DAPITAN 2022: Hintayan

DAPITAN: HINTAYAN © COPYRIGHT 2022 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 The works may not be published or reproduced in any form without the consent of the Flame or the authors.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 Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson.

FOREWORD Waiting can be a game between a person and time. As the clock ticks closer to a given deadline, someone’s patience can be tested–the heat, the annoying traffic, or the impending doom of disappointing someone for being late could haunt them. Waiting can also be between a person’s patience and sanity. The act of waiting could be exhausting. In some cases, like in a hospital, someone could be nibbling their nails while they tap their foot on the white-tiled floor as they wait for the medical results that could forever change the trajectory of their lives.

However, the game of waiting can be different for everyone. Others may have longer patience; they can let go, let their mind be at peace, and enjoy the serenity of waiting. On the other hand, some may find it hard to keep their nervousness and anxiety in check as they wait for someone or something. Nevertheless, waiting can elicit a creative experience.

An everyday act such as waiting for a friend to arrive can be both frustrating and amusing, an experience which Sophia E. Eugenio wrote in her piece titled “OTW.” While another mundane everyday scenario is commuting on the bustling roads of Metro Manila, which can be long and exhausting. Justin Andrew Cruzana poetically recalled in his piece “Commuter Studies: Makati to Manila” how waiting for a public transport while the rain looms can be a menace. Meanwhile, Shannia A. Bernal’s “One Smooth Ride” depicts the journey of waiting for one’s dreams by comparing it to a car ride.

Waiting can also be experienced while suffering. “I will wait and hope and wait again for the day our freedom will be given to us. The freedom that we deserve. The freedom that is there, but lacks the capacity to shine through,” Aeden Jefferson D. Tropa wrote in “That’s When”. The creative nonfiction piece puts light on the struggles of the LGBTQ community, especially within their own family. Children may also feel longing after waiting so long for an absent parent to return, a feeling which Isabelle H. Laurente in “Kapihan” and Czerizha Kaizel S. Adzuara’s “The Encore.”

Meanwhile, losing a lover and waiting to be reunited once more can cause grief as well in “Pagkadating, Agad na Umalis, at Siya Naman ang Maghihintay” by Andrei Johahn I. Gregorio.

The pain of waiting can also become self-healing–“How many more intakes of breath? How many more days until you feel adequate? Just wait it out,” Juan Carlos Felipe G. Montenegro wrote in his piece, “Wait It Out”.

For many people, waiting is a collective experience, especially after two years of ‘The Great Pause’ or the COVID-19 pandemic. Everyone was on high alert, terrified of the virus that killed almost 60,000 people in the Philippines and infected an estimated 3 million. However, life must go on despite the constant terror of the unknown and what is to come next. For now, the country is slowly easing its restrictions, allowing people to leave their homes but with cautious reminders to remain vigilant. Nevertheless, the lingering question remains, when will things go back to normal, or will the old normal ever return?

Thus, the wait began.

MARIA PAMELA S. REYES June, 2022

MARIA PAMELA S. REYES graduated from the University of Santo Tomas, Cum Laude with a degree in Journalism, in June 2022. Currently, she is the outgoing literary editor of The Flame and still works part-time for a local broadsheet company as an assistant social media manager.

For now, she’s trying to figure things out, job hunting, and applying for identification cards as the world spirals around her.

Hin

ntayan

TABLE OF CONTENTS CREATIVE NONFICTION An Empty Chapel Your Writer In the Operating Room, In the Same Throes of Waiting Potential Match That’s When

17 20 25 30 42

FLASH FICTION The Encore Floating Lights and Fleeting Dreams

50 52

PROSE Wait it Out Parting Sunset

59 63

KATHA OTW Kapihan Mga Larawang Abot-Tanaw

71 80 86

DAGLI Pagkadating, Agad na Umalis, at Siya

Naman ang Maghihintay

92

POETRY Wisps One Smooth Ride Commuter Studies: Makati to Manila Home Miss Run With the Wind The Fifth Morning of Grief Denouement is Nowhere to be Found The Terrace Garden

97 100 102 104 109 113 114 116 121

TULA Mag-isa Sangandaan Sa Ilog ng Paghintay

126 129 130

CONTRIBUTORS 132 ART AND PHOTO INDEX 142 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 144 DAPITAN STAFF 145

CREATIVE NONFICTION

AN EMPTY CHAPEL

by Abigail M. Adriatico

I

n all the wakes I had been to, there were always a lot of people.

The elderly usually took the seats near the casket. The younger cousins would stay near the table where the food was. Mothers would talk with each other, unconsciously easing the room’s somber mood.

Our culture has allowed funeral wakes to serve as something that brings families together. After all, it is the kind of tradition that makes the process of grieving easier to bear. Being supported by loved ones during these grievous times will always be helpful to the bereaved.

However, on the first day of my grandfather’s wake, the chapel was empty.

The funeral invitation had not been made yet. Since my grandfather lived in the US, his ashes were brought to the country by my aunt. With quarantine protocols set at the time, she had to be isolated for a few days when she came back. We had no choice but to wait.

When she got out, she insisted that I make the invitation, knowing that my college program involved graphic design. Given the time constraint, she suggested scouring the internet for templates HINTAYAN

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I could easily edit.

However, I had no clue where to begin. I was not inviting people to a bountiful feast to celebrate something joyous. Instead, I informed relatives of unfortunate news most of them dread to hear.

I gave them details of the remaining time they left to pay respects to someone they would never hear from again.

The thought was jarring to me. After all, I had not allowed myself to let reality sink in. His ashes made it easy to fool myself into thinking he was still alive. I could pretend that he was in his house, ardently watching the newest episode of “Ang Probinsyano.”

However, typing his name and date of death cemented the cruel reality—he was really gone.

When I finally finished the invitation drafts, I sent them all to my aunt for her to choose from. I took the opportunity to sink into the chair I sat on and beheld the empty chapel. The usual rustic wooden pews were nowhere to be found, replaced by gray cushioned chairs six feet apart. In front of them was a small pedestal holding my grandfather’s ceramic urn, surrounded by bouquets of white chrysanthemums.

Most of our old relatives and family friends who had passed on had their wakes there as well. The countless nights of visiting made me familiar with the building’s cold rooms and gaudy lighting.

Although, something was clearly different this time around—I was one of the bereaved.

I wondered how people handled it. The word condolence is usually thrown around, but I never imagined what it would feel to be on the receiving end. In those moments, I would come to think of how long until such a feeling would pass. Every day felt like I was drifting idly at sea, lost and alone as the unpredictable waters 18

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determined my fate. Some days, the waters would be calm, and I would only float with the tide.

Other days, I find myself gasping for air as a storm comes and the unforgiving waves crash on me. Regardless of what the waters had in store, I wanted nothing more than to reach the shore.

Sadly, there was no use. Even after everything, the bitter sense of loss still held me in the form of an urn, its grip far too strong to leave room for escape. With every passing second, my mind screams in sorrow, but I am unheard.

In the end, I am still alone.

A knock suddenly echoed throughout the empty chapel as I sat in silence. I was taken aback by the foreign sound, having been used to the whir of the air conditioning for hours.

Before I could do anything, the door opened, and in came relatives talking loudly among themselves. Their familiar noise drowned out the thoughts weighing on my mind. Despite their voices echoing throughout the funeral home’s silent halls, it felt comforting to hear them and know they were there. Their presence warmed my heart, and I realized how much I had been craving it.

I knew then I could never rid myself of the clutches of grief. In fact, I knew it would stay for the rest of my life. Seeing relatives made me realize that there will always be people eager to help lighten the load. After all, grief was not meant to be carried alone. It might have taken a while for people to come, but they still arrived, nonetheless.

Perhaps acceptance was simply running a bit late too. F

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YOUR WRITER

by Leigh Anne Darlene E. Dispo

M

y maid outfit caught your eye, and I knew this because I saw you turn your head from where you prepared our food in the kitchen. I couldn’t glance back at you, because it was the very first time I dressed up in cosplay for someone—because I honestly thought that if I saw you looking at me, I’d die in happiness like a proper Victorian damsel in distress.

We were in an Airbnb apartment you rented at Alabang—I remember how you sprung it upon me, weeks after the last time we met. You were telling me about your work and the number of days you needed to fill in working on-site. I’m sure you’d remember if you ever will. Hell, you may never even be reminded. You’re lucky.

But anyway, you sent me these posts about places to pick, asking me if I’d go. I remember my childish orphan grin (See?) and the way my heart skipped. Truth be told, as much as it’s cruel to admit now, you were always making my heart dance. Sometimes, I really miss it.

What hurts me so deeply is remembering you that first day of our week. You were in your yellow Star Wars shirt, your paces hasty alongside the vans. You looked like you were going to leave if I 20

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was late. But I didn’t think that yet, because it’s not like I already knew you were already someone else’s back then. And every time I remember you in your soaked shorts—or the topless version of you at the kitchen, making me a cup of coffee—or you beside me in the van, your voice and arms coaxing my hair, my head, and all the air between us to turn only to you, I can feel my lungs swell inside my ribs.

And you’re so lucky to have her. She used to remind me what I lacked and what I could have been. But she’s probably your favorite fool, because I’m sure she’s forgiven you. I’m sure she’s still looking at you, the way you’re no longer inclined to look for me. Is she the one that truly brings out the better in you? Is she that kinder, easier, prettier than me? Is she a better fit? Does she hold you now in the way you used to ask me to?

And you do know that’s one of the things I’ll never forgive: knowing you’ve hurt me in the most irrevocable way, but I also hurt you that much by never being better. Funny how love looks in the aftermath—all we have now is immeasurable hurt and resentment to wade through. Personally, I have unattended laundry, including that maid outfit at the very bottom of a paper bag.

And now she just reminds me that I won’t be saved by making you the villain in this story—because you weren’t, not exactly. You simply shared a glimpse of the real thing, and I simply thought it was the entire world. Back in Alabang, when I was lying down on the bed and looking through the beaded partition at your form around the theatrical bathroom light, you hummed the chorus in White Horse.

And I was laughing uncontrollably.

So now I finally remember my rightful place. I know this is where I stay: the part where it’s over, and I am not the ecstatic protagonist in the poem; I am still the writer. I know this because I’ll make a comment in my head, “All Too Well’s better”, and then I’ll chuckle in 22

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misery. I know it because I have you and her in my head sometimes, and I’d make up a scenario, so then I’d realize how happy it could be because I am no longer in the picture.

If you had asked me what would make me heartbroken, the answer would be these words. I wouldn’t have said “If you left me” or “If you chose someone else.” In the end, I know I can only write again. In the end, my writing is the love I’m choosing.

My kind of love is the one that demands to wait and remember. F

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23

IN THE OPERATING ROOM, IN THE SAME THROES OF WAITING

by Zymon Arvindale R. Dykee

I

had my appendectomy on May 27, 2021. It was the first surgery I had to undergo, so you could imagine how fearful I was. Fearful not only of the post-op complications I could suffer but of the financial burden that would likewise follow.

It was almost noontime when I was escorted by three nurse assistants from my room on the sixth floor of the hospital to the operating room on the ground floor. I was expecting that my father would tag along and be by my side throughout the operation. But hospital protocols as well as pandemic-related restrictions forced him to stay and wait in our room. So I went out, aided by the nurse assistants, first on a wheelchair and then on a gurney, to the operating room, where they left me all by myself.

I lied on the gurney while staring at the bright white ceiling.

When I had the guts to slightly shrug off my gnawing apprehension, I examined the room. It was spacious. Every counter was meters away from me. At the center of the room was the bed on which I would eventually lie and have my distended appendix removed. That bed was right beside me. Hanging on top of it was a huge lamp. I HINTAYAN

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would find out later on that the fluorescent lights on the ceiling would be turned off, and that huge lamp, with its equally huge lightbulb, would brighten the room as well as my body so the surgeon could clearly see my insides. I couldn’t stare at the bed for too long. It signified that the very first and most serious medical procedure I would experience at a young age of 23 was getting closer and closer.

It also exacerbated the dread that had been creeping up on me.

I was interrupted from fighting my emotions when the door opened and another nurse assistant in blue scrubs entered the room.

I couldn’t clearly see her face since she was wearing a mask. But I could glean from her that she’s young and short, probably as short as me. I got up from the gurney and looked at her. She said she had entered the room because she needed to inform me that the surgeon hadn’t arrived yet. That meant I had to wait longer. That meant I had to keep on enduring the persistent pain emanating from my appendix, and the torturous agony I had been harboring since I was admitted.

But I had to tell her I understood. So I said okay, but out of sheer nervousness I also let out an unnecessary laugh. For someone who’d undergo surgery of course it would come off as strange to laugh. So it wasn’t shocking when she asked why I was laughing. Right then and there I told her I was scared.

She sat on a chair beside the door and asked, Bakit, ano po ba’ng nangyari sa inyo? That short and single question prompted me to share everything to her. I started feeling ill four days before my surgery. At first I thought the sudden rise in body temperature was a side effect of my Covid-19 vaccine, which I received on May 20.

So I shrugged it off and took paracetamol to feel better. The next day, my temperature dropped to normal, but I felt unusually groggy.

I had to forgo some physical activities since I was lacking energy.

Then at midnight of May 26, the lower-right side of my belly started to ache, as if an invisible blade popped out of nowhere and pierced right through it. The pain did not go away. As I shifted in bed to feel 26

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comfortable, I used my phone to search online for the possible causes of the pain. All accessible medical articles pointed to appendicitis, the inflammation of the appendix. I spent the entire night quietly enduring the pain until it turned awfully unbearable that I awakened my father and stepmother. I told them what was happening to me and, in the gentlest and most careful way possible, said it might be appendicitis. My father advised me to take paracetamol once again and sleep on my left side so that the pain would subside. I did everything he said and got to sleep at four in the morning, but not without struggling. At 6:50 a.m. I was awakened by much sharper pain. This may sound like an overstatement but I did feel like I was dying. I screamed for my father to come to the bedroom and, as I held my legs near my chest like a fetus, begged him to bring me to the hospital. On that same day I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis.

On that same day I was admitted.

