(2015) Heights Vol. 63, No. 1

heights vol. 63 no. 1 Copyright 2015 heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Copyright reverts to the respective ­authors and a­ rtists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be r­ eprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever ­without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University p.o. Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org Creative Direction, Cover, and Dividers by Ida de Jesus Layout by Kimberly Alivia, John Lazir Caluya,

Juan Carlos Concepcion, Ida de Jesus, Philip De La Torre, Zoe de Ocampo, Geraldine Fajardo, Patty Ferriol, Miguel N. Galace, Maxine Garcia, Joan Eunice Lao, Richard Mercado, Therese Pedro, Jonah Velasquez

Typeset in mvb Verdigris

Contents Allan Popa 1 Sa Pagdilim ng Paningin 2 Kalikasan 3 Larawan ng Sarili Bilang Pintor Reina Krizel J. Adriano 4 Ayon sa Balangkas 72 Ars Technica Fe Trampe 6 Maringian Marc Lopez 17 Bawal Arsenio Armas 18 Snatcher Abner Dormiendo 26 Sa Antipolo pa rin ang Antipolo 28 Sa Antipolo Ako Napaibig Sa Iyo 29 Sa Antipolo Dumadaan ang Fault Line ng Marikina Christian Benitez 31 Sapagkat Kinahatinggabihan 32 Sapagkat Ang Iyong Sarili 33 Sapagkat Isusuko Mo Ang Iyong Sarili 35 Sapagkat Kinaumagahan 36 Sapagkat Iniibig Kita

Regine Cabato 39 The Notice Mayelle Nisperos 41 Absolution Andrea Lopez 47 Island Carlomar Arcangel Daoana 64 The Incorruptible 66 Happiness Joshua Uyheng 68 When I Turn To You In Silence Bianca Roxas 71 Ghost Jasmine Nikki Paredes 87 Ikejime 88 Hurt Business 90 Lactacyd White Intimate Feminine Wash 92 Port Glory 93 Whose Drone Is This Patricia Ngo 94 The Rain Race 96 Tea Party 97 Cloud Kingdom Marie La Viña 99 On hearing of your first book 100 Stones 102 Couples

Miguel Lizada 103 The Bangkok Masseur Sophia Lorraine G. Demanawa 116 Slept Through July Meg Villena 117 Tea Time with My Imaginary Friend Janell Angelika B. Quien 118 Dreamcatching Juan Carlos Concepcion 119 Skulls in Bedlam Manuel Iñigo Angulo 120 no.3 128 [Untitled] (series) Ma. Kristina Ysabel P. Da Silva 121 Gondola Karl Estuart 122 Dark Room Ida de Jesus 123 Iterations Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan 124 In Site 125 Insight Robyn Angeli Saquin 126 Formations 127 Movements Gabriel Lukban 131 The Chase

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Gab Mesina 132 Growing Pains (series) Marco Emmanuel T. Torrijos 135 Loop Jeremy Willis Real Alog 136 Clatter Carl Lorenz G. Cervantes 137 Stills from Lovingly Iana Salazar 138 Vietnam Angelo Juarez 139 Streams of Consciousness (series)

Editorial Through the years, there have been various ways through which heights has curated its published pieces. Issues like vol. xlvi, no. 2 (Babae) and vol. lvi, no. 3 (Guilty Pleasures) have called for contributions under specific themes. Recent themeless calls were still guided by designs that foreshadowed the folio. This year, we strive to listen even more; for this issue, we observed dominant themes from a themeless call for contributions.

Having received a diverse amount of work, picking a theme was a daunting task. Daunting, perhaps, as the lingering presence of the child in “Ghost” by Bianca Roxas. Daunting, perhaps, as painting the act of leaving in Allan Popa’s “Larawan ng Sarili Bilang Pintor”.

Daunting, perhaps, as trying to shine a flashlight through Karl Estuart’s “Dark Room”.

It is with this that heights Vol. lxiii, No. 1 ventures into the unfamiliar. The venture is an attempt, and it entails recognition of a dual possibility—on one hand, creation and discovery; on the other, alienation and failure. The works in this folio have various interpretations of the venture, the unfamiliar, the rewards, and the risks. They also engage with its possibilities in various ways.

Following the publication’s 60th anniversary, the previous editorial boards have sought to discover a new heights and ground art in the Ateneo community. This has been done through the reinvention of folio launches and timely Creative Talks among other projects. This year, our upcoming plans include a collaborative folio among Jesuit universities, a Kuwentong Pambata upgrade, and an art exhibit with tugon Ateneo. All these and more are towards an attempt to engage with Filipino contexts through art and literature. From our home on the hill, we would like to invite you to join us on this engagement with the unfamiliar.

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In Fe Trampe’s short story, children wander to the coast of Maringian in Cuyo, where a dwarf turns them into stone. While it is Maringian that is unfamiliar to the children, the dwarf must later face the daunting forest lining the shore. In “Island” by Andrea Lopez, we are also taken to another world, where the looming unfamiliar is a place called The City. In “Slept Through July” by Sophia Lorraine G. Demanawa, the subject is relaxed in the randomness, which is treated with bright, popping colors. Meanwhile, Reina Krizel J. Adriano’s essay “Ars Technica” considers art the unfamiliar, and either transcends language or collapses into futility. Right off the bat, she explains that the attempt is “to see if language could master what it cannot be.” Yet she does it anyway; there is something that necessitates this attempt.

In the past few years, heights has published works that draw heavily from foreign influences. There has been a prevalence of photography submissions depicting landscapes and subjects abroad. Works we have received reveal tendencies for confessional and lyric poetry, Japanese and Western visual elements, and—more recently—experimental forms. Joshua Uyheng’s “When I Turn To You In Silence”, Iana Salazar’s “Vietnam”, and Adriano’s “Ars Technica”, are some such cases. Without condemnation, it has been a common trend that works of our university are eager to delve into the foreign, sparking an artistic and literary debate of the place of such works in our locale.

We must reckon with our context and the new one we venture into.

This concentration on the outward brings to question how we regard our more immediate surroundings, and even our own selves. From the external, there is a turn to that which is our own as unfamiliar.

“The Incorruptible” by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana regards, quite literally, the image of a heart removed from a person. It begins independently, then imagines the placement of the heart in the body of the saint. Gab Mesina’s photo series “Growing Pains” is a self-examination when confronted by adolescent change. Its sharp display against a solid background prompts a defamiliarization of

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ordinary objects.

This brings to light the question: How do we confront that which is our own? Perhaps it is this wrestling with the self that necessitates the venture into the unfamiliar. We sometimes fear what we might find. There is the daunting possibility of cysts, tumors, and things that can kill us from the inside; but there is also the murmur of the beating heart, the careful capability of the brain, the anticipation of the hopeful womb. We are confronted by the dual possibility of alienation and creation. The works here hope that the confrontation will build us, and there is a choice to venture even at the risk of breaking.

Our first issue for the year has a theme apt for beginning, before reaching to contexts outside us. The first regular folio treads into the first layer of unfamiliar territory—and what is more unfamiliar to us than ourselves?

Regine Miren D. Cabato October 2015

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allan popa

Sa Pagdilim ng Pagtingin Nang muli niyang iangat ang kanyang kamay hindi na lampara ang hawak niya kundi pugot na ulo na kasimbigat ng liwanag bagamat hindi niya makita ang mukha kaya’t hindi malaman kung ito ang ulo ng kanyang kalaban o ng pinakamamahal.

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Kalikasan Nagkakamali si Rilke.

Hindi mga talukap ang mga talulot ng rosas kundi mga tainga.

Marunong silang makinig sa pinakamalalalim na lihim.

Hahayaan ka nilang magsalita nang magsalita.

Mananatili silang tahimik.

