ALPAS Journal - Vol. 3, Issue 1

Volume 3 Issue No. 1

Please enter with a kind heart, an open mind, and leave with a thirst to come back for the arts.

About ALPAS Journal is a bi-annual online literary and art publication for Filipino writers and artists.

After a night out in the vibrant city of Melbourne, Australia where countless art festivals and literary journals are widespread, one question was raised: Where can I find this in the Philippines?

The only thing left to do was to create an answer for that need. Inspired by the dream to provide a free platform for both emerging and established Filipino writers and artists, the journal was born on March 2017.

From the Filipino word “alpas”, meaning “breaking free or loose”, the publication aims to deliver works that blur boundaries, encourage curiosity and wonder, and challenge stereotypes. In ALPAS, creativity is unbounded.

Because ALPAS is a not-for-profit publication run by a team of eight, we choose to collate works digitally and at little cost. What we offer is a gratis soapbox, a podium, a room to which everyone has a key.

Anneliz Marie Erese

Editor-in-Chief/Fiction Editor

Mitch Balladares Poetry Editor

Dominic Dayta

Nonfiction Editor

Marian Sophia Cruz Photography Editor

Ienne Junsay

Visual Arts Editor

Allen Esteban Layout Editor

Ricardo Rey Catapang Contributing Writer

Katrina Alyssa Torrefranca Online Coordinator

Cover Photo by

Patricia Leuterio

@alpasjournal alpasjournal@gmail.com www.alpasjournal.com

Dear readers,

E d i t o r ’s N o t e

The lifespan of a mosquitofish is two years. My sister was two years old when I was born. It was the length of my first visa in Australia. Two years of my life were all it took to get a master’s degree.

Relationships can end in the same amount of time, and from the exciting beginning to its inevitable decline, the Earth has already revolved around the sun twice.

In the bigger scheme of things, two years are nothing. But in the context of publication, it is something. I feel proud that ALPAS Journal has reached this point: a point where some things would end, or just begin, and that signifies life, a journey, a completion and yet a continuation of pulse.

If we remove the people behind the journal, it will thrive – I believe that not because the team is dispensable, but because art and literature have a life of its own, beyond the pages of ALPAS. It cannot be contained, and we can only try. When the going gets tough, it flows out of our hands and breathe with its own lungs. It opens its wings and takes flight. And I, along with the rest of the team, sigh and let it. This has been the easiest, truly, and that would not have been possible without the contributors who have shared with us their best works, ready to be put out into the world.

Cerisse Madlangbayan has penned two short stories that take the readers into a journey like no other. Previous contributor Fray Narte puts a lens on a unique experience of two friends who encountered a local homeless man in “Her Silence, His Screams”. Eldred Marcelo time travels to 2028 while Janssen Cunanan writes a chilling dystopian tale in “Anihan”. John Paul Albiola reflects on freedom from the point of view of a bird.

The four nonfiction pieces in this issue are geniuses in their own ways. “360 Degrees” by Pinkle Therese Evangelio starts the conversation on illness and how humans come together at a time of struggle. Neil Cirilo’s “Sa Presinto Ko Natutunan ang Kapangyarihan” is a slice-of-life essay, in which the author shines a light on a small-scale election and how identities are lost in service of power and political allegiances. “Death of Truth in War” by Earl Carlo Guevarra is a startling portrayal of war within a war zone. Finally, Elena Katipunan’s “Balau” is a meditation on chances, privileges and the possibilities beyond it.

This issue’s poetry pieces are nothing short of breathtaking. “Gisulat sa Gilid ng Bangin” is such a poignant poem by Gerald Galindez, as it breaks down the human form and takes us into a fantasy of being beyond human. “Iskandoloso and mga Luha” by Angela Mae Pamaos is a commentary on vulnerability and how it’s suppressed in public. Cheryl Salvador’s “In My Belly” takes the reader through a journey of self-discovery and identity set against social norms.

The visual arts spread across this issue’s pages are all a study in portraiture, bodily forms and extrahuman capacities. The photographs, on the other hand, are studies of light, small cities, private spaces and serenity.

I hope you find this issue’s pages an easy company like I do.

Yours truly,

Anneliz Marie Erese Editor-in-Chief/Fiction Editor

c o n t e n t s Fiction Anihan...................................................................................................................11 The Nuno Squad....................................................................................................16 The Makings of Ursula..........................................................................................32 Manual Part 3 - Monsters in the City....................................................................44 Di Maliparan ng Uwak...........................................................................................65 Her Silence, His Screams.......................................................................................80 Nonfiction Sa Presinto Ko Natutunan ang Kapangyarihan...................................................28 360 Degrees.......................................................................................................... 50 Death of Truth in War...........................................................................................56 Balau.....................................................................................................................66 Photography Indak Rebolusyon.................................................................................................08 Untitled.................................................................................................................24 Silip.......................................................................................................................32 Batang Magsasaka.................................................................................................40 Hanging by a Thread..............................................................................................49 Simoy.....................................................................................................................50 sa lungsod, bago ang digma..................................................................................56 Solitario.................................................................................................................63 FromWithin...........................................................................................................79 Poetry Bayang Magiliw......................................................................................................09 Sa Pagbitbit ng Nakaraan Iniwan Ko ang Aking Sarili........................................15 Gisulat sa Gilid ng Bangin.....................................................................................25 Upos......................................................................................................................26 Iskandoloso ang mga Luha...................................................................................27 An Apology to My Younger Self............................................................................30 Andoy....................................................................................................................41 Manila...................................................................................................................43 Sarili......................................................................................................................68 Ulan.......................................................................................................................78 In My Belly.............................................................................................................86

Visual Arts Luha Ko’y Ikaw......................................................................................................10 Mask......................................................................................................................14 Strings...................................................................................................................17 Drifting..................................................................................................................28 Malaya?.................................................................................................................42 Bawal ang Paglalaro ng Apoy Ngunit Hindi ang Pakikipagsayaw........................44 Sly..........................................................................................................................55 Flora......................................................................................................................64 Fragile...................................................................................................................75 Little Buns.............................................................................................................76 Iguhit ang tatahakin, magulo ma’y sariling adhikain..........................................77 Untitled.................................................................................................................81

Indak Rebolusyon Raymark Paul Rigor

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Bayang Magiliw Kim Fadallan Faner

a darling land a landing thought when early our minds were still daring to notion nations by the notes on tongues and tinges of skins when feet bare we ran on fields grazing wet grass with soles heads situated in todays young times too early to contract memory and know titles and ceremonies the bitter taste of brawling just to feel some freedom breeze for firstly we were grateful purely always acknowledged secondly

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Luha Ko’y Ikaw Toni McKeon

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Anihan Janssen Cunanan

Naiwang nakabuka ang bibig ng babaeng estudyante nang makita ang uod na nakasiksik sa gitna ng kinagatang mamon.

Pugot ang ulo.

“Ano yang nakain mo?” Bulong ng kaklase niyang lalaki.

“Yak, gumagalaw pa ata,” sabi ng katabing babae.

“Quieeeet! Gusto niyo bang sumunod kay __________?” Sigaw naman ng gurong tinuktok ng chalk ang tinuturong matematika sa pisara.

Nagulat ang mga estudyante. Nang napahagikhik ang isa’y ikinulong agad ng mga labi nila ang bungisngis na nagpupumilit makawala sa mga bibig.

Tanging bibig lang ng kumagat sa mamon ang naiwang nakabuka. Bumukas ang pinto. Pumasok ang punong-guro sa loob ng silid-aralan. Tumahimik ang lahat.

Dinakip ng bisita ang babaeng ‘di pa man nalulunok ang katotohanang nasaksihan

sa baong tinapay ay may panibagong palaisipan na namang bumihag sa kanya.

Nakikinig lang ang kanyang mga kaklase na parang walang nangyayari. Nagpumiglas ang estudyante ngunit mahigpit ang kapit sa kanya ng lalaki. Bigla siyang binitawan nito sa gitna ng silid-aralan. Sinabunutan siya nito, naglabas ng bolo’t tinagpas ang kanyang ulo. Pumatak ang dugo. Hinila ng punong-guro ang dating estudyante palabas ng silid-aralan.

Naramdaman ng mga estudyante na sinisilip sila ng araw, hinahaplos ang kanilang katawan. Sinasabayan nito ang bawat pagpintog at pag-impis ng mga dibdib, paakyat sa mga munti nilang balikat, patungo sa leeg. Pumitik ng alasonse. Binuklat na nila ang libro sa susunod na kabanata. Kumalam ang sikmura ng lalaki sa dulo ng kwarto, napahawak siya sa tiyan na para bang tinatago niya ang nagmamakaawang bituka. Lumingon siya – may nakarinig ba? Nagsulat ang guro sa pisara, iniutos nitong hanapin nila ang nawawalang numero ngunit nang makita ng mga bata ang tanong ng guro, nalaman

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nilang hindi nila ito masasagot.

“Can anyone tell me the value of X?” Nayanig ang lahat. Ayaw nilang matulad kay __________. Kinonsulta nila ang mga pahina ng hawak nilang libro. Hindi rin naman sila sinasagot nito. Gumapang ang mga dampi ng araw sa kanilang tenga hanggang sa mabalot na nito ang buong ulo ng mga bata. Sa pangatlong hilera, sa tabi ng lalaking bagong tabas, 3x5, ay may isang babaeng nasa tabi ng bintana ang nakaramdam na mahahanap na niya ang sagot. Nawala ang ilaw. Tinawag ng guro ang babae sa tabi ng bintana. Bumalik ang sinag ng araw. Inaalala ng bata kung ano ang naisip niyang sagot kanina ngunit wala nang bumabalik sa kanyang alaala.

Sa labas ng bintana, tinutulak ng punongguro ang isang imported na karitelya kasama ang ulo at katawan ng babaeng estudyante. Mas mabuti nang mamahalin ang gamit para sa mga ganitong kaselang trabaho upang masigurong walang sabit ang gawain. ‘Pag nasita na naman sila ni Inspector ay malamang pare-pareho silang mawawalan ng trabaho. Naalala na naman niya si Inspector. Tumigil ang imported na karitelya sa bakuran ng eskwelahan.

Nagmadali ang punong-gurong ibaba ang katawan mula sa karitelya at ilatag ito sa binungkal na lupa. Masyadong mababaw ang hukay. Sa ordinaryong araw ay mapapakamot muna ang punongguro sa kanyang ulo bago murahin ang sarili dahil sa maliit niyang pagkakamali.

Pero mainit na sila kay Inspector, wala na siyang oras ibsan ang pangangati ng inis.

Hinila niya ang kamay ng babae ngunit napunit lamang ito. Initsa niya ang kamay sa imported na karitelya at binalikan ang katawan. Niyakap niya ang bangkay. Sabay niyang binuhat ‘to palabas sa binungkal

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na lupa na para bang isinasayaw niya ito palabas sa hukay. Inabot niya ang maruming palang kanina pa nanonood sa kanila. Binungkal niya uli ang lupa. Nang mapansing kasintaas na niya ang lalim nito, hinagis na niya palabas ang pala.

Umakyat na rin ang punong-guro. Nilagay ang katawan ng babae sa hukay at ibinalik na ang lupa kung saan ito nagmula.

Natapos din, naisip niya. Kinuha niya ang ginupit na plastic bottle, sinawsaw ang kamay at winisikan ang bagong tanim.

Sinilip na rin niya ang iba pang pananim para ‘di na siya magpabalik-balik pa.

Mabagal ang tubo ngayon, mauudlot na naman ang anihan. Iling. Bumalik na lang siya sa imported na karitelya. Naglakad palayo, patungo sa abot-tanaw.

Tumigil siya kalagitnaan, inabot ang pinto, binuksan at pumasok sa loob.

Bukana pa lang ay maririnig mo na ang mga matinis na pagbuga ng mainit na hangin mula sa mga makinang hindi nakakapagpahinga. Pula na ang ilaw, malapit na namang mapundi ang araw.

Tinulak ng punong-guro ang dala-dala sa isang kwarto. Sinara niya ito agad.

Sa loob ng silid-aralan ay masuwerteng naalala ng babae ang sagot sa tanong.

Mapapatunayan niyang siya na ang pinakamatalino sa klase. Kung may susunod man kay __________, siguradong hindi siya iyon. Mula sa kanilang mga ulo, bumalik uli ang liwanag ng araw pababa sa kanilang mga leeg at balikat. Tiningnan ng babae ang orasan, alas-onse y media na.

Ilang minuto na lang ay tanghalian na.

Binuhat ng punong-guro ang ulo ni __________ na nakakabit sa isang malaking kurdon. Kung saan ka man dadalhin kung tutuntunin mo ito ay mga nakatataas lang

ang nakakaalam. Napundi na ng tuluyan ang araw. Binuhat niya ang ulo ng bata.

Magaan na ‘to. ‘Di niya napansing onti lang pala ang laman ng bata. Inabot ng punongguro ang ulo sa karitelya, tinimbang.

Mukhang ‘di na magkukulang ‘to. Kinatok pa niya para lang makasigurado. Malaman nga. Tinanggal niya sa pagkakasaksak ang ulo ni __________ at ipinalit ang ulo ng babaeng estudyante. Pinilit niyang pagkasyahin ang saksakan sa bumbunan ng bata. Nawala ang pulang liwanag, bumalik ang mga puting ilaw ng kwarto.

Nanahimik na rin ang mga naghihiyawang mga bakal sa labas. Inilagay niya ang ulo sa pinagpapatungan kanina ni __________.

Habang inaayos ang pagkakalagay sa ulo’y biglang kumalam ang kanyang sikmura.

Parang ang bagal ng oras, kanina pa niya hinihintay ang lunch break. ‘Wag mong isipin at darating din yan, naisip niya. Bumalik na ang punong-guro sa eskwelahan, marami pa siyang kailangang gawin bago bumisita muli si Inspector.

Naiwan sa kwarto ang nakabukang bibig ng _______________.

Palabas na dapat sa bibig ang sagot na kanina pa iniisip ng babaeng estudyante.

Ngunit hindi niya nasabi ang nasa dulo ng kanyang dila. Binuklat niya ang libro, hinanap uli sa mga pahina nito ang sagot.

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Mask Megel Joshua F. Ramiterre

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Sa Pagbitbit ng Nakaraan Iniwan Ko ang Aking Sarili Neil Cirilo Pilit kong inaalala Ang bawat tunog, Ang ritmo ng musika.

Bakit hindi lumalapat Ang mga salita sa ulinig ng Bulung-bulungang minsang dalisay Minsang kabisado At minsang buhay Na biglang nawalan Ng kulay Tila isang pelikulang Walang titulo Walang linya Tanging buwan at araw Sa harap ng kamera purong bughaw Dati ko ‘tong saulo Kahit nakapikit O nahihimbing Nakapiring Siguro ako noong Dumating ang paglisan At nagsimula ang katapusan Kinakapa ko ang Bawat piraso ng memorya Inaapuhap ang mga palatandaan Humuhuning muli Sa muni ng bawat salitang Dinidinig - kawalan Tanging buwan at araw At purong bughaw.

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The Nuno Squad Cerisse Madlangbayan

Mirasol wasn’t scouted; she applied.

Her results came in the form of a selfdestructing telecommunication device, with the message written in a MathType font. Now whether this was some gag the Bureau of Aesthetics and Espionage (BAE) pulled on failed applicants or an honest-togoodness method to weed out candidates, Sol had translated the message in a matter of seconds before tying the device into an old drone.

She looked down at the scrap of paper containing her results and shrieked to a wandering cow that she got in. This elation was short-lived for when she arrived at the BAE headquarters, located between a dilapidated donut shop and a hair salon, she would receive the news of a lifetime.

“T-the Nuno Squad?” she squeaked. Sol grew limp on the round swivel chair.

“Excuse me, I applied as an Engkanto.”

The lady had two enamel fountain pens puncturing her high bun. Without looking up at her clipboard, she said, “It’s just the name of your unit. A fancy squad term, if you may.”

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No, it was not, and this Sol knew well.

Her distant older cousin had been an Engkanto and revealed to her that the BAE worked with an unspoken hierarchy.