I kept on letting out occasional laughs as I shared my story to the nurse assistant. In hindsight, I realized that laughing was my way to placate myself and think of how absurd my situation was. But the nurse assistant was quiet the entire time, with sporadic nods and mmms to indicate she was listening intently. After I finished sharing my story, she started to ask questions. Over time these questions became more and more personal, with topics ranging from my current endeavors to my family. When she asked about my mom, and when I told her my mom was a nurse in the U.S., she started sharing her story.

She told me she had applied for a worker’s visa to the same country. She had been waiting for it to be approved so she could fly out of the Philippines. There was a trace of impatience in her voice as she shared her experience, perhaps to emphasize how long she had been waiting. Twenty-seven na ako, eh, she said. Then she added that she’d been working in the hospital for a long time. But in her stay there, she had grown weary of the workplace injustice she had been facing. She admitted that the wage was low, and her career, which HINTAYAN

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was once a dream, turned into a cumbersome endeavor. She might not have said it to me directly, but I could pick up from her tone that the pandemic had worsened her case. It seemed like she no longer wanted to be in that situation, in the same room with me, because she felt deeply undervalued when she should not be. Her soul was already elsewhere, probably rolling in the hundreds or thousands of bucks U.S. hospitals could offer, but her body was stuck in an unsympathetic hospital in an unsympathetic Philippines under an unsympathetic kakistocracy. But she had to keep working, because what else could she do while waiting for her visa to be approved?

What else could she do when she needed to earn money for herself and her family amid a global health crisis?

Every time she spoke, there was a sense of hesitation that manifested in her trailing off. She must’ve been not only weary but wary of the consequences of this revelation. I wanted to assure her that her secret’s safe with me, but I couldn not do so because at that moment I had been dealing with gastrointestinal pain and sudden astonishment at the gravity of her situation. At some point in our conversation, however, I was able to wish for the immediate approval of her visa. But that was all I could muster.

It took me nearly a year after my appendectomy to realize that we were in the same throes of waiting at that time in the operating room. I was waiting for the surgeon to arrive and put an end to my appendicitis, while she was waiting for the moment when she could get away and be financially stable in another country. Both of us were burdened and linked to each other by precarity, and all we could hold on to was the promise of a better, kinder future. Waiting, it then occurs to me, is a liminal space we unwillingly enter. It pushes us into a state of torment before we move to the point we envision ourselves in.

Before I could get to ask for her name and thank her for inadvertently pacifying me, a woman in white, possibly a nurse, had 28

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entered the room and announced that the surgeon had arrived. The nurse assistant stood up from her seat and went out the door. As she left the room, the nurse in white instructed me to lie down on the other bed. I did what I was told. Then the nurse assistant came back with a male nurse assistant and a man in red scrubs. That man turned out to be the anesthesiologist. She and the nurse in white prepared the room for surgery while the anesthesiologist, with the help of the male nurse assistant, administered spinal anesthesia to me. My body from the waist down started to feel numb. As I struggled to raise my feet up, the surgeon, covered in white personal protective equipment from head to toe, entered the room and asked if I was ready. The room was suddenly alive and raucous. Before I could even make sense of everything, the anesthesiologist had administered a sedative through my IV line. It took only three minutes for me to be knocked out. That was the last time I saw the nurse assistant. F

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POTENTIAL MATCH

ni Ma. Christella N. Lim

A

no? Parang naubos yung hangin at dugo sa katawan ko.

“Gumamit ka talaga nun?” Paniguradong mas dumoble ang laki ng mga mata ko dahil sa sinabi niya.

Tumango siya at tumawa. “Oo nga, doon kami nagkakilala.”

Ngumiwi ako. Hindi ako makapaniw alang magagawa ni Cha ‘yon. Naunahan niya na naman ako at pakiramdam ko nadaya ako sa isang laro. Nakahanap agad siya ng boyfriend dahil doon? Paano?

Hindi ko inakalang sa paraang gumamit siya ng dating app. Kapag nalaman ng mga magulang namin ‘to, baka mapagsabihan siya. “‘Wag ka maingay kina Mommy at Daddy, ah?” aniya.

Umikot ang mga mata ko. Twenty years old pa lang ang kapatid kong si Cha, pero siya ang unang nagkaroon ng love life kaysa akin.

High school pa lang siya noong una siyang magkaroon ng boyfriend.

Sa pagkakaalam ko, naka-apat na exes na siya – ‘yon ang sinasabi niya – at lahat sila hindi legal sa pamilya namin, maliban kina Allen at Sam na nahuli nila Mommy at Daddy. Hindi naging maganda ang nangyari kay Cha pagkatapos no’n at ayaw kong mangyari ulit ‘yon. Although pwede na siya magkaroon ng manliligaw o boyfriend ngayon, ewan ko lang kung ano ang mangyayari kapag nalaman 30

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nilang nakilala niya si Frank sa Bumble.

Ako? Twenty-two na, pero hindi pa nagkakaroon ng boyfriend.

Like, ever.

Madalas akong napapaisip kung may problema ba sa’kin.

Sabi ng iba choosy ako sa pagpili ng lalaki, nandyan na pero pinakakawalan ko pa, parang “sinasayang” ko raw ang grasya. Sabi naman ng iba, baka takot ako sa commitment, na baka ayaw ko pa pumasok sa isang relationship dahil may insecurities ako sa sarili ko. Well, kung ako ang tatanungin, sasabihin kong wala pa akong boyfriend kasi mas kumportable ako sa pagiging single ko. Hawak ko ang oras ko at wala akong inaaksayang panahon para sa iba. Magisa. Masaya. Malaya.

May mga oras din na gusto kong maranasan ang romansa – kung paano umibig. Gusto ko maranasan sa sarili ko yung mga nababasa ko sa romantic novels o sa mga nakakakilig na palabas. Sabi ni Cha, “hopeless romantic” ako, pero hindi ko tinanggap ‘yon. Marami na akong mga nagustuhang lalaki, ngunit hindi dumaan sa puntong minamahal ko sila. Alam ko ‘yon… yung pinagkaiba ng gusto sa mahal. Kaya ang sabi ko sa sarili ko, maghihintay ako. Kung sino man ang lalaki na swak sa standards ko, good luck sa kanya dahil kailangan niya rin patunayan ang sarili niya sa’kin. Kung walang dumating, fine, so be it. Hindi naman siguro kawalan ang walang boyfriend. Mabubuhay naman ako nang mag-isa.

Pero sa totoo lang, naiinggit pa rin ako minsan sa mga nakikita ko. Lalo na at talamak ang romansa sa social media. Pasikreto akong natutuwa kapag may nagbe-break kasi alam kong wala talagang nagtatagal na relasyon. Sina Mommy at Daddy nga hindi nagtagal, sila pa kaya? Anyway, pakiramdam ko kasi hindi ako kamahal-mahal.

Ngayon nga sinusubukan ko matutong mag-ayos ng sarili – simula sa makeup hanggang sa damit – para lang mapansin nilang may babaeng tulad ko. Hello? I exist! Hindi na ako yung unpopular nerdy girl noong high school na madalas i-bully noon. Kaso kalokohan 32

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din ang ginagawa kong pagpapapansin dahil marami na nga ang nagkagusto sa’kin pero hindi ko binibigyan ng tsansa.

Gagawin ko na lang bang hintayan ang lahat? Maghihintay na lang ba ako para sa totoong pag-big na ‘yan? Totoo pa ba ang pagbig?

Hindi ko pa alam. Siguro gusto ko rin maging sigurado.

“I-try mo na rin kasi,” pangungumbinsi ni Cha sa’kin pagkatapos kong tanungin kung paano gumagana ang dating app.

Napasinghap ako. Napatingin ako sa pintong malapit sa’min.

Tinaas ko ang hintuturo ko sa aking labi at sumenyas sa kanya na huwag siyang maingay. Lumapit ako sa pinto at sinara iyon nang mabuti. “Ayoko nga, delikado. Baka may rapists do’n or kidnappers tapos makikita mo na lang ako sa Imbestigador o S.O.C.O.” “OA naman nito! Hindi ka pa naman makikipag-meetup e.

Alam mo ate, try lang naman at saka malay mo may makilala ka doon.”

Umiling lang ako at tinawanan niya ako. Ako pa ang tinuruan ng mas nakababata sa’kin.

Pero… kapag gumamit ba ako ng dating app may magkakainteres sa’kin? Natawa ako sa sinabi sa’kin ng isang kaibigan ko: “Ang problemahin mo, hindi yung may magkakagusto sa’yo, kundi may magugustuhan ka ba sa kanila.” Tama siya. Fine, choosy nga talaga ako. Pero paano kung wala nang right guy para sa’kin dahil sa sobrang pihikan ko?

Nagsimula akong mag-isip nang malalim lalo na tuwing hindi ako makatulog sa gabi. Sayang sa oras ang maghintay. Paghihintay na hindi ko alam kung may hihintayin pa ba talaga ako. Hindi naman ako nakakalabas ng bahay dahil sa pesteng pandemic na ‘yan, kaya HINTAYAN

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anong kinakatakot ko? Tama si Cha – baka may makilala nga ako.

Hindi naman ako hahanap ng boyfriend agad e. Susubukan ko lang naman, hindi ba? At saka, parang malabo mangyari ang ma-“in love” sa taong hindi mo pa lubusang kilala. Ako, magkakagusto sa isang lalaki na nakilala ko lang sa dating app at nakakausap ko lang sa chat and calls?

Naalala ko yung kaibigan kong si Paul na nagkagusto sa’kin noong Grade 9 kami. Nagustuhan niya ako, siguro na-develop ang feelings niya dahil lagi kami magkausap sa Facebook Messenger.

Nang umamin siya, una kong naisip, “Posible ba magkagusto sa taong nakakausap mo lang sa internet?” Sunod, “Bakit ako?”

Siguro maniniwala ako kung crush, lang ‘yon, pero mahal? Big word – yung love, I mean. Syempre, ni-reject ko siya dahil wala akong nararamdaman at talagang kaibigan lang ang turing ko sa kanya. Pero ayoko rin balewalain ang mga naramdaman niya kasi baka naman totoo at wala lang akong pakiramdam noon.

Huminga ako nang malalim. Parang ang lagkit ng balat ko dahil sa namumuong pawis. Nanginginig ang mga daliri ko habang itina-type ang pangalan ko sa Bumble. Medyo natawa ako sa sarili ko dahil ‘di ko aakalaing gagawin ko ito. Naka-set na yung isip ko na never kong susubukan ‘to kahit anong mangyari, pero heto ako ngayon… nilalabag yung sarili kong batas. Inalam ng app yung number ko – delikado yata ‘to. Paano kung may biglang tumawag o mag-text sa’kin? At saka paano kung may kakilala akong makakita sa’kin at sabihing desperada ako? Bahala na kung magaya ako sa crime documentaries na napapanood ko. Minsan lang ako mabuhay.

YOLO! Add your first photo. Nahirapan ako sa paghanap ng maayos na picture ko. Hindi pwedeng iisang style lang ang makikita nila, dahil kung hindi, magmumukha akong boring. Pumili ako ng pictures na tingin kong maganda, yung makakahatak ng mga lalaki – kadiri pakinggan, pero totoo ‘yan. Kailangan mukha akong medyo mature para seryosohin nila ako. Simple, pero mukhang elegante. Pumili rin 34

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ako ng picture na kasama ko yung aso namin, si Lucky, para mukha akong dog lover – gusto ko talaga ng mga aso – dahil karamihan ng mga lalaki mahilig sa aso. Maayos naman ang mga damit ko – hindi tagung-tago at hindi rin naman mahahalay.

Pick a profile prompt. Anong personality ba ang gusto nila makita? Make-or-break ang pag-overshare, gano’n din kung konti lang inilagay ko. Nag-isip ako nang mabuti bago magsimulang magtype: “My zombie apocalypse plan is… to finish my TBR list.”

“My most useless skill is… I can eat 4-5 unripe mangoes without scrunching up my face.”

Ang pinakaayaw kong tanong ay yung tungkol sa interests ko.

Akala mo resume sa hirap. Ang pinagkaiba lang, inaalam ng Bumble ang interests ko dahil parang nag-a-apply sa future date. Wala akong masabi, at pakiramdam ko hindi ko kilala ang sarili ko. Siguro ayos na ‘to: Magbasa ng libro, magsulat sa journal, magtrabaho sa theatre production, dogs, K-pop, internet. Kahit na anong sabihin o ilagay ko, boring pa rin ako sa paningin ng iba. Tingin ko dapat medyo mysterious pa rin ang vibe na binibigay ko, na kumbaga sa literature, “show don’t tell.” Kasi kung marami akong ilalahad sa kanila, makikilala na nila ako agad at ayaw na nila akong kilalanin pa. Kung pwede ko lang ilagay ang “Judge me” gaya ng nilalagay ko sa scrapbooks na uso noong elementary, pero hindi. Dapat seryoso ako, kaya: “Bio = Death Kindly pencil me into your dance card.”

Perfect! Kapag kinausap nila ako, malalaman nila kung ano ang ibig sabihin ng mga ‘yan. Pero kung naintindihan nila agad, mabuti.

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Sa kaba ko, ginawa ko munang “BFF” mode ang account ko.

Nadismaya lang ako nang makita kong halos kababaihan lang ang nakita ko. Nang malaman ng kapatid ko ‘to, tinawanan niya ako at sinabing i-set ko na sa “date” mode, at gano’n nga ginawa ko. Iisipin ko na lang na isang experiment lang ‘to. Para sa experience. Okay, it’s now or never, right?

At voila! Iba-ibang mukha ang nakita ko. May mga pogi, may hindi kaaya-ayang mukha, nakasuot ng eleganteng damit, topless, nasa bar, nasa beach, graduation picture ang profile, at kung anuano pa. Iba-iba rin ang interests nila: umiinom, mahilig magbasa at magsulat, kumain, sports, etc. Minsan hinuhusgahan ko rin sila base sa music taste nila – kung sino ang top artists nila sa Spotify. Makeor-break din kaya ang ganito. Paano kung hindi kami same ng gusto sa artists and sa genre? Hindi talaga ako sigurado sa kung ano ba ang inaasahan ko sa mga lalaking ‘to, pero may mga nakikita akong “interesting” men. Kapag sinabi kong interesting sila, ibig sabihin parehas kami ng interests at cute sila.