Hindi sila muling titiklop kahit ano ang iyong sabihin.

Dadalhin nila hanggang malagas ang mga ibinulong na panambitan.

Walang ibang makaaalam.

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Larawan ng Sarili Bilang Pintor Dumating ang panahon na ninais kong ipinta ang iyong paglisan.

Ngunit wala akong mahanap na rabaw na sasapat sa kalakhan ng nais kong ilarawan.

Sabi ng isang kaibigang makata, “Harapin mo ang hamon ng sining; kung paano lalampasan ang limitasyon ng materyal.� Tinitigan ko ang mga kulay sa paleta. Paano ba sila paghahaluin? Sa sandaling iyon, tila nasa bingit ng pagkalusaw ang katiyakan ng hanggahan ng mga bagay-bagay. Paano iaangat ang mga mata upang tawirin ang pagitan ng wala pa at wala na?

Naiwan ako roon, nagpatuloy ang panahon. Naiwan akong takot na lumisan sa katawan ang pag-ibig.

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reina krizel j. adriano

Ayon sa Balangkas Mula sa simula: sa kahibangan nanggagaling ang paanyayang kumatha. Guniguning pinaglaruan ng diwa. Hudyat ng haka-haka. Itong

malikmatang nabuo sa panaginip kung saan sisisihin natin ang haraya.

Ako’y liliban, ika’y lilisang sakdal ang mga matang bumundol ng sandaang lindol.

Tuwing nagdurugtong ang ating hintuturo, tayo ba’y

nanunukso? Sa halip na banyaga, ikaw na walang sala, hayaan mong pangaralan kitang katutubo.

Para sa unang nakatuklas ng tagong dalampasigan, doon kung saan

nakaratay ako—buhangin sa balat, buhangin sa buhok, lalamunang nakatikim ng alat—habang sinusulat ang mga salitang binigkas.

Magpapanggap na ika’y along nilagyan ng rehas,

boses ng bagyong tinangkang gapusan. Sa riles ng tren kung saan pumili tayo sa magkabilang dulo upang makarating sa hangganan at umamin sa kabiguan. Matapos ang paglilipat

ng nomadiko, saka magtanong: Hanggang saan ang nawaglit na kwentuhan? Ang palaisipan mo sa’kin noon: ako pa rin ba ang nagpapa-uhaw sa’yo?

Minsan akong nagpaanod sa mga kagustuhan mo, nabuwag nang ilang beses

nang sabihin mong manghihimasok ka. Sambit ko’y: Kailan ang susunod mong panghihimasok?

Basahin ang mga pinaskil na karatulang dumaing ng pagnanais

sa kawalan ng kawalan. Saklaw ang paggunaw ng mundo na hindi masisilayan. Marahil sa kasuluk-sulukan ng silid ika'y nagmamasid, nakapiring nang bahagya. Alindog na naglalaro

sa patagong ngiti, handang sumayaw sabay ng buhawi’t lawiswis.

Ipagpatuloy natin ang paghahanap sa iyong sangguni.

Kapag ang pagsusulat ay naubusan ng ideya,

ang resulta: itong saligutgot ng burador. Sapagkat tayo'y may nais pa ring iwasto. Sa panahong tutupdin ang hiling sa pabulong. Mga salitang Sandali lang, manatili ka muna. Dilubyo

sa iyong mga palad na nagsusumamo ng pagpupunyagi.

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Tapusin natin ang pagtuklas sa katawan ng isa’t isa— bisig sa bisig, pisngi sa pisngi. Itong katawang pinupuri nang walang dangal

ang pagod sa ating mga binti. Buksan natin ang bintana—huwag, sabi mo, lalabas ang lamig. Ako nga ba’y talagang nagwagi? Ako na lumikha ng iyong mga simbuyo.

Nagpaamo sa iyong mga pangamba. Muling nangamba. Ako na ilalapit ang mga labi sa sugatan mong katawan.

Ikaw na inaanod na tagbising lulan ng pag-iyak—patawad,

hindi na ako umiiyak. Ikaw na nagagambala sa walang dagat na dumarating. Ako ba’y desyertong naubusan ng buhangin? Hindi mo ba alam: pati ang katutubo’y

nalulupig din. May nais ka bang pigilan? May nais ka bang sagipin? Tuwing sa isipan mo,

ako’y kinakatha mo rin.

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fe trampe

Maringian hindi ko alam kung paano ipaliliwanag kay Lenlen ito. Hindi ako isang duwende. Hindi ko alam kung bakit kulang pa rin ang salita ko upang paniwalaan niya ako. Sa tuwing nakikita ko ang sarili ko na sinasalamin ng malinis at malinaw na tubig-dagat, hindi isang duwende ang nakikita ko. Isang tao ang nakikita ko. Isang tao ito na mukha pa ring bata para sa edad niya. Makulubot na siya, ngunit hindi ibig sabihin nito na pumapantay na ang mga kulubot niya sa mukha sa bilang ng mga taon ng buhay niya sa islang ito ng Cuyo.

Maaaring hindi nga siya kalakihan, ngunit hindi ibig sabihin agad nito na isa siyang duwende. Sa kabila ng kung ano man ang panlabas kong anyo, hindi ako duwende. Huwag naman sana na ito lang ang gawing batayan upang pangalanan ang pagkatao ko. Kung sino talaga ako, ako lamang ang makatutukoy noon. Hindi ako duwende.

Ngunit ang sabi nga raw sa kanya ng albularyo kagabi, duwende raw ako. Kaya na lang bigla-biglaan kung nagsisulputan ang iba’t ibang mga pasa at bukol kung saan-saan sa katawan niya. Duwende raw ang nagbigay ng mga ito sa kanya. Ako. Marapat daw na talagang bantayan na siya ng lola niya ngayon nang maiging-maigi. Ito ang kabilin-bilinan ng albularyo. Huwag daw muna siyang palalabasin ng bahay, at huwag daw muna siyang lalayo. Mukhang lalala pa raw ang mga pangyayari mula rito.

Hindi ko maipaliwanag ito sa kanya nang maayos, ngunit hindi ako ang nagbigay sa kanya ng mga pasa at bukol na ito. Hindi tuwirang ako. Bahagi itong lahat ng proseso. Isa itong proseso na ako ang nagsimula ngunit hindi ko na ito mapanghawakan ngayon.

Hindi ko na siya mapigilan, at hindi ko na rin siya mabago. Nang hindi ko namamalayan, naging likas na ito para sa akin at sa lugar na tinatawag nilang Maringian. Kaya na lamang kay bigat sa akin ng lahat ng nangyayari ngayon. Kay bigat isipin ang lahat. Ito na ang kinahinatnan ni Lenlen. Higit pa rito ang kahihinatnan niya pagkatapos ng lahat ng ito.

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Katabi ko siya ngayon sa baybay ng Maringian, ang baybay na pagmamay-ari ko na. Ako lamang ang naninirahan dito. Ako at ang mga bato ng aking koleksiyon. Nakaupo siya ngayon sa ibabaw ng isa sa mga batong ito. Nakaupo rin ako sa ibabaw ng isa pa. Sinadya kong umupo sa ibabaw ng batong mas mataas kaysa kinauupuan niya. Sa kabila nito, mas matangkad pa rin siya sa akin. May mga bagay na hindi na mababago. Wala na akong magagawa tungkol dito. Maliit talaga ako.

Hindi ito ang unang pagkakataon na napagtantuhan ko ito.

Sa dinami-rami ba namang nakasalubong ko nang mga bata rito, mulat na mulat na ako sa katotohanang ito. Kadalasan sa puntong ito, matutuwa na lang ako na sa kabila ng kaliitan ko, mas mataba na ako sa mga batang buto’t balat na lang ang natira. Kung ibang bata ang nasa tabi ko ngayon, marahil ikatutuwa ko talaga ito. Ngunit hindi ibang bata ang katabi ko, si Lenlen. Hindi ako natutuwa.