The Engkantos were at the top of the food chain, followed by the Diwatas, the Magindara, the Tamawo, the Berberoka, and lastly, the Nuno. Back then, Sol found her cousin’s tone of voice as pride; but now, it seemed to her more of arrogance.

Miffed, she whispered, “‘Nuno’ isn’t fancy.”

“Fancy is subjective” was the lady’s short response.

Sol was able to control the volume of her voice, but the acidity in the way she spoke was apparent. “Help me understand. Why wasn’t I chosen to be an Engkanto? The results state that I was highly qualified.”

“And you are,” said the lady, staring her up and down. “Not just as an Engkanto.”

Before she could make a rebuttal, a trio of young women walked by. Sol wasn’t one to care much about her appearance, but instantly, she felt put in her place, which at that moment, seemed to be at the bottom of the barrel. The young women were

Strings Veii Rehanne Martinez

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tall, with curves she didn’t know could exist out of soft drink bottles. When they walked, their hair bounced from their slim shoulders, cascading neatly as if they were in agreement with the passing air.

Firmly, the lady told her, “They are Engkantos. See the difference?”

Before Sol could argue, she was brought into a room so purely white, her first thought was that she was glancing at the sun. The lady—“Dalamhati” it said on her tag, which Sol thought had to be a code name—told her that there were two other girls scouted into the Nuno Squad.

“Hey, what’s with the face?” one of them asked. Her hair, which Sol assumed must have been darker than black, was bleached into platinum submission and dyed in pastel colors.

“I’m a resting bitch,” Sol replied, drained from the day’s horrible turn of events.

“This is my natural expression.”

The other girl laughed in what appeared to be good humor. “I’m Igme and that is Diwa. I hear you applied. You must be really good then if you got in.”

“But not good enough to be an Engkanto,” Sol grumbled to no one in particular. If she knew she had to look like a Charlie’s Angel to be an Engkanto, then she would have never considered being in the BAE. As she had expected, it took six months of training before the Nuno Squad got their first mission. And when they did, Sol wondered why she never threw in the towel. Sure, they weren’t physically symmetrical or aesthetically pleasing

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enough to be an Engkanto—heaven knows how Sol could seduce a mob boss with bad breath. While Sol had practically made peace with the fact that they wouldn’t be receiving the glitzy assignments, she also didn’t expect that it’s the dirty work that they’d be tasked with. They had just finished tossing their sedated target in the trunk and slipped into the companyissued vehicle when the car speaker came to life.

“What’s up, Nunos?”

“Ugh, I can’t believe the only young male in the vicinity is a programmed voice synthesizer from an old Corolla,” Diwa mumbled under her breath, ready to start the engine. She was feeling claustrophobic in their target’s large garage.

“I don’t think voice synthesizers have a definite period of existence,” said Sol, stretching her upper body to press the useless buttons of the car radio. The voice liked to address itself as Gani. Sol wondered, not for the first time, if it thought itself real.

Igme aroused her suspicion when she lowered her voice. “Is he a voice synthesizer though? Are we completely certain he’s not a demonic spirit encased in the car engine?”

Diwa and Sol’s side-glances were cut short

by Gani announcing that they have, in his synthesized words, a “secret, secret mission.” Sol curled one leg over the other.

“Let me guess: we’ll be taking out goons in a garbage recycling plant.”

“Or swim the Pasig River in search for a missing password-encrypted ballpen cap,”

Igme suggested.

“Okay, I understand you girls are peeved.”

Sol propped her elbows on the front car seats. “Peeved is when someone chews with their mouth open. Being shoved dayby-day into sweat, slime, and who-knowswhat else? Trust me, we’re passed pissed.”

“Other girls go through the same thing,” said Gani as the glove compartment popped open. Igme reached out to grab a retractable pen and clicked the top, a long needle sticking out where the nib is supposed to be.

Sol’s eyes reached the back of her head.

“Did the other girls stuck a hand into a dead man’s throat to retrieve a 12 GB spy camera pendant?”

Diwa began to lift her hand. “Or…” “Project Lian Thaine...” Gani interjected, “...entails none of that. Look in the compartment.”

The three retrieved a leather writing folder; typewritten in block symbols is an address. Sol cocked a brow at this. “Care to spare us the specifics? The file you gave us is about as detailed as a menu in a fast food joint.”

“If I did, then it wouldn’t be a secret, secret mission, now would it?”

Diwa immediately pulled out a notepad while Igme spewed suggestions at the top of her head. Sol took one long look at the code, eyes widening at the realization: this was the address of the garage they were in.

She shook both her co-members by the shoulders, prompting Diwa to ask, “What?

Did you lose a night vision contact lens?”

It was a golden rule: not trusting anybody; and Sol already had a cynical view of life to begin with. Project Lian Thaine, by instinct, already sounded dubious. Sol rolled the letters around her tongue—lian thaine, aline thain, anilinehat. Annihilate.

Her eyes shot up to meet them. “S-s-setup!”

Igme titled her head to the side. “Shut up?”

“It’s a s-set-up! I think the BAE is having us t-terminated,” Sol screamed, looking over her shoulder and then back at the dashboard. “Gani, you piece of shi—” Their car, situated in a dilapidated storage building that might have once catered to luxury vehicles but now accommodated wayward mice, was surrounded by burly men in XXS cotton shirts. One of the men practically ripped the door and dragged Sol out. Instantly, she swung her leg as hard as she could, sending him sprawling to the ground beside her. As soon as he landed, she shot up, sending a kick down his abdomen when she did. Sol was careful not to let her foot linger for too long. The man barely caught her toes when she bounced back.

Sol paced back and scanned the room for her teammates. She spotted Diwa, who was holding her own. Even during their training, she knew Diwa was their fists. It had to be her skills in combat that lured the BAE to her. Diwa had just broken the arm of her attacker when she spun to meet Sol.

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“Igme,” they both whispered.

Small and slight, Igme’s combat skills were something her teammates had yet to see, and this worried them. They looked around and saw a man charging their way when a black figure dropped down his shoulders. They noticed Igme struggling to keep her legs twisted around his collar bone. She spared them an irked glance. “A little help here?”

Diwa punched their attacker in the guts and nudged his unconscious body with her foot. “Looks like they underestimated us.”

“No,” Sol found herself saying, searching the room for a CCTV camera. “They were just testing the goods, making sure we’re double-dead.”

“Does being dead inside counts?” Igme asked, before a blast of air sent them straight against a wall. They tried pulling themselves out to no avail and it was then that Sol realized their change of clothing that morning wasn’t for their benefit. Their suits must have contained ferromagnetic metal.

The wall panels shifted, transforming the garage into a subterranean-styled structure with a low ceiling and stone walls. There was a computer equipment on the far side from where they were stuck awkwardly against a magnetic wall. In panic, she turned her head to see a tallish man beside Diwa. Her co-member noticed the round brown eyes staring down on her and muttered, “Did I die and go to heaven?”

The young man laughed. “Yeah, people do say I’m a cherub.”

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“G-gani?” Diwa squinted, knowing the voice too well. The young man had hair she would want to rake her fingers through. “I didn’t know you were attractive.”

He chuckled just as Igme supplied that statement with “I didn’t know you’re human. I guess that makes it easier for me to bite your face off.”

“I would have preferred we meet under different, better circumstances.”

“Is this another bloody test?” Sol asked, her voice strained. “Because you can tell the BAE that we quit. They can stuff our backpay straight up their—” “You can’t quit if you’re fired, more so if you’re dead.” Gani flicked the switch, releasing the girls from the magnetic pull.

“I suppose you have questions.”

“Yeah.” Igme nodded. “Like where to get holy water.”

“O-or why did we get axed?” Sol added.

“Or do you have a girlfriend?” Diwa asked from under her breath, which earned her a look of ire from both Igme and Sol. Gani counted with his artificial fingers.

“Online. You did not represent well the overall values of BAE. And no, Diwa, I don’t.”

Diwa involuntarily giggled at that, stopping only when Igme lightly smacked her against the back of her head. Sol narrowed her eyes. “Why hire us in the first place?”

“Nunos are made to be cleaners, scapegoats, or both. Once the tasks are done, you’re done.”

“Well, there was,” he said. “It had a message in Baybayin, which would have prepared you for this very moment.”

“Don’t we get sent home?” Diwa asked.

“With a gift basket, preferably?”

“I’m guessing you’re a double agent,” Sol said, unamused.

Gani smiled, walking over to the computer.

“You have no idea how many girls I’ve terminated in this dead-end job.”

“Close enough,” he huffed. “I don’t work solely for the BAE, hence my providing you with another mission. You three can deliver and I do need my little advocates as much as BAE needs their lil’ angels, fairies, babes, or whatever pet name they come up with.”

Igme exhaled sharply. “Terminated, I’m hoping, is a euphemism for ‘let go peacefully.’”

Gani ignored this to say, “Your trio are the first set of girls I’ve handled who actually showed promise. Yes, it did pain me when I heard of your termination, inevitable though it was. You have made the Engkantos feel insecure and the BAE couldn’t handle losing pretty assets.”

“So ‘we’ had to go?” Sol asked.

“Yes, which brings us to this wonderful discussion. Call it an ‘exit interview,’ if you may.” He came to sit on a light block chair, never breaking eye contact. “Project Lian Thaine—are you still interested in the case or not?”

Sol scoffed, “Why would we be interested in our own annihilation?”

“Who said anything about your annihilation?” he shot back. “Did you know there was a laminated card in the compartment, along with the folder?”

“We wouldn’t know. Our asses got dragged out of the car,” said Diwa.

“That’s the secondary ‘secret’ in secret, secret mission? We thought you’re trying to kill us,” Diwa said in relief.

“He still can,” Igme reminded her, shifting her focus to Gani. “What happens if we don’t comply? And what happens if we do?

Will you dispose of us like the BAE?” “If you don’t comply, I’m forced to execute the BAE’s orders. If you do, I can give you what you want.”

“Free health care?” Sol asked just as Igme proposed, “Assurance we won’t get dumped in a river to die?”

Diwa gasped. “Ooh, can I get a boyfriend?”

“Of course, that depends on the team performance,” he responded. Diwa knitted her brows. “And how exactly will you be able to give us what we want? Seems pretty sketchy to me.”

As Gani opened his mouth to explain, Igme tapped “escape” on Sol’s back in Morse Code; she sent this info to Diwa, who tapped back in agreement. With a

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mutual understanding, they lunged at Gani, hoping to tackle him down. The three passed through him and landed on the rug that he was previously standing on.

“Eyes on me, girls,” Gani said as his hologram shifted. Smoke billowed in the room, skewing their sight. It was then that Sol realized that in the split second their group shared glances, Gani had escaped, leaving behind his hologram.

Diwa closed her eyes and took one whiff.

“He’s at 280 degrees.”

Sol then crouched, allowing Igme use her back as leverage. Igme jumped over her, spotting Gani making a run for it, and made a turn mid-air so that she would land on him. Her flats skidded across his t-shirt and she fell on his back. She looped her legs around his arms, bending his right leg in an ungodly angle.

Sol looked over them and berated Igme, “That’s not the correct wrestling position.

You’re only hurting your back.”

“Would you inject him already? My face is near his ass,” Igme grumbled as her victim threatened to release gas of the natural variety. She squinted through the pastel cloud and saw that she was holding a latex-covered leg.

“Let me go, Igme.” Diwa squirmed as Sol fanned the smoke away from her face, stunned silent. Igme dropped Diwa’s leg and wondered aloud, “This is some weird Wag Kukurap shit.”

The lights shut down, revealing in the darkness glowing green laser lights that cut clean Igme’s side bangs. From a corner,

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Gani glided across the room to meet them, unbothered by the laser beams. His sashay was so graceful, it almost seemed uncanny.

Sol then remembered when they passed through Gani’s hologram, how it felt like they were passing through air. There was no static, no buzz, and no sign that it was a three-dimensional physical image.

That wasn’t a hologram.

“What are you?” Sol asked, unable to take a few steps back.

Igme was still bent over Diwa, whose face was flat against the floor. Gani crouched beside the two and pushed Igme’s hair from her face, addressing Sol as he said, “You can make your choice now, Nunos. I give you 15 seconds. Fifteen … fourteen …”

“Thanks for the head start,” said Igme as she glared up at him. Sol took one long breath and asked fast, “After we try Project Thaine, you said we can ask you for anything. Can we really?” “… eight …” Gani angled his head to the side, watching them like Sol would cat videos. “… Pay attention, Nunos. Eyes and ears on me. I said you can give you anything you want. For the right price, of course. Four …”

Sol closed her eyes. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” he said simply. She stared him straight in his dark pupils and said, “Fine.

We’re in. We’ll try Project Thaine and you give us what we want.”

“Sol!” Igme shouted at the same time as Diwa’s muffled “Sow.”

“I know you’ll see it my way,” said Gani, flicking his fingers. The laser beams disappeared and Diwa could finally lift her head to scold Sol for perhaps singlehandedly ruining their lives.

“So, what do you want?” Gani interjected to which Sol narrowed her eyes. “Our freedom. We’ll try Project Thaine and you give us our freedom in return. We won’t get hunted by BAEs and we won’t get haunted by you.”

Igme lowered Diwa’s finger to say, “Because devils are known to keep promises. We’d fare better at the mercy of genies.”

Her co-member turned to her. “You say the damnedest shit, man.”

“I did agree to that, didn’t I?” asked Gani, amused. Igme and Diwa stood beside her, just as taken aback. Sol felt a sudden chill in the air; he was not the type of person— or well, devil—that they would want delighted.

Sol didn’t know how Gani could smile beyond ear to ear, but he almost did. Sol knew that this wasn’t a standard BAE case, that Gani didn’t recruit their supposed specialties for a run in the park. She also knew that she couldn’t play by BAE rules with Gani. If he really was the “demonic entity” he said he was, dealing with the devil had repercussions, even if they seemed to have outwitted them at the moment. No one ever went to hell and back unscathed.

“Yes,” Diwa said loudly. “So, you better hold on to your promise. Here’s a pinkie.”

Jesus. And all she wanted was to be an Engkanto.

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Untitled Juliana Ampil

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Gisulat sa Gilid ng Bangin Gerald Castillo Galindez Sa totoo langGusto ko maging aswang, Maglipad-lipad sa mga bundokSa ulap maglutang-lutang Sa malalalim na bangin ako magtingin-tinginTikman ang lamig na hamog at hangin Gusto ko pag gabi walang bituin Yung naga taligsik, yung grabe katahimik sa maitim na ulapAko mag ikot-ikot, mag laag-laagtignan kung paano ginabuo ang kidlat.

Pag ako naging aswangHindi na ako magutom, madaming pagkain, Wala ng problema na ginaisipmadaming kasama, mainit, masaya, nagakanta-kanta, nagatula-tula sa usok at apoy naglakad-lakad sa ulap, nagatawa-tawa, parang walang mga problema.

Gusto ko maging aswang, Kadami kong magawa, makabasa ng isip, Mawala sa hangin, maging usok, maging hayop, Maging tatak sa mga bata ng baryo, Hindi na magtanda- laging makinis ang mukha.

Gusto ko na maging aswang, Ngayon na! hindi na ako makahintay.

Gusto ko na makakain ng atay Nagagana na ang bato, nagapula na ang mata ko Maging aswang na ako!

Magtalon ako sa bangin ngayon Walang makaalam, Walang makahanap ng aking katawan, Mawasak, madirderSipsipin ng lupa ang dugo.

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Upos Angeli Mendoza

Iyo nang buksan ang huling kaha Yaring pansindi ay ilabas na Dito sa gilid ko’y maupo ka Nang paglilinaw sa kalabuan ay mangyari na Isang hithit, isang buga Mainit ang gabi ngunit giniginaw ka Ngayon, kahit katabi lamang kita Tila kalawakan ang pagitan nating dalawa Isang hithit, isang buga Lumamlam ang ningning sa ‘yong mga mata Damdamin mo ba’y nag-aalab pa O ang naiwan na lamang ay tanging baga?

