

My old clothes and the rejected clown suit still sat on the linoleum tiles. I reach out for the handle once more and await the click.

The door doesn’t open, the lights flicker again. Warmth brushes against my nape.

I turn back to my reflection. It stutters before matching me—I rub my eyes again, spun around too fast again. Opening my eyes, I see it staring back at me. Slowly I blink, trying to catch their open gaze. Both eyelids down, I open again and it still stands there. I move closer to the mirror, hovering my hand over its twin. My eyes were brown… no, they’re black just like mine, one mole on the jaw and… I touch my eyebrow again, smooth and full with hair where a scar should be. The reflection stares back at me with eyes widening as mine do, only it holds something more. Behind those mirrored eyes I see nothing. No light. No door. Nothing but the finite emerald glass.

I hold my breath. I couldn’t see myself in their eyes.

Warmth brushes my face.

Thumps echoed around the space; I turned back towards the door, hoping it would follow suit. Head pressed to the solid surface I turn the lock.

“Hey.” I… I didn’t hear it click. I turn the knob again. It doesn’t open.

“Nor…” My—it’s voice crackles.

Their breath touches me now. I turn the lock the other way. It doesn’t open. “Nora,” the sound thumps through my chest like a wash of broken glass.

Eyes shut tight, I let go of the door feeling a figure hanging above. Its warmth trickles down the nape of my neck—saliva, blood, whatever it is it wraps a wet noose around me. I try not to breathe, but I feel its face graze my cheek, a cold finger traces my jaw. Plastic crunches beneath us, digging into my back as I curl against the door. A long exhale breathes down my neck as the ground thaws beneath my feet. Pressed against the doorway, I try again, shaking the handle praying for it to budge, to move, to do ANYTHING. The handle breaks from my hand and onto the floor—not in a clink or a clatter, but a hiss that singes my ankle. The warmth now crawls up my legs,

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the dark muck extinguishing any amount of feeling in my legs—fleshy rods press and pull me down. I try to kick and look down… I… I look down at my lost reflections, clawing at my legs with melted faces. A thousand versions of myself in the colors that drained from my face.

I can’t move. I can’t run. I try to breathe, gasping for air—the hands pull the corners of my mouth into a widened clown smile. Molten glass glows above and drips down into my gaping grin. Everything inside me feels heavy—the glass crystallizes within every depth of my body. Shards cracked in my lungs with every breath. I scream but all that breaks free is static glass. My body hangs limp, unable to breathe except for the rust rising within me as my arms are pulled to the side. Hot sludge pours from down my cheeks crying—crying for Ate Nars to stop this stupid game, this stupid prank… it’s too far this time. They can’t keep hurting me and saying it’s okay. It’s too much.

It’s too late this time.

Instinct tears through my head for a memory. The mirrors erased with every step that flashed by in a hail of warmth. This might as well be the last.

I grit my teeth and break the flow of crystallizing glass. Placing one foot on the door, I spin and thrust forward, arms wrapping around the entity as I tackle them into the space encasing us, its plastic scales digging into my arms as metal singes my nose. Wet strands whip around my throat as I fall through with thrashing arms, punching solid glass that refused to break. I couldn’t feel my fists anymore; there was no wind rushing past or a force floating me upwards. Nothing fought against my force. The warmth, the warmth drowns me in its sweet embrace. It numbed my body, the void seeping into the cuts the reflection dug onto my skin, wet when I could not feel wet. Where did I—it go? I open my eyes and a thick warmth gouges my eye sockets, my vision pointless and wading through the swampy abyss.

My arms spread in the emerald sea, the reflection no longer trapped in a vengeful embrace.

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I—it’s gone.

My heart rises to my throat and ears, the only sound in this infinity, the ebb and flow of a big biological glub in space. Nothing sparkled or scratched here, but I still felt it. The plastic eyes that escaped the dress seeped inside me, slitting new pores into old skin to fill with this warmth. This safety.

Without the dress I felt light, I could breathe with ease though glass filled and cut my lungs as it solidified. I could breathe deeper than in a clown suit or cocktail dress. I could inhale deeper, and deeper, and deeper…

“So what’d you think?” Nars says with a raised brow.

“Hmm, nah, not my style really,” she throws the clothes back onto her sister’s crossed arms. “If I wanted to save money and look bad, I’d go through your closet.”

“You’re far too cruel, Nora,” she says with a stifled smile. “Still, I’m glad you’re back to your old self.”

The lights flicker inside for a moment. Nars leaves her purse with Nora, and walks away to return the clothes. Nora stops to look at her clothes: an emerald dress with bishop sleeves and silver heels. A bit too much for her typical style, but an extravagant costume such as this, it must be. Without her undergarments, the plunging neckline gave her an air of suave. She steps closer to the mirror and pulls out an eyebrow pencil Nars kept in her purse.

Standing as still as they could match, Nora fills in the gap alongside one of her brows. They follow suit. Satisfied with the touch up, they lift their head away, the lights blinking for a second as a pop song comes on full blast, repetitive lyrics humming into her throat. The emerald woman closes the door and walks away, a single word fading in the click-clack of her heels. They call out a buried name. Calling for their return home.

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Cloud Campus™ Depression Joel Benedict Cabo

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63 I am cornered. The wind gushes with the sound of distasteful remarks. Every time when screams and whips of unruly ‘friends’ near me, my foot takes a step backward. Little did I know, the voice of the abyss calls me and the spirits of the cliff I am on caresses my back, as if luring me to fall into the deep trenches.

The aforementioned screams took a toll on my drums, thus I took another step back. Then the pebbles of the cliff, accompanying the rhythm of my heart, beat with eagerness as it hits the waters. That’s when I realized that I’m on the edge. Circumstance was never in my favor. The cliff gave way. I took an unpleasant bath. The noises still reach my ears.

I am down. I thank the waves for which gave me peace as it pushes me down the waters. Silence was its only resident. My heart is still ravaging from people I rather not remember. As I watch the sun’s influence diminish, air becomes absent and the sea pressure gives me the best hug in the entire universe. Despite the absence of life, the silence gave me a name, a meaning, a significance — something society never gave me at all. As I drown, I now reach the part of which one can’t swim back: the point of no return. Then the world dimmed as if God turned off the switch of the sun.

I woke up. Everything was a dream, but I am underwater. The narrative of the dream FELT true and real. The dream remained in my head… The aggressive heartbeat reached my ears, which woke me up from that state of trance. Ting. Online class at 7. Ting. Yesterday was the deadline for that. Ting. Meeting later. Ting. Ting.

Ting. I was at the point of no return. Instead of reaching out the water, I remained breathless and on the verge of sinking. What stayed in my mind, cemented itself as reality. I would rather drown. I would rather drown. I would rather drown into the abyss. I don’t want to swim back up.

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Afloat

Shania AllysonVillanueva

It burns—my insides burn. There is no fire, but I am burning. The air continues to leave my body. My arms and legs already gave their extent and they are now starting to fail me. As I stop, my body floats when another being grabs me by my shirt. My lungs gather air to the point that I forgot how to breathe. My other problem is that this place is not my home.

This strange place along with strange people made me shut my eyes longer, hoping that it will pass soon as well as the people around me back home. I heard the splashing of water as if it was being dug up. I am not the only person in the ocean who is trying not to drown. A woman with legs as long as the trunk of the palm trees move forward along with a man wearing a headpiece, which I assume to be their leader. I also began to notice a small child sitting by the dock as he extended his legs trying to tap his foot onto our heads.

I, as well as the two other individuals staying afloat, have different nationalities. Language can become a wall that hinders us from moving. The leader showed his kindness by giving us wooden rings that somehow made us understand what everyone was saying. However, I need to find out what this place is. I must not forget.

I woke up in the middle of an ocean and now I am on this island where it is impossible to stay still because of how successfully the sand submerged my feet. The scorching rays of the sun might even melt my skin if we stayed

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65 longer. The trees looking at us from above gave no protection because of their narrow trunks. However, I was suddenly in awe because of the ocean as its waves were calling me to swim further.

Elzada, the lady that was introduced to us by the leader—King Alpana, started to teach us how to survive. It’s funny how we were being taught the essence of survival even if we almost lost our lives in the ocean. She is older than us mere children as the rays of the sun made her hair shimmer.

“Now, all of you should catch a small fish.” she instructed.

On our first day on this island, the place that we still did not know the name of, we were instructed to catch a fish. How absurd is that? We almost drowned by causing panic to one another trying to stay afloat and then we were already instructed to catch a fish. We are only children who need care and affection, and now, we need to catch a fish.

The water is not clear as we struggle to see underwater and we all failed to obtain a single fish. Elzada does not show any disappointment, which is something unusual. Back home, even a single mistake from the examination in class, I would receive a punishment from the mother instantly. However, she only gave us goggles made of bamboo to see clearly. As I put on the goggles, things were made clear. What captured my attention aside from the numerous fish that I did not even know the names of was this enormous bone formation of a mermaid. It was laid out evenly as if it died at the bottom of the ocean. Bone after bone, it was connected to each other.

After a minute of appreciating the dead, we were grabbed by Elzada because a boat needed to pass by. Every minute, there is a boat from the pier going to the ocean, so it is not unusual for them to give way. However, what was unusual is that it was filled with people. Mothers with their children, men gobbling down alcohol, and dogs wagging their tails out of excitement.

I wanted to ask Elzada but her eyes were saying something—a stare that was holding what my mouth should say. I did not ask.

“Continue swimming. You all need to develop your swimming skills.”

Elzada commanded coldy.

The three of us kept swimming back and forth. I even forgot how many times we were instructed to swim from the shore to the end of the barrier. I

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67 swam until I cannot feel my arms anymore. After a while, Elzada gathered us for an announcement. What will she say next? Is she going to instruct us to swim until the end of the ocean?

“I will leave the three of you for now to swim on your own. I have something to do.” she announced as she kept on looking from side to side.

I knew it. We shall swim again. We shall swim until our arms fall off.

However, it was the first time that I saw Elzada bothered by something even if we were only on this island for a couple of hours. What is it that she needed to do?

“Hey! Where are you from?” the small boy asked me.

I do not know. I cannot answer his question because I do not have the answer.

“Actually, I cannot figure out how I got here.” I replied.

He did not question me anymore. I assumed that he took my reply as an answer even if it was a shallow and empty one. The other small girl, maybe a year younger than me, was quiet the whole time. She kept nodding to Elzada’s commands and following the tasks one by one as if she had no choice or she was doing them her whole life.

“How about you? Where are you from?” I asked her to break the silence around the three of us. Keeping the conversation alive might bring us closer because we do not know how much longer we will stay here. “...”

Why am I even trying? Obviously, she did not answer my question.

“I am Eli.” the small boy butted in.

Eli, a short name for a short boy. At this time, the small girl smiled but she did not say her name. Now, it is my turn to introduce myself.

“My name is...” I stopped mid-sentence because I do not know what my name is. What do I know? What is it that I do not know? I kept quiet as I

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Eli looked at me as I stayed silent while thinking about my name.

“Oh, look out!” Eli warned as another boat passed by. The boat that we see leave every day at noon. We need to bring this up to Elzada. We continued swimming to practice our skills until we reached a fishing vessel. Our legs and arms were already numb from swimming and our bodies needed to rest.

We climbed aboard the vessel.

“This is not considered trespassing right?” Eli dubiously commented. He always has a comment for everything, I am aware of that.

“We are just passing by and we need a break from the tireless swimming.”

I replied.

As we settled down, we were taken back by this stench from the drums filled with caught fish. I did not expect that this island could produce that much fish.

“What are you doing?” I quickly stopped Eli from stealing a fish from one of the drums. This kid cannot give me enough time to have a break. He always does something that might get us all in trouble.

“This fish belongs to this island so it will not cause any harm if I take one right?” Eli remarked.

“NO! You cannot do that. It will cause us a lot of trouble!” a man shouted.

We bolted up from our places as we were behind the drums. This might be the time when Elzada loses her trust to us.

Rain started to pour, and we began to swim away from the man that was trying to catch us. After almost eight minutes of swimming, we were able to catch a glimpse of the shore of an island and the enormous boat that leaves every day was docked on a pillar.

“So, this is where the people on the boat go to.” Eli remarked.

The three of us set our feet on the sand of the island’s shore.

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69 “Quick! Walk as fast as you can.” I advised the two.

We should move fast as the sand gobbles up our feet as if we were sinking.

However, we have not seen any people even if the boat was on the shore. We kept on walking until we heard a strumming of guitar overlapping with the voices of children laughing as if they were playing tag.

Our eyebrows began to meet each other as we saw where the sound was coming from.

What is this place? And what are they doing?

We continued to observe from afar. The residents stuffed their faces with juicy salmon, spiced whole chicken, long-grained rice, and dishes that were unfamiliar to our palette and even to our sight.

This is not what they portray while they are on our home island. Their blank faces and inhospitable personalities were nowhere to be found.

The shy girl stood and was ready to confront them, but she was stopped

by Eli. “You will get us caught! There are guards everywhere.” Eli warned.