Tinititigan ko siya ngayon. Kay laki na ng pinayat niya magmula noong una siyang napadpad sa baybayin na ito. Tandang-tanda ko pa ang araw na iyon. Noon pa lang, paunti-unti nang nagsisimula ang proseso. Hindi ko alam kung ilang linggo o buwan na ang nakalilipas.

Pakiramdam ko ang tagal na magmula noong araw na iyon. Ngayon lang tumagal nang ganito ang proseso. Kung paano ko ito napatagal at napahaba nang ganito, hindi ko alam.

Iniangat niya ang mga paa niya mula sa pagkakalambitin nila sa ibabaw ng mataas na bato. Pinatong niya ang mga ito sa madulas at kumikinang-kinang pang itim ng kinauupuan niya. Niyakap niya ang mga tuhod niya habang nakaupo. Nakatingin siya sa isla ng Bararing sa harap namin, sa kabilang dulo ng kipot ng malalim na tubig-dagat.

Nakatitig pa rin ako sa kanya.

Literal na buto’t balat na nga lang talaga ang natira sa kanya.

Kitang-kita mula sa kinauupuan ko ang mga buto niyang nakaumbok sa iba’t ibang mga gilid ng katawan niya. Nagpupumilit ang bawat isa 7

sa mga ito na makalaya mula sa kumikinang-kinang na kayumanggi niyang balat at sa manipis na tela ng suot niyang damit na nagtatakip nito.

Nilayo ko muna ang tingin ko kay Lenlen. Sinundan ko ang halimbawa niya. Tumingin din ako sa isla ng Bararing sa harap namin. Nakikita ko nang lumilipad pauwi matapos ang isa na namang araw ng pangongolekta ng dugo sa Cuyo ang mga kuto ng Bararing. Palubog na ang araw sa likod ng isla. Tinatawag na ang mga kuto ng reyna nila. Maya-maya, kakailanganin na ulit umuwi ni Lenlen. Hindi ko alam kung gaano katagal ko pa mapapahaba ang proseso, o kung mapapahaba ko pa ito. Hindi ko na alam kung ano pa ang magagawa ko. “Ano ren?� biglang tinanong ng maliit niyang boses sa akin.

Nakatingin pa rin siya sa Bararing. “Ano reng ateng ibobowat?� dagdag pa niya. Wala akong maibigay na sagot sa kanya. Hindi ko talaga alam. Matagal-tagal na rin magmula nang huli akong naharap sa ganitong klase ng suliranin. Ilang bato na rin ang dumaan at lumipas.

Tinawag na Maringian ang lugar na ito sapagkat iyon ang pangalan ng pinakaunang bata na naging bahagi ng koleksiyon ko.

Ang pagkakaalam ng mga tao sa bayan noon, bigla na lang nawala si Maring. Huli siyang nakitang nakatayo sa ibabaw ng kulay-abong buhangin ng hubad na kahabaan ng baybayin na ito, nakikipag-usap sa sarili niya. Sayang daw siya, umano. Kaganda-gandang bata sana, baliw nga lang. Baryada. Cabus-cabus. Hindi na raw nakapagtataka kung bakit nilalayuan siya ng lahat, kung bakit wala siya ni isang kaibigan sa mga kasing-edad niya.

Ako lang ang naging kaibigan ni Maring. Ako lang dapat ang magiging kaibigan niya. Hanggang ngayon hindi ko pa rin naiintindihan kung ano talaga ang nangyari at kung bakit.

Kinailangan niyang tumanda. Lahat ng bata kailangang tumanda.

Kasabay noon, kinailangan niya akong iwan.

Hindi ko ginusto noon na gawin siyang bato. Ni minsan, hindi ko siya ginustong gawing bato. Nagkataon lang noon na hindi ko na napigilan ang sarili ko. Iiwan kasi niya ako. Kinailangan ko siyang 8

pigilan. Pero mula’t mula, hindi ko siya ginustong gawing bato.

Paulit-ulit kong sinabi sa kanya iyon habang paunti-unting nangitim ang mga braso at binti niya, habang pareho naming pinipilit tanggalin mula sa pagkakadikit sa buhangin ang mga paa niya. Paulit-ulit ko pa ring sinasabi sa kanya ito ilang taon matapos ang araw na iyon.

Masakit pa rin hanggang ngayon. Hindi ko pa rin makalimutan.

Ayaw ko nang maulit pa iyon sa katauhan ni Lenlen. Sabihin ko man na hindi ako ang tuwirang nagbigay sa kanya ng mga pasa at bukol na kumalat na sa iba’t ibang mga bahagi ng katawan niya, kahit papaano kasalanan ko pa rin ito. Ibang usapan kasi kung paano yumabong nang ganito ang koleksiyon ko, kung paano ko sila nahuli at nailuklok sa kahabaan ng baybay.

Nadala na lang ako sa gawain na ito. Magmula nang dumating si Buboy ilang buwan o taon matapos kong hindi sinasadyang magawang bato si Maring, at matapos ang ilang buwan o taon ko nang paninirahan sa baybay na ito. Kakaibang bata rin si Buboy. Ibang-iba siya kay Maring na napakahinhin at napakabait. Napakaingay ni Buboy. Isa siyang mapusok na bata. Napadpad siya sa baybayin ko sa paghahanap ng makakalaro sapagkat walang nais na makipaglaro sa kanya. Walang nais makipaglaro sa kanya dahil sa mga hindi mapagkakailang dahilan. Noong mga panahong iyon, nabalot na ako ng kalungkutan. Pinatulan ko na rin lang siya. Ngunit hindi niya ako pinahalagahan. Wala siyang paggalang noon sa baybayin ko. Nang mapuno na ako sa kanya, ginawa ko na siyang bato. Hindi gaya noong nagawa kong bato si Maring, hindi ko ikinalungkot ang pag-ani ko kay Buboy upang maging bato. Ikinatuwa ko ito. Sa kanya talaga nagsimula ang koleksiyon ko.

Kung gaano ko ikinatuwa ang naging pagiging bato ni Buboy, ganoon ko rin ikinatuwa ang pag-ani sa mga batong sumunod sa kanya. May iilan sa kanilang naaalala ko pa. Gaya na lamang ni Digo na matatagpuan doon sa dulo ng koleksiyon ko. Napadpad siya rito sakay-sakay ng balsang ninakaw niya mula sa kapatid niya.

Napakadumi ng mga salitang lumabas mula sa bunganga ni Digo.

Maaaring ang pag-ani ko sa kanya ang pinakamabilis na proseso ng pag-ani sa lahat ng mga naging bahagi ng koleksiyon ko.

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Karamihan sa mga bato ng koleksiyon ko, hindi ko na naaalala.

Gaya na lamang ng batong kinauupuan ko. Ang natatandaan ko na lang, isang matabang bata dati ang ngayong batong kinauupuan ko.

Kaya na lang naging ganito kalaki ang batong ito.

Noong una, mahirap isagawa ang prosesong ito. Napakarami kong kinailangang pagdaanan. Kinailangan ko pang paisa-isang iikot ang naunang mga batang napadpad sa baybayin ko. Masigla pa ko noon. Nakikipagtakbuhan pa ako sa mga bata noon. Madalas silang madapa, at doon nila paunti-unting nakukuha ang mga pasa at sugat na kailangang mamuo sa kanilang mga katawan bago sila maging bato. Habang tumatagal, paunti na rin nang paunti ang mga kailangan kong gawin. Kusa na lamang sumusulpot sa mga katawan ng mga bata ang mga pasa at sugat na kailangan ko upang magawa silang mga bato. Kusa na lang silang nanghihina. Kusa na rin lang silang naging bato. Kinailangan ko na lang silang hanapan ng maayos na puwesto sa koleksiyon ko.