Isang hithit, isang buga Kasabay ng malalim na paghinga Sinambit ng puso mong nanghihina, “Mukhang kailangan muna natin ng pahinga” Isang hithit, isang buga Walang ibang nasabi kundi “pasensya na” Ako’y napapikit; pagdilat ko’y wala ka na Sa gabing ito pala magtatapos ang ating istorya Ayoko nang muling mahirapan pa Kaya sana, tuluyang bitawan mo na Ako, at lahat ng ating mga alaala Hanggang sa upos na lang ang matira Isang huling hithit, isang huling buga Kasabay ng malalim na paghinga Masasabi ko ring lilimutin na kita.

Pangako, mahal; malilimutan din kita.

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Iskandoloso ang mga Luha Angela Mae Pamaos

Sabi ko, huwag dito – Nasa loob tayo ng sasakyan, Haya’n tuloy tayo ay pinagtitinginan.

Hindi ba, tinuruan na kita?

Sa kwarto ka lang dapat lumabas, Umagos, bumaha – Huwag sa gitna ng mga daan, Na tila hinahayag sa lahat Ang aking kakulangan.

Nag-usap na tayo, Pipirmi ka lang dapat sa loob Ng mga mata ko, Lalo na kapag siya na ang kaharap.

Hindi ka sumunod, Lumabas ka pa rin, Umagos, bumaha, Nagmakaawa pa sa kanya, Tila inaamin na siya ang aking Kakulangan.

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Sa Presinto Ko Natutunan ang Kapangyarihan Neil Cirilo

Drifting Bea So

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Hindi ko inasahan na biglang magkakagano'n. Kasabay ng pagguhit ng linya ng ballpen bilang tanda ng isang boto para sa kandidato sa tally board ay ang tila pagbaba ng switch sa ilaw. Bumagal ang pag-ikot ng elisi ng bawat electric fan at nabulag ng kadiliman ang lahat ng tao sa presinto. Sa mga unang milisegundo ay hindi ako gumalaw, nanatiling nakadikit ang kanang kamay ko sa board hawak ang ballpen at ang isang kamay bilang ruler nang hindi maligaw sa ibang kandidato ang boto. Tila nagyelo ako sa kabila ng pawis at maalinsangang gabi.

Napakabilis ng mga pangyayari. Kalkulado ang bawat galaw, parang mga linya ng iskrip sa isang pagtatanghal sa teatro, kabisado at walang palya ang pagbibitaw ng mga linya.

Nagbukas kaagad ng de-bateryang ilaw at flashlight sa cellphone ang mga tao. Biglang dumami ang mga watcher sa silid ng bilangan. Lahat ay may dalang pananglaw. At bago ko pa mapansin, ang lahat sa kanila'y biglang lapit sa urna, na parang isa nang lumang simbuyong hindi na dapat pinag-iisipan. Sumarado ang dilaw at metal na kahon, at bago pa ito'y naibalik na ang kuyum-kuyom na mga natitirang balotang hindi pa nabibilang, sa ibabaw noon, hindi kahalo ang mga nabilang na. Isang pahiwatig sa bawat taong naroroon na walang dadagdag, walang babawas. Walang biglang kamay na magpupuslit ng mga balota. Walang biglang aangat, walang biglang babagsak. Hindi mabilang ang mga pares ng matang matamang nakatitig at nagbabantay. Walang kilos ang maaaring palagpasin.

Naro'n silang lahat sa gitna, kulang na lamang ay yakapin ang urna upang maprotektahan lamang ito sa mas masama pang pagkakataon kaysa brownout. Na parang mas mahalaga pa ang balota kaysa sariling buhay.

Sarado ang pinto, ngunit may pagkalabog sa labas. Lumalakas ang bulungan at kahit sa mumunting bintana ng elementary school ay di mabilang ang nakadungaw, tila nanonood ng isang kapana-panabik na pelikula. Lahat ng nasa loob ay pawisan ngunit hindi lamang dahil sa alinsangang nadarama, kundi pati na rin sa takot at kaba na siyang mas nangingibabaw. May dumapa nga ba? Iyong "dapa!" may mamamaril ba? Mayro'n bang may hawak ng baril? Bakit, para sa'n?

Nilisan ko ang pisara kung saan ako nagtatantos ng boto, dahil pinaligiran na rin iyon ng mga watcher mula sa dalawang partido, wala na akong lugar doon. Bigla na lang akong napaupo sa sulok, tinatantya ang hanggang sa pinakamaliliit na galaw ng bawat isa, naghahanap ng kikilos ng masama, naghihintay ng sigawan, at tila unti-unting nabibigyang-buhay ng aking malikot na imahinasyon ang mga putok ng baril. Siguro'y likas na sa akin ang laging mag-teyorya ng pinakamalalang pangyayari sa mga gano’ng sitwasyon.

Una kong naramdaman ang buga ng hangin ng electric fan kaysa sa pagkasilaw sa liwanag ng bumbilya nang magkaroong muli ng kuryente. Napawi ang aking mga negatibong nararamdaman. Buti na lang. Balik muli sa dati, balik na sa normal. Balik na sa bilangan.

Gano'n pala talaga ang kapangyarihan. Gano'n pala ang pinoprotektahan.

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An Apology to My Yo u n g e r S e l f Fray Narte

This is an apology to my younger self for letting her forget the ixora bracelets tucked in her tattered notebooks; for letting her blur the outline of Artemis’ body resting the edges of a waxing moon.

This is an apology for the poetry and the songs she tuned out that could’ve saved her life.

This is an apology for allowing her to stop hearing the midnight stories of the souls who get lost in unknown towns concealed beyond the gaps in their ribs; for allowing her to stray too far from mountain-and-sea sunsets that she can no longer smell the salty air and remember the color of the twilight skies This is an apology for allowing her to fall out of love with the things she wanted to stay in love with — for allowing her to fall out of love

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with the things that kept her alive.

This is an apology — for peeling the tattoo scabs between the drags on a cigarette, for sleeping drunk on a pile of dirty laundry, for wanting to keep the dreamers in the rye, and yet falling off the cliff two pages before the ending.

This is an apology for writing her dreams in a bottle and throwing it out into the open ocean; now those dreams are nautical miles away, lost in the domes of a sunken city.

This is an apology to my younger self for all the things she wanted to be that I never became — and an apology for all the things I am that she never wanted to be.

And yet, this too is a promise to her that it’s okay: it’s okay to lose yourself in places you don’t like.

It’s okay to wake up and find yourself confined in a body you no longer seem to know.

It’s okay, darling; someday, you’ll find your way back.

I’ll find my way back.

We’ll find our way back to who we’re supposed to be.

And it’ll be home.

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The Makings of Ursula Cerisse Madlangbayan

Silip Toni McKeon

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On Ursula’s twenty-ninth birthday, she had the Amancoso clan murdered, including the children. Contrary to what the people thought, she slept very well through the nights since then.

necessary actions) search the whole town of Lourorca and the next town over. The whole Estartaxo family had been in panic for months after, failed search attempt after another.

It is very odd to begin her story with the end and it is even more peculiar considering it is not her story to begin with, but her late sister’s, Alma. Ursula was very attached to her little sister as a child; her love had been so all-consuming that Alma sought comfort in their elder brother, Luz, instead.

Luz was nurturing in ways that Ursula could never be, having been hardened early on by failed expectations. The Estartaxo family was about as inexplicable as their name—a clan whose gathered riches came from unknown sources. While bred to be the mistress of the house, Ursula grew up to be the silent guardian of the family. She never fit the role provided to her; in time, her parents figured that it was the role that needed to suit her rather than the other way around.

But Alma, weeks after her disappearance, was in the bathroom of the Amancoso family. It was small enough to fit a toilet bowl and a sink. She had been pressing her whole body against the door despite its many locks. Mother, as she would like to be called, had become complacent with her long trips to the comfort room, but the Young Man was not. He called out for her often, but either Mother or her children would come between them. Alma was glad for that; she hated the way his eyes searched her.

Alma was never expected to take on responsibility. She had a physical and emotional cherubic quality that people often mistook for unbridled naivety or a case of daftness. In truth, Alma simply never cared much for things. The general term “things” here included everything except her close familial relations.

Alma would lay her head on Ursula’s lap like a wide-eyed pup and was content with Ursula stroking her long, dark hair. This was joy to Alma, nothing more and nothing less. So, when her nursemaid lost her in the marketplace—their parents thought it best for the fifteen-year-old to experience some form of independence—Ursula’s quiet persona broke. She had had her gang (respected despite their questionable,

“She is young, my son. You can’t wed her yet,” Mother consoled the Young Man. “You married young, Mother, and to a man much older. What difference does that make?”

“A scared wife would not make a good wife.”

“Quite the contrary.”

Alma shivered, covering her face in her hands. She knew what a wife meant.

Mama was Papa’s wife, but he never scared her, and she never scared him. Luz had a kind woman he wanted to be his wife, Constanza, but he never scared her, and she never scared him. Ursula, who has loved Oscar since childhood, never desired to be his wife even though he loved her just as much. Even then, Ursula who was scary in her silence never scared Oscar, and he never scared her.

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No one ever hurt the other. But Alma knew the Young Man was going to hurt her in some way.

She cried for Ursula then first and foremost, for Ursula cared not for the hogwash around luck and fate. “No destiny!”

“Luz, Ursula, Mama, Papa … take me away,” she prayed as she heard the shower from the other bathroom next to hers turn on. She could hear his long, low sounds through the walls that not even her hands could block out the noise. Then, there was a gasp and a woman’s voice, which she judged must be the Young Lady’s.

Mother raised a hand and Alma was sure she would slap her, but Mother only grabbed her face and leaned close. “Yes, it is destiny that brought you here. Destiny that you shall be part of the family.”

The Young Lady didn’t look like she was part of the family, especially with the way she hung her whole body against the Young Man. But she was always in the house and by his side. The Young Lady didn’t like the sight of Alma, but Alma liked the sight of the Young Lady. Whenever she was around, the Young Man left her alone.

One time, the Young Man noticed her staring at them. Alma regretted even looking in his direction, but she had been curious about Mother’s family and her purpose for being in the tall house. The Young Man and the Young Lady began tearing at each other like one would a meal. She didn’t understand their hunger and looked away, continuing to knit a blanket.

That was one of Mother’s conditions when she first arrived at the house: to knit a hundred blankets.

“I want to go home,” she wailed, wiping her face with her knee-length hair. “Please let me go.”

“I cannot, my child. For it was destiny that I found you.”

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“I have a family,” she blubbered.

“That was your family before. You’ll have a family after. You’re here for the family after.”

She wept louder. “I have a family.”

“Now, now, that is not a face a young girl like you should be making.”

That was when the Young Man first came in. He was almost as tall as Luz but bulkier. The Young Lady would often call him handsome, but Alma never saw him in that manner. Unlike Luz, Papa, and Oscar, he looked brutish. She couldn’t find any gentleness of character or sweet disposition.

“Mother, she is a child,” he said.

“It must be her long hair; it’s hiding her face.” Mother tried to push her hair far back, no matter how hard Alma struggled.

Alma, as Ursula would later remark, had a cursed face. It doomed all those who beheld her to enact grand or passionate gesture. For her family, they could not help but love her incessantly. Ursula knew she would go to great lengths to protect her sister from all harm.

This ardor, in the care of other people,

could turn just as malevolent. It was not that Alma was pretty, but it was a certain attractive quality that people would like to possess. Immediately, after Mother has successfully tucked her hair behind both ears, the Young Man saw the round dark eyes set against dark skin, the round pout of her mouth, and the heart shape of her face.

Alma would forever resent that moment.

The Young Man’s demeanor changed from stone-cold to something else entirely. It made the hair on her arms stand up. Mother must have seen it too for she immediately hid Alma’s face behind her hair.

“We should be joined at the soonest,” the Young Man declared.

“She still has to knit a hundred blankets.”

“What are the blankets for?” she once asked Mother.

“For the children,” Mother answered.

Alma, during the first encounter, thought that it must be for Mother’s other younger children—the Little Boy and the Little Girl. They were blissfully unaware of their surroundings just as Alma had once been in the company of her family.

How strange that she needed to knit a hundred blankets for two growing children, she once said to herself, lost in her knitting.

That was when her blood ran cold and she excused herself to the bathroom. It was not for Mother’s children, but for Alma’s.

“But with who? No, not him,” she whispered, curling on the floor and pressing her knees as close to her pounding chest as possible. “Please, please, please, not him.”

“That’s an old custom.”

The old woman staggered. “But as you can see, she is a special girl. With her, I make an exception.”

“So be it.”

“You mustn’t approach her until she finishes them.”

She had never been a foot away from him, but she had already detested his nearness. She had seen Ursula and Oscar practically join bodies in the garden. They disentangled immediately when they saw her. Ursula was aghast at soiling her little sister’s innocence, but Alma didn’t care for the trifles. She was only curious.

“It’s only when you love someone very, very much,” Ursula explained.

“If it makes the meal worthwhile.”

Alma froze at those words and so did Mother. The old woman smiled at her son and waved him off, but she was shaking when she fixed Alma’s hair. Alma had never felt more unsafe until this moment.

It solidified her fears that she might never get back home.

“But I don’t see Luz and Costanza together like that.”

Ursula laughed. “They are pretty discreet. I give them that.”

Alma wasn’t mortified, but she never questioned the ways of her elder siblings.

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Adults to her was a mystery and even when she slowly came of age, she clung to her childhood like a life vest. But now, she felt like she was expected to do the same.

No, she knew they would make her do the same.

her circumstance. She was given a dress of lighter and shorter fabric, and Mother arranged her hair so that only a few tendrils framed her face. After, the Little Boy took a peek of her and beamed. “You are the most beautiful girl in town.”

The first time she hid in the bathroom, she stood over the toilet bowl and tried to unscrew the aluminum screen of the window. But then, she heard the loud bangs from the door and she heard the Young Man call out her name. Or what he believed was her name. They gave her many names, names that she could not pronounce. But each name carried a different tone. The Young Man had a tone that made her shrivel like dried fruit.

The Little Girl jumped. “Let’s show everyone.”

When she heard Mother chastise him, Alma let out a heavy breath. She only came out when Mother assured her that the coast was clear.

At one point, when Alma’s longing had become unbearable, she grabbed out a knife and was determined to scar her face completely. But the Little Girl had caught her, and she had to drop the knife to the ground.

“What are you doing?”

Alma swallowed. “I was going to cut my hair.”

“Oh no, don’t cut your hair. Your hair is really pretty.”

Alma remembered that day with a shudder. She went to the garden, the farthest place she could get to, for escape, but immediately felt the Young Man’s presence. She was sickened by his very being to an almost indeterminate degree that she had imprinted in her mind his every move and every sound. There could be a house between them and she could still feel his nearness.

“Mother was right in choosing you.”

Alma remained silent as he circled her, his eyes boring through her flesh. Her head had always belonged to the clouds, Mama said. But in that moment, her mind was still in her skull, creeping and cautious.

Never had she understood Ursula and her hardened façade better than in those longwinding minutes.

“When there are many vultures, I ask myself, ‘Then what would I be?’” Ursula whispered fiercely during one of their conversations. She slid her youngest sister a glance. “I think of my family, I think of you, and then I’d know the answer. The Estartaxos are never prey.”

“But it is hot.”

The Little Girl decided to resolve her feigned afflictions with prettifying methods that did more harm than good to

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The Young Man reached for her face. It was a tender touch, but Alma knew better.

He thought her his property. “I can’t wait when we’ll be joined.”

Never prey. “Will Mother be fixing my hair?”

Her steady voice caught him off-guard. “I would love it if she did.”

His fingers treaded the back of her neck and he was so near now. She matched his gaze as she knew Ursula would have.

He would never have her, she promised herself. “Little Sister and Little Brother helped.”

“You’ll call them by their real names soon,” he said as he lowered his face to hers.

She feared what would happen if she pushed him, if she could push him at all.

Alma closed her eyes and breathed in Ursula’s spirit. Strong as Ursula. Never prey. An Estartaxo is never prey.

When she opened her eyes, she found him closing in, eyes open. Her stare had a message of strength and indignation she never knew she had the capability of possessing. He stopped, and she heard Mother bellow from the veranda.