We should report this to Elzada the Mother. This is unacceptable and she will not tolerate this kind of inequality and insensitivity. She will be furious in a way that a capital punishment will be implemented to the people who continues to participate in this gathering.

This debate with myself was stopped by one of the guards who spotted us hiding. The other guards were also alerted, and they began to run towards our direction.

At this point, we were now swimming once again.

“Swim faster! We do not know what they would do to us if we got caught!”

Eli shouted while he was falling behind.

The shy girl and I swam without taking any break so that we would not

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be apprehended by the guards. However, as I looked behind to see what Eli was doing, I was not able to get a sight of him.

“Eli! Where are you?!” I managed to shout even if my lungs might collapse.

As I was planning to look behind again, a wooden rowboat was leaning towards our direction. We raised our hands as we saw Elzada the Mother.

We stopped swimming because of the relief from the idea that we will be saved.

Elzada the Mother reached out her hand as she helped us climb the rowboat.

We are not swimming anymore but we are not yet done catching our breaths.

“Elzada, you need to come with us! The people on the boat that leaves every day were gathering on the nearby island!” I immediately blurted out.

“Very well, Efana. This is different from the last time. She was able to know right away.” Elzada ignored my plea and uttered her disappointment to the shy girl that I am with.

So, her name is Efana and she was with Elzada the Mother all this time.

I started screaming my lungs out to call for help but to no avail. This is

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my end.

“People will hear your pleas. However, they will not help you.” Elzada replied with a smirk on her wicked face.

“It is true that the people on the boat that leave every day are isolating themselves for pleasure. We consider this as a break from reality. It is also true that there are citizens that are hungry and malnourished, but we don’t mind since they have no clue what was happening.” she continued.

“Now, lock her up in a cage and let it sink in the ocean!” She then commanded the guards.

At this point, all my strength to fight back vanished like my hope to escape this island. When an individual starts to learn from the horrors of the island, all the memories will be taken just like their rights. No memories present, no eagerness to complain about the abuse and injustice.

As they were carrying me to lock inside the cage, the little boy with long and slender legs tapped his foot onto my head once again. This time, I figured that this is a farewell.

It started to burn, and I am fine with it.

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Flash Fiction

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The Great Flood Ana Muriel R.Veron

I open my eyes and find that I am in my room. Everything seems to be pretty much the same as it was yesterday—except that everything is underwater. My eyes take time to adjust, and I see how the water has filled my whole room up to the ceiling.

My body floats idly in the cold, stagnant liquid. I close my eyes again and allow my mind to ease. I had not felt this peaceful in so long. It is honestly so refreshing, almost serene.

Until I realized I had been holding my breath. I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe. HELP. My hand rushes to cover my mouth and nose in fear of accidentally inhaling the suffocation. I struggle, my eyes darting around the room. As my vision starts to blur, I spot an oxygen tank beside my bed. Frantically, I put it on.

The air slowly fills my lungs and I try to calm myself down. I hold the tank close to me and swim over to the window to open it. I half-expected the water to drain out of my room but at the same time, I knew it would not really work.

The streets and buildings were similarly submerged with no sign of the surface. The water is different out there. Not at all as tranquil as it is in my room. It was a violent, relentless current. I watched as it snatched people off the streets and out of their homes, tossing and wringing them around with wild abandon, taking them away to some unknown place. I caught a glimpse of their eyes, wide with terror as they held their breaths. Some cried for help, but their screams only drowned in the torrential roar of the undertow.

In my quiet room, I notice the dial on my tank creep to the left.

I look outside again. Through the windows of other people’s houses, I see some do not have oxygen tanks. I feel lucky and guilty, all at once. Their tears fade into the all-consuming water.

They are drowning.

I am drowning.

We are all drowning.

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Strings Abigail M. Adriatico

While she was carried to the attic above the theater, Helena knew that the puppet master was not pleased.

He slammed the glass door of Helena’s case shut as he placed his gloved hands on its surface. As his youthful face seethed with rage, contempt filled his voice as he spoke to the puppet. “You call that a performance? That was pathetic!”

Helena tried not to flinch at every word as she bowed her head in shame.

She knew her job was to give the best performance to all those who saw her.

The thought that she disappointed not only the audience but also her puppet master, made her feel smaller than she already was.

The puppet master continued to berate her, ignoring the parts that she managed to do perfectly. Helena did not find it in her to defend herself and simply focused her eyes on the strings tied to the fabric of her shoes. She willed her tears not to fall in fear of angering the man any further.

Before storming down the open hatch on the floor, the last thing Helena heard was a threat: “If you make that same mistake again, I’ll tear off a leg this time.”

As the hatch closed with a loud thud, the whole study was submerged in complete darkness. Knowing that the puppet master would not return

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until the next day, Helena sank to the floor and finally let her tears flow. She hugged her knees as her sobs echoed throughout the silent room.

Helena’s life revolved around this cycle. Every day, she would be taken out of her case for a performance and she would do the puppet master’s bidding as her limbs were moved for her. That would have been all there was to it if not for her strings.

Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, she would not feel them at all, causing her to be out of sync with the music. Helena did not know why such a thing would occur but it always angered the puppet master. The stitches on her left shoulder were a reminder of that. She could only hope that it would not happen again.

Fortunately, her succeeding performances went smoothly which pleased the puppet master. By the end of the week, while certain parts of her were being groomed, she was informed about her upcoming grand performance.

Helena asked about it as the puppet master trimmed her hair on the work table using a pair of silver scissors.

He explained how it would be different because it would be on a bigger stage. After some finishing touches, she was returned to her glass case. The puppet master gave her a warning look before he left.

Helena pondered on it. The puppet master’s threatening look was

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79 something she had been most worried about. Helena felt a chill come over her as she glanced at her left shoulder. The brown thread that looked out of place was a recent scar. There was no room for a fatal mistake.

Days passed by and her grand performance came. She was anxious long before she set foot on the stage. Before her routine began, the puppet master gave her a warning look, which only worsened the thoughts gnawing away at her composure.

When the music came on, she moved just as the strings willed her to. She submitted herself to the bidding of the puppet master.

Her eyes fell towards the audience before her, all watching intently with their limbs free from strings. They moved in a way that she could not and the thought made her feel bitter. With the spark of jealousy arising, she thought, “Is this really all there is to my life?”

All of a sudden, she no longer felt the strings pulling her. However, the music was still playing. When she heard an exasperated sigh, panic filled her instantly. Without thinking straight, she immediately bolted off the stage and towards the audience.

She heard the puppet master’s enraged voice calling her as she was dragged backward, straight into the man’s hand. Helena squirmed as much as she could but to no avail.

Desperately, she bit the puppet master’s hand, causing him to yelp and drop all that he was holding on the ground. Helena saw the silver pair of scissors fall beside her. A thought struck her immediately.

“It’s pointless, ” the puppet master chuckled as he reached for the scissors, “as long as I have your strings, I control your every move.”

But Helena was faster. To the horror of the puppet master, Helena managed to grab the scissors first.

“You don’t control me anymore,” she thought to herself.

With one smooth snip, several strings fell on the ground. Along with it was the thud of a body falling lifelessly on the floor.

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Zoom Zymon Arvindale R. Dykee Here you stand in front of the mirror in your bathroom. The light bulb’s dimming, an indication that it must be replaced soon. You are examining yourself: hair in need of combing, eyes heavy with dark circles under them, cheeks losing their usual flabbiness, shirt creased from too much rumpling.

You think it’s been days since you last showered. It surprises you that you’re still standing.

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81 You must squeeze in the precious minutes of this moment a way to make yourself presentable. It’s 3 P.M. It’s supposed to be break time from the unending deliverables at work. Yet that break has been stolen away from you as your boss suddenly called a Zoom meeting with your entire department. Your brain is fumbling for ways to improve yourself, which is why your head has started to ache.

You walk out of the bathroom. You see your cup of black coffee resting on the open window’s sill. You get confused why, of all places, you placed it there, where, out of slight clumsiness, it could tumble down and begin its descent from the seventh floor of your tenement to the ground. You shrug and take the cup anyway, chugging it until it becomes empty, in an effort to gain courage. Your coffee tastes like a stranger’s skin—stale and bitter.

Before you proceed, you have paid attention to your surroundings. From your window you have watched a cat on a roof of a neighboring building copulate with another cat, you have listened to the karaoke music blasted by the people on the floor above you, you have felt with your bare feet a slight trembling as people danced and jumped in the unit next to yours. You wish you were them—wait, scrap that. You desire to be them. Until you remember you’re a circus ape chained by your employer, performing tricks to the clients’ delight. You feel like you can do nothing about it because you’re living alone and work gives you a reward, which is more likely a compensation for the energy you waste: money, the only acceptable payment for rent, for food, for survival.

But is there really nothing you can do? If you’re an ape, then you’re quite familiar that apes shriek, perhaps out of excitement but more so when they’re encountering something foreign. It’s also quite righteous when your master has been giving you bad bananas lately.

So you shut your window, throw your empty cup on your desk, and go back to your laptop. You didn’t bother changing your look. Let them see you in your true, outrageous nature. You type the key to the video conference. In a few moments the camera reflects your grainy and miniscule image. On your screen are your co-workers, whose faces, especially your boss’s, are contorted in many laughable ways upon seeing you. You fake a smile. With the courage offered to you by your black coffee, you make your pronouncement in a thundering voice: “I quit.”

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The Flower’s Augury Dawn Danielle D. Solano

Sealed beneath the trenches of memories, the day of my reckoning lies.

It is a tale passed on through tongues of poets, ancient and contemporary.

The story of woe graced amphoras of ancient Athens, walls of Macedonian tombs, and parchments of the Greek and Roman balladeers.

They tell of the maiden of spring, plucked from her realm of innocence, and taken to the depths of Hades’ seat of eternal despair. I am quite astonished at how they seized every detail of that day, except one.

There was a lily in my garden, with fair and white petals. Amongst the violets and the irises, the white lily stood out to meet the sky. Neither of the nymphs I was with bothered to glance at it for they believed it as a bad omen.

“Bad omen?” I asked.

“Yes, my lady. Very bad,” they answered in unison.

Indeed, it was. Yet, I did not believe. I could have made it wilt, but I could never bring death upon such a thing. It grew there, and there it must thrive.

I held on so dearly to my principle that I forgot that one should not ignore omens. Gods and humans are subjects of entertainment to the Fates. No one was safe from their weaving of destinies; the immortal and the mortal must

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83 simply bend to their will. Not even the meekest bug on the ground could escape the red thread.

Every day, I wondered when it would be my turn to be their source of amusement. Little did I know, I was only moments away from it.

One day, I returned to my flower-gathering. The afternoon sun was at its peak, and my daisies tilted their heads in its direction. Sun rays cascaded down to earth, blessing every creature with its energy. The warm air kissed my skin like a butterfly greeting the air. At that very moment, I felt my world coming to its rightful place.

The disheveled grass tickled my arms as if inviting me to play. I was a child then, and every feature of nature was a playmate of mine. As soon as my fingertips made contact with them, a gust of wind scurried past me. It was fast yet, I felt its coldness sting my bones.

Looking around, I searched for any sign of unearthly disturbance. There was a mysterious entity concealed under the guise of the greenery, the timbers whispered to me. I perceived none but the vigor of my meadows.

I kept searching. My eyes scanned every tree and shrub for the predator to no avail. The nymphs have run off to their burrows in fear, leaving me unguarded in my spot. Even the grass around me displayed fear through feigned stillness. The defiance of the daffodils waned and gradually turned into obedience.

To comfort them, I placed a palm on the ground to send a calming message. Even in my fear, I wanted them to know that I, their steward, will not let harm approach them.

I might have foolishly let it near me instead.

A low-lying fog crept from the edge of my woodlands. My trees were soon veiled with a blanket of white mist, flowing down to my flowerbeds. It was only daylight where I stood, and twilight encircled me.

Without notice, a silhouette of a man solidified before me. It took me no time to know the identity of my perpetrator. Mother warned me of the helmed man from the netherworld, yet I stood unmoved at his presence.

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His pale exterior came into view. My heart throbbed painfully at the sight of his sunken black eyes, which were unlike any other pair I have seen in my immortal life. These were the eyes of a man deprived of light; the eyes of a man who has watched souls drown in his pit of fire.

From a distance, I heard the high-pitched howl of the Fates. My performance was at hand, and I had no way of escape.

What followed was the act that brought an end to my maidenhood. Above us were the ancient oaks of my meadows, where the nightingale sang a tune of sorrow. Beneath was the soil that caught the fall of my every tear.

The mist lifted, revealing the now-barren land of spring. Yet, one thing stood the test of desiccation. Its beauty remained intact, capturing the once youthful glow of the field.

Therein my garden, the white lily thrived.

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A Mausoleum of Memories

Larizza Joise D. Macabulos

The second those doors close, you’ll find that the air tastes different and home doesn’t look the same. You don’t thrive, you hide. Others, they are cast outside to be wrung and worn out. Most of us fold and just stay inside. (It’s better that way). The closet is stale, cold and stoic. Denim is stiff and shrunken. Dust collects within every stitch of your prettiest coat. Lace trimmings hang like cobwebs. Leather boots fall apart, black autumn leaves in corroding shelves. Sneakers do not scuff, their soles tasting no gravel or soil for the past year. Soulless. Unchanging as you have no reason to change. The jacket sleeves sway every time you peek at them, as if begging to go elsewhere, anywhere but here. Here again.