Karamihan sa mga batang napadpad dito, kalaro lang ang hinahanap. Kadalasan, hindi basta-bastang kalaro ang hinahanap ng mga batang ito, kung hindi isang utusan, maaaring isang mababatuhan, o ‘di kaya tuksuhin. Kaya na lamang naging madali para sa akin na gawin ang proseso. Kaya ikinatuwa ko ang lahat ng mga ito. Matapos kong gawing bato si Nante, ilang buwan na ang nakalilipas, kinasabikan ko ang pagdating ni Lenlen. Ang akala ko gaya rin siya ng halos lahat ng mga batang nauna sa kanya, ngunit hindi.

Ang una kong napansin kay Lenlen nang una siyang mapadpad sa baybayin na ito, kamukha niya si Maring. Kamukhang-kamukha niya si Maring. Noong una, ito ang naging dahilan kung bakit ako napalapit sa kanya. Sa paglipas nga lang ng mga araw, linggo, at buwan, hindi na lamang ito ang naging dahilan upang naisin kong manatiling bata si Lenlen.

Natatandaan ko pa ang unang sinabi sa akin ni Lenlen nang makita niya akong nakatayo rito, sa isa sa mga batong malapit din sa kinauupuan ko ngayon. “Mayad na ‘apon!” bati muna niya sa akin.

“Ako si Lenlen. Ano imong ngaran?”

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Wala akong maibigay na pangalan sa kanya sapagkat wala ako nito. Sa ilang taon ko nang pamumuhay sa Cuyo, ni minsan hindi ko kinailangang magkaroon ng pangalan. Noong buhay pa si Maring, ang tawag lang niya sa akin ay tangay. Ang lahat ng mga sumunod sa kanya, walang ginamit na pantawag sa akin maliban sa mga salitang hoy, psst, at iba pang mga salitang hindi nalalayo rito.

Kaya na lamang natahimik ako nang tanungin ako ni Lenlen kung ano ang pangalan ko. “Ara kang ngaran?” sunod niyang tinanong sa akin pagkatapos lumipas ang ilang sandali nang hindi ako nagsasalita.

Iniling ko na lamang ang malaki kong ulo sa kanya. “Bigyan den lang kita ng ngaran, ayos lamang?” sabi niya.

Tinawag niya akong Noonoo. Mukha raw kasi akong Noonoo.

Madalas daw kasing ikuwento sa kanya ng mga pinsan niya ang nuno.

Magkalapit daw ang itsura ko sa itsura ng nuno na inilarawan nila para sa kanya. Maliit daw na kalbo at mayroong mahabang balbas.

Kulu-kulubot daw ang balat at mayroong malaking ilong. Mukha raw duwende, ngunit naninirahan sa mga punso. Napakarami naman daw ng mga punso ko. Kinailangan ko pang ipaliwanag sa kanya na hindi mga punso ang mga ito, mga bato sila. Paulit-ulit ko ring kinailangang sabihin sa kanya na hindi ako duwende. Kung ano man talaga ako, hindi ko nga lang masabi. Para sa akin isa akong tao.

Sinabi ko sa kanya iyon. Noong una, pinaniwalaan naman niya ito.

Magmula noong araw na iyon, araw-araw na siyang bumalik sa baybayin ko, sa Maringian. Maaasahan ko na kapag nakarating na sa isang tiyak na puwesto sa langit ang araw, maririnig ko na ang pagtakbo ng maliliit na mga paa na dumadaan sa ibabaw ng mga patay na dahon at pinalalangutngot ang mga ito. Aakyat siya sa ibabaw ni Naty o ‘di kaya ni Lito, at mula roon magsisimulang tumalon-talon mula sa isang bato patungo sa isa pa hanggang sa makarating siya sa kinaroroonan ko malapit sa tubig. Kadalasan may dala siyang mga pasalubong para sa akin mula sa araw niya. Paminsan-minsan may dala siyang mga pagkain. Hindi ko man kailangan ito at hindi ko man maintindihan kung bakit kailangan ng mga tao ito, kinakain ko pa rin ito para sa kanya. Paminsan-minsan, nagdadala siya ng iba’t ibang mga bulaklak. Sa mga araw na wala siyang madalang pasalubong para 11

sa akin, marami naman siyang kuwentong baon para lamang sa akin.

Alam ko na ang buong kuwento ng buhay niya, magmula sa nanay at tatay niyang bigla na lang nawala at sa lola niyang nagpapalaki sa kanya at sa kapatid niya, hanggang sa mga batang babae sa paaralan niya na naiinggit sa mga nakukuha niyang marka, at sa isang batang lalaki na madalas niyang panaginipan tuwing gabi. Sa bawat araw na lumipas, hindi niya nakalilimutang tanungin sa akin kung kumusta na ako, kung may mga kuwento ba akong gusto kong ibahagi `sa kanya.

Hindi ko naman masabi sa kanya ang mga kuwento ko. Baka matakot siya sa akin at lumayo. Ngunit ikinatutuwa ko na gusto rin niyang marinig ang mga panig ko tungkol sa mga bagay-bagay, na sa prosesong ito naging magkaibigan kami. Hindi ko man mapigilan ang pangangayayat niya at ang pamumuo ng mga pasa at sugat sa katawan niya, hindi ito pumigil sa kanya na magpatuloy pa rin sa pagpunta sa akin sa tuwing hapon.

Nalulungkot ako sa tuwing nakikita ko nang lumilipad pauwi ng Bararing ang mga kuto sa Cuyo. Ang ibig sabihin nito na maya-maya kakailanganin na niyang umuwi. Ikinalulungkot ko rin sa tuwing nagsisimula nang umawit ang mga gagasing ng gabi. Kapag nagsisimula nang umawit ang mga gagasing, tumatayo na si Lenlen mula sa pagkakaupo niya sa isa sa mga bato ng koleksiyon ko. Lilipat siya sa batong kinatatayuan ko at yayakapin ako. Magpapaalam siya nang maayos at hahalikan muna ang pisngi ko bago umuwi sa kanila.

Ikinatutuwa ko man ang bawat pagbisita niya sa akin, nagsimula ko na ring ikalungkot ito nang makita ko na ang laki ng pinayat niya, at ang pagsulpot ng mga pasa at sugat sa katawan niya. Panandalian kong nakalimutan na tuloy-tuloy na pala ang prosesong ito. Nang makita kong nanghihina na si Lenlen, sinubukan kong patigilin na ang prosesong ito. Hindi ko na nga lang alam kung paano.

Hindi lang ako ang nakapansin ng pagbabago kay Lenlen. Lahat ng mga may mata mapapansin ang mga pagbabagong nangyari sa kanya. Napansin na rin ito ng lola niya. Matagal na nga rin daw niya itong napapansin. Labis-labis na raw ang pag-aalala niya. Kaya na lamang kagabi pagkauwi niya, sumalubong sa kanya sa kubo nila ang 12

isang albularyo. Pinausukan siya ng albularyo. Kung anu-ano raw ang pinahid niya sa katawan niya. Pagkatapos daw ng lahat, sinabi sa kanya ang matagal na raw na pinaghihinalaan ng lola niya. May bumabantay raw sa kanyang duwende. Duwende raw ako.

Hindi ako duwende. Hindi ko na alam kung ilang ulit ko pa kailangang sabihin iyon. “Ano ren?” inulit-ulit niya sa akin. Nawala na ako sa mga pagmumuni-muni ko. “Ikaw ba, Noonoo?” tanong niya sa akin.

Nilayo ko ang tingin ko mula sa kanya upang hindi niya makita ang mga mata ko. Masyadong malalaki ang mga ito at makikita agad niya mula sa mga ito ang pangambang bumabalot sa akin, ang takot.