Swipe left… Swipe left… Swipe left…

You’ve missed a potential match! Dapat ba akong madismaya?

Parang nanunuya ang Bumble sa’kin – minamatahan ako at nagiigting ang panga. Sinasabi niyang single ako dahil choosy ako. May sinasayang ako. Umiling ako. Ako ang pipili, ‘wag mo ako ganyanin Bumble.

Swipe left, swipe left, swipe left.

Sa kaka-swipe ko, napansin kong may tipo ako sa lalaki – yung mahilig magbasa, nagsusulat, seryoso, pero masayang kausap, hindi naninigarilyo at minsan lang uminom ng alak.

Swipe left, swipe left, swipe left, oh… swipe right!

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YOU MATCHED! You have 24 hours to make the first move with ___. Nag-panic ako nang malaman kong babae pala ang dapat mag-initiate ng conversation. Pero para akong nanalo sa lotto, kasi hindi ko aakalain may magkakaroon ng interes sa akin. Bakit kaya? Ano ang dahilan kung bakit sila nag-swipe right? Mukha na ba akong interesting sa paningin nila?

Tinawag ko ang kapatid ko, at iwinagayway ko ang cellphone ko. “Ginagamit ko na.”

“Talaga?” Parang hindi siya makapaniwala. Lumapit siya sa akin at tinignan ang mga naka-match kong lalaki. “O, bakit hindi mo pa kausapin?”

“Nahihiya ako e,” pag-amin ko.

“Patingin nga ako,” aniya, sabay hablot sa cellphone ko.

Pinunasan ko ulit ang namumuong pawis sa mga palad ko. Bakit ba ako kinakabahan, e hindi naman nila ako makikita? Mayamaya lang ay ibinalik ni Cha ang cellphone ko. Nakita kong nag-send siya ng direct messages sa tatlong naka-match ko at medyo uminit ang ulo ko.

“Bakit mo ginawa ‘yon?” Tinignan ko yung mga pagbati na sinend niya.

“Duh, kailan mo pa sila kakausapin?”

May punto siya, pero nakakahiya yung ginawa niya. Ako yung magmumukhang desperada.

“At saka… bakit walang tuldok?”

Tinawanan ako ng kapatid ko, pero nainis talaga ako kasi walang mga tuldok. Hindi ako ganun mag-type, at saka dapat mukha akong edukada. Lumayo na ako sa kanya dahil baka kung ano pa ang HINTAYAN

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gawin niya sa account ko. Nagsimula akong mag-swipe ulit.

Makulit pala ang Bumble, parang pinipilit na kausapin ko na ang mga naka-match ko. Why not message___? You never know what sparks may fly! Okay, fine. Alam kong hindi ako magaling sa ganito, pero dapat mukha akong interesting – hindi lang physically, o sa bio, at hobbies – dapat dala ko rin siya hanggang sa pakikipagusap. Sa modern times, hindi na pala uubra ang magpaka-Maria Clara dahil gusto na rin ng mga lalaki na initiative yung girls. If hindi ako ganyan, hindi sila mag-iinvest ng time sa akin. Panigurado plus points kapag may sense of humor. Sige, mag-drop lang ako ng jokes, siguro tatawa na sila katapat ng screen nila. Ah, the art of conversation!

Nagsimula na akong makipag-usap. Simpleng “Hi” muna.

Ramdam ko ang tibok ng puso ko sa paghihintay, kumakabog, nagmamakaawang lumabas. May ibang nag-reply agad sa’kin, may ibang hindi. Iba-iba ang estilo nila sa pakikipag-usap. May ilan sa kanilang nakasundo ko agad, ngunit may iilan din na hindi ko malaman kung suplado ba o wala lang talaga kaming mapag-usapan.

May guy akong naka-match, si Louis, Thomasian din siya, pero hindi raw siya freshman. Grade 12 siya. Grade 12, at sinabi niyang mas marami pa raw siyang experience kaysa sa’kin dahil karamihan ng exes niya ay ages 20 to 24. Kinutya pa ako ng loko. Tingin niya I’m into “old school love, kung paano nag-meet yung lolo at lola.” Ang sagot ko? Walang problema sa traditional courtship. Anyway, ayoko ng mga ganyang klase ng lalaki kaya mabuti na lang at tumigil na rin agad ang usapan namin.

Naiinis din ako tuwing ako na lang ang bumubuhay sa conversation namin ng ibang nakausap ko. Hindi ba dapat twoway ‘to? I didn’t sign up for this para magtanong lang sa lalaki.

Nagmumukhang ako lang ang may interes, at ayoko no’n. Alam kong hindi naman ito obligasyon, pero hindi ko maiwasang gustuhin makatanggap ng validation.

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DAPITAN

Nakakahiya tuwing may sinasabing details yung kausap ko tungkol sa buhay niya na nadadala ko sa iba pang kausap ko dahil akala ko siya ang nagmamay-ari ng detalyeng ‘yon. Nalilito ako sa mga kuwento. Si Carl ba ang nagsabi nito o si Josiah? Saglit, parang naikuwento ko na ‘to kay Mart… Si Den yata? No! Si Jacob lang naman ang lagi kong kausap. Freaking hell.

May mga nagtanong sa akin kung bakit ako nasa Bumble. Bakit nga ba? “I was curious,” sabi ko. Sa totoo lang, hindi ko alam kung ano ang inaasahan ko dito. Nandito ba ako para lang mag-experiment dahil curious ako? Dahil ba para makipagkaibigan? Maghanap ng kausap kapag nababagot ako? O maghanap ng lalaking pasok sa standards ko at subukan silang kausapin? Siguro gusto ko rin talaga ng experience when it comes to dating. Pero sa ngayon, hindi ako sigurado kung gusto ko ng casual o yung seryosohan.

Bale ganito lang pala ang trabaho sa dating app: Collect, then collect, then collect, and then go select. Parang bumibili lang ako ng sapatos, pipili muna ako ng marami bago umupo sa tabi. Susukatin ko ang mga iyon, only to find out na masyadong masikip pala sa mga paa ko. Susukatin ko ang isa, pero maluwag naman. May iba na hindi bagay sa mga paa ko. Ang pangit ng kulay. Yung design hindi bagay sa personality ko. Pero once na nakahanap na ako ng perfect fit and style para sa’kin, parang Cinderella lang ang peg. Hindi ako makapaghintay na isuot ang sapatos sa susunod na lakad ko.

May problema na naman: ang “Waiting Game.” Magiging hintayan ko na lang ba talaga ang dating app? Walang tiyak. Walang tiyak kung magugustuhan ako o magugustuhan ko yung araw-araw kong kausap sa Bumble. Liligawan ba ako ng lalaking ‘to? Papayag ba ako magpaligaw? Paano kung casual lang pala ang gusto niya at gusto ko ng serious relationship? Walang tiyak ang lahat. Parang nag-a-apply lang ako ng trabaho sa iba’t ibang kumpanya, hinihintay na may tumawag sa’kin kahit isa para makapagtrabaho na next week. Kaya naranasan ko naman ang unang sakit sa Bumble nang may nag-unmatch sa’kin, dahil pakiramdam ko hindi ako fit para sa HINTAYAN

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trabahong in-applyan ko.

Hanggang kailan pa ba ako maghihintay? Bumabagal ang oras, pero tumatakbo rin ito nang napakabilis.

Hintay…

Hintay…

Hintay… F

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THAT’S WHEN

by Aedan Jefferson D. Tropa

I

remember having my very first crush when I was in first grade.

He was seated at the second row. I sat near the window where I occasionally stole glances at him–at his fine and charming face in the middle of recess while everyone was busy chit-chatting with their own friends. It was unexplainable why and how I got a pash on him that suddenly grew from my still-innocent body. I shrugged it off, forgetting about him until we met again in fifth grade, becoming his seatmate before leaving elementary. He was still the subject of my musings but I drifted away from him, carrying a secret deeply buried in my heart that has already decayed and rotten somewhere.

That was when I figured out that I was good at bottling up my feelings and letting it float to the sea, towards a shore inhibited by silence and isolation, where the invisibility cloak was the fashion trend throughout the year.

Fast forward to my second year of high school when I told two girls that I liked them some time in the first year, which I could not recall until a friend of mine brought it up a year later while pushing our circle to reveal who were their happy crushes in class.

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DAPITAN

I was chasing chicks as I adhered to the babaero culture I grew up having. That was when I learned how to use people to save face and cover up the truth about who I really was when it came to liking somebody.

The third time I transferred to another school, I had three friends who I saw myself relating with and more than thirty blockmates who accepted us for being something that my old classmates were degrading and making fun of.

That was when I truly felt free and safe ever since my life as a trying-hard-to-survive student. As if all of my worries about what everyone who every day laid their eyes on me every time I went to class would have to say about the minuscule details of how I move, speak, and express have finally died away and disappeared from the face of the earth. Maybe it was because of how a portion of the society had improved itself regarding their conceptions—or misconceptions—about the sector we are in, or maybe it was just because of how time naturally would make everything evolve. Or maybe it was both. Gladly.

But when it was time to go home, at every end of the day, that was when I put on my mask again.

At 4:40 pm, I should already be at home. My father would tell me during dinner, “Mag-girlfriend ka na nga. Tapos buntisin mo na para may kasama na si mama mo dito sa bahay.” I could hardly stomach it, but I still decided to be silent.

That was when I finally concluded that not all parents knew their children best.

To be fair, I didn not know my parents best either. I did not really think they were a hundred percent homophobic. My father has a gay cousin, and one of my mother’s is a transman, but despite 44

DAPITAN

knowing that my parents were fine with how their queer cousins express themselves… I am still closeted. I’m still mindful of every move I make in front of their eyes—isang pilantik lang ng daliri e baka mapalayas ako sa amin.

That was when anxiety would start crawling underneath my skin. I can feel their silent thoughts circling the house, drilling me down to the ground: sa iba na lang sana mangyari, huwag na sa anak ko. Hindi puwedeng maging bakla ang anak ko. The thing is we are somehow known in our place and we had a name to protect.

Takot silang mabahiran ng karumihan ng pagiging bading ko ang pagkakakilanlan namin.

I only had two choices. Be gay or stay. Be disowned or be homophobic even though it meant I had to reject and the genuine version of myself,let it disintegrate as I passed through the threshold of our house every time.

I still consider myself blessed with a sturdy shelter to live in. I consider it my prize for being pseudo-straight for two decades now.

I compare myself to other queer teens of the same age as mine who decided to come out of the closet and were forced to also come out of their house by their parents who, after years of taking care of their child, disposed them like a god-forbidden piece of garbage.

I am luckier than them, I tell myself almost every night while laying on my bed with my eyes closed, my consciousness still awake. But they have already seen the light outside of the cave, though, unlike me who could only take a peek from my furrow and my sorrows and my self-made sanctuary.

That’s when I forced myself to swallow the thought—even though the lump gets chunkier on my throat as days go by—that it would be much better to disallow myself to be gay than to be homeless. I know I should at least try to talk to my parents about my HINTAYAN

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identity but climbing Mount Talamitan ten times without stretching is still easier than that, especially now that I’m basically a ladder-less pool of anxiety with me and only me swimming in it. The way out of it is still under construction or maybe still unplotted on the blueprint.

In five months, I predict that I will be able to finally meet my blockmates face-to-face for the first time. Even though it takes five hours to travel from my hometown to the dorm that I will be staying in, if that’s what it takes for me to feel the freedom I deserve as the person without my disguise, then I would gladly do it every Sunday afternoon, despite the heavy traffic, the burdensome baggage on my back, and the thick and warm vapor in the atmosphere that I absolutely hate. That’s when and where I might actually find something that I could absolutely love.

I will wait and hope and wait again for the day that our freedom will be given to us. The freedom that we deserve. The freedom that is there, but lacks the capacity to shine through. For now, I will be dancing in my room, by myself, to the music of my own desolation that I hope would someday turn into a colorful joy that composes my identity and my pride. F

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FLASH FICTION

THE ENCORE

by Czerizha Kaizel S. Adzuara

R

emedios Street sang the chorus of playing children in a humid afternoon.

There was a rhythm of Langit Lupa. Children’s clothes were damped in sweat and their feet soiled by the ground. The little souls played heaven and earth.

As twilight fell, their mothers came one by one. They nagged about the soiled clothes and held towels to wipe the sweat off from the children’s brows.

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Amid the motherly objections was a child who was left behind.

Andres watched the children with their mothers with an ache of yearning in his chest.

There was a silent encore in the street of Remedios, performed by a longing child who always walked home alone.

By the time Andres reached his house, his father and uncles were already sitting around a table with liquor.

His father looked at him indifferently and pointed at the pulutan upon the table. “Hapunan mo!” he told Andres.

His stomach growled. Andres quickly stabbed a piece of grilled pork belly with a fork. His drunken relatives continued to converse.

They did not mind his presence.

When he had his fill, he climbed the stairs and went to his room.

The intoxicated voices faded as he closed the door to change his clothes. Afterwards, he climbed the wooden windowsill and heaved a sigh.

Andres gazed upon Remedios. He was thankful how her songs filled the silence his mother left—the silence his male relatives refused to break.

He never knew his mother beyond a whispered name and a “Batang Ina” remark. Andres remembered the pain from his father’s coarse palms and fists whenever he asked more.

At a loss, Andres stared at Remedios from his window, waiting for a motherly touch to walk across the street and fill the emptiness he had harbored.

A quiet encore remained. F HINTAYAN

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FLOATING LIGHTS AND FLEETING DREAMS

by Lance Carlo H. Angelo

O

ver the ringing bell, children sing the song of innocence.

Their lights are filled with dreams and hope, waiting for their guardians by the gate. The dancing winds breathe against the faces of light scattering over the field. Their names are called one by one to bring them to a place they call home.

One tells a story of a dinosaur adventure, the other recites the poetry of translucent illusions of wizards and witches, yet one is muted with his head down. Unlike the joyful memories that sculpt life, he bows to his shadows as dark clouds loom over his head.