But Alma could not be Ursula for long, and by nighttime, fear had broken out once more. She positioned herself by the wall, far from the doorway. Yet, even as she had her eyes closed hours before midnight, she felt the Young Man gazing down at her pretend slumber. If he knew she was awake, then they were engaging in a silent match. If he didn’t, it mattered not; she was just as insecure about her situation.

Weeks had passed by and Alma was knitting the second last of her blankets.

She had been stalling for days, but it was getting clear that she would finish

knitting that very same week. She touched her thigh, where a bandaged knife was strapped tight against her skin. It hurt her to think of her early death, but at least she could go on knowing the Young Man would never reach her again.

This was what led her to go on her last trip to the bathroom. She heard the Young Lady yell from outside.

“She is young and inexperienced! What do you want from her?”

There was a whisper. “Everything.”

Alma recoiled, unscrewing the aluminum screen fast. She had to time opening the heavy glass window with the Young Lady’s scream. For the Young Lady screamed often, usually to berate the Young Man for choosing Alma. She did hear a scream just then, and she pushed out the windows.

She stopped only upon noticing that this scream was different.

The Young Lady was hit.

There was sobbing, which gave Alma enough time to slid out of the small opening. She knew the Young Man’s men were always guarding the perimeters, but she had also observed that they were out on breaks whenever the Young Lady and the Young Man were “thrashing.”

Alma dropped to the ground just as she heard the Young Lady scream one more time. She didn’t try to discern why the Young Lady screamed again as she was busy running through the woods. It was only later that she realized the Young Lady might have, for some reason, tried to help her. They had shared a look just before she

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entered the bathroom that day.

Ursula always thought her younger sister was cherubic in every sense of the word, a being who defied earthly explanations.

That passing glance the Young Lady and Alma had carried messages so integral and deep, that it showed old wounds. Alma felt the Young Lady’s longing for the Young Man, but she also felt her distaste for him.

The Young Lady must have felt her fear, although in hindsight, anyone who spared a look her way knew she was scared.

Alma ran her hardest, trying not to cry as she did so. Tears and blurred vision would slow her down, so would a heaving chest.

She heard heavy footsteps behind her, but she carried on nevertheless. It was, by the graces of God, that she saw Oscar on his motorcycle, patrolling the vicinity.

Her arms wrapped around his waist. She screamed his name as she was tugged behind by the Young Man’s men. “Oscar, help me! Oscar, please!”

She heard two loud shots and remembered Oscar had a gun. He always brought a gun since the unknown incident, an event neither Oscar nor Ursula fully disclosed and was talked about by their parents only in hushed voices. The noise brought Ursula’s gang to their location as it had the rest of the Young Man’s men and the Young Man himself.

Oscar had already situated himself in the middle of Ursula’s gang, with Alma tied to his hips. The Young Man barked, “Give me my bride.”

Alma could feel Oscar tremble. But she knew it wasn’t fear. Oscar was livid.

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His voice remained composed. “What bride? I only see my sister.”

“She’s a part of our family now.”

Oscar cackled. “Your family? And what great name, pray tell, does your family have?”

“The Amancoso run the village. You would do well not to disrespect us.”

“The Amancoso?” Oscar laughed. “With your bravado, I thought you were worth more.”

“Give her to me,” the Young Man seethed.

“This girl can turn away a governor’s son, if she wishes,” Oscar said, rubbing Alma’s head. “A common man can’t possess her.

No one can.”

There was a screeching of a car behind them and Alma turned away for a second to see her eldest sister emerge from its seat. She was about to run to Ursula’s arms when Ursula held out a hand, walking straight towards the Young Man’s men.

The Young Man walked to face her just as Ursula neared him with the same cold glare. When she stopped an inch away from his face, she smiled.

“So, you call my sister a bride?” she asked, tilting her head. “Are you saying she will get married first before all her siblings?”

“We found her,” the Young Man answered.

“She is ours.”

“And we got her right back, so what does that tell you?” Ursula whispered, running

a finger down his chest. “I see you like girls very, very young. You know, where I live, we do something about men like you.”

“That is not the practice here.”

Ursula laughed, stepping back and eyeing him very closely. “That is where you’re wrong, child. Your village, you see, is part of a bigger town. A town that a relative of ours govern. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

“We know not of your relative.”

Ursula clucked her tongue. “That’s a pity, considering my youngest sister is his favorite niece. He adores her, and I don’t think he would take the news lightly that a brute like you would decide to … well, ‘own’ her.” “She is mine,” he asserted.

the flowers down to their stems, but after long contemplation, she ordered to have the buds pulled down to the roots. Hate would have spread and festered among the young, and Ursula could not have that.

They did not have enemies for a reason.

She watched Alma closely in the days that followed and knew that a chip of her sister was gone, taken by vultures Ursula could not swat. She was left with one conclusion: she had to have her sister killed.

Ursula wrapped her legs around her little sister’s waist, tightly grabbing her floorlength hair. “You’re about to die now.”

“Will I feel better afterwards?”

“Yes, you will feel lighter.”

“Do it, Ursula, and do it fast.”

“She never was.” Ursula took another step back. “Your insolence requires death. And not just your own.”

Ursula took her sister back that day and kept her promise without Alma’s knowledge. Her first instinct was to chop

The agency in her little sister’s voice— which before her captivity, Ursula had never heard before—hastened Ursula’s actions. With raised shears, she placed the blade under her sister’s hair and began to cut.

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Batang Magsasaka Ashley Venerable

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Andoy Mac Panes Tuzon

Eto si itay Nakayakap nanaman sa baraha.

Mga mata’y parang may mabibiktima.

Eto ako sa tabi niya.

Nanunood kanina pa.

Inaalam ang matimatika at mahika na parang sa akin ay ipapamana niya.

Sa bawat bunot At tapon ng baraha.

Kasabay ay malalim na hinga.

Ayaw ko na andito siya.

Pero gusto ko na manalo siya.

Lima kong kapatid sa bahay tirik na ang mga mata.

Andon si inay nakagapos sa higaan.

Di kami makalapit Buhay namin ang posibleng kapalit.

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Malaya?

Megel Joshua F. Ramiterre

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Manila Cindel Ong

Edward Soja’s Thirdspace: “A fully lived space, a simultaneously real-and-imagined space, actual-and-virtual locus of structural individuality and collective experience and agency.”

I. In the Philippine archipelago, Manila is the busy metropole an eye spots in an instant.

It is black from smoke.

The space is teeming with towering buildings.

They must want to defy god by attempting to touch the sky—an open halo ever so out of reach. I wonder why we even try. There is no point where the human happens to meet the divine.

II. I see Manila constructed as this: the concrete roads are cracked from years of cement, the vendors know only to exchange coins for a meal.

The crowds flock the streets, not for the hope of rain or miracle, but for the chance to survive.

This is where strangers meet on the daily.

This is where millions live, but some are still in a state of homelessness.

Manila had always been humid, congested, loud. But its saturating vibrancy call me back each time I ache to leave.

III. This is the Manila I have come to call home: her sweaty palm on my skin as we navigate our way around its dissonant landscape.

The cat jumping on the roof that jolts me awake beyond midnight.

Listening to my mother speak in bisaya.

Greeting my grandmother a happy birthday each time I come knocking on her bedroom door. It makes her laugh and feel she is nowhere near a hundred.

The quiet walk from my street to Retiro.

The coffee shop I escape to when I am feeling restless.

The taste of the putrid air. My skin warm each waking minute.

My skin red, yellow, blue. My skin turning golden.

My skin holds each memory I have of Manila.

My skin never forgets.

It is akin to remembering— life, moment, breath.

This is the city that seeks much, but stays still upon a single touch.

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Manual Part 3 Monsters in the City Eldred Marcelo

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Bawal ang Paglalaro ng Apoy ngunit Hindi ang Pakikipagsayaw Patricia Leuterio

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Change has come. The King has been in power for almost a century. The country's condition has been continuously deteriorating. The cities were consumed by flames while hunger killed thousands.

Humans who have resorted to crime have been genetically mutating. The excessive exposure to violence and lack of basic resources have caused their minds and bodies to undergo severe change, making them stronger and dangerous. With the nation's attempt to rebuild, this manual was written to understand these humans by analyzing their traits based on the authors' recorded encounters with them and some accounts from other individuals.

Knowledge about these humans are still lacking and anyone who encounters them must proceed with caution.

longer do the trick and would provoke it to be more aggressive to its victims.

Accomplished on the twelfth month of the year 2028.

Usual equipment: a pointed weapon (usually an ice pick), a pistol

I just got off multiple job interviews.

I haven't had them in a long time and it was something I wasn't really used to. I took the footbridge a few minutes away from home. As I walked up the stairs, my feet felt heavier with every step. As I reached the top, I was almost unable to move. I couldn't see anyone else on the bridge. I carried my body slowly towards the end.

Halfway through, my body froze as I felt a small metallic surface touched the right side of my stomach. I felt someone breathing closely to my right ear. I couldn't remember what it told me and how it sounded like.

HOLDAPER

MANDURUKOT

Known locations: dark alleyways, foot bridges Year discovered: 2023

Known locations: train stations, waiting sheds Year discovered: 2018

It considers darkness as its best friend.

The holdaper has developed the ability to control shadows and use them to paralyze its victims. Dark places where workers pass through, where the shadows seemed like an endless burning brought by the sun, have always been the holdaper's nests.

By night, when the shadows are still and the sun is asleep, the holdaper waits in the darkness. When the country decided to attempt a restoration of the past, the holdaper dimmed their vision. It is however, extremely vulnerable to light. A sudden exposure to light causes it to panic and flee. Over time, its tolerance to light increased. Regular flash lights could no

The mandurukot was the first to show signs of mutation. However, it is also the least seen. Its skin developed chameleon-like abilities, allowing them to blend with their surroundings. There were rumors that its body has become hollow and incredibly light, allowing it to move swiftly around its targets. It thrives on congested crowds and can pickpocket multiple victims at the same time without them realizing.

Where exhausted people stay dormant and vulnerable, as the trains and buses speed past their tired eyes, the mandurukot cuts through the maze. When the country decided to sit still through the chaos, the mandurukot faded and became one with its

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immobile surroundings. Its weakness lies within its strength. Its light and hollow body is extremely fragile. It may be hard to catch but it is incapable of protecting itself once captured.

I was on my way home from 16 hours of work. I was with my co-workers at the train station three streets away from our office. It was 5 pm. It would take at least an hour of waiting to be able to board a train, if we were lucky. As our train was arriving, I felt a sharp wind coming from behind me, creating a grazing noise that was almost silenced by the roaring of the train. We immediately boarded the train as the people behind us pushed to move forward. Once we were inside, we realized most of our belongings were missing.

Usual equipment: a knife, razor blades, gloves TULAK Known locations: the slums, outside churches Year discovered: 2019 Known as the King's favorite, the tulak dwells on places where its victims reside or seek guidance. It can produce a scent that attracts its victims, rendering them vulnerable and gullible. Its appearance remains unchanged, making it harder to identify. The slightest exposure to its fragrance can put the victim under its spell in an instant. Where the doubtful seek safety, as their makeshift roofs and arrogant gods look down on them, the tulak quenches their ignored thirst. When the country decided to put their faith in the King, the tulak put them to sleep

and fed them with dreams. It survives by reproduction, it transforms its victims to a lesser version of itself. With this premise, there is one primary tulak whose location is unknown. Eventually, people learned to wear masks to avoid getting infected. This caused the tulak to be violent, attacking its victims out of desperation.

It was a Thursday. My husband went to Church to pray for our daughter who has been missing for days. He went outside to light a candle for his prayers. They said they saw him stare towards a specific direction then he walked towards it without removing its eyes from it. They had a guess on what it was and decided not to follow him. The next time they saw him, he was under the bridge with a bullet in his head, rotting along with a stash of crystal meth. I avoid going to the church as much as I can.

Usual equipment: a burner phone, prohibited drugs (usually crystal meth or "shabu"), a fake ID BUGAW Known locations: night clubs Year discovered: 2027 Like the tulak, the bugaw's appearance also remains unchanged. It relies on its voice, and eventually, its voices. The bugaw has ears and mouth that could copy anyone's voice and manner of speaking, and uses these as tools of deceit. Where the silent drop their guards and embrace intoxication, the bugaw crawls inside their spaces. However, this was not always the case. When the ones in control decided they had the luxury to fill their old desires, they created the bugaw to fool the meek. At

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the time it was discovered, nightclubs had only began running again since it stopped at the height of the King's reign. Back then they could only be filled with the richest, celebrating as the poorest served them their drinks. The bugaw was the only one able to negotiate with the richest, letting it separate itself from the poor, given that it provides them with whoever they lay their eyes on. It has a short life span, with most of its deaths caused by its bosses.

It was my first time to enter a nightclub. I was only there because my new boss seemed to be developing a liking towards me. We started drinking. Eventually, we were dancing. It was a loop of those two things with some talking in between.

I was getting a little drunk when this man approached me. He sounded just like my best friend from high school.

We talked about everything under the sun. He started asking me about my preferences on guys, said he would set me up with his friend. His voice soothed me, as if he could never tell lies. I believed everything he said.

Usual equipment: a burner phone, cash, multiple fake IDs AKYAT-BAHAY GANG Known locations: no permanent location, jumps from town to town Year discovered: 2025 The akyat-bahay gang is known to be the

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most dangerous because it is composed of multiple mutated entities. Usually made up of three members, the akyatbahay gang can attack multiple homes in a single night. It is versatile and has varying methods in looting its victims' homes. When together, the members of the gang can morph parts of their bodies to different tools or weapons. Where the ones unaffected reside in indestructible walls, the akyat-bahay gang invades their haven. When the apathetic closed all their doors through the noise, the akyat-bahay gang sneaked under their noses. It relies heavily on the proximity of its members.

When far from one another, the members of the gang are unable to morph and age at an increased rate.

My masters aren't usually home during the day. I am left alone with their dog and my endless errands. One hot afternoon, I was doing the laundry when I heard Joey [the dog] barking and growling furiously at the front door. He never did this. I stood up and walked towards him. I tried to calm him down as I saw a glimpse of quick shadows pass through the windows.

I heard the front door slowly unlock.

I was terrified, I froze as I embraced Joey who is now whimpering in fear.

Three humans – I wasn't sure if they had face – entered. One of them seemed like his arms were disfigured.

He was the one who grabbed on to the doorknob. They didn't hurt me nor Joey.

Usual equipment: unknown

Hanging by a Thread Patricia Leuterio

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360 Degrees Pinkle Therese G. Evangelio

You know how people tell you how one event turned their lives 360 degrees? But what if your whole life was measured in degrees, literally?

Summer of April 2018 was supposed to be a plain reunion for our batchmates from elementary school.

The plan was simple – we’d gather at my friend's house, bring potluck food, sing with our rented Karaoke machine, smuggle alcoholic drinks (drinking was banned in our friend’s house), and have a simple sleepover. For all intents and purposes, it really was just a simple sleepover – until it wasn’t.

I have known Kim since I was seven; we were classmates from first grade and her house was just a few blocks from mine. I remember her as someone really skinny, yet loved to wear backless or tube tops.

My classmates would often tease her for showing some skin despite her figure, but Kim wore them confidently. She was proud of her body. She was very active in school, joining singing and drawing contests and consistently coming up on the honor roll. She had a passion for dancing: she lead every dance number that we had for Christmas parties or Foundation Day in school. However, the Kim I knew from my elementary days was so remote from the Kim I met again at that reunion.

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Simoy Maricar Maandal

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She no longer wore bright backless or tube tops. Instead, she had on a loose-fitting shirt and a jacket that hid her back hump and protruding shoulder blades. Her movements were reserved and limited, far from the active Kim who I could still vividly recall dancing vigorously on stage.

She was a lot shorter than she used to be; I remembered her being inches taller than most of my classmates a few years ago. Perhaps it was because her one of each shoulder and hip appeared higher than the other. She walked as if dragging her other leg in awkward strides. She even complained of difficulty breathing for the very slight movements she had to make.

She was cautious and conscious of people at the same time.