Iniling ko na lang ang ulo ko. Ayaw kong katakutan niya ako. Ayaw kong lumayo siya sa akin. “E ‘di ano ren akeng ibobowat?” tinanong ulit niya sa akin, “Ailam ko ren, Noonoo. Ailam ko ren.”

Tumingin na rin ulit ako sa kanya. Sinandal na niya ang noo niya laban sa mga tuhod niya. Naririnig ko na ang mahina niyang pag-iyak. Ngayon ko pa lang siya nakitang umiyak. Ngayon lang ulit ako nakakita ng pag-iyak na hindi ko ikinatuwa. Nilayo ko ulit ang tingin ko mula sa kanya. Ayaw ko muna siyang makita. Ngunit hindi ko mapigilang makinig ang mga tainga ko. Naririnig ko pa rin siya. Naririnig ko pa rin ang mahina niyang pag-iyak at ang malalim niyang paghinga.

Pinaglaruan ko muna ang mga paa ko. Tinitigan ko ang matatabang mga paa kong ito, ang kasintaba rin nitong mga daliri at ang mga patay na kuko na nasa dulo ng bawat isa sa sampung mga daliring ito. Tumingin ako sa paligid ko. Napapalibutan kami ni Lenlen ng mga bato. Ang huling bilang ko sa koleksiyon ko, halos dalawang libo na. Wala na akong makitang buhangin sa baybay sa dami ng mga batong ito. Nagsisimula ito sa isang dulo, at nagtatapos sa kabila pa. Punong-puno na ng mga bato ang koleksiyon ko. Hindi ko na kailangan ng isa pa.

“Len.” Tumingin na ulit ako sa kanya. Iniangat niya ang ulo niya mula sa pagkakabaon nito sa pagitan ng mga tuhod niya. Humarap siya sa akin. Pinunasan niya ang mga luhang tumulo mula sa mga mata niya at binigyan ako ng isang matamlay na ngiti. Sa kabila ng 13

laki ng pinayat niya, kamukha pa rin talaga niya si Maring. Pareho ang bilugan at malalaki nilang mga mata. Pareho ang mahahaba nilang mga pilikmata at makakapal nilang mga kilay. Pareho silang mayroong malambot na mga labi. Magkamukhang-magkamukha talaga sila ni Maring, ngunit hindi siya si Maring. Hindi ko siya hahayaan na kaharapin ang kinahinatnan ni Maring.

Hindi ko pa rin siya maharap talaga. Yumuko muna ako. “Len.” Inulit ko ang pagbanggit ng pangalan niya. Nilasap ko ang karanasan ng muling pagtawag sa kanya gamit ang pangalan niya. Inulit ko pa ito nang isa pang beses upang lubusang malasap ang karanasan na ito. “Len.” “Anuno, Noonoo?” tanong niya sa akin. Iniangat ko ang ulo ko at hinarap ito sa harap ko, sa Bararing. Pinilit kong panatilihing tuwid ang tingin ko sa Bararing habang paulit-ulit itong hinahampas ng mga alon.

“Pasensiya ka ren.” Nakuha ko na ring sabihin sa kanya, “Duwende ako.” Huminga ako nang malalim. “Duwende ako,” inulit ko pang sabihin, “ako ngani ang nagataw kanimo ng imong mga pasa, ng imong mga sugat.” Nilabas ko ang hanging hininga ko pagkasabi ko ng mga salitang iyon. Mabigat man ang pakiramdam nang sinasabi ko iyon, naging magaan naman ang pakiramdam ko nang matapos ko itong sabihin. Tumingin ako kay Lenlen.

Iniiling niya ang ulo niya. Paulit-ulit niyang iniiling ang ulo niya habang tumutulo ang bago at sariwang mga luha mula sa malalaki niyang mga mata. “Beken,” sabi niya, “Beken, hindi.”

Nawala ang panandaliang gaan na naramdaman ko nang aminin ko kay Lenlen na ako nga ang dapat pagbintangan sa panghihina niya, sa pangangayayat ng katawan niya at pamumuo ng mga pasa at sugat sa iba’t ibang bahagi nito. Hindi ko siya makuhang tingnan habang patuloy siya sa pag-iyak, palakas nang palakas. Umiwas akong tingnan siya. “Een ngani,” pilit ko sa kanya. “Tama ang kun ng albularyo. Pagrayo ren lamang kanaken.”

Nagsisimula nang umawit ang mga gagasing ng gabi. Kailangan na niyang umuwi. “Pag-uli ren, Lenlen,” pilit ko sa kanya nang hindi siya tinitingnan. Lumakas lang lalo ang pag-iyak niya. Nararamdaman 14

kong pumapatong sa katawan ko ang malalamig niyang mga kamay.

Pinipilit niya akong abutin, hawakan. Naging matigas ako. Pinilit kong ikibit paalis ng likod ko ang mabuto niyang mga kamay. Nang hindi ito gumana, sinubukan kong itulak siya papalayo. Hindi ko nga lang magawa nang buong-buo. Ayaw ko siyang masaktan.

Nagpatuloy pa rin siya. Hindi ko siya mapigilan. Mula’t mula, hindi ko siya mapigilan.

Biglang bumigat ang kapit niya sa likod ko. Tumigas ang pagkakahawak ng isa pa niyang kamay sa ibabaw ng braso ko. Narinig ko ang matinis niyang pagsigaw. Tumalikod ako at nakita ang mukha niyang dumadaing sa sakit. Hindi na siya makagalaw. Nanigas na siya sa kinaroroonan niya. Hindi na rin ako makagalaw sa dikit ng kapit niya sa akin. Hindi ko alam kung ano ang gagawin ko, kung ano ang magagawa ko. Patuloy pa rin siya sa pag-iyak.

Pinilit kong makawala mula sa hawak niya, ngunit hindi ko magawa. Naging mahigpit ang pagkakakapit niya sa akin. Sinubukan ko siyang tulungan na makatakas pa. Yumuko ako nang kaunti at nagsimulang hilain paalis ng batong kinatatayuan niya ang mga paa niya, ngunit hindi ako naging matagumpay. Nakadikit na ang mga ito rito. Paunti-unti nang nangingitim ang mga binti niya. Nangingitim na rin ang mga braso niya. “Noonoo!” iyak niya.

Hindi ko na rin napigilan ang sarili ko sa pag-iyak. Kusang tumulo ang mga luha mula sa mga mata ko. Pilit ko siyang ginalaw-galaw at inalog-alog paalis ng kinatatayuan naming mga bato. Walang nangyayari sa mga pagsisikap ko. Patuloy pa rin siya sa paninigas.

Umaabot na sa mga balikat niya ang pangingitim. Sumigaw ulit siya.

Isa na namang matinis na sigaw ang lumabas mula sa bunganga niya. Dumaing siya sa sakit. Nakikita na rin niya ang itim na tintang paunti-unting gumagapang paakyat ng katawan niya. Umaabot na ito sa may leeg niya. Iniangat niya ang ulo niya. May kaakibat din na sakit na dala ang pagkalat ng itim na ito sa katawan niya. Kitang-kita ito sa mukha niya. Hindi ko na kaya. “Len!” sigaw ko. “Len!” Wala na siyang nagawa kung hindi ang umiyak. Hanggang sa naging itim na ang buong katawan niya, patuloy pa rin ang pagtulo ng luha mula sa mga mata niya. Pilit ko pa rin siyang ginagalaw, 15

inaalog. Wala pa ring nangyayari sa mga pagsisikap ko. Yumuko na siya at bumigay sa mga puwersang inaani siya at ginagawa siyang bato. Inalog ko pa ulit ang katawan niya. Pilit ko ulit na palayain ang sarili ko mula sa hawak niya. Wala pa ring nangyari. Umiyak na rin lang ako. Sinamahan kong umiyak si Lenlen hanggang sa hindi na siya makaiyak, hanggang sa nanigas na siya at nanahimik.