The plague continues to spread.

Light barely touches his feet as his friends slowly fade away from the far distance. Will he see them again? More importantly, will they even remember him? Those fond moments of cherished treasure only existed for a while, yet its everlasting tunes offer a lifetime one could ever wish for.

The sun had already traveled across the skies and introduced the stars to its youthful light of dreams when time passed. The sound of his name coming from his mother’s lips paints a smile that will forever embrace those treasures he found. Though his friends take 52

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a different path, they wait for the next step in their lives filled with hope.

“Let’s go home?” She says to him, opening her arms to her son.

He welcomes a new chapter of growth where the adventurous life remains to fill the time of dreams in the light that will forever shine.

Will life be able to wait once more for those moments that have already passed? F

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PROSE

WAIT IT OUT

by Juan Carlos Felipe G. Montenegro

I

t is August 2021. Rain has become more frequent. And you have been unemployed for 16 months. None of the job openings you find agree with you. None of them are what you were looking for. That is, when you were looking. What is it going to be this time?

Last time it was because you were still scared of crowded places.

No, this time it is the torrential rains that interfere with your network.

The same rains that have made commutes even more impossible.

Despite this, you wonder how rain can feel like refuge despite being a calamity—how it can turn baptism into slaughter— turning droughted streets into a basin of mistakes. The last time God had sent forth that kind of rain it was to make a clean slate, but how come it happens seasonally for us? You are luckier than most. A roof on your head and a steady provision of food means you can focus on inflating your other worries. Everyone is leaving, and you have nothing to say. The rain can speak more honesty than you can muster, spilling itself another half-dozen confessions of its own regret, unapologetic for its intrusion, leaking wood-stained tears into your walls. But you accept and give refuge for it all the same.

I want to be good for you. But what you mean by that is you can’t bear the silence, the brief exchange of hellos and nothing afterwards.

Even in that exchange, there’s still latency. Artificial, too. You hate that you’re becoming accustomed to it, and when the time comes HINTAYAN

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that when you are exchanging the same hellos and smiles in person, the silence is more pronounced— a hanging pause that indicates you are no longer familiar. You are recounting what your conversations used to look like but cannot find them. They bear no resemblance to either of you. In due time, even those might cease. You want to be good. Meaning you want to be good for others. Because what else have you been other than disposable want, repurposed temporary need, claused with condition and expiry. What else can you be? I want to be good. Which is to say you want to be sanctuary. A basin for companionship. And you’ve expended your use. You want to be good. Meaning, you want them to stay.

Are your dreams still your dreams when placed in comparison?

Is it still your body when you keep looking at it in retrospect? The “most” of you is still in yesterday—partial with the promise of returning. Another half-baked poetry draft won’t buy you a plane ticket out of here to be with everyone else. Not that you would want to leave. Why else are you not looking harder?

How many more intakes of breath? How many more days until you feel adequate? Just wait it out. Until your clothes can fit. Until it is much safer to take a mouthful of air shared with everyone else.

Until you can catch up. And even when you have caught up. You choose to wait. F

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DAPITAN

PARTING SUNSET

by Thea Monica S. Lacambra

E

verything is set in motion. There seems to be no other way around the circumstances that have brought me to the airport. I am talking about numbers: nine days of radio silence between a man and a woman, five hours of travel from North to South, and forty minutes of farewell.

I may have endured the back-stretching ride paired with cold airconditioning, but the moment I hop out of the bus, I stand warm under the afternoon heat of the sun. Nothing Metro Manila weather cannot fix. I run toward the covered pathway that leads to the terminal.

It takes me another sweat-inducing walk to reach the café. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the entrance. I watch the barista calling orders upon orders and customers rushing to the counter. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Then a halt. I survey the area and spot Rohan in a cozy nook. He notices me immediately but doesn’t wave nor smile.

I do not give him the signature pat-and-squeeze on the arm.

He does not give me a gentle pinch on the cheek.

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I am rather surprised by Rohan’s choice to sit across the table. I strangely feel far, isolated, almost detached. We used to be inseparable, side-by-side, and we loved the close proximity. I suppose today is different.

The distance allows a better view, which is new to me. I can see Rohan well from afar. He looks calm. I catch each and every detail about him: the nifty gray sweater that fits him impeccably, the black hair styled to an undercut, the peppered stubble right above his lips. He's the same person I met a year ago, except that he will be out there tomorrow, strolling down streets I have never crossed, growing into the person he was destined to be.

Silence lingers.

Where do I begin? “Are you okay?” is borderline inappropriate. I have been told it is insulting to ask that question to somebody who is clearly going through a rough time—and who will probably suffer from jetlag. “How are you?” is not much of an option either. He does not have a choice after all. There are family matters that I will never quite understand. I have let things be only because I am not in the position to speak as though I know what is best for him. “Good luck!” sounds like an email sign-off. It is sincere. I do not wish him ill, although he thinks I am angry. I have seen every dangerous type of anger—anger out of betrayal, anger out of hurt, anger out of injustice. However, anger is often confused with despair.

Last night, I imagined the worst-case scenario: I would come here with a box of memorabilia and throw it to the ground. I would not scream but I would tell him not to contact me again, then I would walk away. None of that happened. I hated the thought of being left behind. Numbers stuck with me: over ten thousand miles apart, fifteen hours behind. I mourned the future where I could not share moments of victory and defeat with Rohan. In the back of my mind, 64

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I was hoping he would stay.

I leave Rohan free to watch the crowd and don’t force a conversation to pop the bubble in the air. The clock ticks closer to the point of no return. I don’t have a bittersweet, tear-jerking goodbye speech prepared. I’m not here to pay him thanks.

Rohan’s hand travels to mine, fingers tracing patterns across the skin. Something inside me shatters. I stare back at him helplessly.

There was nothing more I could do, nor did he.

I remember the calm and quiet with him, often shared under a mound of thick blankets or a pair of steaming mugs on the kitchen island. I remember the moonlight dappling bare shoulders that have rescued me from the deep waters and carried me back to the shore.

I remember words spoken in between breathy pauses, soft yet loud enough to make me quiver. I remember everything and everything about him.

At eighteen, I fell for a girl who had a pretty smile and a big heart. She reminded me of stars—bright, shining, unreachable.

Yet, she saw the world in different colors. I learned an important lesson from Papa then. “It is really hard to let go,” he told me. “But if letting go means freeing yourself from the agony of love, you are giving yourself a chance to experience the ecstasy of loving someone again.”

Papa’s voice echoes.

I gently withdraw from Rohan’s grip. He scratches his temple.

I open my bag and grab an envelope out of the inner pocket. I slip it across the table without a word. If he reads all the lines, he will know why I have decided to come here, and if he reaches the bottom of the page, he’ll understand enough.

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Rohan glances over the digital clock for the third time. He sends me a remorseful look. I respond with a nod. In less than a minute, we were out of the café.

There are patches of men and women milling around the airport.

I follow Rohan near the boarding gate. The world fades before me. I feel like the weight in my chest has doubled, tripled even.

Rohan stops walking. He gazes down at me. I fight the urge to pull him in for a hug. I swallow hard, trying not to step forward and lower my defenses.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

It is funny how such a short sentence leaves room for more questions, more expectations, and more disappointments. I am slowly learning to move past situations that have scarred me. Yet. where do I put the parts that one apology can’t fix? There is no comfort attached to the words I have heard frequently enough to lose their meaning.

I expect Rohan to tell me to wait for him, but he does not.

“You may go.”

“Rohan,” I say. “Please take care.”

He vanishes into the crowd until I can no longer see him from where I'm standing.

I proceed to the exit, where I find the view of the sun setting on the horizon. The light blinds me. I squint, and in the blur of my vision, I start counting the days ahead of me. A year? Two years?

Five years? There are no promises, no countdowns, only wishes over candles that may or may not come true. F

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KATHA

OTW

ni Sophia E. Eugenio

Sabi ni Jonas babalik siya kaagad.

Pasado ala sais na. Isang oras na siyang hindi sumisipot.

Ginawa na akong meryenda ng mga lamok dito sa labas ng convenience store. Maling desisyon pala ang magsuot ng khaki shorts, lalong nangibabaw ang mga mamula-mulang kagat sa binti ko.

Tila galit na galit ang mga markang ito sa ilalim ng naghihingalong fluorescent lights. Sa bawat kurap nito, parang lalong namumula ang palatandaan ng pagsasalo ng pesteng mga lamok. Kung bakit ba naman kasi sa labas lang may silya at mesa.

“Tol, sagot mo pang-confine ko pag na-dengue ako rito ah,” text ko kay Jonas sabay hampas ulit sa paanan ko. Hindi pa ba nabubusog ang mga ‘to?

Nalalasahan ko pa rin sa dila ko ang kinain naming afritada ni Jonas kanina bago umalis ng bahay, pero nagugutom na ako sa inip.

O baka nauubusan na ako ng dugo? May nabanggit si Jonas noon na tungkol sa blood sugar. Pwede ka raw himatayin pag hinayaan mo itong bumaba sa pagpapalipas ng gutom. Hindi ko sigurado kung may koneksyon ang dalawang ‘yun. Basta parehong may kinalaman HINTAYAN

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sa dugo. Tumayo na lang ako para bumili ng makukutkot.

Sinabayan ko sa pagpasok ng convenience store ang isang matandang lalaki. Napaubo ako nang bahagya nang tumambad sa akin ang amoy ng sigarilyo pagkalampas ko sa kanya. Ang tapang naman ng hinihithit nito.

Nagpasya akong bumili ng donut. Kailangan ko ng matamis para matanggal ang suya sa ulam na kinain ko kanina, pati na rin ang dumagdag na amoy ng yosi na nabara na yata sa likod ng lalamunan ko. Hindi ko sigurado kung kailan pa huling napalitan ang mga donut sa loob ng mga display case na ito, pero kung ito man ang ikamamatay ko, mas pabor na sa akin kaysa sa dengue o smoke inhalation. Nasarapan pa ako kahit papano.

Mula sa kinatatayuan ko sa harapan ng mga donut, tanaw ko ang orasan sa may kahera — sampung minuto na lang ay ala siete na. Kumuha na rin ako ng isang bote ng Kopiko para labanan ang tamis ng donut (at para na rin hindi ako dalawin ng antok). Nag-iisa na lang ang Kopiko sa ref. Tinignan ko muna ang expiry date bago maglakad papunta sa kahera.

Maya’t maya ang pagtunog ng maliit na kampana sa itaas ng pintuan papasok ng convenience store. Sabagay, mga ganitong oras talaga dumarami ang customer. Karamihan ay mga galing sa trabaho at nais bumili ng makakain pauwi. Ang iba naman ay napadaan lang.

Inaninag ko ang puwesto ko sa labas at nakita kong may nakaupo nang babae rito. Nakapantalon siya. Hindi siya gagawing hapunan ng mga lamok. Buti na lang.

“Wala pa rin kayong bente no, sir?” tanong sa akin ng kahera.

Pat, base sa tabingi niyang name tag. Natabunan na ng patak ng ketchup ang isang pang letra sa tabi ng Pat.

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Pa rin?

Kinapa ko ang bulsa ng lukot kong khaki shorts kahit wala nga talaga akong bente. “Wala po e.”

Bakit wala silang panukli? Marami-rami rin ang customer na pumasok kanina habang naghihintay ako sa labas. Puro ba tig-500 ang ibinayad nila?

“Kahit mamaya ko na lang po kunin ‘yung sukli. May mga bibili pa naman po,” sabi ko.

Kinuha na ni Pat ang resibo ko at sinulatan niya na ito sa likuran bago ko pa matapos ang sinasabi ko. Inipit niya ito sa pagitan ng monitor at keyboard na umaapaw na sa dami ng naipon na resibo.

“Sige po, balikan niyo na lang po ulit.”

Amoy pa rin ang yosi ng mama na nakasabay kong pumasok kanina. Pinigilan ko munang huminga hanggang sa makalabas ako, kahit nakadikit na yata sa buhok ng ilong ko ang nicotine. Baka makaamoy pa ako ng usok ng mga sasakyan sa labas — mabuti na rin ‘yung binawasan ko ng mga dalawang hithit ang pagpasok ng lason sa sistema ko.

Nakaupo pa rin sa puwesto ko ang babae. Napansin kong ayos na ayos siya, mula sa nakapusod niyang buhok, itim na damit, at maong na pantalon. Kahit ang pagkakaupo niya ay hindi mapipintasan dahil tuwid na tuwid ang likuran niya. Ganyan din ang pagkakaupo ko kanina, kaso sinukuan ko rin. Malakas ang kutob ko na may mantsa na ang likuran ng puti kong polo.

Sumandal pa rin ako sa maalikabok na pader para kumain.

Hindi ko napigilang matawa nang maisip ko ang pagkakaiba namin ng babae. Hula ko ay galing na siya sa kung saan kahit ayos HINTAYAN

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na ayos pa rin ang itsura niya, walang gusot o mantsa ang mga damit, samantalang ako na galing lang ng bahay at naghihintay sa kaibigan ko ng mahigit isang oras ay parang gusgusing bata na ang kinalabasan ko. Puro kagat pa ako ng lamok.

Uuwi na lang ako pagkaubos ko ng donut at kape.

Malamig sa kili-kili ang bote ng kopiko. Dito ko muna siya pinirmi habang hawak ng dalawang kamay ko ang donut. Malambot lambot pa, mukhang magigising pa naman ako bukas.

Maya-maya pa ay may lumapit na pusang itim. Nagpaikotikot ito sa paanan ko kaya napansin ko tuloy ang samu’t saring mga marka sa binti ko. Ang dami ko na palang peklat?

“Wala nang imamalas pa ang gabing ‘to, muning,” sabi ko na lang sa pusa.

Wala pa ring sagot si Jonas. Nalowbat kaya ‘yun? Palagi pa naman niya nakakalimutang mag-charge.

“Matagal ka na rito, ano?”

Bungad ng babae. Nakatalikod siya sa akin kaya hindi ko mawari ang emosyon niya. Pero malamig ang hagod ng boses niya kahit na may bahid ng pagkasarkastiko.