Day by day you look at those folded fabrics, those colorful corpses that lay flat upon their wooden tombs. Each of them a different time in the tapestry of a once-life, just waiting to be exhumed and unfolded.

You try to wear them with some hope that they could return you to that day, that hour, even a minute before they entered their mausoleum. Yet they don’t fit, not anymore. Now they drape lifelessly against your sterile skin.

Their colors clash against the medical blue. The seams shrivel and curl. You don’t even know where to take them. Even if you put them on, will they see any other future besides the dark suffocating embrace of a bodybag? Will they billow, draped over a cold stiff corpse? Would they be able to weave new memories worth living for? Is trying to find an answer even worth it?

You return them to their steel nooses, where they’re left to hang and slowly suffocate.

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Gunning for Truth Taffy Arella M. Bernales

Captivated by its power, my nine-year-old self had always dreamed of possessing a gun. I believed it would be the key to defeating “bad guys” causing mischief with their thieving hands.

Bang! Bang!

Gunshot sounds suddenly echoed in my mind as I replayed the CCTV footage of policemen surrounding an unarmed civilian. The kid in me would have been pumped to see this, if not for the dreadful event that occurred fourteen years ago. I have not been the same ever since.

I shook my head, hoping to clear my mind; I cannot afford to be distracted. I have a crime to report, a news story to finish.

Still, the echoes continued to reverberate inside my head, gradually getting louder every second.

Before I knew it, I was sinking into the abyss of a repressed childhood memory.

I was suddenly transported back to when I overindulged in Power Police, an animated show I was once obsessed with. A single bullet by the mighty Power Police sends a criminal deep into damnation. In each episode, the last shots fired by my heroes always signified another victory. The lucky town of Pines was always Power Police-protected, so I dreamed of becoming one of them someday— to be a hero who fights evil forces of nature for her people.

The cartoon had helped me escape the noise of my parents’ endless argu-

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89 ments within our run-down home.

“Lampa naman kayong mga babae,” my stepfather had always, unfortunately, reiterated.

He never let a day pass without reminding me that my dream was not that of a girl’s. Thus, handling guns should be out of the picture.

His harsh opinion was rooted in the countless failed rallies my mother had incited in the streets. In the slums, gossip spread like wildfire and so the more our neighbors spat out rumors about mother’s pointless protests, the more my stepfather grew ashamed of her.

I never understood my mother’s cause. It just boggled me to witness the burning passion behind her eyes whenever she would sneak out with banners in hand. I also couldn’t care less about her discreet talks with me about the government’s decay.

All I knew was that another banner meant another quarrel. It meant that our walls would tremble once more with every thunderous insult of my stepfather. Torn placards scattered on our floors would follow; another session of drowning out unwanted noise with the sound of the television.

“Walang mararating ‘yang pag-aaktibista mo, Inna! Dito pa nga lang sa bahay, talo ka na sa’kin. Ano pa kaya sa mga rally mo’ng ‘yan!?”

When it came to unhearing this entrapping household’s chaos, my favorite show never sufficed. It was not enough distraction from seeing new bruises mother gained from standing up to my stepfather. Still, she had warned me never to be a hero in this situation, or else I would be battered too.

I stopped heeding that warning when another night came, with horrifying sounds that could not be drowned by the television’s highest volume.

BANG! BANG! I see my younger self horrified by the bullets fired inside my parents’ room, followed by my mother’s yowl. Alarmed, I ran out crying for help, hopelessly wishing for the Power Police to come. Surely, they would know what to do!

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To my relief, neighbors came rushing towards our house. Flashes of red and blue lights emerged as the sirens grew louder.

Alas! The police came bursting through our door to save my mother from the vicious hands that have pummeled her inside these four walls. But to my dismay, they captured her instead.

“Hulihin niyo ang NPA na ‘yan! Narinig namin ang baril niya!” our neighbor proclaimed as she accompanied the policemen ransacking our house.

“River!” Mother called for me as the police forcefully dragged her out.

Before I could run to her, my stepfather held me back. He clamped my mouth shut as he stealthily shook his other hand with an officer.

I felt blood rushing through my veins as the image I had of my heroes twisted in my mind like taunting villains. My dreams were crushed as I bear witness to the paragons of justice siding with my beast of a stepfather.

River!

Gasping for air, I snapped back to reality as my coworker worriedly shook my shoulder. I sat frozen across the monitor, distraught by the reminder of how mother’s truth never prevailed.

It’s been years since I learned that not all monsters hid under my bed, and not all heroes wore capes— some of them only had banners in hand instead of guns.

I pull my act together to finish drafting this issue’s banner story. I cannot afford to be distracted from becoming the hero my mother once needed.

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Called by the Siren PatrickV. Miguel

As Nena grew up from her father’s stories about mermaids, she was warned ever since to never trust them. “Sirens are deceitful,” he always said.

This time, however, Nena neglects her father’s warning as she tip-toes in the middle of the night to reach the shore.

Not far from their house, she spots the sharp fins of the mermaid rising from the shallow surface of the water.

The mermaid looks at her, tilting its head as Nena walks towards her.

Holding up the hem of her skirt, Nena dips her foot to the water, but as she takes one more step, she looks back into their house. She remembers her drunken mother snoozing with her face pressed against the table; laying on her own purged dinner, gin, and tears.

Then, as Nena faces the mermaid, the image of her father comes to her mind. She remembers its promise to her the first time they met; it would help her find her father.

Not long ago, Nena woke up hearing her mother cry out in agony. Outside their house, the tanod breaks the news that her father’s boat was found early in the morning without him in it. As Nena stands by the door, her

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93 mother looks at her and shouts, “Wala na ang tatay mo!”

No investigation took place. It was clear that her father was taken by the sea monsters who always proclaim that the sea is theirs. With that, Nena imagines her father with bruises on his face as the sea monsters torture him.

Some nights, Nena dreamt of his lifeless body sinking in the ocean; rotting with tiny fishes entering all the holes in his body.

As the image of her dead father stabs through her chest, Nena collapses on her knees, making a big splash in the water. She digs her fingers through the sand in an attempt to hold back her tears.

Nena looks at the mermaid and says, “Take me to Tatay.” Immediately, the mermaid offers her hand to her.

‘No going back,’ Nena thinks. Either she stays and mourns with her miserable mother, or does her best in searching for her father. In her mind, she could hear her father stopping her from coming with the mermaid. Yet, she wraps her fingers around the mermaid’s hand— The pull was too hard. Nena’s body gets dragged into the water, feeling the limb of her arm as if it is separating from her body.

Nena looks up to see the moon glaring bright on her. The ocean is not as scary as it usually looks, she thinks. Yet, as she looks down to see a dark abyss of nothingness, her body freezes. Her chest tightens and realizes how she is running out of air.

She grasps the mermaid’s hand tightly, signaling her suffocation. The mermaid came closer to Nena and pressed its mouth onto hers. Nena tastes the metallic pungent of the mermaid’s mouth, but she could not complain as air is being passed onto her lungs. After a few seconds, Nena’s chest loosens up.

To Nena’s attention, the sky lets out a web of lightning which steals her gaze— She sees light coming through her.

‘It was true,’ she thinks as fear creeps over her. Her life flashes before her

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as her body freezes from the lightning’s strike. For a while, Nena feels the hot kiss of fire against her forehead; like a cigarette being pressed against it.

From the gaze of light, Nena closes her eyes as her body softens. This time, the mermaid’s grasp on her loosens as she sinks deeper into the ocean.

The moon has cursed Nena. That is what happens when a mortal being comes with a mermaid. After all, the moon has cursed the mermaids an eternal solitude.

As Nena sinks deeper, the mermaid swims to grab her hands. However, the mermaid felt a big block of forcefield push her away from Nena.

Nena never accomplished her promise to rescue her father from the brute hands of the sea monsters. Her tears immediately mix with seawater as it exits through her closed lids, still consciously feeling the heavyweight upon her chest.

In her mind, she dreams of an everlasting memory with her father. She imagines both of them sitting by the shore as the golden hour casts orange hues on their skin. All this time, Nena has been cherishing that moment, and forever, she will carry it with her.

For eternity, Nena will carry the burden of being the fool who hastily dived with a mermaid. Now cursed with an everlasting solitude, she sinks to the deepest and darkest abyss of the ocean; alone for that night and for the coming years until the water erases her completely.

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Tula

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Mistaken Identity Nikko Miguel M. Garcia

1.

Napagkamalan ako na hindi ako ng mga awtoridad sa Twitter. Ibinase nila sa aking account name at profile picture.

Hindi sa panto-troll ko sa mga kritiko ng administrasyon umano.

Tinanggal nila ang aking following at followers.

Inihiwalay nila ako sa ibang user.

May ipinadala silang paalala. Nakalimutan ko na ang eksaktong tagubilin pero iisa ang dapat kong gawin.

Nagpakilala ako gamit ang tunay kong ngalan at retrato.

Bumalik ang lahat sa dati. Tila walang nangyari.

Masuwerte at patuloy akong makapagpapatuloy. Dito sa social media. Hindi sa labas ng bahay— 2.

Napagkamalan ako na hindi ako ng mga awtoridad.

Ibinase nila sa aking pagkritika, sa panto-troll sa administrasyon umano. Dinadagdagan nila kami. Isinasama nila ako sa iba pa.

Lagi silang may paalala. Iisa pa rin ang eksaktong tagubilin. Ang dapat kilalanin. Kahit paulit-ulit nagpapalit ng ngalan at imahen.

Hindi malilimutan ang dapat gawin. Lalo na at tila wala pa ring nangyayari. Kailangan nang bumalik ng lahat sa dati.

At patuloy na makapagpatuloy. Sa labas ng bahay. Hindi dito sa social media

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dagli

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Mga T-shirt sa Aparador Matthew T. Rivera

Lampas isang buwan na akong naninirahan dito sa masikip na apartment.

Mag-isa. Walang kasama maliban sa mga dagang bigla-bigla na lang sumusulpot sa kusina. Hindi pa ako makaalis dahil kasalukuyang naka-lockdown ang buong Maynila. Nakakalabas lang ako tuwing bumibili ng pagkain at iba pang pangangailangan sa malapit na sari-sari store.

Noong nakaraang linggo ko pang nararamdamang tila unti-unting bumabagal ang mga araw. Wala akong magawa. Wala akong makausap.

Mayroon naman akong mga mahal sa buhay at kaibigan na pwede kong tawagan. Pero alam kong mayroon din silang sariling buhay. At isa pa, baka nakukulitan na sila sa akin dahil halos oras-oras ko na silang mine-message.

Malamang naninibago na rin sila sa akin dahil hindi naman ako ganito dati.

Hindi ko na kasi alam kung ano’ng gagawin. Sa unang pagkakataon sa buhay ko, ngayon ko lang nasabi sa sarili na hindi ko na kayang mapag-isa.

“Isang gabi lang ‘to, Aris. Kaya mo ‘to,” ang sabi ko sa sarili. Kahit ilang gabi ko na itong sinasabi bago matulog. Kailangan kong maniwala na kaya ko pa. Kailangan kong kayanin. Kailangan kong mabuhay.

Sinubukan kong pumikit sa pag-asang dadalawin na ako ng antok. Pero nang maramdaman kong maraming minuto na ang nakalipas, sumuko na ako.

Tumingin ako sa orasan: 2:13 AM na. Bumangon ako at naglakad papunta sa kusina. Nakasanayan ko nang magtimpla ng gatas tuwing nahihirapan akong makatulog. Minsan, mabisa. Madalas, hindi.

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104 Nang matimpla ko na ang gatas, umupo ako sa silya na nasa tabi ng lamesa. Maliit lang ang lamesa. Sapat na para sa tatlo hanggang apat na tao.

Siksikan na kung lima. Naaalala ko pa noon, tuwing bumibisita sina Papa, Mama, at Ate Anna, dito namin pinagsasaluhan ang masasarap na baong ulam na mula pa sa probinsya. Dito rin kami nagsasalo-salo nina Kokoy, Pao, at Rafie tuwing nagkakayayaang uminom. Mga araw na puno ng tawanan at kwentuhan. Matagal ko nang iniiwasang ikumpara ang mga nakaraang senaryo sa kasalukuyan kong sitwasyon. Una, dahil alam kong malulungkot lang ako. Pangalawa, dahil wala naman na akong magagawa.

Paglingon ko sa orasan, napansin kong 2:57 AM na. Dali-dali kong nilagok ang natitirang gatas. Pagkatapos kong hugasan sa lababo ang ginamit kong baso at kutsara, dumiretso agad ako sa kama. Habang nakahiga ako, pinagmasdan ko ang ceiling fan na gumagawa ng ingay sa tahimik na gabi.

Napakarami ko nang iniisip. Mula sa ‘Paano kung mahulog sa mukha ko ‘yung fan habang natutulog ako?’ hanggang sa mga tanong na ‘Paano kung dumami pa ang mahawaan ng COVID-19? Paano kung wala nang katapusan ang lahat ng ito?’