Hindi ko na namalayan na tuluyan nang nakalubog ang araw.

Madilim na ang langit. Nakaluklok na sa kani-kanilang mga puwesto ang buwan at mga bituin. Isang bato na si Lenlen. Hindi ko na makita ang mukha niya o kahit ano pa man mula sa mga hubog ng katawan niya. Isa na lang siyang bato. Naiyak ulit ako sa pagkatanto nito.

Nadapa ako sa kinatatayuan kong bato. Malaya na ako. Nakawala na ako mula sa hawak ni Lenlen. Nanginginig pa ang mga labi ko mula sa pag-iyak. Niyakap ko ang sarili ko. Sa pagyakap ko, ang naaalala ko lang, ang mga yakap na binigay sa akin ni Lenlen. Hindi na ulit ako makatitikim ng isa sa mga iyon. Nabalot ulit ako ng ibang klase ng pagkalungkot. Bagong mga luha ang namuo sa mga mata ko.

Sumikat na ang araw nang tumahan ako sa pag-iyak. Tumigil na sa pag-awit ang mga gagasing at nagsimula nang magsiliparan paalis ng Bararing ang mga kuto nito para sa isa na namang araw ng pangongolekta ng dugo sa isla ng Cuyo. Maliwanag na maliwanag na.

Kitang-kita ko na ang batong anyo ni Lenlen sa harap ko, sa ibabaw ng isa pa sa mga dati nang bahagi ng koleksiyon ko. Ang dami-dami nang mga bato rito. Hindi ko na kailangan ng isa pa.

Niyakap ko ang batong dating si Lenlen at dinama ang lamig pa nito, ang kinis niya. Kumawala ako mula sa yakap na ito at tumingin sa kabilang dulo ng koleksiyon ko, sa may gubat kung saan dumaan ang halos lahat ng mga batang naging bahagi ng koleksiyon ko. Inayos ko ang sarili ko. Pinunasan ko ang anumang mga luhang nanatili sa pisngi ko. Tinanggal ko ang mga mutang alam kong dumikit na sa gilid ng mga mata ko. Tumingin ulit ako sa gubat, sa mga puno at iba’t iba pang mga halaman nito, at ang mga bato ng koleksiyon kong humahadlang mula sa kinatatayuan ko patungo sa gubat. Iniangat ko ang isa sa matataba kong mga paa at inapak ito sa batong katabi ng kinatatayuan ko. Nagsimula na akong maglakad papunta ng gubat.

Hindi na ako muli pang lumingon.

16

marc lopez

Bawal Sa ilalim ng tala, nataya na ang bata ng gabing nagpalaya, langit na nasa lupa. * Naiwang batong hapo, nasa guhit ng piko namamahay—ang tagpo ng sinimulang laro.

17

arsenio armas

Snatcher* mga tauhan nikki – 21, graduate, sosyal at malakas ang boses. carlo – 19, estudyante at iskolar. Marunong mag-Ingles, pero may pagka-barok pa rin sa pananalita nito. tagpuan Isang waiting shed sa A. Bonifacio Ave., Brgy. Tañong, Marikina.

Malakas ang ulan. oras 10 ng gabi, ngayon. ang dula Liliwanag ang entablado. Makikita sina NIKKI at CARLO. Naka-dress si NIKKI at naka-jacket si CARLO. May hawak si CARLO na panyo na nilagay niya sa pisngi niya. nikki

Masakit pa ba?

carlo

Try mo kaya masuntok?

nikki

Sorry. Ba’t ka tumahimik? I know you saw what the snatchers looked like. Sinabi mo sana sa police bago siya umalis.

Hindi sasagot si CARLO. *Itinanghal sa Bulwagang Amado Hernandez noong 12 Hulyo 2015 para sa Virgin Labfest XI Writing Fellowship Program

18

nikki

Bakit ka pa kasi lumaban?

Kukunin ni NIKKI ang panyo at pupunasan ang sugat ni CARLO. nikki

Why did we have to take a jeep?

carlo

Ano?

nikki

Well, sorry, but ikaw ang nagsabing mag-jeep na lang tayo.

carlo

Anong oras na? Delikado na kaya mag-taxi!

nikki

Okay, so you were able to plan the movie and dinner— which were great, by the way—but then you forgot na delikado sumakay ng taxi sa Marikina at this time?

carlo

Talaga? Nanakawan na nga tayo, hindi pa tayo tinulungan ng tanginang pulis na ‘yan, tapos ito ang pag-uusapan natin?

Ibabalik ni NIKKI ang panyo. nikki

Sorry. Takbuhin kaya natin ‘yong police station? ‘Di ba kailangan daw tayo doon para mag-file ng report?

carlo

Ang lakas ng ulan, o.

Hindi sasagot si NIKKI. nikki

Grabe, pati payong ko kinuha nila.

carlo

Baka raw kasi automatic ‘yong payong mo. Mukhang mayaman.

19

nikki

Nanakawan tayo kasi automatic payong ko? Puntahan na lang natin ‘yong police station. I don’t care about the rain.

carlo

‘Wag na nga! Hindi pa tayo makarating sa station dahil sa ulan. Kahit umuwi na lang tayo.

nikki

What’s wrong? Ba’t ayaw mo pumunta sa station?

carlo

Eh tangina kasi ng pulis na ‘yan. At saka alam mo, hindi na ‘to sana nangyari kung ‘di mo nilabas cellphone mo.

nikki

What? Tinext ako ni Mama. She was asking what time ako makakauwi. At nakalabas din kaya cellphone mo!

carlo

Nikki, iPhone ang cellphone mo. Nokia ‘yong sa akin.

Sino pa ba may gusto ng Nokia ngayon? At tingnan mo suot mo, mukha kang mayaman!

nikki

Excuse me?

carlo

Okay, sorry, pero alam mo naman na target ng mga holdaper ‘yong mga mukhang mayaman.

nikki

Carlo, it’s our second anniversary. Of course I have to look good. May work pa ako kaninang umaga, nag-effort kaya ako isiksik ‘to sa bag. I came from Eastwood, remember?

Hindi sasagot si CARLO. nikki

Look, I know it’s been difficult for our relationship since I graduated kasi we barely see each other anymore, pero Carlo, alam mo naman na we really do have to go to the police.

carlo

Ayoko nga baka kung ano pang ipagawa nila sa atin.

20

nikki

Ano? Carlo, what’s going on? We have to file a report now.

carlo

Nikki, trust me, kilala ko mga pulis dito sa Marikina.

Pustahan, pagkatapos natin mag-file ng report, walang mangyayari. Baka kunin pa nila ‘yong gamit natin mula sa mga snatcher.

nikki

Pero kailangan pa rin natin mag-file ng report, maybe they already saw the snatchers somewhere or baka nahuli na nila.

carlo

Pumunta na lang kaya tayo sa bahay mo? Mas makakatulong parents mo kaysa sa mga buwaya diyan sa station.

nikki

Pero if we went home, hindi na natin makukuha gamit natin.

carlo

Eh mayaman naman kayo, bumili ka na lang ng bagong phone. Baka nga nabenta na ‘yon ni—

Mapipigilan niya sarili niya. nikki

Ni? Sinabi mo ni, anong ni?

Hindi sasagot si CARLO. nikki

What the hell is ni? Nino? Sinong ni?

Hindi pa rin sasagot si CARLO. nikki

Anong ni? Kilala mo sila?

carlo

‘Ata. Okay, kasi, nakita ko mukha nila noong lumaban ako. Bago nila ako masuntok. ‘Yon lang. Kilala ko ‘ata sila.