Ako lang naman ang puwede niyang kausapin. May ilang mga labas-pasok pa rin ng convenience store pero mukhang wala namang nakakakilala sa kanya. Walang nagtatangkang umupo sa tabi niya.

“Oo e, hindi na ako binalikan ng kaibigan ko. Kaya baka umuwi na lang muna ako,” sagot ko. Naubos ko na ang isang donut.

“Ikaw ba?”

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Matipid at mahangin na tawa ang tugon niya. “Kakarating ko lang, baka matagal din akong maghihintay dito.”

Kinuha ko na itong senyales na pwedeng mapahaba pa ang usapan namin. Pumwesto na ako sa katabing upuan niya. Inilapag ko ang malamig-lamig pa rin na kape sa mesa.

“Saan ka ba galing?” tanong ko.

“Diyan lang.”

Sabagay, baka isipin niya na may balak akong masama.

Binuksan ko na lang ang kape para uminom. Pasimple ko siyang pinagmasdan habang nangangalabit ang pait ng inumin sa dila ko.

Mukha siyang manika. Naaalala ko sa kanya ang paboritong laruan ng pamangkin kong si Bea. Tulad ng babae, maamo ang mata ng manika, mapula pa ang pisngi at mga labi. Pareho rin silang may bahagyang impit sa pagitan ng dalawang kilay — para bang laging may alalahanin.

“Buti ka pa, may naghatid sayo rito,” sabi niya.

Si Jonas?

“Kasama ko talaga siya. Iniwan niya muna ako rito saglit, babalik din siya.”

Ngumiti na lang siya sa akin. Malungkot ang mga mata niya.

“Taga-san ka ba, Miss? Parang ang layo ata ng pinanggalingan mo, may load pa ako – gusto mo ba tumawag muna sa-” Umiling siya. “Hindi, dito talaga ako dapat mapunta.”

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May umaambang langaw sa bibig ng kape ko. Alam ko na kaagad na may mga susunod pa sa kanya.

“Kailan ka aalis dito?” tanong ng babae.

Tinignan ko ang oras. Malapit na mag-alas otso.

“Maya-maya siguro. Nag-aalala pa ako sa kaibigan ko e. Hindi pa niya ko sinasagot tapos wala pa siya rito,” sagot ko. “Ikaw?”

“Hindi ko pa alam. Depende kung pwede na.”

Nakaka-praning naman kausap ‘to, hindi diretso sumagot.

“Depende kanino?”

Binaling niya na lang ang tingin niya sa convenience store.

Labas-pasok pa rin ang mga tao at dumarami na rin ang mga naghihintay sa tabi namin. Halo-halo na sila pero pawang may mga inaabangan na kasama para makaalis na.

“Gusto mo na ba umalis?” tanong ulit ng babae.

Nag-uumpisa na akong dapuan ng mga langaw sa binti.

Nagpalit naman sila ng shift ng mga lamok. Buti pa ‘tong si ate, naka-off lotion siguro. Hindi man lang siya nilalapitan ng mga peste — mapa-lamok, langaw, o gamu-gamo. Ako lang ang maswerteng pinapakyaw mula kanina.

“Oo naman, nakakapagod kaya maghintay dito.”

“Nilalangaw ka na,” nakangiti na naman siya. “Ang tagal mo na nga rito.”

May sabit ata ‘to.

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“Ano bang ginawa mo para mapunta rito?” ikatlong tanong.

“Ha?” Natawa na ang babae. “Matagal ka na rito pero parang mas bagong salta ka pa kaysa sa akin! Baka maunahan pa kitang umalis niyan.”

“San ka ba kasi papunta, Miss?” tinanong ko na lang din siya.

Hindi ko na sigurado kung pareho pa ba kami ng pinag-uusapan. niya.

“Kung saan ka rin pupunta. Sabayan na lang siguro kita,” sabi “Sige.” Ihahatid ko na lang siguro ‘to sa sakayan.

Binuksan ko na ulit ang paper bag para kainin ang pangalawang donut. Halos wala nang natira na powdered sugar dito. Lalo pang dumami ang mga langaw na umaaligid sa tabi ko.

“May kasalanan ka sa kaibigan mo, no?” imik ulit ng babae.

“Kaya hindi ka makaalis dito.”

Hindi ako makakagat sa donut sa dami ng langaw. Pero ni isa walang dumadapo sa babae. Sinara ko ulit ang paper bag.

“Paano mo naman nasabi?”

“Hinihintay mo pa rin siya kahit alam mong hindi na siya babalik.”

“Babalik ‘yun.”

“Pero may away nga kayo?”

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“Wala-” “E bakit nandito ka pa rin?”

Sumakto ang pagtunog ng maliit na kampana.

May sukli pa pala ako.

“Sige, subukan mo munang balikan,” sabi ng babae. Nasabi ko pala ang naisip ko.

Sinusundan ako ng mga langaw. May iilan na nakasingit sa pagpasok ko ng convenience store. Ayoko namang bumili ng baygon para lang dito. Meron naman kami sa bahay. Binilisan ko na lang ang mga hakbang ko papunta sa kahera. Buti walang nakapila.

Nakatingin na si Pat sa akin bago pa ako makalapit sa kanya.

“Miss, may panukli na ba kayo?”

“Wala pa rin po, sir.”

“Ha? E ang dami nang bumibili kanina ah, bakit wala pa rin?”

“Tatawagin ko naman po kayo, sir. Pahintay na lang po.”

Sinilip ko ang tambakan niya ng mga resibo. Puno pa rin.

Tinuro ko ito. “Lahat ba ‘yan, wala pang mga sukli?”

Tinignan lang ako ni Pat. Naramdaman ko bigla ang pag-vibrate ng cellphone ko.

Sa wakas! Si Jonas!

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Uy, tol. Kakauwi ko lang. Sana okay ka lang diyan. Sorry diyan na kita pinagpag. Ikain mo na lang ako ng donut, panghimagas sa afritada kanina. Mamimiss kita.

Nagsalita ulit si Pat. “Balik na lang ulit kayo bukas, Sir.” F

HINTAYAN

79

KAPIHAN

ni Isabelle H. Laurente

“P

ibertdei, anak!”

Hinalikan ako ni Mama sa pisngi habang hinihipan ko ang kandila sa cake. Nakaupo lang si Papa sa gilid habang nilaklak ang bote ng alak. Nakita ni Mama na nakatingin ako kay Papa kaya sinigawan niya si Papa.

ama ka naman.” Hirit niya.

Sumagot naman si Papa, “Minsan na nga lang ako makapagpahinga, hindi mo pa ako hinahayaan. Linggonglinggo ganyan ka!”

At nagsagutan na silang dalawa, pataas nang pataas “Tony, ‘wag ka ngang ang kanilang boses hanggang uminom sa harap ng bata. sa pinapasok na ako ni Mama Kaarawan niya ngayon, maging sa kwarto. Nakatulog na rin

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ako matapos ang ilang oras ng sigawan, nang pumasok si Papa sa kwarto. Hinalikan ako sa noo at binulong, “Anak, aalis muna Papa mo, anong gusto mong regalo?”

Natuwa ako dahil matagal ko na rin gusto ng Baby Alive.

Tumango naman ang tatay ko at niyakap ako. Pinatay niya ang ilaw ng kwarto ko at unti-unting naglalaho ang tunog ng sapatos niya sa bahay.

Hindi na siya bumalik noong gabing iyon. O sa sumunod na linggo, sa sumunod na buwan, at sa mga sumunod na taon.

Bawat kaarawan ko, parati ko siyang inaabangan na mayroong bitbit na Baby Alive sa kaliwang kamay at cake sa kabila. Tuwing may naririnig akong sapatos na papasok sa pinto, hinahanda ko na ang sarili ko para makita siya muli. Pero ang pumapasok ay ang bagong nobyo ni Mama.

Hindi naman sa ayaw ko sa kanya, pero mas gugustuhin kong makasama muli si Papa.

Iniisip ko baka nahihirapan lang siyang makauwi dahil pandemya pa rin at mahirap na magkasakit.

Kaya naghihintay ako. Arawaraw. Buwan-buwan. Taon-taon.

Dumating din ang araw na iyon.

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Nang lumuwag-luwag na ang Pilipinas at naging Alert Level 1 na, nahiligan ko nang tumambay sa isang coffee shop malapit sa amin. Mga tatlong kanto lang galing sa bahay. Malamig kasi dito, maaliwalas ang lugar, at hindi gaano kamahal ang kape nila kaya parati akong nagbabasa dito. Ilang buwan na rin akong naririto kaya halos alam na ng mga barista ang order ko. Minsan makakakita ako ng kaibigan o kakilala ngunit ngayong araw, hindi ko inakala na makikita ko si Papa matapos niyang hindi bumalik noong anim na taon pa lang ako.

Nakapila siya sa kahera. Hawak-hawak ang kamay ng isang bata, siguro kasing-edad ko rin noong iniwan kami. May kaakbay naman siyang babae sa kabila. Nababasa kong tinatanong niya sila kung ano ang gustong kape nung babae. Naririnig ko ang tawa niya kahit naka-mask at malayo-layo sa akin. Pumuti na rin ang buhok niya, kumuba nang kaunti, at nagkalaman na siya. Sa unang tingin, hindi ko mapapansin na siya iyon, ngunit sa galaw pa lang niya, alam ko nang siya si Papa. Ngunit ngayon tumanda na at may ibang pamilya. Hindi na kami ni Mama ang hawak-hawak niya.

Gusto ko siyang lapitan, yakapin, at tanungin saan siya nagpunta, bakit may iba na siyang kasama. Ngunit parang nakadikit ang paa ko sa sahig at hindi ako makalakad papunta sa kanya.

Sa tuwing titingin siya sa direksyon ko, umiiwas ang mata ko sa kanya. Sa kanilang tatlo. Hindi ko rin alam kung mamumukhaan niya pa ako o mararamdaman niyang ako ang anak niya. Gusto kong tumakbo papunta sa kanya ngunit wala akong nagawa. Para pa rin akong naghihintay sa bagay na alam kong matagal nang wala.

Nakita niya akong nakatingin sa kanya, ilang sandali rin kaming nagtititigan na parang inaamoy-amoy ng lumang aso ang bagong pusa sa bahay. Inaasahan kong lalapit siya at tanungin kung ako ba to, si Rica. Hinihintay ko siyang lumapit, kausapin ako, yakapin ako.

O kung susuntok na ako sa buwan, bumalik siya sa amin.

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Pero umiwas lang siya ng tingin at bumalik ang atensyon niya sa dalawa. Iniiwasan kong hindi lumuha sa harap niya at sa harap ng maraming tao kaya binalik ko na lang ang tingin ko sa libro.

Nararamdaman kong lumabas na sila bitbit ang dalawang kape.

Mula noon, imbis na isa o dalawang beses na pagdalo ko sa coffee shop, araw-araw na at parehong oras din kung kailan ko siya nakita. Nagbabaka sakaling bumalik siya at lapitan ako. Nag-aalala na nga sa akin si Mama dahil araw-araw na lang daw ako nagkakape at gumagastos. Sinasabi ko na lang na maraming gawain sa kolehiyo kaya kinakailangan talaga.

May mga araw na wala siya pero may mga araw naman na nandito siya. Minsan mag-isa, minsan kasama ang bagong pamilya niya. Ngunit sa bawat araw na naririto siya, hindi niya ako nilalapitan pero parati akong tinitingnan. At sa bawat araw na iyon, naririto lang ako, kung saan ako parating nakaupo at naghihintay na lapitan niya ako.

Minsan iniisip ko kung ako na lang ang lumapit ngunit habang tumatagal, hindi ko pa rin alam ang gagawin o sasabihin ko.

Yayakapin ko ba siya? Kakamustahin? Ano ang magiging reaksyon ng asawa at anak niya? Kaya nanatili na lang ako sa kinauupuan ko.

Si Papa ang dapat lumapit sa akin.

Ika-dalawampu’t isang kaarawan ko na. Limang buwan na rin akong naghihintay na lumapit siya. Hindi na nga ako bumibili minsan dahil ubos na pera ko, dinadaan ko na lang sa kwento sa mga barista doon para makaupo ako. Nagsasawa na rin ako sa sulyapsulyap namin sa isa’t isa, hindi ko na rin alam kung may halaga pa ba ang paghihintay ko. Masaya na naman ako kasama si Mama, medyo natatanggap ko na rin naman ang nobyo niya, at iskolar pa ako. Wala na rin naman akong kailangan hilingin.

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Kaya para sa aking kaarawan, nagpagdesisyunan kong ito na rin ang huling araw na hihintayin ko siya sa kapihan. Hindi ko na rin alam kung darating siya ngayon ngunit mayroon pa akong kakaunting pag-asa na lalapit siya. Kapiranggot na lang iyon ngunit ang pag-asa ay pag-asa gaano pa ito kaliit.

Nang ilipat ko ang pahina ng binabasa kong libro, may pumasok sa pinto at naririnig ko ang pamilyar na tapak ng sapatos. Imbis na pumila ito sa may kahera, palapit nang palapit ang tunog ng sapatos nito papunta sa akin. Nang tumango ako, nakatingin sa akin si Papa.

“Rica?”

Hindi lang limang buwan akong naghihintay para sa kanya, buong buhay ko siyang inaasam na pumasok siya sa pintuan namin at sabihing nakabalik na siya. Ilang buwan kong paulit-ulit na iniisip ang sasabihin ko. Ngayon na nasa harapan ko na siya, nawala ang sasabihin ko, hindi ko magalaw ang katawan ko, at hindi ko alam ang gagawin ko.

Ano pa ba ang punto nito? Ano ba ang mararating ng paghihintay ko?

“Hindi ko alam kung itatanong ko ba ito kasi hindi naman karaniwang tanong ‘to. Pero…” Tumigil ng pagsasalita si Papa.

“Ikaw ba ang anak ko? Pasensya na ha, hindi ko na kasi matandaan mukha niya. Parati kasi akong umiinom noon.”

Sa linyang iyon, doon ko napagtanto na hindi ko na siya ama.