I noticed all these immediately, but I dared not ask. It was uncomfortable, as if I was trying to initiate a conversation with a stranger. I waited for the right moment. Till the drinking game started and I knew that my cue had come.

28 Degrees: It was 2012 when she was diagnosed with Idiopathic Scoliosis.

It is one of the most common type of spinal deformities, yet still with an unidentifiable cause. No one knows whether the disease’s onset is hereditary or not, and its progression is difficult to predict at best. As the doctor who first diagnosed her put it: "GOK" or "God only knows" why or how she got it. But there was nothing to worry about; back then it was only 28 degrees and curves between 25 to 30 degrees needed only observation.

Surgeons would have to monitor its growth every few months in order to make sure that it wasn’t progressing at a fast rate into adulthood.

45 Degrees: Kim's spinal curve progressed

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in a much faster rate than normal. It worsened to 45 degrees within just six months after her diagnosis. This time, a correcting brace would not be of much help. A surgery was already in order. She was recommended to different doctors from different hospitals, who each gave her a different opinion. The doctor’s recommendation was easy. Pertinent documents were no problem, either. It was the money to pay for the operation, however, that posed the real challenge.

80 Degrees: Time dragged, and still no operation took place. With just her mother working as an OFW and 2 other mouths to feed, it was difficult for their family to produce the fund for the operation. The metal implant which they needed already cost about two hundred thousand pesos, and that still didn’t factor in the hospital bills, medicine, and post-operation expenses. It would definitely set their family back a fortune.

Government agencies could help, but it was a tedious process. Her family was required to present some show money to the PCSO and DSWD first thing before their request could be approved. They were told they would have to wait until they are put in the priority list, but Kim's condition did not afford her the luxury of time. It was speeding at a crazy rate, and by then the curve had doubled.

100 Degrees: A few nights after Kim shared her story in our reunion, none of us present that night could remain indifferent. We were all frustrated by the thought of her worsening condition and the fact that every single day, her torso was slowly crushing her lungs, heart and soon the rest of her internal organs.

That while everyone slept soundly during the sleepover, Kim was up all night,

uncomfortable with her sleeping position because we were all cramped on a single cushion. She was afraid, paranoid that in the middle of the night a nightmare would grip her, and none of us would be able to wake her the next morning.

It was this lingering feeling of urgency, of time running out, that made us convince her to have a doctor check on her once again. It had been three years since her last consultation, and so she was under a strong spell of fear at what terrible news would be revealed to her.

My friend Jex and I promised to come with her to Philippine Orthopedic Center in Banawe, Quezon City. After a few nags and motivation, Kim agreed under one condition: that we do not let her parents know of our plan, at least not yet. She did not want them to feel sorry for her. But the three of us had our hopes up. She had been managing her condition for the last six years, we thought it couldn’t get any worse.

The worst was yet to come, however, and even now I can still remember vividly the horror and complete resignation on her face when the young doctor told us that it was her last chance for an operation.

Her scoliogram indicated that her condition had progressed to 100 degrees with 3 curves and deviated ribs. She had turned twenty that year, and delaying the operation would only worsen the risks of a surgery, or worse, render one completely impossible. However, the news did not deter us: it even strengthened our desire to make the operation happen, ASAP. We all did our part: her father went on trips to PCSO and DSWD, back and forth, while my friends and I collected support from some other friends and old classmates.

Around the first week of September, by

our shared efforts and perhaps some divine intervention, their request for funds from the agencies were finally approved!

360 degrees: September 28, 2018: Kim was all set for her operation at Philippine Orthopedic Center. Her surgery, what the doctors dubbed a spinal fusion, involved straightening the curves using metal implants attached to the spine and connected by metal rods. The metal implants would hold the re-aligned curve until "fusion" happened or until it healed into a single bone. It would not completely straighten the spine, but would at least give some space for her internal organs from her ribs.

Three days after she was transferred in the recovery room, we all came to see her. The stench and poor ventilation of the shared room of 6 patients was overwhelming, but it did not keep us from noticing her still figure on the bed near the door. She was sleeping like a baby. When we woke her up, she was still drowsy from the anesthesia slowly wearing off. She looked at us with eyes half asleep, but she still mustered all her strength to talk to us.

The incisions that ran from her nape down to her lower back gave sharp jabs of pain whenever she tried to laugh or speak. When I asked her to rate the pain, she raised 8 fingers, but her grimace told me all her ten fingers will not be enough to measure the pain she was feeling. She was like a paper doll lying flat on the bed and it would take about three people to help her recline or even sit.

Kim was a real fighter as on her fifth day, she could already stand up and walk along the hospital’s antiseptic corridors. Her recovery was faster than most patients in

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their room. She couldn’t wait to go home, she said. After ten days of staying in POC, she was finally discharged.

My friends and I gathered once again in her residence, but this time for her homecoming. Everyone was so giddy to see her out of a hospital gown and into her casual clothes. We all felt awe upon seeing her, and I struggled to hold back tears. She was standing tall in the center of the room! I knew she would be inches taller than me once her curves were aligned. We laughed in between sobs and

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called her “Daddy Long Legs”.

“I feel like a walking post with a metal rod inside me!”, she said, while holding back her laughter. It was an amazing sight how she could finally stand and sit without the visible hump on her back and walk without dragging her legs and hip. We asked her to show us her stitches. She turned slowly to show her back still covered with bandages, her shoulders finally aligned!

At that moment, I knew the degree of her curve had finally stopped, because her life had already spun full circle.

Sly Veii Rehanne Martinez

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Death of Truth in War Earl Carlo Guevarra

sa lungsod, bago ang digma John Daryl Alcantara

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Hiram Johnson, a Republican senator, once said that “the first casualty, when war comes, is truth.”

I never realized the veracity of this statement until I experienced the complexities of war. Wars may seem to look like high-quality action flicks when shown on television and for the normal person, conflict may seem to be a far-fetched thing, let alone something that they’ll experience in the span of a lifetime.

The day was September 9, 2013 (or 9/9/13 as the locals prefer to call it). It was simply another sunny day in Zamboanga - a small city of 850,000 which serves as a commercial hub in the Southern Philippines.

If you have heard of the Abu Sayyaf, or those Al-Qaeda supported militants out there, then you must be aware that the city is only a couple of hours away by boat from the islands on which they live. Despite that fact, the city is relatively peaceful, apart from a few bomb attacks every five years or so.

As for me, I was just planning to visit the travel agent to book plane tickets for Istanbul. I was taking up a bachelor’s degree in Education at the Middle East Technical University in Ankara, Turkey and classes were about to start later that month. Afterwards, I had planned to have a bite with friends at the pueblo, considered the city’s central business district.

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After all, I should enjoy the remaining days of my summer vacation in the best way possible, no?

my mind when I heard of their purpose. It seemed that at the very onset, the truth wasn’t that clear anymore.

However, when I woke up at 5 a.m. to have my breakfast, I heard gunshots and explosions from afar. The sun hadn’t even shown up yet in the sky and somehow, the birds were still singing. At first I thought that there was a live-fire exercise or something along those lines.

Besides, they were armed to the teeth: With assault rifles, sniper rifles, squad automatic weapons and rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) to boot, they weren’t fooling anyone. This was clearly not your typical Greenpeace demonstration.

Then, out of curiosity, my mother turned on the radio and that was when we’d realized that hundreds of insurgents belonging to the Moro National Liberation Front (MNLF) landed at four coastal barangays, the basic government unit here in the Philippines (similar to boroughs or counties), and started to wreak havoc among the populace.

For starters, the Front, also known as the MNLF, is a separatist group that wanted to break from the national government and decided to settle for a peace agreement in 1976. At the time, there were rumors of a new peace deal for the autonomous regions of the country, specifically with the MILF; thus, feeling marginalized, the MNLF thought drastic measures were in order.

In a phone call to a local radio station, the MNLF spokesman explained that they all they were after was a peaceful demonstration: nothing beyond raising their flag in front of city hall.

Wait, what? Raise flags and have a peaceful demonstration? That sounds like another way to carry out a symbolic invasion of a city!

These were the very thoughts that ran into

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On another note, the government had ample warning of an imminent attack, as we heard in the local news the previous evening that “the Navy engaged with two boats that were bristling with armed people off the coast.”

We had thought everything would be fine.

But then, all hell broke loose and we were basically trapped in our compound as we were too scared to even go out of the gate; with the battle just three kilometers away from our home, the risk of catching a stray bullet or two was extremely high.

Instead, I went to my cousin’s house and started surfing on the Internet, reading updates from Facebook and Twitter. I was surprised that our national news outlets had just reported that “there are unconfirmed reports of conflict in Zamboanga, etc. etc.”

It felt surreal.

With people literally getting hit by bullets just a couple of thousand meters away, how in the world could those people think that it was just another baseless rumor?

To add fuel to the fire, the spokesman for the insurgent group had stated on local television that “they were on defensive maneuvers.”

I doubted that occupying four districts and virtually keeping a city hostage was a sign of self-defense.

Meanwhile, people around the city, especially those who were far from the city center, were still trying to figure out what the hell was going on. As a matter of fact, people were still going about their respective jobs; the first casualty of the conflict that day was a policeman headed to his assignment.

It was as if a collective fog came down upon the people of Zamboanga City, muddling their minds and dimming their faculties.

At nine or ten in the morning, the first reliable news clips came up on national television. The numbers were depressing: Four people were killed, including a policeman and a soldier; 26 were wounded and 150 were taken hostage…and the fight had barely begun. In addition, a clip which showed a policeman stumbling down the street in the middle of a firefight made the rounds that day on both local and national TV. We had a good laugh, but on the other hand, it made us think whether the government was actually ready to defend the city against the MNLF. The other measures came by noontime.

Classes were suspended in all levels, the city center was locked down, curfews were set up and military planes came in and out of the city non-stop. In addition, the city’s economy came to a total standstill as business establishments, banks and restaurants closed down. Only the hospitals and convenience stores were left open.

We heard a lot of rumors of people dying

in the sewers, as well as corpses scattered around the street. True or not, it was easy to picture the carnage that was happening in our city at that very moment.

By afternoon, then president Benigno Aquino III landed in the city accompanied by some cabinet officials. Later, the media was banned from covering the conflict, which only invited the wrath of the national press club who showered the government with a wave of complaints.

The officials relented and allowed the journalists to resume their reportage on the ongoing conflict, provided they underwent “stringent accreditation.”

As for our experience, it was just unreal.

We ate a mid-afternoon snack of roasted caramelized bananas and ginataan (a sweet porridge made of coconut milk, sweet potatoes and other foodstuff) with our neighbors while we were talking about the scarcity of fish. Pedicabs were still roaming around; after all, it’s their only source of income that they know of.

Then came the pictures on Facebook, saying that the “military is committing atrocities” or that the “separatists are just defending their lives and that they did nothing wrong.” Other times, I watched a clip or two showing people firing guns at unseen targets, as if fighting ghosts instead of enemy soldiers.

There were also statements and accounts from different people on various social media platforms regarding the events that had transpired throughout the day. Many of them described the nerve-wracking horrors and the harsh conditions that they faced in the war zone.

Vice president Binay stated that the

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rebels were working towards a ceasefire agreement, and that the fighting was soon to come to a halt. However, around us, the sound of distant gunfire was unmistakable – and yes, our house was around five kilometers away from the edge of the conflict zone, so one can easily visualize the extent of the fighting over there.

Then came more statements from the government on national television, calling for calm and restraint in the face of this “crisis” – Wait, didn’t just they say early on that the MNLF just took five coastal barangays that are less than a kilometer away from the city center itself?

Finally, Radio Mindanao Network (RMN) Zamboanga and EMEDIA Radio both reported that the government had barred them from doing further reportage to “control the amount of information” leaking from the battle zone.

I was left wondering why the government had to censor the news in a country that was supposed to have free press.

Was it because indescribable things were happening on the ground?

Sunset finally came and we all went inside our homes. After all, if you were unlucky enough to be caught outside by seven in the evening, you were made to endure a whole night of questions and jeers by uniformed men at the barangay hall.

Surprisingly, by that point, even though the battle was supposedly still raging, the darkness was eerily silent. Maybe it was just the calm before the “real storm” of battle came.

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Despite all the blatant lies and inexplicable anomalies that we’d experienced that day, my thoughts still went to the people who were trapped inside the battle zone; after all, I had many friends who were living in those districts…and even if they were lucky enough to get away, they still had days and nights ahead of them inside overcrowded evacuation centers, where a meal meant a single can of near-expired sardines shared among five or six people.

Sunrise came and it was officially the second day of the Zamboanga siege.

This time around, there were conflicting reports of armed people roaming around the highway, which was just some 400 meters from our house! Without any delay, my father and big brother took their bolos and waited outside the compound.

A multicab carrying five barangay tanods (village guards) armed with M4A1 rifles came in front of the house in order to tell us that everything was fine and that there was nothing to worry about. I was surprised by the fact that one of them was carrying a French-made FAMAS rifle; I wonder where he got that one.

Why did they have those weapons in the first place? Was it only so they’d be prepared for anything? Or was it because there was something more sinister that we were not allowed to know? After all, a barangay tanod is never typically seen with a pistol under normal circumstances, let alone high-powered firearms.

Later in the day, we realized that although there were rebels who roamed around, they were not anywhere near our house. A group of ten rebels were found somewhere near the center of the city, where they went into a gunfight with security forces.

Needless to say, the rebels lost badly; though how they were able to get through the tight security cordon was a big mystery.

As afternoon came, the military stated that they were about to conduct a clearing operation. Half an hour later, we saw black plumes of smoke rising into the sky as the shanties of the slums burned rapidly to the ground. Worse, the firefighters, who were already having a hard time trying to snuff out the flames, were being fired upon by rebel snipers.

It wasn’t clear whether the MNLF or the military started that conflagration; all we knew was that thousands of families would never see their homes again. To this very day, no one among the participants in that battle claimed responsibility for torching those houses.

When the darkness of night finally descended upon the weary residents of the city, my cousin came to the compound. He was a policeman and as such, was assigned to the security cordon in the conflict.

and that the dead littered the streets.

Afterwards, he continued talking about his near-death experiences, including being almost hit twice by a mortar shells that turned out to be duds and running out of bullets in the middle of a gunfight.

The same thing continued for days and at this point, we were not surprised that the false news we received had continued to increase in complexity. For instance, the MNLF sympathizers kept on saying that the government was wholly to blame for the conflict, as they’d already stationed their men within the city three days before the siege began (I only came to learn of this fact after the conflict was finished).

A local news radio station even reported that the military deliberately burned down some houses – we asked ourselves why they would do such a thing to those they’d sworn to protect? It even came to the point that we didn’t know who was speaking the truth anymore.

I showed him a piece from GMA News, stating that “The authorities are responding to the situation in a manner that will reduce the risk to innocent civilians and restore peace and order to Zamboanga City at the soonest possible time…”

Once, somewhere around the fifth day of the siege, the government mentioned that they were conducting “comprehensive negotiations” in order to settle the matter peacefully. However, a few minutes later, the sound of artillery boomed through the air, with the continuous sound of gunfire permeating our ears in an endless cacophony of sounds.

In response, he gave us a brief and accurate account of the things that happened so far.

Despite what people may see in the news, the fact of the matter was that within the past 48 hours, tens of thousands of people lost any semblance of a normal life and were forced to spend their days and nights inside evacuation shelters. Furthermore, he mentioned that many people had died

Anyhow, by the end of the seventh day, the war was over for me. The mother of one of my friends was able to secure me a slot on a C-130 flight to Manila. As I left on a C-130 flight by the Philippine Air Force, along with Muslim pilgrims who were going for the annual pilgrimage to Mecca, I felt very odd that I was able to get out of the conflict in a very…interesting way.

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The news stations later stated that the Philippine Air Force had started to conduct “surgical air strikes” on the separatists. As I talked with my mother on the phone, she said that “watching the Philippine Air Force drop some bombs from far away was like appraising a movie from the stands.”

It went on for twenty more days. While most of the people in my hometown are dealing with the horrors of war, I was on a flight to Istanbul to continue my mundane life as a university student in Middle East Technical University.

In the end, the military claimed victory when they secured the KGK Building, a tall structure that served as the rebels’ headquarters throughout the entire conflict.