21

nikki

Bakit mo sila kilala?

carlo

Doon ‘ata sila sa may sa amin nakatira.

nikki

Mga snatchers kapitbahay mo? Why do you live with snatchers?

carlo

Friends ko ata sila.

nikki

Your friends are snatchers? Okay, so kung friends mo sila, why would they steal from you?

carlo

Uh…

nikki

Carlo, I need an answer!

Hindi sasagot si CARLO. nikki

Carlo, I swear to God, tatakbo ako rito papunta sa station kung hindi ako makakuha ng matinong sagot—

carlo

Wait, no, hindi mo puwede gawin ‘yon!

nikki

Bakit nga?

carlo

Ang lakas ng ulan, o! Lalakas pa ‘yan! At saka hindi nga tayo matutulungan doon!

nikki

Yeah, but we still have to try, Carlo! What’s happening to you tonight? You know what, I’ve wasted too much time arguing.

Paalis na si NIKKI ng waiting shed, pero mapipigilan siya ni CARLO. carlo 22

Nikki, wait!

nikki

Carlo, ano ba? Ano ba talaga nangyayari? Bakit ayaw mo pumunta sa station?

Hindi sasagot si CARLO. nikki

Fuck this.

Paalis na ulit si NIKKI nang mapigilan siya ni CARLO. carlo

Nikki, wait! Okay, sige. Ganito kasi ‘yon. Ayaw ko pumunta sa station kasi baka sabihin nila, accomplice ako. Kasi noong katropa ko pa kasi sila, sumasama ako sa mga ginagawa nila. Nanggaganoon din ako. Pero dati lang ‘yon, okay?

Saglit na katahimikan. nikki

What the fuck?

carlo

Dati nga! Dati lang ‘yon!

nikki

Carlo, you’ve been stealing from people?!

carlo

Tapos ginagamit ko ‘yong pera na nakukuha ko para sa school! Alam mo naman kung gaano kamahal sa college.

nikki

Ha? Carlo, scholar ka! They give you money for printing!

They give you food stubs!

carlo

At okay ‘yon pero kahit ano gawin kong pagtitipid kulang pa rin siya. Kaya ako sumasama sa kanila dati. At mas nahirapan pa ako noong nagkaroon ako ng girlf—

Mapipigilan niya sarili niya. nikki

Oh my God… I’m dating a snatcher?!

23

carlo

Naghihirap lang ako, hindi ako snatcher! At saka, dati nga. Dati lang ‘yon. Dati.

nikki

Snatcher ka! That’s what you said! You steal and then you use it for school?! Oh my God, why am I only hearing this just now? We’ve been dating for two years, Carlo!

My parents love you and you know nandito lang naman kami if you need help with—oh my God. Is this why I keep noticing na nawawalan ako ng pera? Have you been stealing from me?!

carlo

Hindi!

Saglit na katahimikan. carlo

…Isang beses lang, I swear.

nikki

What the fuck?!

Paghahampasin ni NIKKI si CARLO. nikki

My parents thought my yaya was stealing from me!

Pupunta siya sa may harap ng waiting shed. nikki

Taxi! Punyeta, bakit walang taxi dito?!

Kukunin ni CARLO si NIKKI at dadalhin sa lilim ng waiting shed. carlo

24

Look, okay, pang-anniversary natin last year, tapos ‘yon lang, I swear! Natatandaan mo ‘yon? Ang dami kong ginastos sa crane machine sa Timezone at nakakuha ako ng malaking teddy bear para sa iyo! Parang binilhan mo na rin sarili mo ng teddy bear.

nikki

Binilhan ko sarili ko ng teddy bear?!

carlo

At ng movie and dinner for two.

nikki

Putangina mo!

Sisipain ni NIKKI si CARLO sa tuhod. nikki

You could have just asked for money, Carlo, alam mo ba ‘yon? I would have been happy to help you! Pero hindi, kumuha ka ng pera sa akin, tapos ginastos mo sa date natin, what the fuck?

carlo

Hindi ko na ‘yon ginagawa, I swear! Nikki, I changed!

nikki

Fuck, I can’t listen to this, I have to go home. Bahala na ‘yong gamit ko.

Pipigilan siya ni CARLO. nikki

Putangina mo!

Aalis ng entablado si NIKKI. carlo

Nikki, wait! Ang lakas ng ulan! Shit, bakit ko pa sinabi?

Itataas ni CARLO ang hood ng jacket niya at tatakbo papunta kay NIKKI sa labas habang dumidilim ang entablado. Wakas.

25

26

Lumayas ako at inisip na may nilalayasan ako.

Nakabibingi ang awit ng pag-ibig kahit nakasakay ka na sa sasakyang maglalayo sa iyo

sa iisang lugar na binabalikan mo.

Traysikel, jeepney, bus.

Sumasakay dahil gusto mo.

Bumabalik kahit ayaw mo

dahil kailangan mo. Sa kaso mo, Antipolo. Sa kaso ko, ang ritmo ng iyong pulso.

Noong gabi bago ako umalis, nagdasal ako

sa kapilya ng iyong tadyang, at bumungad

ang pangitain ng iyong puso, ang tahimik mong dugo.

Sa Antipolo pa rin ang Antipolo*

abner dormiendo

27

*mula sa Sa Antipolo pa rin ang Antipolo 2nd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

Nuestra SeĂąora de la Paz y Buen Viaje, ipanalangin mo akong naglalakbay

sa lalawigan ng alaala niya. Bus na humaharurot

sa pagitan ng dalawang lungsod. Dakilang makata sa labas ng aking bintana, bundok at bukid,

bundok at bukid.

Idiniin ko ang aking tainga

at kunwari’y pinakikinggan ang paglipas ng kalsada.

Naririnig ko ang aking katabi habang nagkukutkot

ng butong-pakwan. Sa lapag, ang pinaghunusang balat

ng kaniyang pinagkainan. Hindi ako makapagdesisyon kung para ba itong mga taingang

nakikinig sa hugong ng makina o mga pusong pinagbiyak sa kalahati, nanghihingi ng tula.

Sa Antipolo Ako Napaibig Sa Iyo* Mas dama kita kapag hindi kita nakikita.

Sa madaling salita, hayaan mo akong ibigin ka kahit patay ang ilaw.

Gusto kong ibaon ang mukha ko sa iyong batok,

kaya lagi akong naglalakad sa likuran mo.

Hindi pa kita dinadala sa bahay ko sa Antipolo ngunit nakabukas ang pinto ng balat ko para sa iyo, at parang ganoon na rin iyon sa tingin ko.

Minsan iinisip ko

kung ano ang nasa ilalim ng iyong kamiseta, at kung ano ang nasa ilalim ng nasa ilalim

ng iyong kamiseta. Maaari mong sabihing mahilig ako sa mga malalalim na palaisipan, pero gusto ko lang namang makasama ka

sa iisang kama.

Kahit hindi pagtatalik. Kahit pagtulog lang.

Kahit marinig ko lang ang mahina mong paghilik.

Idadantay ko ang ulo ko sa lawak ng iyong dibdib. Matutulog akong binibilang

ang pilik-mata mo sa dilim.

*mula sa Sa Antipolo pa rin ang Antipolo 2nd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

28

Sa Antipolo Dumadaan ang Fault Line ng Marikina*

Kapag nasa Makati ako’t nakatingala sa mga gusali,

ang naiisip ko lindol.

Kapag nakatanaw ako sa talahiban ng Laguna, sunog. Kapag nakatingin na naman ako

sa retrato ng iyong bibig, baha. Para bang kung dumaan na naman ang isang gabi

na hindi ka nakikita, mauulol ako na parang mamamatay-tao.

Na parang mag-aamok ako sa kahabaan ng Balibago at pagtatagain ko ang mga tao dito. Ang totoo, mahal kita

sa paraang pati ako’y natatakot.