Handa na akong sabihin na “Pa! Opo ako po si Rica.” Ngunit hinihila ako ng isip ko na sabihing ‘wag. Wala ring magbabago. Hindi naman ito magiging mahalaga.

“A, hindi po. Nasa bahay po si Papa.” Sinabi ko sa kanya.

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Bago pa siya makasalita, humawak sa kamay niya ang kanyang anak na may dala-dalang Baby Alive.

“Daddy, naghihintay na si Mommy sa labas. Marami siyang bitbit na gamit.”

Hindi ko alam kung ngumiti sa ‘kin si Papa dahil nakatago sa mask ngunit tiningnan niya lang ako sa huling pagkakataon at umalis.

Siguro iyon na ang pagpipinid ng relasyon namin ni Papa. May iba na siyang pamilya at ayokong sirain ‘yon. Kahit ilang taon pa akong naghihintay na dumating siya sa bahay at humingi ng tawad, alam kong wala ring magbabago. Sa tingin ko’y hindi sayang ang paghihintay ko sa kanya dahil binigyan niya ako ng rason para maging matatag na wala siya. Ang makita siya siguro ang regalo sa akin ng sansinukob dahil hindi ko na kailangan maghintay at malaya na ako sa pangakong babalik pa siya. F

HINTAYAN

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MGA LARAWANG ABOT-TANAW ni Dawn Danielle D. Solano

S

a Isla, kapayapaan ang nananaig. Mula sa pagsikat ng Araw hanggang sa paglubog nito, iisa ang larawang naipipinta sa mga mata ng mga naninirahan dito—kaligtasan.

Kung tutuusin, wala nang mahihiling pa si Ayla kundi ang manatili sa Isla. Lahat ng kaniyang pangangailangan ay narito na, kumpleto at sapat.

Ngunit tuwing dumarating ang Bangka mula sa Kagiliran, lumiliit ang Isla. Umuurong ang dalampasigan; ang abot nito ay umiikli. Lumalayo ang kalangitan at lumalabo ang dakilang Araw.

Tinanaw ni Ayla ang paparating na bangka, at tumalon sa tuwa ang puso niya.

Binugahan niya ng hangin ang mga hibla ng buhok na dumikit sa kaniyang pisngi. Maghapon na siyang naka-dantay, inaabangan ang maliit na bangka na dumaong sa mapuputing buhangin ng kanilang isla.

Ito ay hindi isang pangkaraniwang bangka. Naiiba ito sa mga sasakyang-dagat na kinalakihan ni Ayla sa kanilang Isla. Ang 86

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katawan nito ay gawa sa matitibay na kahoy ng narra. Matitingkad na puti ang mga palo nito.

Higit sa lahat, ito ay walang tagaugit. Dumarating ito sa mga munting oras ng takipsilim, dala-dala ang mga litrato na mula sa upuan ng Araw.

Noong nakaraang linggo lamang ay baon nito ang mga uri ng bulaklak at paruparo na hindi naninirahan sa Isla. Kahapon naman ay may dala itong mga kuha ng mga taong hindi pa niya nakikita sa tala ng kaniyang buhay. Mayroong mga matayog na gusali na gawa sa bakal, bato, at pinong buhangin.

Kumukuha si Ayla ng isa o tatlong litrato mula sa Bangka, at mag-aabang sa susunod nitong pagbisita sa kaniya. Nakabisado niya ang bilang ng araw at bilang ng bituin kung kailan paparito ang Bangka at nananabik siya sa bawat dalaw nito.

Kumaripas ng takbo ang dalagita nang makita itong dumaong.

Sabay sa alon, mabibigat at malalakas ang pintig ng kaniyang puso.

Ngunit, kung gaano kataas ang inilipad ng kaniyang ligaya ganoon rin katindi ang pagsadsad nito nang madatnan niyang walang laman ang Bangka.

Marahan niyang nilapitan ito at sinisayat ang bawat sulok nito, nagbabakasakali na may itinatago ito na hindi nakikita ng mata.

Nilapat niya ang kaniyang mga kamay sa katawan ng Bangka, at mahinahong hinimas ang tela ng palo.

Sa lahat ng dalaw nito, ngayon lamang dumapo sa kaniyang palaisipan kung saan maari nanggagaling ang Bangka. Naglaro sa kaniyang isip ang mga posibilidad sa likod ng kakaibang pangyayari na ito.

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Marahil ay tinangay ng malakas na hangin ang dala nito at inanod papabalik sa Araw.

Siguro ay lumutang ang mga larawan pa-Hilaga, kung saan matatagpuan ang mga bundok na kinukumutan ng makapal na ulap.

Hindi kaya nilipad ang mga larawan pa-Timog? Kung saan naninirahan ang mga taong magkakaiba ang hugis ng ilong, bilang ng mata, at kapal ng balahibo.

Marahil nga ay ang mga larawang hinihintay niya ay nasa magkakaibang dulo ng mundo, maliban dito. Sa mga oras na ito, siguro ay malayo na ang kanilang natahak, at kung anu-anong tanawin ang nakita.

Halintulad sa mga larawang minsan sumakay sa bangkang ito, marahan na isinampa ng dalagita ang sarili sa loob. Kusang bumunsod ang Bangka; tila ba ay hinihintay lamang nito ang kanyang nagiisang pasahero.

Ibinaling niya ang kaniyang paningin sa Isla, at kinilatis ang mga puno at batong umusbong dito. Kung may kakayahan lamang siya na kumuha ng litrato gamit ang kanyang mga mata, tiyak na gagawin niya ito.

Napagtanto niya na may natitira pang isang kahilingan si Ayla mula sa Isla. Ito ay ang pahintulutan siyang lisanin ito.

Minsan na niyang itinuring ito na kaniyang tahanan, at mananatili ito bilang isang tahanan. Ngunit, sa lawak ng mundong ito, imposible ang manatili sa iisang lugar.

“Hanggang sa muli,” pabulong na paalam ni Ayla. Tinapik niya ang bangka at nagsimula itong maglayag sa hudyat ng hanging pabaon ng Isla. F HINTAYAN

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DAGLI

PAGKADATING, AGAD NA UMALIS, AT SIYA NAMAN ANG MAGHIHINTAY ni Andrei Johahn I. Gregorio

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P

agkabighani sa mga bagay na matatanaw at pakikinig sa huni ng mga ibon habang nakaupo sa lilom ng puno ng Akasya sa tapat ng kalsada. Ito ang naging libangan habang ang iyong pagdating ay inaabangan sa lugar na siyang napagkasunduan.

Madalas mang ganito ang pangyayari ay 'di naiinip, sapagkat sa bawat segundong wala ka pa, lalo lang nadaragdagan ang pagkasabik na muling makita ka.

Isang dyip ang huminto, at sa wakas, nasa kabilang bahagi ka na ng kalsada, tatawid ka na lamang at ang ating kamay ay muling magiisa. Sa galak ay dali dali kang tumakbo papunta sa akin, ngunit hindi lang pala ikaw ang nagmamadali.

Sa harap ng aking mga mata, isang sasakyang rumaragasa ang humagip sa inaabangan kong diwata. Wala akong nagawa.

Akala ko ba ako ang naghihintay? Bakit bigla ka pang nauna?

Naisipan kong agad na sumunod, ngunit wari ko’y ‘di ka masasabik sapagkat saglit pa lamang tayo nagkahiwalay. Kaya’t pilit nilabanan ang dalamhati’t sinubukang tumayo muli. Magpapatuloy hanggang makamit ang mga mithi, ‘di lang akin kundi pati iyo nang sa gayon ay mahaharap ka sa muling pagkikita nang may maipagmamalaki. At araw-araw kahit hindi ka na darating, patuloy na mabibighani sa mga tanaw, makikinig sa huni ng mga ibon, aantabayanan ka habang nakaupo sa lilom ng punong Akasya. Dahil alam kong hindi lang ako ang naghihintay. Isa pa, ika nga nila, hindi ito paalam ngunit hanggang sa muli, aking sinta. F

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POETRY

WISPS

by Fatima B. Baduria

W

ith a snap of my fingers and a flick of my hand, my fingertips emulate the glaring sun, as warm and ablaze.

If I wish, they would spring up in rows, bright yellow daffodils, red tulips pink peruvian lilies, and white daisies; they would shift directions at a glance, the wind and tilt of the raindrops, the sunbeams and tree branches, the clouds and their shade below as I recline on a water oak leaf, at ease in the morning breeze.

Then out of the blue came vicious, thundering footfalls trampling on my charms and wishes, HINTAYAN

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as I run.

If I will it, they could cascade at once, cloudburst from the darkest heavens towards the intruders on their arrival, but countless moons have passed since then.

The gnawing bitterness clings to my throat, the days long gone linger in my mind while the dreams of tomorrow continuously fade, as I hide in the depths of shadows, waiting for a glimmer.

Because the years that dragged on waned the flare from my weakening hands, once well-versed.

So if you catch sudden dwindling lights as you hear a snap here and there, it may be me, who waits and wonders if I can hold them all again: the liberty, the bliss, the magic, as wisps of light flutter in my palms then slip away into nothing. F

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ONE SMOOTH RIDE

by Shannia A. Bernal

L

ooking at the blurring houses is slicing the whole day into bite-sized pieces. Recalling the taste of sweet and salty events and the daytime talks with daytime people. Slowly digesting the dark crawling in the avenue. The fireflies awakened in their usual posts remain unblinking despite the swift vehicles. Drowsy but still in wonder, the smooth slope is the recess between the conscious and the unconscious. A jeepney ride with empty spaces and a few faceless neighbors, silent but full of thought bubbles casting different translations of how the day went.

The humming engine sings the lullaby of home. Almost close, the path looks brighter upon dreaming of the destination. F

100

DAPITAN

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COMMUTER STUDIES: MAKATI TO MANILA

by Justin Andrew Cruzana

M

y legs are in default to walking in a city that no longer remembers agility. This cratered coil of hard earth could make better exits and better homes. On this side of the Metro, I trace my name in the fatty smoke. My hand raised for every passing cab, eager fingers throbbing like a homing device. This is no city. A city that forgets the people inside it is a city that forgets itself. So I look for cracks on the sidewalk with the pale intent to humble. To pry open municipal sins the way it pries open the patience of pedestrians.

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When the overcast comes, I mistake it for another tower, for its ginger loom and trickster color.

Water becomes the only thing moving in a city that only knows pause but does not know where to cascade. Sky-sent lyre strings go through still cars and commuters strum the traffic in the leaving time.

Can you hear it? The city is so out of tune; the lungs on the highway are a basin of a commuter’s pain.

In Buendia, I bowed hello to the sacking rain. F

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HOME

by Jecelie Claire De La Rosa

Y

ou once told me home is wherever the four of us could settle all together.

Wherever your mother’s table could rest in between meals.

As long as there is a space, I shall place four porcelain plates.

One plate for each side, one for each member.

With those conditions, even this room is on the verge of forgetting its chipped white paint and cracked vintage tiled floor, where a torn worn-out sofa stood, 104

DAPITAN

infested with God knows what crawlers sitting in the heart of the city where the snobbiest, wealthiest, and dumbest of the population can be called your home but we still went back southwards where your name is written on southern grounds and every day you longed for the four of us to sit together at the dinner table you said, we are restless, until we were all in the same room ten years in this house but you called it home for only five Every day, I watched you count the dust on that fourth plate that we kept in place, you refused to let me wipe it out perhaps you were afraid of seeing your reflection alone, your face tallying the years you waited For five years we sit still— unmoved and in the sixth, he came and everything shifted.

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I dusted the plate and pulled out a chair I opened my eyes and turned around but you were not there Like the dust, you flew away drifting in the air never to be seen again. F

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108

DAPITAN

MISS

by Franz Austin De Mesa

M

issing has become a misnomer.

I see it passed around mistakenly, see it miss its marks and what it used to mean.

Maybe it’s because we’ve said it so often: I miss traveling, I miss visiting friends, I miss a lot of things.

Like the mist that forms on the windows of LRT after rain, or the catching of my breath as I rush through the downpour with wet misguided feet.

I long again for the sore bump from falling drunk on the sidewalk, the misaligned bone, the sprained ankle—mementos of misfits that misbehaved.

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I miss a place where missing was blissful, where we could reminisce about our memories over a cold glass. And talk about our dreams as time passed lying down wrapped in blankets, staring at the ceiling, into the stars with misty eyes, lucky enough to say “I’m gonna miss… you guys” in person.

But now missing is a misconception, thrown about like cheap plastic about things we misremember.

Forgetting what it was we wanted to go back to, to replay, to revel in again. Like I miss that city that has been missing for the past two years, a city misrepresented in my mind. “These signs are new; there was once a store here; wait, when did that Jollibee close?

I miss that bar we used to go, it had that— what was it? It was called, Spot—something?”

Those fractured hesitations like missiles destroying what we used to, what we used to chant by heart.

Even you, I’ve told time and time again: I miss, and I keep missing like a parallel line with no chance for misdirection, A stormtrooper with no talent for shooting.

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I miss you without even knowing your hair’s texture— if it is still like the bristles of a walis tingting, or a soft wet rag like your cat’s tail— or what lack of sleep is chambered in your voice without the static messing it around.

All that I love about you is missing; I’ve misrecognized you for someone that doesn’t exist anymore.

Perhaps we have forgotten what it really means to miss something.

To go back in time to the way things would mean we’d miss all the changes that have transpired.

All evolutions, all metamorphoses that we’ve endured, would come back to mysteries. Likely, we would repeat the same mistakes.

I tried to go back, and learn where the word miss came from, From the Proto-Indo-European root mei, meaning “to change.”

Once I was reminded of this, I realized that it is true then.

Two years ago, the world and all its inhabitants had gone missing.

And never to be found again. F

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RUN WITH THE WIND

by Alexandra G. Pelonia

I

am never fond of running but the past few days make me unsure every day feels like I’m propelled to sprint on an oval-shaped track, and in every lap I find myself losing a piece of my sanity, but I could only look over my shoulder for the things I’ve left behind, vanishing

and drift away by the gusts of wind never to be seen again. But here, I keep running with no direction, wondering in every step when this ceaseless loop of interchanging hopes and despair, of waiting for someone, anyone to tell me when will this sprint of madness ends. F

as they slowly dwindle from my sight HINTAYAN

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THE FIFTH MORNING OF GRIEF

by Adolf Talon

C

ome to think of it, the world is ordinary.