Pumikit ako at huminga nang malalim. Sa hindi ko matukoy na dahilan, bigla na lang tumulo ang mga luha ko. Sinabayan pa ito ng mga hikbing hindi ko mapigilan. Hindi ko na kaya. Hindi ko na alam kung ano’ng gagawin.

Bumangon ako at umupo sa gilid ng kama. Maya-maya’y namalayan ko na lang na natulala na pala ako sa aparador na nasa harap ko.

Dahan-dahan, naglakad ako papunta sa aparador. Binuksan ko ito. Inalis ko ang mga T shirt sa pagkakatupi at pagkakasabit sa hanger. Isa-isa ko itong inihagis sa kama. At nang wala nang natira, bumalik ako sa pagkakahiga.

Ipinatong ko sa kanang braso ang unang T-shirt na nadampot ko. Sa kaliwang braso ang pangalawang T-shirt. Sa dibdib ang pangatlong T-shirt.

Sa tiyan ang pang-apat na T-shirt. At pinalibot ko sa parehong gilid ang mga natira. ‘Di bale nang magmukhang tanga pero ito lang ang alam kong gawin.

Paglalaruin ko ang isip at paniniwalain ang sarili na mayroong yumayakap sa akin, na mayroon na akong kasama.

Isinara ko na ang mga mata ko. At sa kauna-unahang beses simula nang ako ay makulong dito sa masikip na apartment nang mag-isa, ngayon na lang ulit ako nakaramdam ng kapayapaan at kasiyahan.

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Katha

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Sa Lunduyan ng Laban Fatima B. Baduria

“Huli ka!” Narinig ko ang pilyo at malisyosong tinig malapit sa aking tainga ngunit, hindi ko mabatid ang may-ari. Kasabay nito ang mahigpit na pagpisil sa aking galanggalangan. Hindi ko pa rin makita ang may sala. Pinilit kong hilahin ang aking mga braso pero walang bisa.

Tulad ng inaasahan, mabilis akong kinaladkad.

Alam ko na ang mapait na paroroonan ngunit hindi mapigilan ang pagtungo dito. Ipininta ng isip ang larawan nito, binuo lamang sa mga sabi-sabi. Subalit, tila mapatutunayang totoo ito.

Habang papalapit nang papalapit, lalong kumakapal ang karimlan. Hindi nagtagal, wala nang makita sa paligid.

Huminto ang paghila sa aking katawan. Walang duda na ito na ang kampo ng kalaban.

Bigla akong nanghina. May bumalot na sakit sa aking buong katawan, pumiga sa aking lakas at inangkin ito. Hindi makalaban ang aking mga kamay at paa, maging ang isipan. Kung may makatutulong man, ibang kamay ang makagagawa nito. Sa ngayon, boses lang ang aking armas.

“Tulong!” Nilakasan ko ang sigaw pero tila kawalan lang ang sumalo dito.

Aandap-andap ang katiting na pag-asa. Patuloy na bumigat ang pagsisising

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109 bumunton sa dibdib, kasabay ang pagdapo ng mga alaala.

Nagsimula ang lahat sa isang hakbang.

Matagal na akong nananatili sa aming kampo, ang natatanging ligtas na lugar.

Sa linyang hangganan nito nakapirmi ang mga nakaputing tagapagtanggol.

Ang iba sa kanila ay tumatakbo palabas, sumasagip sa mga nahuli.

Sa bandang likuran naman, malayo sa linya, naroon ang tunay na haligi ng kampo. Nakaluklok siya sa isang matayog na upuan, tinitingalaan sa kataasan. Mula roon, nakapagmamasid siya sa paligid. Ngunit hindi siya ang nakapupukaw ng pansin kung hindi ang kamangha-manghang sandatang kaniyang angkin.

Nakapaloob sa kaniyang kamay ang kumikinang na espada. May hiwagang bitbit ang patalim na naglalabas ng natatanging puting liwanag. Ito ang pinakamakapangyarihang sandata sa kampo. Ipinagdiriwang na ito ang wawakas sa labanan at susupil sa kasamaang nasa kabilang kampo.

Subalit sa paglipas ng panahon, lalong hindi matanaw ang katapusan ng laban. Karamihan sa mga nakaputing taauhan sa loob at labas ng linya ay lupaypay na sa pagod.

Sa tagal din na pamamalagi sa kampo, hindi ko natuloy ang trabahong paglilinis sa paaralan.

Hindi iyon nakapaloob sa linya, katulad ng karamihang establisyemento.

Dumating ang araw na kinailangang bawasan ang hinahain sa hapag.

Lumigid sa isipan ang pangangailangan ng hanapbuhay. Maraming oportunidad, ngunit hindi rito.

Sa araw ring iyon, isinagawa ko ang unang paghakbang papalapit sa linya.

Subalit, natigil ito sa isang hakbang. Hindi pa ako handa.

Kinalaunan, naubos ang bigas kahit ito ay tinipid. Itinuloy ng aking mga talampakan ang noon ay naudlot. Pagtingin ko sa harap, isang metro na lang ang layo ko sa linya. Ligtas pa sa puwestong ito.

Hindi nagtagal, wala nang makitang salapi sa pitaka.

Inubos ng tatlong hakbang ang distansya. Sa panghuling hakbang, natunton

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110 ko ang espasyo sa labas ng kampo at sa oras ding iyon ay naging bihag.

Patuloy na inaagaw ang natitirang lakas sa aking katawan. Ang kaninang pagsigaw ay isinuko ko na. Wala nang kabuluhan.

Nagbabalang pumikit ang aking mga mata ngunit bago tuluyang tumalima, binaling ko ang tingin sa direksyon ng aming kampo. Sa malayo, bahagyang nabatid ang isang kilalang liwanag. Parang bituin ito sa gitna ng kadiliman ngunit hindi maitatanggi na ito ang liwanag ng mahiwagang espada.

Kung noon ay may dalang pag-asa ang tanawin, ngayon ay poot na lang natanggap.

Lumalabo na ang aking paningin nang biglang tumindi ang nakikitang liwanag. Tila palapit nang palapit ang puting ilaw at sa isang sandali pa ay matuling lumagaslas sa hangin.

Biglang nawala ang kapaguran. Kasunod nito ang mabilis na pagsisid ng lakas sa aking katawan.

May mukhang bumaling sa aking paningin, subalit hindi ito ang kilalang nasa mataas na upuan. Puti ang kaniyang garbo at masidhi ang kaniyang tingin sa aking mata.

“Kaya mo bang tumayo?” Tanong niya sa akin na agad kong tinanguan.

“Kailangan nating magmadali pabalik.”

Walang oras na sinayang ang aking mga binti at gayon din ang kaniya.

Kagyat na kumaripas ng takbo ang dalawang pares ng paang nananabik umuwi.

Sinalubong kami ng preskong hangin. Kasabay nito ang unti-unting paggapang ng liwanag, inaagawan ng dahas ang kadilimang nasa likuran.

Maya-maya pa ay natanaw na rin sa wakas ang linya. Nakita ko na ang mga tauhang nag-aabang sa bungad. Maski sa malayo, halatang matingkad ang kanilang puting garbo sa ilalim ng araw. Lalong bumilis ang galaw ng aking mga paa.

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Subalit sa huling metrong distansya, biglang bumaling sa isip ang pagaalangan. Bumagal ang aking takbo at kinalaunan ay tumigil.

Nanumbalik ang suliraning matagal nang umaaligid at ngayon ay kaharap na. Ito ang hamong tumulak sa akin palabas at muling nag-uudyok na manatili sa kinalalagyan.

Bagamat hindi pa tiyak, may tumulak sa aking likod. Ilang segundong lumipad paharap ang aking katawan, maingat na dinadala ng hangin. Nang sunod na umapak ang aking paa sa lapag ay sa loob na ng aming kampo.

Nilingon ko ang likuran. Inasahan kong makita ang mukhang kanina ay bahagya lamang nasulyapan pero hindi ito nahanap. Walang sumunod na mga

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yapak sa pagpasok ng kampo.

Hindi ko namalayan ang pagbigay ng aking binti. Umagos muli ang pagod sa aking katawan, kasabay ng mga luha sa aking pisngi. Subalit, hindi ko lubos na maintindihan ang damdamin.

Takot? Makapangyarihan ang mga hindi nakikitang nilalang ngunit natakasan na ito at malayo na ako sa panganib.

Saya? Sa pag-uwi ay napasaakin ulit ang buhay, subalit kagaya lamang ng dati.

Galit?

Mula sa aking puwesto, natanaw ko ang mga taong katulad ko. Isinisagawa nila ang sari-sariling hakbang nang may kani-kanilang dahilan.

Nabatid ko rin ang mga tauhang nakaputing gayak na maliksing nagsisitakbuhan. Ang iba, kahit namamahinga ay matikas ang tindig. Subalit malinaw ang mga linya sa ilalim ng kanilang mga mata, gayon din ang pawis na tagaktak sa kanilang mukha.

Sa malayong banda naman, tanaw rin ang kinang ng espada.

Bigla akong nanghina. May bumabalot na sakit sa aking buong katawan, pinipiga ang aking lakas at inaangkin ito. Hindi makalaban ang aking mga kamay at paa, maging ang isipan. Kung may makatutulong man, ibang kamay ang makagagawa nito. Sa ngayon, boses lang ang aking armas.

“Tulong!” Sinigaw kong nakatingala, umaasang aabot sa malayo.

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“Pag-ibig, Pag-asa, at Isang Bulag” Isla Isabelle Laurente

Klik. Klik. Klik.

ALAS-DOS na ng madaling araw pero patuloy ang pagpindot ko sa harap ng kompyuter. Masakit na ang mata ko kakatitig dito na parang tumingala ako sa araw ng ilang oras pero inaayawan pa rin ng katawang magpahinga.

Ang bigat na rin ng katawan ko kasi buong araw akong nasa harap nito, hindi na ako masyado gumagalaw kasi halos lahat ng kailangan ko ay naririto, sa kompyuter.

Klik. Klik. Klik.

Ilang buwan na rin simula noong nag-lockdown. Alala ko pa noon, tuwang-tuwa kami ng mga kaklase ko kasi walang pasok ng isang linggo. Hindi namin alam na ‘yon na pala ‘yung huling kita namin. At sa ilang buwan ng paghihintay, sa bawat tulog, gising, at kain na araw-araw umaasang babalik sa dati, unti-unti akong nauurat, naiinip, nawawalan ng pag-asa na magbabago pa ang kalagayan ng bansa.

Klik. Klik. Klik.

Sa wakas, nararamdaman ko na ang bigat ng katawan at mata ko at nanghihingi ng pahinga. Isasarado ko na dapat ang Facebook nang may narinig ako na malakas na ding!

“Hi, Samantha. :)”

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Kyle Gonzales. Napuno ako ng pagtataka kasi hindi ko naman kilala itong Kyle Gonzales at hindi ko pa naririnig ang pangalan niya kahit saan. Hindi ko rin naman matatandaan ‘yung mukha niya kasi walang ni-isang litrato sa account niya. Wala rin siyang impormasyon na nakalagay kahit kung saan siya nakatira o nag-aaral. Ang nag-iisang impormasyon lang na meron ay single siya, wala nang iba. Nang marinig ko ulit ang malakas na ding!

“Paumanhin na ganitong oras kita kinausap. Nakita ko lang ‘yung profile mo at gusto ko sana makipagkaibigan. :)” Hindi ko rin naman puwedeng takasan kasi siguradong alam niyang gising ako dahil nakikita ako Active Now. Ilang minuto ko rin inisip kung sasagutin ko ba si Kyle Gonzales nang biglang tumunog muli ang nakabibinging ding!

“Gusto ko lang naman makipagkaibigan. Nakakainip na kasi rito sa bahay parati,

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May tama naman siya. Ang tagal ko na ring nakatunganga rito sa bahay na para bang walang maisip kung saan patutungo ang buhay ko sa lagay ngayon.

Dahil doon, sinimulan kong kausapin siya.

“Hi.” At matapos kong itala ang dalawang letrang ‘di ko aakalaing magpapatibok sa puso ko, humaba ang aking gabi.

Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding! Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding!

ILANG araw ko nang kausap si Kyle. Ang gaan ng pakiramdam ko kapag kausap siya, marespeto pa siya sa’kin, kinakamusta niya ako ‘pag maraming gawain, at nakikinig talaga siya sa mga kuwento ko kasi naalala niya ‘yung mga sinasabi ko sa kanya at ang mas gumaan ang loob ko sa kanya dahil marami kaming pagkakatulad. Pareho kaming mahilig sa mga lumang kanta, mahusay magbigay ng payo sa mga kakilala, at ang pinakanaunawaan ko sa aming dalawa ay pareho kaming walang magulang. Ako noong sanggol pa at siya noong hindi pa siya gaano matanda. Pareho nang kaming ulila kaya siguro mas nagkakaintindihan kami hindi tulad ng mga dati kong nakakausap dahil pareho kaming nawalan ng hindi isa, kundi dalawang minamahal. At doon nagsimula ang paglalim ang pagsasama namin.

Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding! Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding! Ding!

Ang kaso lang, ‘di ko pa alam kung anong mukha niya kasi ayaw niyang magpakita. Hindi ko pa rin naririnig ‘yung boses niya kasi bawal daw mag-ingay sa tinitirhan niya. Pero parati niyang sinisigurado sa akin na may itsura naman daw siya lalo na nung bata-bata pa at napakababa rin boses niya pero mabagal siya magsalita kasi gusto niya raw tama lahat ng sinasabi niya.

Naniniwala rin naman ako sa kanya kasi may pinagsamahan naman kami at minsan nagpapadala rin naman siya ng litrato, hindi nga lang mukha niya.

Pero ayos na sa’kin ‘yun kasi alam kong totoo siya.

Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding! Klik. Klik. Klik. Ding! Ding! Ding!

Ilang araw na rin akong puyat. Mas sumasakit na mata ko dahil halos buong araw akong nakatitig sa kompyuter tuwing nag-aaral, pumapasok sa klase, nanonood ng pelikula, at syempre, nakikipag-usap kay Kyle. Mas mabigat na rin ang katawan ko kakaupo at nararamdaman ko ang pagkalanta ng katawan ko dahil kulang sa araw at galaw. Siguro magiging ganado lang

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116 ako kung makikita ko siya, kahit isang iglap lang pero sana ‘wag naman para naman may rason ako na may patutunguhan pa ang buhay ko.

“Kyle, ilang linggo na rin tayong nag-uusap. Gusto ko sanang tawagan kita o tawagan mo ako kung ayaw mo magpakita.”

“Sam, kahit mag-isa ako, magrereklamo pa ang kapitbahay kung mag-iingay ako.

Madilim na nga at pag nag-ingay ako paaalisin pa ako ng may-ari. Pangako, Sam, magkikita tayo ‘pag handa na ako at saka kita liligawan.”

Ligaw. Nagulat ako sa limang letra na iyon. Hindi ko aakalaing sasabihin sa’kin ‘yon ni Kyle. Sa panahon kasi ngayon, wala na masyadong ligaw-ligaw, basta alam niyong gusto ang isa’t isa ay magkarelasyon na kayo. Ligaw. Ano nga bang ginagawa ‘pag nililigawan? Ganito pa rin ba na nag-uusap pero may bigayan ng mga regalo o pagkain? Hindi pa ako nakararanas ng nililigawan o nireregaluhan kaya mas naging sabik na sabik akong makita siya.

Klik. Klik. Klik.

MATAPOS noong usapang ligawan, hindi na siya nakipag-usap muli mag-iisang linggo na. At sa bawat araw, bawat lipas ng limang oras, parati kong kinakamusta si Kyle pero wala pa ring sagot. May nangyari kaya sa kanya? Sinabi niya kasi na lalabas muna siya para bumili ng pagkain pero ‘di na siya bumalik sa usapan namin. Nagkasakit kaya siya? Hindi niya ba naayos ‘yung face shield at mask niya nang maayos? Sa unang pagkakataon simula ng pandemya, nagluha ng pawis ang noo ko. Hindi ko rin naman siya mabibisita kasi ‘di ko alam saan siya nakatira o kung may sakit man, hindi ko alam kung saang ospital siya nakalagay. Kaso siguro ‘di ako makabibisita kung nasa ospital siya kasi malamang sa malamang bawal ang mga bisita roon. Ilang minuto akong nag-iisip at pabalik-balik na tumatayo at umuupo sa kaba at nginig hanggang sa narinig ko ang pinakamagandang tunog na ding!

“Hi! Interesado ka bang sumali sa aming networking-” Hindi naman ito si Kyle. Gusto ko lang malaman kung maayos lang ba siya, nakakapahinga ba siya, o nakakakain kahit may kaunting galit ako sa kanya dahil iniwan niya ako sa ere. Kumikirot ang aking puso na parang may nagtatahi pero walang sinulid at gamit lang ay karayom na patuloy na

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117 tinutusok at tinutusok. Umabot na ang kalungkutan sa lalamunan ko, kaunti na lang ay baka malabas ko ito at hayaang kainin ako. Ding!

“Samantha, paumanhin na ‘di ako nakikipag-usap sa’yo ng ilang araw. Nag-isip-isip kasi ako kung itutuloy ko ba itong ginagawa natin. Wala namang mali sa atin, gusto ko lang manigurado.”

Natulala ako. Andito na siya, bumalik na siya at nanghihingi na ng tawad.

Napangiti ako at mas madali nang ilunok ang kalungkutan sa lalamunan.

“Samantha Padilla, magkita na tayo.”

Ito na ang pinakahihintay ko ng ilang buwan, makikita ko na rin ang mamahalin ko ng ilang taon, makakasama ko habang buhay, at hinahanap ng kalahati kong kaluluwa. Kung siya ang buwan at ako ang araw na pinaniniwalaang ‘di magtatagpo kahit kailan kami ang eklipse na hindi lang magtatagal ng ilang segundo o minuto kundi magtatagal hanggang sa wakas. Si Kyle at siya lamang.

“NANDITO na ako. Nasaan ka?”

Ipinadala ko ang mensahe ko kay Kyle. Hindi ko mapigilang manginig sa kaba at tuwa. Maayos ang suotan ko ngayon, siguro dahil ngayon lang din ako nakalabas na hindi kasama ang mga tiyahin ko. Suot ko’y dilaw na bestida na binubutones sa taas hanggang sa baba at abot hanggang tuhod.

Suot ko rin ang puting takong na niregalo sa’kin ng tiyahin ko noong Pasko, sabi niya pampaswerte raw kaya suotin ko tuwing lalabas. Naglagay rin ako ng kaunti pampaganda sa mukha; pulbo, pamula ng labi at pisngi kahit alam kong hindi makikita sa ilalim sa mask, naninigurado na lang baka kumain kami sa labas. Nakatayo lang ako sa parke na pinag-usapan namin, pinapakiramdam kung sino rito si Kyle sa mga naglalakad. Sabi naman niya na siya ang lalapit sa akin.

“Andito na ako, Sam. Kita na kita” Mas lumakas ang kabog ng dibdib ko. Maayos ba mukha ko? May pula ba sa ngipin ko? Ngingiti ba muna ako? O yayakapin siya agad?

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“Sam!” Biglang may tumawag sa pangalan ko. Ang gaspang ng boses at mababa. Paglingon ko may isang lalaking suot ay polo at pantalon, matangkad, itim ang buhok pero sumisilip ang mga puti nito, may kaunting kulubot na rin ang kanyang mukha at mas nakikita ito ‘pag nakangiti siya at inalis ang mask. “Ako ‘to, si Kyle!”

At sa isang sandali, naramdaman kong gumuho ang mundo ko. Napagtanto ko na ‘di ko natanong ang edad niya. Kaya pala wala nang magulang, maluma ang pagkwekwento, sinabing mag-isa sa bahay, at sinabi niyang hindi siya nag-aaral. Bakit hindi ko natanong ang edad? Hindi ko tinanong.

Puno ng kaguluhan at sindak, kahit nandidilim ang paningin na parang mabubulag na, nakatitig ako sa kanya at kumunot. “Sino ka?”

Klik.

Klik.

Klik.

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119

Liwanag Ramon Christian G. Placido

Pagkamulat ni Liwanag, kumawala siya kaagad sa rehas ng kama upang umpisahan ang umaga. Inihanda niya ang mga kasuotan sa sala habang isinalang ang kanin sa elektronikong lutuan. Matapos ang paghahanda, dumiretso siya sa banyo at napatalon nang humaplos sa balat ang malamig na tubig. Pinatuyo niya ang katawan matapos nang mahabang pagbabad sa tubig. Madaling lumusot ang plantsadong uniporme sa katawan. Napansin ni Liwanag na hindi pa nasasagutan ang papeles para sa mga residente ng barangay na nakatira sa dormitoryo. Ngunit ipinaglaban niya ang pagsagot nito upang hindi mahuli sa klase.

Kumukulo ang kaniyang tiyan kaya kumuha na siya ng isang de lata at bundok ng kanin. Nang magkaroon ng laman ang tiyan, nilinis niya ang baho ng bunganga. Pinuno niya ng palamuti ang buong mukha at binanlawan ang buong katawan ng pabangong rosas bago ito tumapak palabas ng silid.

Buong araw lang nakatingin sa mga salita at sulat ng bawat guro sa harapan. Lahat ng kanilang itinuturo ay hindi pumapasok sa isipan. Lumipas ang siyam na oras ng mga diskurso sa klase, agad na pumasok sa silid ang guwardiya.

“Excuse po mga ma’am at mga sir, baba na agad po kayo ng gusali.

Mag-lolockdown na po ang buong campus,” sigaw ng guwardiya.

Pinalilibutan ng ingay ang buong pasilyo. Dinumog ng tao ang dalawang

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121 elebador ng palapag sa mabisang pagbabakante ng mga guwardiya. Kaya bumaba na lang si Liwanag tungo sa hagdanan. Nagsasama ang bigat ng tapak ng mga sapatos at mga usapan ng bawat grupo ng tao sa kanilang pagbaba. Halos lahat ng kasabay ni Liwanag ay humahalakhak sa mga biruan nila sa kanilang sitwasyon.

Nang makatapak sa labas ng gusali, dama sa hangin ang mga pangamba ng bawat tao sa biglaang pangyayari. Binabalot ng takot ang bawat nakakasalubong ni Liwanag sa balitang sinakop na ng misteryosong sakit na dahan-dahang pumapatay sa bansa. Ngunit hindi tumatagos sa puso niya ang mga balita ukol dito. Wala siyang panahon para dalhin ang problemang hindi nakakaapekto sa buhay niya.

Pagkauwi sa munting parisukat, hinagis ni Liwanag ang mga gamit sa sofa. Agad siyang dumiretso sa kama para mabuwag ang pakiramdam sa bigat na dala. Sa tagal ng pagmumuni-muni sa kama, banayad na bumagsak ang mga mata.

Kinabukasan, mabigat na sinalubong ni Liwanag ang umaga dahil sa nakakarinding tunog ng sirena sa labas. Tumayo siya sa kama at hinalughog ang buong kanto ng sopa para sa remote ng telebisyon. Nang binuksan ito, nakatawag pansin ang isang anunsyo sa balita.

“Ipinatupad ngayong araw ang lockdown sa buong siyudad dahil sa patuloy na pagdami ng nahawa sa misteryosong sakit,” wika ng nagbabalita.

Pinatay niya ang telebisyon sabay kuha sa kaniyang selpon. Habang nagbababad sa mga bidyo ng pagpapaganda, nakatanggap si Liwanag ng mensahe mula sa klase.

“Announcement po mag-reresume through Google Meets ‘yung klase simula sa Lunes,” anunsyo ng kanilang presidente.”

Naistorbo siya sa panonood kaya pinatahimik niya ang mga mensahe mula sa aplikasyon. Itinuloy niya ang pananatiling blangko sa bidyong sinusubaybayan.

Makalipas ang dalawang araw ng pag-aliw sa mga pinag-uusapang serye, hinanda ni Liwanag ang kaniyang sarili para makapasok sa birtwal na klase.

Pumunta siya sa ipinaskil na link na iniwan ng kanilang presidente. Siyam na oras na tinutusok ng katingkaran ng iskrin ang ulo niya. Hindi niya mabakas

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sa isipan ang lahat ng pinapagawa sa eskwelahan.

Kaya agad siyang nagpunta sa kusina para maibsan ang tuyo niyang enerhiya. Subalit, bilang na lamang ang naimbak niyang pagkain. Samakatuwid, binalot niya ang sarili para makalabas papunta sa pamilihan. Mahigpit na tinakpan ang bibig ng manipis na panyo para hindi makalanghap ng misteryosong sakit.

Nang papalabas na siya sa pinto, napansin na ang pintuan niya lamang ang walang kahon. Ininspeksyon niya ang isang kahon at namataan niyang nakasulat na pangalan sa ibabaw nito. Habang inaalog niya ang laman ng kahon, biglang napatalon ang puso niya nang may tumawag sa kanyang atensyon.

“Ay ineng huwag mo pakialaman yan sa mga nakalistang residente yan ng barangay,” sigaw ng kaniyang kasero. “At bawal nang lumabas may ordinansa na yan mula sa barangay,” dagdag niya.

Dismayadong pumasok ng silid si Liwanag. Nagtutubig ang mata sa mga kapalarang hinaharap niya. Matapos niyang maibsan ang kanyang sikmura, pinili na lamang niyang kumawala sa kasalukuyang araw.

Ilang linggo ang dumaan, lugmok si Liwanag sa kinalalagyan niya. Hindi niya na ramdam ang pagtakbo ng oras sa kamalayan. Napupundi na siya sa bigat ng tambak na gawain na pinapasan niyang mag-isa. Ang bawat espasyo ay okupado ng mga gamit na kumakahon sa kanya. Katiting na lang ng kanin ang pilit niyang pinapasok sa sikmura.