After 27 days of intense fighting, the war was officially over. With entire districts reduced to rubble, hundreds of people dead or wounded and several hundred more missing, nothing will remain the same in Asia’s Latin City. Habier Malik, the leader of the group, was said to be “dead”, though his remains were never found in the war zone.

In addition, almost 200,000 people were forced to live in bad conditions at various evacuation centers around the city, with the United Nations calling it a “humanitarian crisis.” There’s only so much that the government can do to feed tens of thousands of people in a single day.

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To give an example, the Baliwasan Grandstand, which hosted some 30-50,000 evacuees, deteriorated to the point that it needed urgent restoration by the time the conflict ended in October 2013. It was the city’s premier sports complex and as a result, sports activities were affected to the point that athletic programs were transferred to less ideal places.

Finally, the billions of pesos that were promised for the rehabilitation of the war-stricken areas disappeared in a quick sleight of hand: Instead of spanky new housing units, all the refugees got were hastily constructed houses made of substandard cement and second-class steel.

What a way to end the war, wasn’t it?

Indeed, war is a place where lies blossom, like the tulip fields of old.

Up to this day, no one knows the truth about the war. All we know is that we were stripped of our liberties by some rebels, as well as a bunch of government officials who were not even sure of what they were doing!

I became more confused at the end of it all, as the line between truth and fiction blurred away. However, I am sure of one thing.

The truth will never look the same again.

Solitario Bea Bumanlag

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Flora Veii Rehanne Martinez

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Di Maliparan Ng Uwak John Paul Albiola

"Anong ulam natin ina?" Tanong ng inakay na uwak habang inililigpit ang hinigaang dayami.

"Ang paborito mong ginisang uod. O kung gusto mo naman, malaya kang pumili ng iba diyang pagkain sa tabi ng tubigan."

Tinungo niya ang tubigan, hindi dahil sa pagkain, bagkus sa bagong gising na tao. Hinimas ng inakay ang bakal na naghihiwalay sa mundo niya –at ng tao sa labas.

"Ina, gising na ang ating amo."

"Hayaan mo siya anak, tara na't lalamig ang pagkain."

Umupo siya sa tabi ng ina. Tahimik habang nilulunok ang paboritong pagkain.

Napansin ng ina na malalim ang iniisip ng anak.

"Anong iniisip mo?" Tanong nito.

"Ina, gusto ko pong makalabas na rito."

"Bakit anak? Hindi naman tayo nagugutom dito sa kulungan? Malaya tayong pumili ng ating kakainin."

"Hindi ko po maintindihan, kung bakit mas pipiliin ninyong manatili rito. Ayaw

niyo po bang lumabas?

"Anak, hindi naman ibig sabihin ng nasa labas ka na, ay malaya ka na."

"Pero ‘di ba ina, ginawa tayo para lumipad?

Anong saysay ng ating mga pakpak?”

"Pinapalipad naman tayo ng ating amo tuwing hapon.”

"Pero, bilang lang ang oras ng ating pagpagaspas."

"Ganoon din naman sa labas, anak.”

"Sinasabi niyo po ba na nakakulong lang din sila sa labas ina? Paano? Hindi ko maintindihan kung ano ang kaibahan noon sa kulungang ito."

"Ako man din ay naguguluhan, anak.

Kung bakit ang mga nasa labas ay parang nakakulong din."

Hinawakan muli ng inakay ang mga rehas ng kulungan. Pinag-iisipan kung gaano kalaki ang kulungan sa labas. O kung yari rin ba ito sa bakal kagaya ng sa kanila.

Lumapit ang ina sa inakay. "Ang alam ko lang na pagkakaiba natin sa kanila, anak, ay alam natin na tayo ay walang laya."

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Balau Elena E. Katipunan

“I have never understood why some people are lucky enough to be born with the chance that I had, to have this path in life; and why across the world, there is a woman just like me with the same abilities, same desires, with same work ethics and love for her family, who would most likely make better films and better speeches—(only) she has no voice... I don’t know why this is my life and that’s hers.”

Angelina Jolie

It is the first day of class, second week of June. The sun’s warm rays shower upon a dry, half-empty room in Tampayan Elementary School. A signboard pinned on one of the doors reads, “Grade Six Ylangylang”. Amidst the toasty atmosphere, students fidget and wait impatiently for the results of a surprise assessment. The

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students tick their pencils breaking the silence, some of them twiddle their feet to alleviate nervousness. Somewhere along the mundane scenery sits a young girl, staring at her etched, unsteady desk. Her lips are crisp leaves; her hair is a messy clump of hay. Her skin is a pallet of dried hues; and the palm of her hands, a rough

surface of elm. She fidgets and sweats, her body seemingly searching for more ways to appease her anxious mind and calm her racing heart.

The mistress clears her voice, “Straighten up. I will announce our test’s top 10.” The sudden twitch pulls her back to reality.

She stares at the mistress, the papers on the table, and back at the mistress again.

Like an unsure gambler, she purses her lips. She begins to whisper “Twelve, five, p-plus t-three... One, two, three.” Her counting is slow and certain. The stress of her syllables, faulty and native; her voice, hoarse. Her counting continues while her eyes remain glued in front. The roll call begins.

“Sheila,” “Thirty--”

calms her racing stallions.

A student gets called. He is a tall, lean boy whose head is as round as pumpkin.

“Top three!” the mistress beams. The child grins and proceeds up front to give a bow.

Clapping of hands echo and soon, it was time for the top two.

“Isidra” She turns her head, eyes at the clock “I think I have time, I’ll just burn some more” “Marta” She turns back at the voice. The woman greets her with a smile and gestures her to come forward. “Good job, Marta!”

Stunned, she stands quietly and propels her feet to proceed in front. “You did well!” the mistress seconds and to this, Marta smiles faintly.

“Leo,” “No, it’s too much.”

“Maryjoy,” “Skipping two nights is too tough.”

“Robert,” “I’ll just have to burn some more.”

For some time, the pattern continues: the mistress calls a name, and she lets a thought escape A few moments later, the teacher is already announcing the top three performers. This time, she just plays with her hands. Her strokes try hard to release her pool of anxious mares; her palm is as leveled as a ginger’s skin that

It had already been minutes after the class bell rang. The rigid corridors are now filled. Stomps of schoolboy shoes and clacks of faculty stiletto heels accompany the buzzing of the crowd. With quick, sharp turns and brisk-paced walks, Marta is finally able reach the school exit. The scorching 4 P.M. sun hits her skin. As she searches her sack for an umbrella, she comes across a familiar surface: her 6th grade buena mano, a 15-over-15 piece of paper that for some reason, may mean a remembrance of fulfillment to others but for her, a remembrance of regret. Her brows hog and her lips again purses. She sighs while her hand motions ready to catch her head, “Nevermind the heat”.

Her strides are wide all through the travel. She takes no rests in between. The

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brown hues of her skin is now patched with salmon-red rashes from the heat.

Breathing heavily, she forces her aching feet to reach a dreary old shack just a few blocks away. Before making her last turn, she stops by a small sari-sari store.

There, a woman stands still awaiting her.

She goes by the name of Aling Idang.

It was just two days ago when Marta loaned three canned goods and a pack of noodles from her store in order to get by the week’s worth of meals and now that the electric bill is due, she is left with no choice but to pass on the burden to her sukis. Unfortunately, Marta is one of the most whom she can easily find. With arms crossed, she says hissing, “I’ve been waiting for you, Marta. I am sorry. I need the money now”. Marta reaches for her skirt’s pocket; she feels the dozens of onepeso coins and the few crumpled twentypeso bills she earned for the past days. The coins clank as her shaking hand struggles to get bills out her pocket. Withdrawing them, a pang thundered across her eyes. It was her days’ worth of work for a week’s survival. She handed the money over. It became apparent to her that this is a cycle she should get used to—working under the sun for a pay that can barely buy her food for a week, sometimes even days, when her father decides he wants to spend nights home.

The interior of the small shack looks no different than how it looked from outside—brown hues mix with gray and black markings of decay, colors scream gloom and dullness all over, iron sheet walls harbor rust and mosses, its roof’s ceiling slightly hangs down with tires above keeping it intact. Resting on one of its corners are thick, short branches which insides are curved such as of a spoon’s.

The feeble figure comes near the bundle, hands slightly shaking as it reaches for a

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limb.

Marta’s breaths are anchored. Contrasting from the warm embrace of the dusk wind, the windows of her soul display its usual track: a raw, icy ballad. Amidst four walls, she can now let loose. Her aching feet, her aching heart, her needing brawn, her needing psyche—they can now take the best of her. She catches a branch but she too gets caught by the monsters she is hiding from.

“Mom, it has been so difficult… Mom” Just like that, the lifeless unfeeling girl became the root of all things human—her tears flowed, her shoulders fell down in surrender and with it, her body followed.

Plumped on the shack’s corner, she mutters in sobs, “There are just some things I don’t understand and of all the things that that would include, why does it have to be your loss?” She became a nestling without a nest and amidst the sizzle of the afternoon, her wings melted.

The woman was her pillar. All the things her dad has opposed to, she supported: her spontaneous afternoon plays, her sudden midnight musings, her impulsive collection of bugs—basically everything that made her happy—including her pursuit of education.

Mumblings surface. Marta freezes and covers her mouth. She pushes her spilling sobs back in. She is already filled to the brim and at any threat of a second, ready to explode.

“Marta,” someone croaks.

The voice is raspy, evidently fresh from the embrace of slumber.

“Marta, was that you?” it calls again—this time, gaining depth.

The words fall flat and dry. Only her attempts make hums in the silence; only the voice makes her hums break. Moments later, a shrieking is heard. Her grip loosens, she quickly wipes her eyes. Footsteps surface; nearing and slow-paced. Their ghost-quiet rests make her sink. The beast is indeed awake.

“How many times do I have to say to you?,” it hollers “If you’re going to cry about doing Balau, might as well stop your schooling! We’re better off with you here at home! It is better you replace your mom than Lito.”

“I-I’m not making fuss about Balau, P-pa.

I f-fell and hit my head, that’s what I’m crying about” “Ay sus! Go if you want. Continue your fantasies for all I care. The real world would put you in your place. Women are best left fixing homes and men are best left doing all the labors—don’t ever say I didn’t tell you that.”

Her windows’ serene waves become series of clashing tides, her weakening grip grows tighter, her breath still flows but she knew she needed more than air to grasp, she founds the barricades once more. She is safe, she thought, she is safe. She rests her eyes while her faint body let out a heavy sigh.

Only a couple minutes before five, she founds her self walking along a familiar path. A forest is a few miles away; there is where she plans to do Balau. The practice is named after the tree itself whose trunk

is burnt and afterwards, sap extracted.

Saps obtained retail around eighty pesos per gallon. She plans to fill one soon but for now, she’s all left but to stick with her afternoon’s work of twenty.

Along the scruffy pile of sun-bleached leaves and decaying twigs, her feet maneuvers avoiding pointed stones and uneven soil. Humming of birds put her mind at temporary peace. In her hand she holds an empty gallon containing a bolo and one of the curved barks she took.

There is a comforting sound in the crisp trampling of leaves, there is something familiar about the warm embrace of the sheltering shade. When she looked above the bright clouds, she saw them giving her a tender smile. She feels the forest’s warm hug amidst its elms and flora. She is safe, she thought, she is safe.

At last! She arrives at her set of Balau trees.

She begins to split one’s trunk. She scuffs and she scuffs until one crack appears fit to have a big chunk removed. She lays her tools on the ground and finds two round stones nearby. Through them, she kindled for fire. She winces at the salty tears dripping from her forehead; they burn her eyes together with the smoke coming from the spark-emitting stones. Her calloused hands tremble in fatigue. She waits and waits, angles the tools in a pile of dried leaves and twigs. Some moments more, a smoke came visible. She lets out a sigh of relief and blows gently on the stack to let it smolder; later on, there came the fire.

Marta quickly gets her bark and catches the flame with its end. She places it on the chipped portion of the tree and watches it get devoured by the flame. Amidst the heavy cloud of smoke and jittering hint of lit ashes, she forces a chuckle; her first task is finally done.

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It’s funny how in the rough, uneven surface of trunks she finds the smoothness of gently-pressed books, how in the flimsy, burning wood chunks she sees the sturdy pillars of a classroom, and how in the thick-flowing tree saps she remembers the thinning chances of her education.

Unknown to her, the cloud deities are now looking down upon their pedestals.

Perhaps, they have known that the thinning chance is her mere escape from reality; it is her way of running from the fortune she thinks she was trapped into: stagnant and rock-bottom, a human by the birth of ill fate.

They sometimes read her inner thoughts.

Among them is the contemplation about one unique idea: maybe since the beginning of man, children—living and unborn—were destined to greet mortality with one of the following roles: the deprived and stubborn, the deprived yet worthy, the privileged yet stubborn, and both the worthy and the privileged. She wonders why among all naked babies all born of the same flesh and given the same cherry-stewed blood, some were just simply favored and hand-picked by the fortune goddess Tyche to live the life of a dozen silver spoons.

Then there was her—a girl who learned to shut her hunger at the age of three, a girl who has gone through an adult’s labor since eight, a girl who without any warning has been robbed of chances—because maybe, just maybe, Tyche didn’t deemed her deserving or perhaps, thought of a Marta not sounding that great when paired with the words privileged and bourgeoisie.

She has bestowed upon her and her fellow mortals the weaved strands of merit and luck. All of which, predetermined by their

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ancestors. Those whose ascendants defied the odds are granted the grace of comfort; those whose ascendants remained still are given the continuance of the same fortune. It didn’t matter whether they are bound by the chains set by the classes and privileges of their societies. It has always been the way of how things are run. Tyche too, does not know why. In the times when she asks Zeus for answers, she is given the same response, a shrug or if lucky, the same answer that revolves on the concept of Karma: what goes around comes back around.

URNT! URNT! A sound of a distant engine vanishes the divine silence and saves her from drowning in her pool of thoughts. A car’s motor rumbles and after a good two, three sets of back and forth, stops in the awkward middle of a fallen Apitong and a bent group of Acacia seedlings. Two people got out of the car; they are both girls.

By the looks of their clothes, it became known to Marta that they came from the country’s northern islands—Luzon perhaps. Despite the great distance and number of obstructing trees, she managed to watch the thick gray smog get driven by the dusk’s wind. It seems like the stench of burning wood and resin have reached the two from afar. They cover their nose and sway their arms across the air.

These girls, Marta thought, might be the perfect example of what privileged look like—feet of proper soles, skins of even tint, limbs of equal depth, and frames of apt proportion. Their fingers look smooth, resembling the shape of a candle, free from cuts and burns. Their nails are painted with shiny red coats that resemble the color of their lips. Marta touches hers

to compare. She feels her skin peeling off due to dryness. She remembers it has been years since they had a touch of moisture from cosmetics.

“Mama! It’s too sticky, I don’t want it!”

Marta struggles as she pushes her mother’s hand away. The raspberry-scented gloss waves before her. She lets out a pout to show her disapproval.

“Uhm, nothing the kitchen knife just slipped from my hand while washing the dishes” she grabs her hand back instantly and covers up for the cut. She can’t afford her mother to worry. The doctor strictly advised that she needs the least amount of stress for her blood pressure to stabilize and as it might come of a fact, there isn’t really much to be laid back about when you’re living hand-to-mouth. She tries her best not to let her struggles be a part of her mom’s as well.

“Ay! Soon you’ll be lady. You’ll want to accessorize and put on make up too.”

Her mother contested while giving her shoulder a rub. She continues, “You know, once I get accepted at the factory, our lives would be much more comfortable. I’ll finally be able to rent a small apartment and take the two of you to the mall!”

“Be careful. The only one that’ll take care of your self is you—especially now that I’m not around. Mama will double her efforts to find a decent job so that I could finally be able to take you and your brother from your father”

“Really, Ma? Will you be taking us in your apartment too?”

“Will you buy me that bistida I’ve been wanting since last Christmas too?” she beams happily as she reminds her mother of the dress she has been eyeing for months.