You lay your head still on soft unstained pillows as you wake today. Eyes leeched on the canvas. Another morning of sweeping dust on the floor and a wise choice to sip that morning latte. If only it stays ordinary.

The fresh howl of cold led to that first long sighing pause, then a wiser choice came to mind to succumb to that dark roast caffeine.

The bittered lip begs for sugar or at least something sweet, something like grabbing a telephone to dial and a call into a spiral.

This television, maybe, may be the best case of memorial for every bitter sip.

As today’s forecast only brings weather news. Today it reports the moderate rainfall, but only drought— no single teardrop

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— comes to your cedar porch. At the high time, you remember there is nothing left for the weather.

It is the concept of space you now hate.

What lingers in space: planets, faces, bodies, with thousands of worlds beyond— so whose face keeps you now? once an image, to a silent movie, to a roll of film left in a cardboard box. Now art is drawn from your hatred of the stars. For their light glimmers not much as your favorite pair of eyes.

Comes another night laying still on soft pillows but wishing for more. More than blank stares at the white ceiling you have grown tired of.

You don’t plan to sweep what dust comes in the morning anymore. It’s a sorry excuse.

It seems the wisest to reject the beverages, it is now sweeter without them. Beyond the drought of the morning before, tonight the porch shall be flooded. The empty bedside space is the only concept that needs hating.

No, the broken television plays until dawn, each memory cannot be replaced. Yesterday was faster than counting to ten for this bed to be ridden of the flesh-deep familiarity.

The world to tread for no more lingers, but longs for mornings with a stranger that was once offered to share the ordinary with. F

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DENOUEMENT IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND

by Brandon James T. Talip

W

hat we know about urgency is the fire truck is in shambles screaming past a colony of buzzing headlights. Buendia catching a passing gaze from the window that no longer perceives, only reflects. What we know of urgency simply is the list of things in need of replacement: avocadoes populated with roots in the bowl of other fruits purged of collected shadows that echo in various hues;

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DAPITAN

the showerhead in the comfort room appeased with rust to mean I forgot to turn the water off again, to mean there is something else behind the geography of filth, to mean the bill is off the charts; ceramic vases to replace the ones nesting in the living room split down the middle.

The plot thickens with a laugh prompting the shift in the collection of seats in the UV forgotten by birthday wishes which is to say that the plot has derailed from

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its original path, but the climax remains skyward with the progressing condominiums carrying all prayers of the city and its collective wake of respective bodies, personal grievances about fathers, mothers, sisters, partners and everything constellated in between. In another room somewhere lacking sky-scrapers, a firefly imitates a streetlamp on a road in need of crying fire trucks as lola’s home rages with fire. F

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120

DAPITAN

THE TERRACE GARDEN

by Gabrielle Mae S. Lopez

I

spend my days in the terrace garden.

I spend my time sitting on the blue bench—probably stolen From the park; I sit here because I can’t walk in the park…

Anymore.

I spend my weeks in the terrace garden; I sit in a daze, wondering when I’ll get to be outside again— Always one step out, one step in, I’m only ever…in between.

The plants, They’ve replaced my friends.

I’ve no plans Yet to go out with them.

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The cacti’s embrace is equivalent To one, two…or ten Of my lover’s.

Nature’s curse.

The flowers— Lost hours.

The wind, She doesn’t rescind In reminding me Of the dreams I’ve given up for this harsh reality.

She sings them to me in chimes, She lulls me to sleep with her cruel rhymes.

As if my demise Makes the best bedtime stories, Though really— Well…they aren’t lies.

It’s been a year, I’m still here— I’ve spent my months in the terrace garden, Though I go out to the street every now and then…

But that’s just it.

I’m no step beyond the Esperanza’s shadow.

I’m no stone away from the Calathea’s show.

The rosemary and mint— 122

DAPITAN

Well, they’ve meant A lot to me, But I just want someone here with me…

Sitting on the blue bench, wishing we’d stolen Another moment Before a million Was stolen from us…

How many more years am I going to spend In a blue mood, on a blue bench, stolen From the park?

In another life, we’ll get to walk again somewhere far.

For now— We’ll have to spend more days in this terrace garden. F

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TULA

MAG-ISA

ni Jericho Christian B. Lopez

u

maalingawngaw ang mga kotse sa kalsada, ngunit sa eskinitang pinasukan, tanging usok lang, dala ng ihip ng hangin, ang sumisipol sa pagitan ng mga tahanang nagsisiksikan, at mag-isa akong naglalakad sa liwanag ng kidlat, sa gitna ng putikan gawa ng bawat pagpatak— may nakatitig sa akin sa kalayuan. sa kada hakbang ko, sinusundan niya ang mga paa kong nanginginig sa lamig ng semento ngayong alas singko ng umaga. tinuloy kong lakarin nang hindi pinapansin ang sabay na kaluskos ng tsinelas sa lapag at paghingang nagtutugmaan sa ritmo ng puti at dilaw na linya sa daan. ngunit ang nagnakaw ng aking mga mata: ang takot na nakapinta sa mukha naming dalawa na pinagtapatan sa dumi at burak ng nilalakaran na naging paalala—babala—na hindi kami nag-iisa. F 126

DAPITAN

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SANGANDAAN ni Nikko Miguel M. Garcia

N

iyaya mo ako na magsimula muli, ituloy anuman ang ating naiwan.

Maaaring ipagwalang-bahala ang iyong paanyaya tulad ng pangangati ng sugat sa paa, ng kislap ng barya sa kalsadang nilalakad pagkagaling sa trabaho.

Nakayuko, hindi malaman kung ang susunod na hakbang ay palapit o palayo sa daang patuloy na magpapatuloy kahit na hindi tanawin saanman ito patungo. F

Paano ba tayo magsisimula muli?

Narito ako sa hugpungan.

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SA ILOG NG PAGHINTAY ni Lance Jester S. Zafe

a

ng tila aspaltong ilog ng siyudad ay ganap nang huminto. kanina lang,

tila mabigat pa ang agos ng trapiko.

mahirap din naman makipagsagupaan. hindi ako

marunong lumangoy. hindi ako marunong magpal

mas nanaisin ko pang manatili sa metal na bangka,

baka sakaling umagos muli ang ilog. baka sakali kasi na magpatuloy muli sa pagbaybay sa mga tanawin

sa ‘di kalayuan na siyang parating nadaraanan. mga matatanaw

na nagsasabing malapit na o malayo pa. Mga lugar

na nagsasaad ng mga alaala ng masayang pag-uwi

mga dalamhating pasalubong, mga pagod na paa,

mga nakangiting mga mata, o minsan nama’y pangkaraniwan. sa mga pagkakataong naghihintay, nakakaaliw

na baybayin ang mga tanawing malayo’t ‘di pa matanaw nang buo. ang tila ilog ng siyudad, kanina lang ay tila mabigat pa ang agos, ay ganap na bang naging aspalto? F

130

DAPITAN

lutang.

i,

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CONTRIBUTORS ABIGAIL ADRIATICO has always wanted to be a writer ever since she was nine.

Twelve years later, she’s well on her way to becoming just that. However, if you ask her what she would like to be now, she will most likely just say one word while holding her nth cup of coffee, her weary eyes staring at you intently.

“Asleep.”

CZERIZHA ADZUARA has been a wordsmith ever since she was young. Now a woman-grown, she still holds the pen for a student publication along with the pursuit of her literary studies. Besides finding solace in words, you will find her arms enfolded around a four-legged feline creature.

She loves to read and aspires to be read— which is what you are about to do.

LANCE CARLO ANGELO is a student of the University of Santo Tomas where he is currently taking up his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing. He aspires to be a renowned novelist. A freelance writer who writes audio scripts and a master procrastinator who treats coffee like water. From incorporating wholesome and heart-fluttering themes in his stories, he is now turning to the dark side with his murderous and violent themes. A Once who always wonders What is Love?

FATIMA BADURIA is a writer who dreams of becoming great. Following this ambition, she writes for The Flame while pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Communication. She spends plenty of her time in her room, writing (or staring at a blank page for hours).

One day, she hopes to see her name printed on a book cover or written on a byline or both. For now, she does her best as a literary writer.

SHANNIA BERNAL is a yellow person—an admirer of summer, Siar and Narra, and city lights. Her ultimate life goal is to be radiant in thoughts, words, and actions.

KRISTELA DANIELLE S. BOO shot both living and non-living things still for The Flame. Now a journalism alumna, she is trying to finish reading the works listed on Bianca Schulze’s “101 Books To Read Before You Grow Up.” SOFIA ISABELLE D. CABARROGUIS is a Philosophy student from the Faculty of Arts and Letters at Santo Tomas. She started writing vignettes and poems at 16 on social reading platforms, mostly on grief, love, and nostalgia. Her passion for Philosophy provides a cynical take on writing and a bold perspective on romanticism (although now mainly involved with technical writing). She developed a fondness for music, biking, coffee, photography, and Adam Sandler.

She’s the eldest of 4 siblings, two humans and two dogs. Her works are on most social media platforms; it’s abecdz.

Having a versatile personality makes TCHEKY NICOLE CABRERA 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.

JUSTIN ANDREW CRUZANA is a Literature student in the Faculty of Arts and Letters and is a contributor to the upcoming sixth issue of Alien Magazine.

He likes taking long walks, the multiplication table of seven, and he cannot stop thinking about September. He lives in Metro Manila.

CATHERINE DABU, who’s usually called “Cath”, loves doing the most mundane things because she almost always run into trouble immediately ever since she was a kid. But ironically, she believes in sheer dumb luck, the alignment of stars, and taking long walks aimlessly just like Sisyphus rolling a massive boulder up the hill.

JECELIE CLAIRE DE LA ROSA is a creative writing major from the University of Santo Tomas. She won 3rd Place at the 36th Gawad Ustetika for her poetry collection, “The Women in My Family”. In 2020, she was a contributor for the Dapitan Literary folio in 2020. She spearheaded projects related to poetry and its impact on society especially with regards to mental health, such as writing as therapy for rehabilitation patients and writing as a coping mechanism for students.

She loves trying new things and learning new things. She thinks that there is a space for the creative arts in the future, and that writing can keep track of the fast paced life. She is interested in learning different languages, loves animals, and hopes to continue writing in the future.

FRANZ AUSTIN DE MESA is a third-year Creative Writing student. A fictionist and a poet, his works mostly tackle the violence and duality of Filipino society, though angsty drama does come up from time to time. When he isn’t cramming schoolwork, he likes to play video games and watch movies. Sadly he has no pets, but at least he has deadlines to keep him company.

LEIGH ANNE DARLENE DISPO is a fourth year student in Economics and works at a BPO company. She rereads Nabokov and devotes her mornings to oatmeal and running. She lives in Cavite.

ANDREI DURAN is a twenty year old student from the ‘Travel City of the Philippines’ Pasay City and advocate for gender equality, youth empowerment, among others.

Growing up as a kid, he aspires to connect people with their stories which then made him take Journalism as his undergraduate program. Currently, he is in his third-year at the University of Santo Tomas and since then he nurtured his skills that he will use to further his path as a media practitioner in the future.

In the same university, he works as a Photographer for the official publication of his college which is Faculty of Arts and Letters.

Through photography and writing stories for his fellowmen, he is aiming to live up to his duties as young journalist while infusing his advocacies to whatever content he is producing.

ZYMON ARVINDALE R. DYKEE. 24. Taurus Sun, Aries Moon, Aries rising.

Side.

(He wishes to thank Leo Baltar for providing tremendous insights into the early drafts of his work.)

Labing-isang taon nang sumusulat si SOPHIA EUGENIO. Mula sa maagang pagkamulat sa mundo ng literatura noong elementarya at junior high school, nabuo ang desisyon niyang magpursigi sa pagsusulat pagtungtong niya sa senior high school kung saan 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 Creative Writing sa University of Santo Tomas.

Ilan sa mga parangal na nakuha ni Sophia Eugenio sa elementarya at junior high school ay ang Best Scriptwriter, Best Director, Master Essayist, Young Journalist Awardee, at ang ikalimang gantimpala sa Laguna Divisions Schools Press Conference (DSPC) noong 2015 sa kategoryang Copy Reading and Headline Writing. Nagtapos siyang Salutatorian ng kanilang klase, kabilang na rin ang pagiging Secretary ng Student Council at Editor-in-Chief ng buong paaralan.

Sa kolehiyo, nagtrabaho siya para sa iba’t ibang organisasyon – ilan dito ang UST Literary Society kung saan siya ay naging EA to the Secretary at parte ng Creatives Team, The Flame kung saan naglimbag siya ng mga sanaysay, Artistang Artlets kung saan nagwagi siya ng Best Script sa unang taon niya bilang apprentice scriptwriter, at TomasinoWeb kung saan isa siyang Stories Writer.

Si Sophia Eugenio ay ang kasalukuyang Production Designer ng Artistang Artlets, kung saan siya rin ay nagdidirekta at nagsusulat ng mga dula, at mga sanaysay naman para sa TomasinoWeb. Nagwagi siya ng ikalawang gantimpala para sa sanaysay niyang “May Pakpak Ang Tagabantay Ko sa Gabi” sa ika-36 na Gawad Ustetika.

RAINIEL ANGELYN BUENAVISTA FIGUEROA, better known as Rain or "Ulan", is a journalism student at the University of Santo Tomas and currently the Chief Photographer of The Flame. Rainiel started her journey of photojournalism way back in fourth grade. To her surprise, she's still pursuing it. She joined student publications, journalism contests, and photography communities, and even took journalism for college. But don't get it wrong. Journalism is a writing career yet Rain is not much a fan of fancy words, she can't even finish at one seat this hundred and fifty self-description for Dapitan. But, on the other hand, it is the exact reason why she pursued journalism—to learn how to write. She promised herself

that after four years of stay in journalism school she can proudly say that she is a writer now.