Bigla binasag ang katahimikan mula sa selpon. Wala na siya sa diwa para tignan kung sino ang tumatawag sa kanya.

“Hello, tulong…,” bahagyang pagsumbat sa kanyang kausap.

Binabalot ng kadiliman ang paligid ni Liwanag. Halos lamig ang yumayakap sa buong katawan. Gumagapang na lamang siya patungo sa huling hininga.

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123

Inakay Adrian L. Parungao

Wala pa ring pinagbago ang apat na sulok ng kwarto kung nasaan si Chris nagmistula pa ring isang selda-hindi- isang bartolina, kung saan siya ipinipiit, limang buwan na ang nakalilipas.

“What are the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism?”

Dumungaw siya sa bintana. Maaraw, at nagliliparan at humuhuni ang mga ibon. Makikita pa ang mga namuong tubig mula sa ulan kahapon. Natatandaan niya, hindi siya nakapasok sa virtual class nila dahil sa mahinang net.

“Mr. Masinan, what are the Four Noble Truths? Give me one?”

Malinaw na narinig niya ngayon ang boses ng prof nila-yung tinatawag nilang Gordon Ramsay dahil sa angas at sa ikli ng pasyensiya.

“Sir, one Noble Truth is suffering exists.”

“Come again?”

Punyemas! Di mo ba narinig? Malakas naman net naming ngayon ah?!

Huminga nang malalim si Chris at inulit ang sagot.

“Ok, moving on…”

Kinuha ni Chris ang cellphone niya at nagsulat ng message sa class group chat nila. Bakit sa akin magtatanong ng Noble Truths? Di’ba siya nakinig noong tinuro sa kanila ‘yan?

Send.

Mas mabilis pa sa kuryente ang pag-seen ng mga kaklase niya ang message. At basta komedya sa isang nakakainip na sesyon, papatulan. Dinagsa ng mga HAHAHAHA, mga emoji, at sari-saring komento.

Lumitaw naman ang gc ng barkada nila.

Marco: Pakasama talaga HAHAHHAHA, sabay lakip ng larawan ng message na kakasend niya.

Armin: DL na kasi eh, Chris lang malakas!

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124 Nag-haha si Chris sa mga message, pati na rin ang dalawa niyang katropa, sina Krista, at Mika.

Di niyo lang alam, kung gaano ko na kayo ka-miss, isip niya.

Nakilala ni Chris ang mga kaibigan niya sa unang linggo ng first year niya. Musika ang kanilang common interest, at naglaon, sabay-sabay na silang kumakain, tumutugtog, at minsan pa’y tumutuloy sa bahay ng isa’t-isa.

Ngunit lahat ay natigil dahil sa pandemya. Ang pandemya na nagturuan ng daliri and mga sangkot. Na nagsilid sa mga tao sa kani-kanilang selda.

Krista: Natapos niyo yung LIT? Naalala niya yung essay nila na ubod ng hirap.

Chris: Kagabi ko natapos, 1 am.

Mika: Himala nagpuyat to!

Marco: Grabe, model student talaga! #RoadToSumma Talaga naming pinagpuyatan niya yung essay. Umulan, kaya sobrang bagal ng internet nila kahapon. Tapos, sobrang hirap pa pasayahin ng prof nila. Pogi nga, pinagkaguluhan ng mga babae sa klase nila nung first meeting, pero sabi nga ni Krista dati: “Pantapat siguro to kay Miriam Defensor Santiago!”

“Hoy, gaga, walang tatapat sa idolo ko!, sabi ni Chris.

“Edi ikaw na maging prof!”

Inulan muli ng tawa ang gc nila, at pagkatapos, nanahimik si Chris.

Tumingin uli siya sa bintana, sa mga sari-saring ibong nagpupugad sap uno sa labas ng bahay nila. Paano kaya kung may pakpak ang mga tao?

Kung siya, pupunta siya ng Japan, ng London, sa Russia…

Inilabas niya ang mga braso niya at ipinagaspas, hindi niya pinansin na nagmukha siyang ewan.

Ngunit ang mga tao… kung ngayon pa nga lang walang pakpak ay masama na, paano pa kaya kung nagkaroon?

“Mr. Masinan, what are you doing?! You are in a class! You think you are a bird, do you belong in a zoo?! Pay attention!”

Nagpigil siya ng tawa at ibinaba ang braso niya. Ilang minuto na lang na lang naman at makakalaya na siya sa hawla niya.

Patungo sa mas malaking hawla. Sa mundo ng walang katapusang hawla.

Hindi siya nagkakamali. Ang mga tao ay ibon, ngunit ibon rin ang nagkukulong sa kapwa ibon.

Nagtaka si Chris na nakahanda na ang hapag nang bumaba siya. “O, break niyo na pala. Kain na tayo.”

Nakangiti ang tatay niya na umupo, habang sumenyas na umupo na rin siya. “Dasal muna tayo. In the name of the Father…”

“Bless us o Lord, and these…,” tuloy ni Chris. Umabot siya ng kanin.

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127 “Buti maaga po kayo umuwi?”

“Ah, eh, yung boss naming, pina-early ano kami, tutal magpa-Pasko naman raw.” Abogado si G. Masinan. Kung hindi Pasko ay wala siguro siya sa bahay ngayong oras.

“Edi natanggap niyo na po bonus niyo po niyan?”

Tumawa ang tatay niya.

“Marami ka na naming ipapabili no? Di’ba marami kang pera?” Kuripot!” Sumabay ng tawa si Chris.

“Nakapunta po kayo ng ospital, Pa?” Inangat ng tatay niya ang salamin at humarap sa salamin.

“Di’ba sabi ko sa’yo di sila basta-basta nagpapasok sa ospital?” Nanahimik si Chris.

“Kumusta na kaya si Mama?”

Huminga si G. Masinan nang malalim.

“Tumawag ako kanina, bumuti naman lagay niya. Gagaling rin siya, sa kanya ka nagmana na palaban, basta magdasal ka lang.” Sinubukang niyang ngumiti. Natapos silang kumain, at inihatid ni Chris ang mga pinggan sa lababo. “Masaya ka ngayon no? Konti lang huhugasan mo.”

Mas gugustuhin kong mas marami, basta kumpleto tayo.

Tumawa nang pilit si Chris.

“1 pm klase mo?”

“Opo, Pa.” “Ahh. Aalis ako ulit, mga 3:30 pa siguro ako makakabalik.”

May klase pa siya noon.

“Ah, mag-iingat po, Pa!” Kumaway si G. Masinan, at kumaluskos ang pintuan nila.

Mabuti na lang at maaga natapos ang klase nila, makakapaglaro pa sila, ayos! Nag chat siya sa mga kasama niya.

“Tara guys, League?”

G! Arat, arat!

Naglaro sila. Mga sandali pa, narinig ni Chris na bumukas ang pinto nila sa bahay, sakto naman na natapos sila.

Bumaba si Chris at nagmano sa tatay niya.

“Buti maaga kayo natapos?”

“Ah, opo.”

Kumalembang ang doorbell nila.

“Tao po! Tao po!”

“Akyat ka muna sa kwarto mo,” sabi ng tatay niya.

Sumunod naman si Chris. Narinig niyang pumasok ang dalawa, lalaki, sa

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kanilang mga boses.

Nag-vibrate ang cellphone niya. Nagtext ang tatay niya.

Wag na wag kang lalabas at gagawa ng senyas na may tao diyan sa taas.

Pigil-hiningang pinatay ni Chris lahat ng mga ilaw at computer niya, dahan-dahan. “Anong maipaglilingkod ko sa inyo, mga ginoo?”

“Galing po kami sa office, pinapakuha po ni Prosecutor Antonio yung mga ebidensya, yung para po kay Mayor Linarez,” malalim na tugon ng isa.

Binuksan ni Chris ang voice record, at itinapat sa pinto.

Nagtext muli ang tatay niya.

May USB diyan sa top drawer, kunin mo.

“Otorisado ba kayo kumuha ng ebidensya? May permiso ba kayo galing kay Judge?” ‘Ah, opo, may letter kami dito.”

Nakuha ni Chris ang USB. Nararamdaman na niya ang pawis at ang kabog ng dibdib niya.

“Bueno, sandali lang, kukunin ko sa taas.”

Binuksan ni Chris ang pinto at bumungad sa kanya ang medyo mamutla-mutlang mukha ng ama niya.

‘Anak, tumakbo ka, umalis ka na rito,” sabi niya sa tahimik na boses.

“Ano po nangyayari?”

“Peke. Forged letter. Vino-voice record mo ba kami?”

Binigay ni Chris ang cellphone niya.

“Bueno! Anak, saka na ako magpapaliwang, kunin mo ang USB, tumakas ka, hiramin ko muna tong phone mo.”

“Magiging ligtas lang po ba kayo?”

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“Oo. Susubukan ko.”

“Mag-iingat po kayo, Pa.” Bumaba si Chris nang tahimik sa bintana niya, papunta sa bubong. “Nasaan ang papeles, Masinan?!”

“Wala! Nawala!”

“TARANTADO! GINAGAGO MO BA KAMI?!”

Tatlong putok ng baril, at isang kalabog.

Tumakbo ka Chris. Takbo lang.

“Narinig mo ba yun?”

“Tingnan mo, baka mga batang namamato lang ng bubong yun! Wag mo kalimutan taniman ng baril! Tingnan mo rin baka may tao sa bahay!”

Tumutulo ang pawis at luha niya, kinakagat ang dila, para hindi sumigaw.

Tumakbo lang siya, at umakyat sa bakod.

Ganyan nga. Tumakbo ka muna, at balang-araw ay lilipad ka rin. Nagulat ang isang lalaking nagyoyosi nang bumagsak ang isang lalaking marumi at umiiyak.

Oo, mga ibon nga ang mga tao. Minsan nakahawla, minsan malaya. At kasabay ng mga maya at pipit, ay mga buitre, mga lawin, mga aves de rapina.

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131

dulang may isang yugto

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Pagtingin Alexandra G. Pelonia

SINOPSIS Sa lipunang puno ng perspektibo mula sa iba’t ibang tao, madalang ang hindi mangmamata kay Magda dahil siya’y pokpok. Sa samu’t saring masasakit na salitang kanyang naririnig, bakit niya ba ito ginagawa?

MGA TAUHAN MAGDA: 27 taong gulang, pokpok BETCHAY: 40 taong gulang, binabae, bugaw ANTON: 9 taong gulang, anak ni Magda TAGPUAN Sa barong-barong na bahay ni MAGDA.

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PAGBUKAS NG KURTINA Makikita si MAGDA na nakasalampak sa pinagtapgi-tagping tarpaulin, naka-tulalang kinakamot ang binti. Papasok si BETCHAY na pinapaypayan ang sarili.

BETCHAY O ano na be, tulala ka diyan?

MAGDA Nag-eemote lang ‘nang ‘to naman. May mga intrimitida kasing sumisigaw ng ‘pokpok’ sa labas kagabi tas kinakalampag ‘yung pinto.

BETCHAY O, tapos?

MAGDA Nilabas ko yung mga gago. Puro babae tas kung ano-ano pinagsasabe. Kesyo madumi raw ako, walang kwenta sa lipunan, ganon.

BETCHAY Ngayon ka pa talaga nag-emote? Ilang taon na si Anton?

Hihinga nang malalim si Magda.

BETCHAY Hayaan mo na ‘yang mga ‘yan. Ayaw lang sa’yo kasi bagong salta ka.

MAGDA Ayun nga ‘nang, bagong lipat lang ako tapos huhusgahan akong pokpok? Ganun ba kahalata?

Titingin si Betchay kay Magda na naka-suot ng daster.

BETCHAY Sinabi ko na kasi sa’yo, may tenga ang lupa, may pakpak ang balita! Eniwey, bet mo naman ba ‘tong pinaglipatan n’yo ni Anton?

Titigil si Magda sa ginagawa. Titingnan si Betchay at iismid.

MAGDA Syempre ‘nang hinde. Kasasabi ko lang na nakakaimbyerna yung mga tao dito tas tatanungin mo ‘ko n’yan?

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BETCHAY Itong bahay kasi mismo! Tanga.

MAGDA Hindi pa ren, mas maganda pa yung condo namin sa Makati kesa dito.

Hahampasin ni Betchay yung ulo ni Magda gamit ang pamaypay.

BETCHAY Eh kung di ka ba naman kasi tatanga-tanga. Kokomit-komit ka kunware dun sa kano tapos papahuli kang suma-sideline. At dun ka pa sa mismong building kumalantari!

Papaypayan ulit ni Betchay ang sarili. Babalik si Magda sa ginagawa.

MAGDA Anong magagawa ko, kelangan ko pa ng datong? Malay ko bang mabubulilyaso ako.

BETCHAY (nang-aasar) Ayan, pakampante ka pa sa susunod ha! Tapos ngayon aarte-arte ka dito sa bahay mo.

MAGDA ‘Nang walang bahay dito, anong bahay pinagsasabi mo d’yan? Bulag lang?

BETCHAY Puta ka talaga, kakasabi ko lang na ‘wag maarte. Nako ako ang aga-aga nabu-bwisit ako sa’yo talaga.