“Of course, I will take you and Lito! How is your brother doing? Have you been eating properly? How’s your father treating the two of you?” Her mother rests the lip gloss on the table and completely turns to her.

“We’re fine, Ma. Pa loses his temper from time to time like the usual but we’ve been doing okay” She gives her mother a thumbs up while forcing a smile.

“What happened to this?” Her mother grabs her right hand and caresses it gently.

There is an evident cut near her thumb which goes up to her wrist. The truth is she cut her self accidentally while sorting out scraps in the local junk shop. They haven’t been eating regularly these past few days so she and Lito had to take up shifts to earn money for decent meals.

“Of course!”

The flashes of yesterday puts Marta in nostalgia. Her afternoon is busy but the memories stirs her back into bitter serenity. Everything that could have been occurs to her—the bistida, the mall visits, the mischievous talks, the small apartment—if it wasn’t for that one night, things would’ve been so different.

It was supposed to be just a usual night coming back home from the junkshop when they were surprised to see their father home so early. From there, they knew something was wrong. The man almost never goes back home at a decent hour. They find him sitting near the dining table, arms flat on its surface with

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a straight face. No one wanted to break the silence until their father spoke himself.

“Your mother was rushed to the hospital this morning. Cardiac arrest” He says while his eyes remain fixed on the wall.

“She’s-she’s-g-gone” He continues.

They later on discovered the probable cause of arrest was high blood pressure due to extreme fatigue—apparently from her mother’s overtime shifts for an extra sixty-peso salary a day.

She remembers the rush of blood flowing inside her. It was her first time going deaf, drowning in her mind’s own void amidst her brother’s loud cry and her father’s loud pounding on the table.

She remembers the very thing that pushed her mom to brave the city for a decent job; the one thing that disturbed her view of their cyclical and stagnant rural life—the idea of education. She never really understood why her mother cared so much about their studies. She never really understood why it was of the same importance as the food that keeps alive.

“It is nourishment for the mind”, she remembers her mother telling them, “A tool to feed a different kind of hunger”.

Perhaps yes. With her in their shoes, she’d be too good for sunburns and Balauscraping; her skin would resemble the touch of silk instead of resembling an elk’s.

She’ll have the comfort and the luxury of having a car in running her errands; and most importantly, she’ll be able to afford education without the cause of her mother’s life. Marta took a step closer to view the people before her. She was in awe of the joke fate has instilled on their lives. A few years of age difference, yet a dozen of contradictions. What’s even more interesting is that judging from the looks on the girls’ faces, it seems like they’re already experiencing their time’s worst.

“Well, yes. That too. Buy as many fried chickens as you want”

It was an interesting thing, she realized— these girls never experienced what it felt like to be pushed to the edge. They have never experienced to have nothing and still be asked of everything—to be expected of more than what you can squeeze out of a starved, faint body. To last a sevenhour work for a few strips of tuyo and be called shameless due to the series of loans you’ve made at the sari-sari store; to have a restless mind thinking of an escape from the tiring, cyclical life you’ve been accustomed to and to have very little room for comfort, very little place for mistakes.

Ehem! Ehem!

In her thoughts, Marta wonders if it is

“Once I find a job, you’ll be able to go back to school. Study well so that you won’t end up like Mama. Reach your dreams and buy everything that I wasn’t able to give you.”

“You mean like fried chicken?” Marta asks

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The sound of coughing pulls her back to reality. It was coming from the two lost girls. She stares at them and wonders how different things would be if she were to walk in their shoes. Will getting lost in the woods be the most challenging part of the day for her? Will getting rashes under the heat of the afternoon sun be the most uncomfortable thing she could experience? Will getting bit by forest bugs be the unluckiest part of her day?

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with the same depth they experience uncertainty, insecurity, and fear; if their chests also feel heavy in times when life puts more weight on their shoulders than what they could carry.

Her thoughts are interrupted as she notices that the girls’ hand fanning change into a different gesture. They are now pointing towards her direction. “What’s their prob--” a sharp sting suddenly strikes her fingers; it is her burning bark nearing to be completely eaten by the flame.

“Aaaah!” she hollers. She has completely forgotten about the sap she was supposed to collect. She has drifted with the forest’s cozy slumber. Embarrassed, she quickly collects her senses and scrapes the melted substance off the trunk’s surface. She fills her gallon up until no drop of resin is left on the trunk. Her hours’ work yielded her a quarter of what she needs. Marta sighs.

She knew it was going to be a long evening.

One o’clock in the morning. The cold breeze caresses her skin and greets her welcome as she reaches the front of their shack. She has just gone home. Her hands, now pallets of both splinters and burns.

Through them, she carries her bolo and gallon of collected sap. Her body’s frailty has grown more visible. As soon as she gets in, she keeps the barrel on a safe space and readies herself for the nearing hours of school. She falls asleep staring at her dusk’s labor. She is now safe, she thought, she is now safe.

CHEEP! CHEEP! The sound of birds chirping woke her up.

She quickly fixes herself and does her morning routine. Once done, she carries the gallon and proceeds on her way to school. She keeps thinking about last

night, about how her thought devoured her senses. Before she knew it, she became lost in her own musings about Tyche’s impactful decisions.

Today is different though. She is back to reality and is set to meet her resin’s buyer.

Last night’s burns would now prove its worth. Four liters of hard-earned sap in exchange for an escape in schooling, in trade for a chance of abridging her ill fate’s gap from the life she wishes to have.

An eighty-peso worth of chance for another decent shot at survival! Another set of tuyo strips on the table, another few pieces of paper for assessments, another face of shamelessness saved in exchange for a loan’s payment.

Her hands’ hold the gallon tighter. She struggles at the bumpy road. She bends forward as she balances the weight of the cylinder with her own body. A few moments later, she spots a familiar figure “Mang Poncio!” she calls out. The man acknowledges her presence and meets her halfway. They bargain and afterwards, made a transaction. The man bids goodbye and leaves. Marta’s eyes follow fix on the gallon being carried away. She is watchful as if her stares could save the resin from its possible spilling.

Her seven-hour labor is now the few orange bills laying on her palm. She stares at the heavens that flashes her late mother’s smile. A curve forms her lips. In her hand she feels that she holds a chance, a fight to satisfy a different kind of hunger, a hunger coming from her past; the one stirred into being due to the void she felt in her most trying times.

Marta has never known why her mother

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was so sentimental about her education.

She never understood until now. She has come to realize that education is the nearest privilege within her grasp, the most essential privilege she will ever need.

It is her turn to defy Tyche’s predicted fates now. She knows a tiring road is ahead of her, but she remains confident in her hard-earned resilience.

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“Tiring but worth it”, Marta smiles as she wipes the drips of sweat flowing from her forehead. She never understood how Tyche’s selective privilege works. God knows if she’ll ever go asking again how. As she looks back at the sky and remembers her mother’s bright smile, the road ahead seemed a lot smoother than it was.

Fragile Megel Joshua F. Ramiterre

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Little Buns Madeleine B. Marcial

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Iguhit ang tatahakin, magulo ma’y sariling adhikain Ashley Venerable

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Ulan Renz Rosario Hinawan ng karimlan ang liwanag sa itaas kung saan ang mga ulap ay mapayapang namamahinga, ngayon ay nabulahaw.

Binasag ng kidlat ang salaming langit— kumalat ang bubog ng tanglaw sa paligid. Bumulalas ng kulog ang naaabong alapaap.

Hahaplusin ka muna ng ginaw bago tuluyang tumusok, magsibagsak, ang mga kristal na karayum sa iyong balat.

Marahang mamamantal ang lamig kung kaya magbabalabal ka ng yakap gamit ang sariling mga bisig. Sa pagitan ng mga payong na dumaraan, ang lamig ang tanging maiuusal.

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From Within Bea Bumanlag

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Her Silence, His Screams Fray Narte

The sky was in an odd but beautiful shade of pink. The silhouettes of the birds looked like tattoos on a soft pastel skin, but nobody bothered to look. The eyes of the students and workers were glued on their wristwatches. Some looked annoyed.

Some seemed not to care and were busy checking their phones. Still, some were talking loudly to their classmates or colleagues. Here and there were lovers, holding hands and staring at each other wide-eyed, as if they were spellbound and the people rushing past them had all faded into thin air.. Stray dogs sniffed the ground, hoping to find some fallen halfeaten siomai or isaw.

Every jeepney that passed was full of passengers and everyone was sighing impatiently. It was a late Friday afternoon and everyone was just too eager to go home.

This wasn’t the case for Jessica and Steff.

Amid the hustle of their town, they sat next to each other on one of the benches and stared at the sky. There, the chaotic clutter of the town didn’t matter. It was just the two of them, basking in the beauty of a canvas splashed with oranges and pinks and flecked with fleecy clouds.

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“It’s beautiful,” Steff uttered. Her eyes were fixed on the heavens. Once in a while, they would travel, following the flight of a flock of birds. They would then move to the towering trees. “I like how the different shades of green look against the sky. I wish our phones could capture that,” Steff smiled and looked at Jessica, who smiled back.

“Yeah,” Jessica nodded. “Too bad it’s too beautiful to be captured.”

Steff hummed in agreement. Jessica opened her school bag that rested next to her, got a book, and started reading.

They sat in comfortable silence. Steff would occasionally point at a random, rustic-styled street light and comment on its beauty, and Jessica would pause her reading and look at what Steff was pointing at and admire and comment on it as well.

For a few minutes, they settled again in silence, which was disturbed when Jessica put down her book and started whining.

“Steff, I’m hungry.” A pout settled on her

Untitled Leslie Jean Trinidad

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face. She remained seated but her eyes wandered to the nearby food carts selling all sorts of street food. Images of kikiam, fish ball, and kwek kwek invaded Jessica’s mind and it made her tummy rumble.

“Same. Wanna grab something to eat?”

Jessica made no attempt to move. “I’m broke. I have no coins,” she pouted.

Steff sighed. “Bitch, you’re not broke. I saw a one-thousand peso bill in your wallet a few minutes ago!”

Jessica scrunched her brows, “Bitch, I’m not spending that whole bill. It’s for the new book I want to buy. And besides, if I spend it, I’m gonna use it all up in a blink of an eye.”

“So you’re gonna let us starve?” Steff exclaimed in feigned disbelief.

“What a freaking drama queen. Don’t you have some money?” Jessica answered with her signature coldness.

Steff shook her head. “You know I have my siblings to feed. All I got left is the money for a few cups of rice and instant noodles.”

“Then maybe we should eat at home in order not to spend money,” Jessica flatly suggested, seeing no other options.

It was Steff’s turn to whine. “But I don’t wanna go home yet. Can we stay here for a while?” She clutched on Jessica’s arms, trying to prevent the latter from standing up.

Normally, Jessica didn’t like being touched.

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She would either flinch or subtly move away from someone who initiated the physical contact. But being friends with Steff for seven years, she already got used to the latter’s tendency to be clingy. She was no longer bothered being squeezed tight or having her personal space invaded by the extrovert next to her. Groaning, she begrudgingly agreed, “Fine.”

The sky was now a cloudless periwinkle. A few bats were flying to distant acacia trees, leaving the leafless ones they used to inhabit. There were lesser people compared to minutes ago. Some functional street lights were illuminated and they served as spotlights for the singing crickets. The girls were still at their spot, talking. Their skins were kissed by the subtle cool breeze.

Few other people were seated on the other benches. Some joggers passed by.

Their conversation was interrupted when they spotted a grimy man heading towards them. From the distance, Jessica could make out his unkempt hair and scruffy appearance. His unshaved beard gave him an untidy look. There were whitish marks on his arms which looked like fallen debris or dried cement that got stuck onto brown skin. Jessica knew the man albeit not personally. He was one of the supposedly deranged people disowned by their families and were left to roam around their town. They suddenly became stiff. He was walking in a zigzag manner to their direction, barefoot and in a torn, faded shirt and underpants that both girls did not fancy seeing. He stopped in front of Steff, and the girls eyed each other.

His stink, mixed with the smell of liquor, invaded their noses. There was a bizarre glint in his eyes, one which indicates an unhinged and unpredictable mind.

“Day.” The man staggered again. “Can I ask for you a few spare coins?” He muttered incoherently as he extended his arm. It came out as a guttural groan “We don’t have any money here, sorry,” Steff quickly said, feeling her voice betraying her.

“Please, ‘day. I’ll just buy bread, ‘day.”

She could see wounds and bruises all over his body. His extending right arm now on his side, swinging back and forth. She eyed it and winced every time it moved a little too close. She had a bad feeling about it.

“Come on, ‘day, just give me money,” he kept on insisting.

“We’re broke, okay? Please, just ask someone else.”

“I’m sorry. We’re students, we have no more money left.”

“Even just a little amount, ‘day.”

The man kept on extending his arm.

“Really, we have none.”

“We told you, we have no money. Can you please just ask someone else?” Steff spoke in a firm but gentle without looking at him. She wanted to assert herself without him getting provoked.

Smack!

Jessica looked around, hoping somebody would help them. Two school girls nearby were looking at them. Her gaze returned to her best friend, hoping that the man would leave her alone. “She has no money. We would give you if we had. Unfortunately, we don’t, as of the moment,” she explained softly, her eyes avoiding his gaze as well.

The slap loudly hit her right on her cheek.

“Fuck!” Jessica screamed, baffled by the violence. She stood, her jaw hung ajar as she looked at the man walking away, cussing. Her hand was on the slapped cheek.

“What the hell?” Steff immediately rummaged through her bag and gave Jessica her rubbing alcohol, which the latter applied on the part of her cheek and neck that got hit.

That’s when he staggered towards Jessica.

She nervously looked at Steff, who was already eyeing her with the same expression.

People started looking at them, whispering. Jessica was still trying to take in what happened when a cop approached her. “Miss, did that man hurt you?”

“Please, ‘day. I’ll just buy bread.”

“Yeah, he slapped me,” she answered instinctively while turning to him.

“Please, we honestly have no money.”

He then unsteadily inched closer towards Jessica. She stiffened, thinking of ways on how to stop the man from being too close.

“I heard it. It was quite hard. There he goes,” Steff added, pointing at the man who was tottering away. She then turned to Jessica.

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“Oh my God, Jessica, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Steff exclaimed. “I should’ve pulled you away from him but I was afraid of what he would do.” Her eyes were full of concern.

Jessica weakly nodded. “It’s okay, Steff. We should just go. It’s getting late,” she quietly muttered, trying to regain her composure but her shaking voice betrayed her.

Steff frowned at this. “No, Jessica. He hurt you. The sound of the slap is loud enough for me to say that it must have hurt,” she replied firmly. “We should file a report.”

A wee pause filled the air between them.

Jessica tried to avoid Steff’s gaze for a second before speaking. “But he’s mentally ill. He doesn’t know what he’s doi– ” Steff rolled her eyes and interrupted Jessica before the latter finished her sentence “He has done that a lot of times already. The town knows that. If we don’t report him to the authorities, he’s gonna keep on harming other people.”

There was another pause before Jessica said something, her voice laced with hesitance. “I – I don’t know, Steff. I still think he should be in a mental institution.

Not behind the bars,” she replied reluctantly.

Steff sighed at Jessica’s statement. She held Jessica’s shoulders in an attempt to fully hold her attention. “Jessica listen to me.” Her eyes were fixated on her best friend’s. They looked vulnerable and Steff felt protective of her. She spoke again, “What if he victimizes the wrong person?

Someone stoned, perhaps? Or one of those gang guys who are up to no good?” Steff

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paused for a bit. “Jess, he would get a fate worse than being jailed. He should be corrected now.”

Jessica just shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to reflect on Steff’s words “Stop being too nice, okay? It’s not your color,” Steff insisted.

Jessica rolled her eyes. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Jessica then let out a defeated sigh. “Fine.”

While they were talking, the cop said something to his walkie-talkie and in just a few minutes, a patrol car arrived. They hopped in the vehicle and drove around the town, looking for the man who slapped Jessica. They spotted him in front of the church, pestering another girl.

“Is that him?” The cop who was driving asked.

“Yes, that’s him,” they confirmed.

The other policeman got off the car and approached the man. Inside the car, Jessica whispered to Steff, “I hope they don’t hurt him.”