Instead of telling how orangey the sunset is, how this man stands on his balcony alone, Rain much prefers to show it—a visual storyteller. Happiness for her is seeing people happy because she finally puts into visual the imagination, the words, the idea on someone’s head.

And as a photographer, her happiness is that she's able to freeze the moment through single frames. Joining The Flame was "suntok sa buwan" for Rain--- she was very nervous. Rainiel passed her requirement literally at the last minute of the deadline because she was not confident with her work.

Two years later—it's the best decision she ever made. You grow the most on the things you are afraid of.

Si NICK GARCIA ay nagtatrabaho sa media industry. Bagama’t nakaka-stress ang pinaggagagawa niya araw-araw, lagi siyang updated sa showbiz happenings.

ANDREI JOHAHN I. GREGORIO is a second year Behavioral Science student. He is a person that has the widest of interests. To pursue understanding of the incomprehensible for him, he tries out different things including sports, music, and writing. He believes that it is one way to understand if you get to experience such things and these experiences can also relate to others as all things are interconnected. Currently in writing, he is trying to explore other styles and genres that could further improve both his creative and academic writing. Not only in writing is he continuously trying to challenge himself for self-improvement, as much as possible he wants to have a general understanding of things so that one day, he can also teach practical techniques and skills to those who need it.

THEA LACAMBRA is a graduate student under the Master of Arts in Creative Writing program at the University of Santo Tomas, España, Manila. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Journalism. While she writes both fiction and nonfiction, Thea aspires to become a full-fledged novelist. The range of topics she hopes to explore in the future is focused on the LGBTQIA+ community. Thea likes hoarding books, then leaving them untouched and dusty on the shelf for an indefinite period. She adores J.R.R. Tolkien.

Si ISABELLE LAURENTE ay isang mag-aaral sa Creative Writing at may pagkahumaling sa mga pusa. Nakakakuha siya ng inspirasyon tuwing nakikinig siya sa mga kwento ng iba’t ibang tao sa restaurant, sa coffee shop, o kahit sa mga parke. Nais niyang mag-iwan ng marka sa mundo na pinaglalaban niya ang kababaihan sa pamamagitan ng pagsusulat.

Si MA. CHRISTELLA LIM ay nag-aaral ng Panitikan sa Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas. Dati pa niya nakahiligan ang magsulat at magbasa, pero tinamad na siya simula noong ni-require na ng course niya. Hinahanap niya pa ang motibasyon para makapagsulat muli. Nagsusulat siya noon ng mga tula, pero ngayon ay hinahangad maging manunulat ng creative nonfiction. Si Christella ay naging Fellow for Poetry/ Tula ng Haraya Manawari, ang ikalimang creative writing workshop na inorganisa ng UST Literary Society. Siya ay mahiyain, pero miyembro ng Artistang Artlets, isang theatre organization sa Faculty of Arts and Letters ng kanilang unibersidad.

Naniniwala siya na ang pag-ibig ay nasa pagkain at nasa K-pop idols niya tulad ng NCT at ONF. HANZ LONTOC. A stumbling artist still on the process of discovering the style which fits his taste. Risk-taker, Clutch-taker, Dream-maker artist but not a heartbreaker.

GABRIELLE LOPEZ is an aspiring author and artist with a background on media productions as she pursues a bachelor’s degree in Communication. She has been poring over books all her life and dreams of getting published and becoming an editor for a publishing company. Gabrielle writes about love, mental health, self, womanhood, and other little things in life, drawing inspiration from nature. In her free time, she loves to cuddle cats, watch sunsets from her bedroom window, eat potato chips on the couch, and hike mountains.

JERICHO CHRISTIAN LOPEZ, also known as J.C. Lopez, is a 2nd year Creative Writing student from the Faculty of Arts and Letters. He started writing poetry when he was in Junior High School and decided to pursue writing as a career when he entered the University of Santo Tomas as a Senior High School thomasian.

Lopez recently discovered that while he’s an English fictionist, he writes poetry best in his native language, Filipino. Currently, he’s exploring multiple genres of fiction from fantasy, sci-fi, to mystery, in search for his soon-to-be genre of focus.

MS. TRIXCY ANNE LOSERIAGA is a 19-year old student from Marikina City. She loves making fan arts and fan fictions of her favorite games. A selfpractitioner of art and poetry. Immersing herself with other artists and players in Grand Summoners to further improve her craft.

JUAN CARLOS FELIPE G. MONTENEGRO (or Loaf) is an AB History graduate. His works have been featured in Ani, Dapitan, Voice & Verse Magazine, and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal. He was also a poetry fellow at the 6th UST Thomasian Undergraduate Writers Workshop. Aside from literary writing, he occasionally participates in debate tourneys either as judge or competitor. He currently resides in Quezon City.

LAURICE MUYOT. The Feral Fantasy.

Imagine a figure sitting at the edge of your bed, or a lone statue of a jester in a dilapidated amusement park. Imagine the golden saturated sunset suddenly shift into the most violent grey storms, or a reflection of yourself in a hall of mirrors.

Imagine a person in a black trench coat sitting behind a wall full of splattered paint and visual statements in graffiti or a shape-shifting skinwalker that can mimic anything to pounce on a prey with its art of ripping its insides and consuming it.

That’s what Laurice Muyot is, an absolutely unexpected individual. They can be an impressionist that can romanticize reality as they see fit, observing your every move to try and sketch out your breathtaking features with their handy dandy pad with any pencil they can find. They can exude their ever-changing feelings with the flowing watercolors as every stroke, tap and lash, there will be a chunk of their heart accompanied with it. With even newspapers or candy wrappers they can find in the street or magazines that can even go back from the vintage 60s, they can and they can find an opportunity with such garbage and make it a work of art, much more in a Dadaistic approach as well. This is what they love the most: the randomizing of images they can cut out, the surreal and rather chaotic expression of each piece, and especially the never-ending love, passion, and excitement that comes in each piece.

ADA PELONIA enjoys the pitter-patter of rain, booming thunder, cacophony of birdsong or anything that would muffle the voices in her head. Her works have appeared in Philippines Graphic, Dapitan, Philippine Daily Inquirer, CandyMag, among others. These days, she’s a full-time mom of her works-in-progress and takes good care of them by frequenting Google Docs.

ARWIN NATHANIEL A. ROMANO, a 19-year-old incoming journalism sophomore from the University of Santo Tomas has been a campus photojournalist for five years. With his passion for capturing photos, he started to be a freelance photographer. He is also a writer at Fact-Check Patrol. His friends call him ‘Direk’ because apart from the journalistic side, he is also passionate in telling stories through visuals as he also became part of the Thomasian Film Society as director of photography in the year-end production. He is the current head of the directors’ pool of UST Tiger TV. “It seems I’m more into photography these days,” FRANCESCA SENA said, compiling her photos and clicking submit. Currently a 3rd year Literature student at 20 years old, she seems to have formed a new love for photography, improving day by day. Proofs of this can be found on her photography Instagram dump (@ cheskys.cam). She has no idea whether this may be an actual path in her life, but it’s good to have options.

It has been a year since she last wrote her creative self-description. But DAWN SOLANO’s still lost in the woods she found last year. She’s writing away her feelings and drowning all her worries down the river of gold.

As of the moment, she is in her third year at the University. Next year, she’s off to pass through the centuries-old arch to find another forest to get lost in.

LORRAINE C. SUAREZ is an artist of The Flame. Aside from doing artworks, she loves to write stories for kids. When she’s bored, she likes to annoy her favorite person, her niece. She’s fond of babysitting to the point that nursery rhymes become her all-time playlist.

BRANDON JAMES T. TALIP is a fourth year Creative Writing student in the University of Santo Tomas. He has been recently occupied in almost everything besides those that academically matter. What has been keeping him busy, for the most part, is covering his old books (that he has yet to read) with plastic covers to keep them in pristine condition. Never mind that the pages had changed in color.

He finds it calming when he cleans the house when he’s alone. He also doesn’t mind cooking and eating alone, but he does miss going out at night to look for cheap, affordable food that tastes nothing like pre-packed food. Most of all, he misses bringing the rice cooker to class for breakfast.

If there is a man who can write in words every feeling and emotion in the world, that is ADOLF TALON. He tries to put poetry into critical perspective and open perspective into poetry. There are a million things he has encountered and a million more he seeks to experience through hard work and dedication. To do the things he loves, he finds himself constantly prioritizing time management and objective planning in the everyday hourglass. The leadership he possesses is one of a listener and a doer; always for inclusive progress and collective action.

Although he may be exposed to pressure, the ways to accomplish will always be in his mind throughout the struggle which makes him experienced and tested by difficulties. In all that is left to say, he is without a doubt a wanderer, determined, and battle-hardened warrior.

ANGELINE TANQUECO, or Angge, became a photographer for The Flame by leap of faith. A December miracle one might say. In the midst of her annual year-end existential crisis came the spark of hope that soon turned into a fiery purpose. A third-year journalism student drowning in articles and essays, Angge made it through the school year thanks to her family, friends, BTS, Wheein, and The Flame.

JEANNE PAULINE TECSON. Little is known for certain about the life and habits of Ms. Tecson, save that she’d rather be spared the mortifying ordeal of being known. However, contemporary sources suggest that she is still on her Genshin Impact grind, and has graduated from drip coffee to discover the wonders of double shot espresso. Whether this is behavior typical of a Pisces Sun, Pisces Moon, and Taurus Rising native remains to be seen.

She is a struggling Literature student who lives out her frustrated dreams of being a visual artist by staffing for The Flame. Currently, she is harboring an inordinate fondness for math rock, the Land of the Lustrous manga, and all things Taika Waititi.

AEDAN JEFFERSON TROPA, 21, is a 2nd year Creative Writing Student from the Faculty of Arts and Letters in UST. He is a cactus and succulent enthusiast/ collector, and a Swiftie living and surviving in Cavite. Writer in Filipino talaga siya, napilitan lang mag-Ingles sa iba niyang mga naisulat dahil sa iyon ang itinakda ng puso at isipan niya, minsan dahil rin sa requirement. Tamad pero may pakinabang pa rin naman paminsan-minsan. Pwede ko bang sabihin dito na NBSB ako? Ah, basta. Bahala na. Ah! Minsan nang nag-cutting at tumungo sa isang branch ng kilalang fast food resto sa Pinas para dagdagan ang bilang ng mga salita

sa minsan niyang sinumulang nobela. Masaya siya kapag konti lang ang tao. Mas masaya kapag mag-isa. Nasanay na siya e. Basta, buhay pa siya. Humihinga pa.

May ipinaglalaban e. (At saka NBSB nga kasi siya. Hindi siya papayag na matsugi nang hindi nagkakajowa! Pero happily single naman siya ngayon at wala pang balak humarurowt at the moment.)

JULIA DOMINIQUE YANCHA is passionate about art and one day dreams to become a successful artist. Other than that, she loves reading cheesy young adult novels, writing her thoughts in her journal, and all things Stranger Things. If she ever gets taken by Vecna, save her by playing Harlem Shake para funny.

During moments of waiting during the rush hour traffic, LANCE JESTER ZAFE likes watching Korean dramas and listening to songs by various K-pop groups.

At home, he waits for his plants to grow a new leaf, flower, or a new pest to deal with. If he’s not feeling dazed from his tasks, he sneaks in a round of Valorant.

Sometimes, he writes.

ART AND PHOTO INDEX 1 Cover Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson 2 Filler Sofia Isabelle G. Cabarroguis 6-7 Filler Trixcy Anne B. Loseriaga 10-11 Spread Rainiel Angelyn Figueroa 14-15 Creative Nonfiction filler Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera 16 An Empty Chapel Hanz Felix T. Lontoc 20-21 Your Writer Angeline Tanqueco 24-25 In the Operating Room, In the Julia Dominique T. Yancha

Same Throes of Waiting 31 Potential Match Andrei Duran 43 That’s When Tcheky Nicole D.Cabrera 48-49 Flash fiction filler Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera 50-51 The Encore Julia Dominique T. Yancha 53-54 Floating Lights and Fleeting Kristela Danielle S. Boo

Dreams 56-57 Prose filler Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera 58, 61 Wait it Out Francesca N. Sena 62-63; 66 Parting Sunset Francesca N. Sena 68-69 Katha filler Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera 70 OTW Ma. Laurice F. Muyot 80-81 Kapihan Francesca N. Sena 86-87 Mga Larawang Abot-Tanaw Lorraine C. Suarez 90-91 Dagli filler Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera

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92-93 Pagkadating, Agad na

Umalis, at Siya Naman

ang Maghihintay 94-95 Poetry filler 96 Wisps 100-101 One Smooth Ride 102-103 Commuter Studies: Makati

to Manila 105 Home 108-109 Miss 112 Run With the Wind 114-115 The Fifth Morning of Grief 116-118 Denouement is Nowhere

to be Found 120-121 The Terrace Garden 124-125 Tula filler 126-127 Mag-isa 128 Sangandaan 130-131 Sa Ilog ng Paghintay 146 Back cover

Kristela Danielle S. Boo

Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Julia Dominique T. Yancha Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Catherine Dabu Kristela Danielle S. Boo Francesca N. Sena Ma. Laurice F. Muyot Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Arwin Romano Kristela Danielle S. Boo Rainiel Angelyn Figueroa Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 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. Alexis Douglas Romero 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 FATIMA B. BADURIA Managing Editor and Assistant Editor for Filipino Entries CZERIZHA KAIZEL S. ADZUARA Assistant Editor for Poetry DAWN DANIELLE D. SOLANO Assistant Editor for Creative Non-fiction ABIGAIL M. ADRIATICO Assistant Editor for Prose and Flash Fiction JEANNE PAULINE G. TECSON Layout Artist ALEXIS DOUGLAS B. ROMERO Publication Adviser

Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Hanz Felix T. Lontoc Lorraine C. Suarez Julia Dominique T. Yancha ARTISTS

Rainiel Angelyn B. Figueroa Angeline M. Tanqueco Arwin Nathaniel A. Romano Aris Jhon C. Galang Catherine E. Dabu Andrei Joseph Duran PHOTOGRAPHERS

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