MAGDA Eh ba’t ka ba kasi andito?

BETCHAY May raket kasi ako sa’yo. Tiba-tiba ka dito be, pramis.

MAGDA Ano’ng kasama ba?

BETCHAY Aba malamang ‘yang pechay mo! Ano pa in-expect mo?

MAGDA Alam ko! Ang tinatanong ko kung pera lang ba makukuha ko, wala nang iba?

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BETCHAY Ay ganon? Alam mo naman na kung gusto mo ng extra, dapat extrahan mo ren.

Dahan-dahang iikot si Betchay habang kumekembot. Itatapat kay Magda ang nakasaradong pamaypay at tutusok-tusukin ang braso.

MAGDA Wala pa ‘kong kain ‘nang, nakakasuya ka.

Titigil si Betchay sa pagsayaw at tataasan ng kilay si Magda.

BETCHAY Ay baket be may pagkain ka d’yan?

MAGDA Ano’ng akala mo sa’kin ‘nang, pobre? Bumili akong tortang talong kanina lang.

BETCHAY Ay puta naman talaga, yayamanin naka-tortang talong!

Sabay na tatawa ang dalawa. Ilang segundo ang lilipas. Kunwaring uubo si Betchay.

BETCHAY Hoy ikaw, umamin ka nga. Ang dami mong nahita dun sa kano na pinatira kayo ni Anton sa condo n’ya, san napunta yung pera?

Manliliit ang mata niyang naka-tingin kay Magda na parang hinuhusgahan ito.

MAGDA ‘Nang naman ano ba ‘yang tingin mo! Hindi ako nagda-drugs ha!

BETCHAY Eh bat defensive?

MAGDA (tumatawa)‘Di ba pwedeng kapusong totoo lamang?

BETCHAY Seryoso nga kase be.

MAGDA Kasi-

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138 Mapuputol ang sasabihin ni Magda kasi maririnig yung sigaw ni Anton sa loob ng maliit na kwarto.

ANTON (off-stage) Mama!!!!

MAGDA Dito ‘nak!!!

Papasok si Anton sa entablado at ngingiti nang Makita si Magda. Magyayakapan ang mag-ina.

Hahalikan ni Magda ang noo ng anak.

MAGDA Bumili si Mama ng torta be, peyborit mo. Kain ka na diyan, tas maligo na ha?

ANTON Mama, ano po baon ko?

MAGDA Ano ba gusto mo ‘nak para bilhin ni Mama d’yan sa tindahan?

Kukunot ang noo ni Anton habang naka-tingin sa taas.

ANTON Kapkeyk ma, tapos Zest-o po.

Mapapa-kamot ng noo si Magda at ngingiti.

MAGDA Sige ‘nak bibilhin ko. Kumain ka na ha?

Tatango si Anton at lalabas sa entablado.

BETCHAY San na nag-aaral yan?

MAGDA Dun pa ren.

BETCHAY Pota ka, dun sa Montessori? Jusko ka, be. Pwede namang sa public na lang, eh ga-ginto magpa-aral dun! Napudpod na yang pechay mo, ‘di pa rin ‘yan tapos mag-aral!

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MAGDA Kaya ‘ko nga ‘to ginagawa ‘nang para naman sulit yung pagka-pudpod, diba?

BETCHAY Ay ewan! Lalo akong nai-istress sa’yo!

MAGDA Umalis ka na nga ‘nang, bibili muna ‘ko ng baon ni Anton.

Lalakad si Magda palapit sa pinto at mapapa-tigil.

BETCHAY O, baket?

MAGDA Wala na ‘kong pera, ‘nang. Nagbayad akong tuition ni Anton nung isang araw. San ba ‘yang bago mong raket?

BETCHAY Basta, sabihin ko yung detalye pagbalik ko dito mamaya.

Ipapasok ni Betchay ang kamay niya sa loob ng bulsa at iaabot kay Magda ang isang libo.

BETCHAY Sampung ganyan makukuha mo dito sa bagong raket, sinasabi ko sa’yo galingan mo bigaten ‘to.

Tatango si Magda at ngingiti.

MAGDA Salamat talaga, ‘nang!

Paglabas ni Betchay ng entablado ay hihinga nang malalim si Magda.

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CONTRIBUTORS Abigail M. Adriatico is a communication student who spends most of her time wandering in the vast forest that is her mind. She has a knack for being lost within her thoughts and often jumps from one idea to another, which simply leads her far deeper into the woods. This may be a contributing factor to her seemingly unending existential crisis but before she could dwell on that too much-- ah, there she goes towards the daisies.

When she is not lost among the trees, she pours her passionate heart out through prose and poetry. If not too bothered by their sentimentality, she does not hesitate to share her pieces to the world. On the rare occasion that it does, you can count on her word that it will never see the light of day.

Presently, she writes for the Letters section of The Flame.

Si Fatima Baduria ay isang manunulat na malaki ang ulo; hindi dahil puno ng hangin kundi ng mga katha. Sa dami ng kanyang mga gawa-gawang kwento, sa pagsulat niya nahanap ang sariling boses para ilahad ang bawat isa nito. Kadalasang sa pira-pirasong mga papel na nakakalat sa kanyang silid matatagpuan ang mga akda niya noon. Ngayon, mababasa na rin ito sa The Flame. Hanggang ngayon, hindi pa siya sigurado kung ang isip ba niya ay mas poetic o chaotic. Subalit, nagsusumikap siyang paghusayin ang paghahabi ng mga salita at parapo kapag isinalin sa papel.

Bilang mag-aaral ng kursong Communication sa University of Santo Tomas, patuloy niyang ipinagyayaman ang kanyang kakayahan sa pagkukuwento.

Sa ganitong paraan, umaasa siyang matagpuan ang katuparan ng kaniyang pangarap: ang maging boses din ng iba bukod sa sarili.

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Taffy Arella M. Bernales was once described by her former roommate as “someone who seems to indulge herself with the more bizarre side of the universe”— and she can’t argue with that. One will usually find Taffy wandering about in spaces that never seem to hold answers to her existential questions, or to whatever worldly loophole her brain decides to stress over. In order to snap her out of her normal frequently-anxious state, one can always offer her some baked goods or a ticket to an alternate universe. Best believe that she’d be more than willing to accept those.

Though being a Letters staffer in The Flame, a Voice Talent in UST Tiger Radio, and a soprano trainee in the UST Chorus of Arts and Letters, Taffy never lets a day pass without questioning her skills and how she even ended up in places she didn’t think she’d be in— especially in the University of Santo Tomas. She’s currently majoring in AB Journalism, but she honestly cannot remember why she took it up in the first place. All she knows is that she’s a sucker for trivias about anything under the sun, even though she most probably won’t remember them because of her really bad memory.

Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Always in transit, this college life. Even on harshest lockdowns, marching never stops. Two years flew past and I didn’t even flinch. Two whole years of ifs and what could have been—robbed. Life must go on, they always say. And I say, it’s true, really, we have no choice. It’s gonna be worth it, at the end, or how I want to believe it. We are asked to be patient, mayroon daw nilaga kasi sa dulo. Kaya tiis lang, ‘nak. What exactly are we pursuing? A diploma? A chance to march and exit the Arch on Minecraft? And what comes after? Another run.

How long are we going to wait? To be asked to be patient, resilient? Hanggang kailan ba ako magtitiis? Is there even an end? I don’t know. Life goes on. And that nilaga better be fxcking perfect. はじめまして！Who is Joel Benedict Cabo, you ask? He is that code-switching, huggable, Cebuano weeb from the History program of the Faculty of Arts and Letters. This boi loves cats so much that he will cry if someone gives him one.

Just like his favorite animal, he likes to sleep, eat, and to uwu. Additional facts: Sagittarius, loves light novels, and will never get tired of Takoyaki. It looks

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like Future Joel wants to stay in Japan for a while and study there for graduate studies. While that is not happening, he has to fix his unhealthy and toxic study habits of cramming to ensure a smooth journey towards graduation.

Tcheky Cabrera. Having a versatile personality makes her indescribable.

She is someone who cannot be determined because she is always capable of changing. She is an artist who does not like final knowledge. Her goal is always to reach what is out of reach.

Franz De Mesa is an active procrastinator, a fancy term that simply means he is a lazy bugger who somehow manages to get good grades. He takes life one day at a time. So, if he has a deadline a week from now, that means he has six days to chill: play games, read books, or draw art. If there’s a quiz the following day, he reviews the next day, a few hours before the quiz starts. As a good friend of his once said, “If today ain’t the due date, today ain’t the ‘do’ date.”

So take your time, as Franz does. Chill, enjoy each minute of your daily life.

Get a good night’s rest, or read a good book. It’s better to be anxious in the last few hours before the deadline than it is to be anxious from the very start. Don’t just cram; cram better. Cram smarter. Cram faster. And just like Franz, you’ll be able to cram a quality submission for Dapitan.

Zymon Arvindale Dykee. 23. Taurus Sun, Aries Moon, Aries rising. Side.

Labing-isang taon nang sumusulat si Sophia Eugenio. Mula sa maagang pagkamulat sa mundo ng literatura, naging hilig niya ang pagsulat ng katha at tula, ngunit mas napamahal sa kanya ang sanaysay at dula nang lumawak ang mundo niya sa ilalim ng kursong Malikhaing Pagsulat. Kaakibat ng paniniwala niya sa taglay na kapangyarihan ng salita ay ang taglay nitong responsibilidad para sa manunulat, bilang isang tagapaglikha na gumagamit ng sining para maglahad ng saloobin. Sa paglikha, naglalayon ang manunulat na magpalaya ng naratibo mula sa kanyang hawla, na siya namang magpapalaya rin ng kung sinumang makakapagbasa ng kanyang akda - dahil ito mismo ang kapangyarihan ng (nakasulat) na salita. Si Sophia Eugenio ay kasalukuyang sumusulat ng mga dula para sa Artistang Artlets at mga sanaysay naman para sa Tomasino Web.

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Muriel “Moore” Fernandez is the reluctant owner and writer of the Alexandria-sized “WIP folder” stashed away in their laptop. They spend their time sewing, baking bread, trying to keep plants alive, reading books (of course), and all other creation-hobbies; when they cannot write, they create, and when they should be writing, a new Brioche or dress in the works. Their writing consists of all the things slightly unnatural, inspired by the campiness of George Clooney’s Batman, to Lemony Snicket and the pure hilarity of The IT Crowd. But, though they suffer writing comedy or fun, sadness comes easier than it should, a cruel trick played to the tune of John Mulaney’s ‘Kid Gorgeous.’

Djulienne Flor V. Foster is a creative writing major who renders work hours at Miguel de Benavides Library (currently unassigned due to the pandemic).

Originally applying for the Journalism program, she decided to pursue creative writing to fulfill her dream of becoming a writer. A procrastinator with big uwu energy. She was a former Faces staffer and Letters writer for The Flame. She is currently the Features and Literary editor for Escolario, the publication of Becarios de Santo Tomas, the sole Thomasian scholars’ association. As usual, she’s perpetually tired. Please send cat pics and memes.

Hannah S. Garcia is currently a second-year Creative Writing student with a penchant for using Times New Roman too often. One of her biggest dilemmas in life is deciding which is better: taho or binatog. Six years have passed, still no answer.

Si Nikko Miguel M. Garcia, 25, ay nagwo-work from home sa kasalukuyan.

Frances Marie G. Ignalaga is an incoming 4th year political science student

and a puto wrapper of The Flame. She likes sending random memes and cat pics uwu.

Sino nga ba si Isabelle Laurente? Siya ba ay: a.) Isang mag-aaral sa Creative Writing at pangalawang taon na niya ito.

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b.) Mahilig siya magbasa at magsulat lalo na sa mga piyesa na gawa sa Filipino. c.) Ginagawa niya ring palusot ang panonood ng pelikula at palabas upang magkaroon ng inspirasyon ang pagsusulat. d.) Parati niyang sinusubukan mapabuti ang kanyang pagsusulat sa bawat gawa niya.

Ding! Ang sagot ay… Lahat! Tunay nga na si Isabelle Laurente ay patuloy na sumusubok at ipinapabuti ang kanyang pagsusulat. “You’re only as good as your last work” ika nga.

Larizza Joise Macabulos, better known as LJ, is an aspiring Filipino horror/ fantasy author and a sophomore in AB Literature. A worshipper of the art of words, she often overthinks and picks apart stories more than necessary. She spends her spare time daydreaming, contemplating when the Philippines will produce decent black lipstick products and when the Goth scene will finally be recognized.

Currently, she’s grasping the concepts of ‘adulting’ but is constantly sidetracked by video game plots, Game Theory, and anime. She wishes one day, when the virus has finally reached its end, she can eventually travel to Japan and live out her ultimate shoujo fantasies there.

Thea Andrea C. Magueriano Scrawls scribbles sometimes a showpiece.