“We detained him last night for slapping another girl too. Well, almost every night actually. That nutcase just doesn’t learn his lesson,” the cop said. Both girls looked at him.

“Doesn’t he have a family?”

The cop rested his arms on the steering wheel. “As far as I know, his family is from the other town. He went back there

months ago, and now he’s back again here.

Don’t know why. He doesn’t hit people when he’s not drunk, though.”

The girls didn’t answer for their attention was at the sick man struggling as the cop tried to arrest him. After a few minutes, they were back in front of the station, following the cops who were grabbing at his torn collars and forcefully shoving him by his arms and chest. The sky was already dark. Before they could enter, Jessica saw one of the cops aiming a fist at him. His companion kicked him on the shin. He was cowering in the corner of the room, crying, “Please, don’t hurt me, sir, please don’t hurt me! I’m not gonna do it again!” He yelped in pain.

They exchanged looks and had a silent understanding.

“I don’t like this, Steff,” Jessica whispered.

Steff didn’t reply. Instead, she squeezed Jessica’s arms as they were led into the room to file a formal report. While doing so, Jessica can’t help but be bothered by the bawls of the man.

Jessica was bothered by the fact that peace and security were put in the hands of such people. She couldn’t help but recall that

the cop had said that he was detained almost every night. She couldn’t help but recall the wounds and bruises she saw on the man’s skin. Steff’s words telling her that he might end up with a fate worse than this echoed in her mind, along with the man’s pleas from the other room. She could feel her guts sinking into a vacuum somewhere inside her She wanted to tell the cops not to harm him but she was appalled; she had encountered news reports about police brutality but she had never seen it personally before. The sight of it made her want to cower and retract her statements but she feared that by doing so, she would be subjected to the same treatment. Dread settled on her shoulders, dragging her down with its weight.

She turned to face Steff and they held gaze for a while before she looked away.

She briefly closed her eyes and focused on telling what happened to the cop, who was recording it in the computer.

The sound of his typing was drowned out by the insults and swear words coming from the cops, directed at her assailant.

His next question was muffled by another hitting sound. Her answer, swallowed by the man’s wails.

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In My Belly Cheryl Salvador When I was a kid, before I realized what Ariel was singing in The Little Mermaid about being sick of swimmin’ and being ready to stand, I hated those dresses older people said could make little girls look like a princess.

They didn’t fit the rough edges of my 6-year-old body made for running and tumbling instead of swaying and sashaying.

I was 9 when I was first called a lesbian.

They spat the word out like a bad bubble gum, as if swallowing it could make them sick.

The word stuck to me for years.

Everytime someone asked me if I was gay, I always said “no” while secretly waiting for my nose to grow. In 5th grade, I felt I was in the wrong body.

Because a Disney princess always had a prince, but the only time I imagined being in a fairytale was at recess, when that girl from 6th grade smiled at me whenever we passed by each other.

I thought I had to be a boy in order to like her, but some nights, I still wondered whether I’d really look pretty in a dress.

We were raised in a barren land where children who wanted to be everything can’t grow using their own colors.

Blue was for boys and pink was for girls, anything in between was shady.

So, I only grew in the pot I was planted in until the very first girl I kissed made a garden in my belly.

Watered it with all the names carved into closet doors, so it bloomed rainbows everytime we held hands out in the sunlight.

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At the grocery store, she’d wrap her arm around me as we walk down the aisles, and as people stare, she’d check off every item in our list the same way they all do.

Inside the supermarket, the only difference is our taste.

When we were called a waste, she made poems out of their spite.

Offered them as shelter for people who can’t find home in their own skin because our love was kindling; we were igniting.

A ball of warmth in the middle of a cold night, calling in the scared and the lonely to gather and remember each other’s faces.

See, there’s a lot of unlearning to learn the language of our own skin.

Brave is forgetting what we’re taught and rearranging the words to tell your 6-year-old nephew it’s okay to like whatever color he wants and paint outside the lines and shake his hips when dancing and love rainbow ponies because our bodies are a landscape.

Everything about us belongs to who we are.

The very first girl I kissed, she made a garden in my belly.

The last time we’re together, she dug a hole and buried the parts of me they said a girl was supposed to be.

There’s no way to return to who I was before we met.

But that’s okay.

Because this isn’t a story about romance and heartbreak, or how love can build and destroy.

This is about the time I’ve never felt more woman when I gladly slipped into a dress, held her hand, called her my girlfriend in front of everyone.

This is a story of how I knew I’ve been in the right body all along.

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c o n t r i b u t o r s ALBIOLA, JOHN PAUL Fiction: Di Maliparan ng Uwak John Paul Albiola was a graduate of Legal Transcription from the Polytechnic University of the Philippines-Taguig. He loves to explore and experiment with different genres of writing. Aside from that, he has a Ph.D in Talking to the Stars, a self proclaimed magician, uod ng libro, and a professional seen-tunado.

ALCANTARA, JOHN DARYL Visual Arts: How to Learn Magic Tricks, Photography: Sa Lungsod, Bago ang Digma John Daryl Alcantara is a cultural worker and activist from Taguig City. He makes poems, short stories, and zines during his spare time, and writes critical essays when the deadline is near. He is an alumnus of Umalohokan, Inc. and The UPLB Com Arts Society, and has served as the Publicity and Propaganda Committee Head and Chairperson of the UPLB Writers’ Club.

AMPIL, JULIANA Photography: Untitled Juliana is the former Associate Technical Editor of Traviesa Publication. She graduated with a degree in Elementary Education at the Southern Luzon State University.

Currently, she’s working in Newton Science School.

BUMANLAG, BEA Photography: From Within, Solitario Bea Bumanlag is a Communication Arts graduate from University of Santo Tomas. She likes spending time in quiet spaces, finding solace from the calmness—an escape from the noisy hum of the world. Greatly terrified of losing her memory, she strives hard to remember everything—struggling to immortalize her dearest moments through poems and photographs.

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CIRILO, NEIL Nonfiction: Sa Presinto Ko Natutunan ang Kapangyarihan Poetry: Sa Pagbitbit Ng Nakaraan Iniwan Ko Ang Aking Sarili Neil Cirilo, 20, creates his own utopia through writing poetry, essays and flash fiction.

He loves to explore different forms of art and hopes his pieces would contribute positive change to society. He has been published in local newspapers and magazines and he likes to think that he is immune to rejection. Maybe, he will be a lawyer or a professional writer someday. You can read some of his attempts and reject works here: theartofmerakiwriting.wordpress.com CUNANAN, JANSSEN Fiction: Anihan Si Janssen Cunanan ay nakatira sa gilid ng riles at lumalaking talyer. Nailathala na ang mga kwento niya sa Malate Literary Folio, Plural Journal, Kartilya, at isang antolohiya ng Ungaz Press. Nakapaglimbag na rin siya ng mga zine tulad ng Pelagos, 7, Gnaw, at Hunyango Man ang Tao part 1. Kasalukuyan niyang tinatapos ang pagsusulat ng part 2 ng huling nabanggit na zine.

EVANGELIO, PINKLE THERESE G. Nonfiction: 360 Degrees Pinkle Evangelio is a BA Communication Arts, Major in Writing student at the University of the Philippines, Los BaĂąos. She is currently in her senior year and is interested in writing for a lifestyle magazine after she graduates. Her previous works are mostly in the creative nonfiction genre. Aside from writing, she is also a passionate speaker and an active member of a speech communication organization in her university.

FANER, KIM FADALLAN Poetry: Bayang Magiliw Kim Fadallan Faner is a queer poet from Laguna. He’s terrible at small talks but terrific at making questionable life decisions. Instead of an inner child, he keeps a grumpy lady underneath his skull. He finds a balanced universe in poetry and tries to write every day.

You can watch over his pathetic attempts at doing this by following him on Instagram (@bayoguin).

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GALINDEZ, GERALD CASTILLO Poetry: Gisulat sa Gilid ng Bangin Gerald Castillo Galindez is the winner of the 2017 Cotabato Province Poetry Contest. He is a graduate of the University of Southern Mindanao in Kabacan, Cotabato Province, and currently teaches Creative Writing at the Senior High School Department of Notre Dame of Tacurong College in Tacurong City, Sultan Kudarat. He was a fellow for Poetry in the 2018 Davao Writers Workshop and the 26th Iligan National Writers Workshop.

GUEVARRA, EARL CARLO Nonfiction: Death of Truth in War Earl Carlo Guevarra, 25, is an English teacher at a private school in San Juan City. When he’s not teaching writing or grammar, he likes to dabble in poetry and fruit shakes.

KATIPUNAN, ELENA E. Nonfiction: Balau Elena is a Communication Arts student from Elbi who is still trying to learn how to write. Amidst her attempts to produce decent outputs, she still stumbles upon great essays and pieces that make her question her writing even more. She also surfs Netflix for thrillers and comedy series from time to time.

LEUTERIO, PATRICIA Photography: Gabay, Hanging by a Thread Visual Arts: Bawal ang Paglalaro ng Apoy ngunit Hindi ang Pakikipagsayaw Patricia Leuterio is a 22 year old Development Communication professional by day, and a wanderer by night. On some days, she fights against the monsters in her head; writes poetry on paper napkins while sipping on some ice-cold beer; and enjoys listening to strangers’ stories, which she captures too, most of the time. Most days, though, she does these all at once. Find her w(o/a)nderings on Instagram @patsleuterio.

MAANDAL, MARICAR Photography: Simoy Maricar is just one of your typical young adults walking through the different experiences the world can offer. She’s an alumna of the University of the Philippines and University of Sydney. She’s a biomedical engineer braving her way through life’s uncertainty. She’s full of warmth and intense emotions, highly curious but naive. Every photo is a distant memory.

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MADLANGBAYAN, CERISSE Fiction: The Makings of Ursula, The Nuno Squad Cerisse Madlangbayan is a Creative Writing student in the Philippines who randomly writes opinion articles on millennials and feminism in her blog. She is currently trying to balance a research-related job and putting on paper the imagined worlds in her head.

MARCELO, ELDRED M. Fiction: Manual Part 3 – Monsters in the City BA Communication Arts student from the University of the Philippines Los Baños.

MARCIAL, MADELEINE B. Visual Arts: Little Buns Madeleine B. Marcial is a 19-year-old student from Quezon City. She is presently studying at New Era University, taking up Bachelor of Secondary Education Major in English. Her works of art are in the traditional and digital mediums. Although, she is a beginner in the digital field, her high hopes of learning more and creating feelings through colors are never-ending. Some of her works are uploaded on facebook, twitter, and instagram: @northernhelena MARTINEZ, VEII REHANNE Visual Arts: Flora, Sly, Strings Veii Rehanne Martinez is an illustrator, educator and singer residing in Tarlac City. She was a graduate of the University of the Philippines Baguio with a degree of Bachelor of Fine Arts and is currently taking up her Masters degree. She is a children’s book illustrator and was able to illustrate for both local and international authors. Her works have been featured in Drawn Vol 1: Best Illustrators Worldwide of Crookspress in Melbourne, Australia and Important World Artists 3 of World Wide Art Books in Sta. Barbara, California. You can find more of her works on Instagram (@veiimartinezart).

MCKEON, TONI Visual Arts: Luha Ko’y Ikaw Photography: Silip Toni McKeon is a 21 year old Filipina currently studying Bachelor of Fine Arts in Auckland, New Zealand. She majors in painting but she’s been doing photography since last year. She takes photos of people and random places most of the time. Anything art related excites and motivates her to go through the day.

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MENDOZA, ANGELI Poetry: Upos Angeli Mendoza has a soft spot for writing, music and nature. She attempts to speak her mind and heart through her works, with the hopes that someday these can touch another person’s soul. She dreams to see the world one day; but first, she needs to climb up the walls she made and confined herself into.

NARTE, FRAY Fiction: Her Silence, His Screams Poetry: An Apology to My Younger Self Fray /frā/ (noun) - some nights, a starglow, other nights, a black hole — both trapped inside a girl.

ONG, CINDEL Poetry: Manila Cindel Ong is currently a senior Literature major. She resents so much the fleeting passage of time. In a minute, she will find herself in a space she has not yet explored.

She abhors all things unfamiliar. Perhaps, this is why she contemplates much about the definition of home. There is always the presence of familiarity. She finds much comfort in writing poetry. It had always been there to hurt, and to heal. At present, she is most grateful for still being alive.

PAMAOS, ANGELA MAE Poetry: Iskandoloso ang mga Luha Si Angela Mae Pamaos ay nagtapos ng Batsilyer sa Sekundaryang Edukasyon Medyor sa Filipino taong 2017. Kasalukuyang Tagapangasiwa ng Lapis Art Community na nagtatampok ng kamalayang sosyal at kultural na identidad sa pamamagitan ng iba’t ibang uri ng sining. Naging fellow din ng Cavite Young Writers Association noong April 2018 at nalathala ang akda sa Lawanen 2 ng Gantala Press. Naniniwala siyang hindi siya nabuhay para lamang mamatay.

RAMITERRE, MEGEL JOSHUA F. Visual Arts: Masks, Fragile, Malaya?

Megel Joshua, 20 years old, was born in Ramos, Tarlac and currently residing in Guimba, Nueva Ecija. He’s an aspiring artist, poet, writer, and engineer. He is currently on his 5th year studying Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering in Central Luzon State University (CLSU), Science City of Muñoz. He’s a self-taught artist and he expanded his knowledge on art through their school organization, and online art groups like, Betsin-art Parasites, and GUHIT Pinas. His latest works were especially made for their publication.

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RIGOR, RAYMARK PAUL Photography: Indak Rebolusyon Paul, 21, is currently pursuing his Master’s degree in Conservation and Restoration Ecology. As a nature-lover and dance enthusiast, Paul focuses on nature and people as his subjects. Inclined towards sustainable development, Paul uses his photos to show how magnificent nature is, thus sparking change in order to influence others to conserve and save Mother Nature. Also a self-proclaimed activist, Paul uses the power of photography to kindle the nationalistic spirits of the people.

ROSARIO, RENZ Poetry: Ulan Si Renz Rosario ay dating Pangulo ng Panitikan sa QCPU Creative Student Society; fellow ng Linangan sa Imahen, Retorika, at Anyo (Palihang LIRA 2018); kontribyutor sa HAYAG volume 2, Salamisim, Baga, at RESBAK volume 5; at kasalukuyang Supremo ng BAON Collective.

SALVADOR, CHERYL Poetry: In my Belly Cheryl Salvador is a spoken word artist and a member of White Wall Poetry. She is also a proud member of the LGBTQIA+ community. Through poetry, she wants to explore the different facets of life, love, identity, and healing. You can find some of her work on Instagram: @spillingfragments.

SO, BEA Visual Arts: Drifting Embracing solidarity and immersing oneself towards creativity—that is Bea So’s creative process. Albeit loving the company of her family and her friends, just like her artwork, she enjoys creating, and reflecting in a space she made for herself. She fancies a burst of colors yet sometimes prefer the use of black in her work. Her works are mostly composed in a fantasy setting as she wishes to make art that transcends reality.

TRINIDAD, LESLIE JEAN Visual Arts: Untitled Leslie is a self-taught artist. She loves to draw and paint women’s faces and physique.

She deals with every day’s life troubles through her expression of art. You can find more of her works on Instagram (@siningnilule).

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TUZON, MAC PANES Poetry: Andoy Si Mac ay naging fellow ng 2nd CBSUA Writers Workshop 2015, Saringsing Writers Workshop 2016, Palihan sa Wikang Filipino 2017 na ginanap sa CBSUA-PILI CamSur. Siya ay kasalukuyang nagtuturo ng Creative Writing sa Senior High School sa Manangle High School.

VENERABLE, ASHLEY Visual Arts: Iguhit ang tatahakin, magulo ma’y sariling adhikain Photography: Batang Magsasaka Ashley Venerable holds a B.S. Development Communication Degree from the University of the Philippines Los Baños. Drawn to development work, she wants to use her communication skills to make a positive impact in the society. Her personal advocacy for children and women brought her to work at Virlanie Foundation. When she’s not writing, she paints, sketches, and/or plays the ukulele.

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