Christian Ryan Ram Malli is a junior taking his undergraduate degree in Creative Writing at the University of Santo Tomas, where two of his short poetry collections won awards during the 34th and 35th Gawad Ustetika. In addition, he was the champion of the Tulasalitaan poetry slam back in 2018, and he placed third during Tanghaltula 2019 held at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. He also received a fellowship at the 5th Amelia Lapeña-Bonifacio Writers Workshop for spoken word from Likhaan U.P. Institute of Creative Writing. Outside of his usual activities, he recently became engrossed with anime and k-pop, and to extend their respective universes, he has developed a hobby of reading fanfictions.

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Chocolate, chicken, garlic, lapu-lapu, hasa-hasa, squash, gourd (ampalaya), grape, mango, crab, shrimp, tahong, cucumber, onion, peanut, orange, dilis and soya. Ella Marie M. Mercado has 18 food allergies.

Patrick V. Miguel, better known as “Patrix”, is a literature student who has the “attention-span of a TikTok video.” But for some reason, he still manages to read a lot of books because that’s the only thing that’s keeping him sane in the middle of a seemingly never-ending pandemic. He loves watching Medical dramas, specifically Grey’s Anatomy; in which he outlined his personality trait from Cristina Yang (and a razzle dazzle of his Aries traits). Patrix likes to think that he is the main character, but deep inside he knows that he will always be the anti-hero.

Since freshman year, Patrix has been writing for the Letters and Faces section of The Flame. Stockholm? Maybe.

Juan Carlos Felipe G. Montenegro (or Loaf) is an AB History graduate from the University of Santo Tomas. His works have been featured in Dapitan and in the upcoming issues of Ani and Voice & Verse Magazine. Aside from writing, he participates in competitive debates and likes to fervently talk about the shows he’s watched and the books he’s read months after they’ve been released and talked about. He still cries whenever he listens to Michael Giacchino’s Married Life.

It took Sofia Bernice F. Navarro a month and sixteen days to finish this bio note, which was longer than the time spent for her actual writings.

Nicknamed “Bernini” by close friends, she is a 21-year-old incoming 4th year college student taking AB Journalism. She is also a working scholar rendering services under the Office of the Registrar and a former Literary writer for the Varsitarian. Her favorite color is pink because it suits her skin tone, and she prefers to drink coffee with more milk than caffeine. Her love for writing started from childhood when she thought it was cool to have names displayed on a shelf (she still thinks so).

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Adrian L. Parungao With a body full of factory defects, he trudges on. He doubts, but he quickly erases those. Hope.

Such a strong word. So futile, yet it brought him here. Astonishingly, with his body. Such a fragile concept. They say that it is the last thing that a person holds on. He knows that this one may be turned down again. And he remembers, how many? Just how many?

Does failure reduce his resolve? He keeps trying. Impressive.

Each of his letters still strikes the same as before. How come?

Just write. Write and write.

You may fail, again and again, child. They’ll never accept that.

And he chuckles. He heard this phrase a thousand times after his first failure.

Really? Is that all it can say?

He’s been in this cycle for as many times as he can count. Perhaps it would be better to just stop.

But does imagination ever stop?

He’ll stop when he’s tired of telling the stories of his characters.

It looks like there’s no stopping you, child. Then.

He waits for this moment, when the feeling releases him.

By all means, continue.

Ada Pelonia is taking up Bachelor of Arts in Journalism at the University of Santo Tomas. Her flash fiction and poetry can be found in literary magazines such as The Brown Orient, Capsule Stories, The Philippines Graphic, and Germ Magazine. When she’s not writing, she can be seen wandering around museums, either searching for inspiration or looking at the paintings as if they can speak to her.

Kumusta mga kapwa makata at mambabasa ako nga pala si Ramon Christian G. Placido, estudyante mula sa Faculty of Arts and Letters ng Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas. Ako ay nasa kursong Creative Writing kung saan natututo akong magsulat. Napunta ako sa kursong ito dahil nakita ko sa mga listahan ng subject na aaralin na walang math. Saglit lamang ang pagdiriwang ko nang malaman ko na may pagdadaanan pa pala akong math kahit na puro komposisyon ng mga dula, kwento, at tula ang pinag-aaralan. Ngayon, nagsusulat ako ng mga kwento at tulang may laman sa The Flame kung saan nag-aalab ang mga

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salita sa kada-post ng mga gawa namin sa social media. Dito ko natutunan na kailangan ko ipakita ang nangyayari sa binabasang gawa. Galing! Mahilig ako sa mga pelikula dahil inililipad ako kung saan-saan ng mga napapanood ko sa pinilakang tabing.

Hannah-Gazelle Gabrielle M. Ponce is a 19-year-old Arts and Letters student in UST. She has a passion for writing and photography. She started writing poetry when she was in Grade 5. Through the years, she was able to gain merits in her field such as special skills in writing and other awards. She was a consistent member of the press organization, The Writers’ Guild / Panitik at Panulat and Ignacian Press, in her former school wherein she had written in the school paper for six consecutive years. She became an Associate Editor and News and Feature Writing Editor in her high school years. During these years, she was also sent for both in and off-campus competitions. She participated in Pax Et Bonnum’s Ink and Click 4.0: “Ihayag at ilimbag ang umaaninag: Juxtaposition of Journalism and Politics’’, Lourdes School of Quezon City News Writing and Position Paper Writing Contest, Silid-aklatan Quiz Bee: “Filipino: Buwan ng Saliksik”, and St. Mary’s College Quezon City’s Library and Audio Visual Center Blind Date with a Book in which she was held first place. She is proficient in writing in English and Filipino.

She is dedicated to what she does, and believes that we write to share stories, inspire people, enlighten minds, and touch one’s heart. Composing works of poetry is one of her favorite hobbies. At present, she writes different types of literary pieces and articles mainly about social issues and other current events.

Her dream is to pursue law school and to continue with her journey in her field.

Matthew T. Rivera Kung sakaling tanungin siya nang biglaan kung bakit siya nagsusulat, hindi niya alam kung ano ang isasagot niya. O ‘di kaya naman ay matataranta muna bago makapagsalita. Madalas na ganyan si Matthew Joseal Rivera. Lalo na kapag tinatanong siya tungkol sa mga pinakamahal niyang gawin sa buhay.

Marahil isa ito sa mga dahilan kung bakit natagpuan niya ang kakaibang ligaya sa pagsusulat. Eh kasi, kapag nagsusulat siya, walang nanggugulat sa kanya. Walang nagmamadali. Walang naghihintay (maliban sa deadlines).

Alam na ito ni Rivera—na mayroong kakaibang ligaya sa pagsusulat, o kahit sa pagbabasa at sa pagkokonsumo ng iba’t ibang uri ng midya—simula noong

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148 bata pa lamang siya. Sa murang edad, ginamit na niya ito upang tumakas sa kasalukuyang mundo, maghanap ng ibang mundo, o bumuo ng panibagong mundo sa loob ng puso at utak niya. Nadala ito ni Rivera hanggang ngayon kahit may mga hindi maiiwasang araw na naglalaho ang kulay at sigla nito. Ngunit naroon pa rin ang pangunahing dahilan: ang walang katapusang paghahanap ng mundo. Sa kasalukuyan, nag-aaral si Rivera sa University of Santo Tomas sa kursong AB Creative Writing. Para sa pagsusulat, lagi’t lagi. At kung sakaling mayroong magtanong ulit sa kanya kung bakit siya nagsusulat, nawa’y hindi niya makalimutan ang salitang ito: mundo.

Mary Anjannette C. Santos is currently studying at the University of Santo Tomas under Bachelor of Arts in Political Science. She has been writing on different literary themes central to socio-political issues and had one of her works published as a senior high school student at the University of Santo Tomas through the official student publication’s literary magazine, The Varsitarian’s Montage, last 2019. She was also a part of the official student publication as a news writer from grade school until junior high school. In addition, she participated in both journalism and literary competitions inside and outside their campus 19 years old or 1 900 years old, no one really knows. Student? Sure. Oracle?

Witch? Yeah, definitely. (But for legal reasons, she’s 19 years old, a second-year college student, and her name is Francesca Sena).

Born and raised in the city, Dawn Danielle Solano dreams of cottage life in the province. There, she will build a little library and read the books she has been aching to finish. She will use the time to write all the stories she has cooked up inside her head. Maybe a booted, orange-striped cat and a euphoric, happy-golucky donkey will find her interesting enough to befriend.

In the meantime, she majors in journalism at the University of Santo Tomas, where she does the two things she desires to do for the rest of her life--singing and writing.

Denisse Tabor is a Legal Management student who barely has time to write but writes anyway. Unfortunately, she cannot go out because of quarantine,

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When Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson isn’t busy grinding for Primogems in Genshin Impact, she’s usually off somewhere reading, doodling, or banging her head on a table over her thesis. She may or may not have developed a caffeine dependence in recent months, but she can be a pretty cool person if you squint.

Currently, she is doing her best.

Normandale Angelo Tioco graduated from the Faculty of Arts and Letters of the University of Santo Tomas with a degree in literature. He loves to collect and interpret the birth charts of people around him.

Ana Muriel Veron is a fan of fantastical tales. Whether they be in little hobbit holes or galaxies far far away, she longs to be transported into worlds and universes unlike her own. While she waits for her isekai dreams to come true, she spends much of her time listening to podcasts, the same four artists on Spotify, binging films, series, or anime, and playing video games.

At the time of writing, she is a 2nd-year student at the University of Santo Tomas, pursuing a degree in Literature for some reason. Despite having written dozens and dozens of essays and papers in her lifetime, she is still inexplicably unable to spell the word ‘definately’ correctly without spell check.

Shania Allyson Tobias Villanueva graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Literature. She is currently working at a company in Taguig that publishes annotations in law books. She spent most of her days working and daydreaming about the genuine concept of home. With this, the pages of the books she reads almost became her pillar.

Si Leanne Vilog ay isang [artist/staffer] sa The Flame na naniniwala sa kasabihan na walang masarap na prutas sa taong bagong-toothbrush.

Aimee Yeo is a broadcast writer for The Flame and can usually be seen playing Skyrim at 3 AM. Her lifelong dream is to own a fat cat named Chubster.

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ART AND PHOTO INDEX 01 02 8-9 10-11 14 16 19 21;23 24

Front cover Copyright Captured Spread Poetry spread Schrödinger’s link Screensaver Reach Only to Find Everything 43 Cups and Counting Jared Leto curls into the fetal

position (After the Requiem) 27 Parable of the Atypical

Courageous 28-29 Blue Ghazal 30-31 Creative nonfiction spread 32 After Class 35 Mga Panaginip ng

Gising 40-47 “Remembering March 9th (and How It’s Going So Far)” 48 Prose spread 52 And OutGrew Sequin Scales 62 Cloud Campus™ Depression 66 Afloat

Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Francesca N. Sena Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Ella Marie M. Mercado Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Franz Austin V. De Mesa Franz Austin V. De Mesa Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Francesca N. Sena Aimee Yeo Ella Marie M. Mercado Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Francesca N. Sena Matthew T. Rivera Ella Marie M. Mercado Leanne Marion T. Vilog Franz Austin V. De Mesa Hannah-Gazelle Gabrielle M. Ponce

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72-73 Flash fiction spread 74-75 The Great Flood 77-78 Strings 80 Zoom 84 The Flower’s Augury 87 A Maussoleum of Memories 90 Gunning for Truth 94 Called by the Siren 96 Tula spread 98 Mistaken Identity 100 Dagli spread 102-105 Mga T-shirt sa Aparador 106-107 Katha spread 109 Sa Lunduyan ng Laban 114 “Pag-ibig, Pag-asa, at Isang Bulag” 120 Liwanag 125-126 Inakay 130 Dulang may isang yugto spread 132;137 PAGTINGIN 154-155 Photo spread 156 Back Cover

Ella Marie M. Mercado Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Leanne Marion T. Vilog Djulienne Flor V. Foster Tcheky Nicole Cabrera Tcheky Nicole Cabrera Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson Leanne Marion T. Vilog Ella Marie M. Mercado Franz Austin V. De Mesa Ella Marie M. Mercado Matthew T. Rivera Ella Marie M. Mercado Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson Francesca N. Sena Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Djulienne Flor V. Foster Ella Marie M. Mercado Hannah-Gazelle Gabrielle M. Ponce Matthew T. Rivera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Dapitan team would like to thank the following: The University of Santo Tomas Faculty of Arts and Letters Dean Marilu R. Madrunio, Ph.D. The restless, literary, and artistic students in the Artlet community Artlet alumni contributors Our dear publications adviser, Mr. Leo O. Laparan II The Flame Editorial Staff And the Almighty for granting us vision, talent, and the ability to create.

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DAPITAN STAFF Maria Pamela S. Reyes Editor-in-Chief Isabell Andrea M. Pine Managing Editor Abigail M. Adriatico Dawn Danielle D. Solano Assistant Editors for Poetry Patrick V. Miguel Assistant Editor for Creative Non-fiction Ramon Christian G. Placido Assistant Editors for Prose Taffy Arella M. Bernales Assistant Editors for Flash Fiction Fatima B. Baduria Assistant Editor for Filipino Entries Ella Marie M. Mercado Layout Artist Leo O. Laparan II Publications Adviser Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson Leanne Marion T. Vilog Artists

Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Aimee Yeo Photographers

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