Wala akong kutsilyo, mayroon lang akong mga labing naghuhugis-patalim

kapag kinakatagpo nila ang pisngi mo. Naghuhugis-paruparo

kapag pinapupula ka na ng tatlong bote ng serbesa. Kapag namumukadkad na ang dugo

sa ilalim ng balat sa iyong mukha.

Minsan gusto ko ring masugatan, tulad ng kalsada sa pasikot-sikot na bituka

*mula sa Sa Antipolo pa rin ang Antipolo 2nd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

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ng Antipolo. Magpas창 na parang lungsod

kapag ginugulpi ng maiitim

na kamao ng gabi. Gusto ko ring matapalan ng aspalto sa sikmura para lang bakbakin uli ng ulan, lindol, ten-wheeler sa aking sentido.

Masira para matulad sa iyo,

biniyak ng kinagisnang mundo.

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christian jil benitez

Sapagkat Kinahatinggabihan* Alambalay na alimaymay na tinig, ulyaw sa loob nitong silid.

Ang burador ng pangakong hindi maitatawid sa mga titik.

Sapagkat Matapos itong dilim, ang ligaw na liwanag na darating.

Sapagkat subalit kung saan narito, wala ang inuusal na dilim.

Sa ngayon, itong katotohanan sa gitna nitong apirang taimtim.

Sa ngayon, mga katawang nahihimlay sa gising na panaginip.

At ang liwanag, lumalagos sa mga bitak nitong uhaw na labi.

Balat sa balat, tumatalunton sa laman ang himig na pintig.

Sapagkat ang palad mo sa akin ang mapa sa lungsod ng pag-ibig.

Ito, ang bulag na pag-apuhap at pag-aninaw, ang iyong mga yapos.

Ito, ang pagsipat sa dulo ng daliri sa kawalang-hangganang ito.

Sapagkat matapos ang dilim, ang manibalang na muling pag-uwi.

Ang ating mga katawan, ang pusod nitong ruweda ng liwanag.

Sa karimlan, sa pagsamba sa palayaw matatagpuan ang liwanag. 

*mula sa Sapagkat Umiibig 2nd Prize, Poetry in Filipino (Collection Title), 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards 3rd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

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Sapagkat Ang Iyong Sarili* Ang tanging mayroon ka sampu ng iyong mga daliri, Bulag sa kanilang paggapang, gumagalugad, patuloy Sa paghahanap at marahang pag-apuhap, pagkapa Doon sa tanging mayroon ka: ang iyong mga binti, Balikat, dibdib, mga parang na nag-aabang sa unang patak Ng himala, sinisipat ang langit sa paghihintay, hanggang Sa huli, ang tanging mayroon ka, itong kalawakan Ng iyong laman, ang bawat paahon at palusong nito, Mula sa mga pasa, sugat, pilat, at galos na bumabalot Sa pinakatatanging mayroon ka: ang iyong balat na binalot Sa kadalisayan ng liwanag mula kung saan, tumatama Sa mga butil ng pawis sa mga binti, balikat, dibdib, nagiging Mga mumunting salamin ng tanging mayroon ka: ang lagyo, Sa wakas, na nabibigyang-hugis at nararamdaman Ito, itong mahahawakang mapanghahawakan, Ang tanging mayroon ka rito sa nalalansag na uniberso Kung saan patuloy ang mahinahong paglayo ng lahat Mula sa isa’t isa, hinihila ng mga makamundong puwersa: Ikaw, ang sarili, ang tanging masasabing Akin. 

*mula sa Sapagkat Umiibig 2nd Prize, Poetry in Filipino (Collection Title), 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards 3rd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

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Sapagkat Isusuko Mo Ang Iyong Sarili* Sa dilim, papahintulutan mo ang pagtalunton ng mga daliri ko Sa mga naghihintay na palad mo, ang marahang paglalakbay Nang walang pag-aalinlangan sa baybayin ng iyong katawan Tulad ng pagtatagpo ng mga kurbada ng ating mga laman, pinupunan Ang mga siwang sa ating mga nagigising na balat. Hayaan mo Ang pagbagtas ng mga labi ko sa mga itinatagong sulokSulok ng sarili mo at tatawagin nating ating lihim Ang lahat ng mga ito: ang batok mo, ang likod mo, ang espasyo sa likod Ng mga tainga mo, kung saan malumanay kong ibubulong na Ito Ang ganap na pagsuko, sasabihing Ito ang totoong pag-iisangDibdib, ang mga baga nating sabay na pumapainlanlang, nananahan man Sa magkaibang tadyang, mga puso ng mga nagkukumawalang Hayop na nagiging bahagi ng iisang pulso. At tulad nitong bagong balat na inihabi Mula sa mga patak ng pawis, hayaang lumaya ang sarili, ang sarili hanggang sa Hindi na matunton pa ang pagitan ng ating mga katawang nagsasa-isangNilalang, hanggang sa hindi na mahanap pa kung saan ka magtatapos at saan ako Magsisimula, hanggang sa hindi na maihihiwalay pa ang mga lagyo mula sa pagiging Iisa, sapagkat halika, halika, hahalikan ka sa iyong pagsuko nang ganap, ikaw At ang iyong lahat, lalapit at babalutan ng halik, aariin Ang bawat pilat sa bawat bahagi, pangakong mamahalin nang buong magdamag Hanggang sa hangganan ng mga araw at gabi, hanggang sumuko’t iparinig sa akin Mula sa iyong bibig ang halinghing na himig ng naglalansag na Pagnanais, ang tinig na bubuhay sa ating mga sarili, ang pagsambit Sa pangalan ko bilang isang banal na awit, dakilang panalanging magsasamo *mula sa Sapagkat Umiibig 2nd Prize, Poetry in Filipino (Collection Title), 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards 3rd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

33

Dito sa madilim na silid ng isang liwanag na masisilayan lamang Ng mga nagpapaubaya, hanggang sa pagdating

nitong kinaumagahan, Ang tugatog ng bukang-liwayway. Ang pagsipat sa atin nitong mga naliligaw na Sinag ng araw. Kung papaanong tagtagos ito sa salamin ng mga bintana.

Mamasdan mo ako. Mamasdan ang mga mata kong umuuwi’t umuuwi pa rin Sa iyo. Pilit winawari: Matapos ang lahat ng ito, matatawag pa rin bang akin Ang aking sarili. 

34

Sapagkat Kinaumagahan* Matapos ang pagsaibayo ng mga lagyo, ito Ang sasalubong: sa pagmulat at paglingon Sa iyong direksiyon, nang madadatnan na lang sa apiran Kung saan naroon ang nahihimbing mong katawan Kani-kanina lang, ang isang di-mapupunang puwang Mula sa hindi namalayang pagbangon at pag-alis mo, Ang hindi pananatili at hindi na muling pagbalik pa matapos itong Habambuhay na paglabas sa silid ng buhay ko, walang takot akong Hindi magtataka. Hindi na ako magtataka pa kung bakit Ganoon pa man, matapos ang lahat, matatagpuang maganda pa rin Ang umaga: ang hinhin nito sa marahang pagmulat, nananatiling Mabait at malumanay, kung paanong umiinog pa rin ang mundo Pasilangan, at ang araw, katulad ng mga bagamundong ulap, Nananatili pa ring nakabinbin at nakalutang sa kawalan Nang hindi nalalaglag, nalalansag. At ito, ang liwanag, Lumalagos pa rin sa pagitan ng mga dahon at sanga nitong Puno ng mangga sa tapat, kung saan nagmumula ang naririnig na Mumunting huni ng mga hindi nagpapakitang ibon, kasabay sa tunog Sa di-kalayuan ng pagkiskis ng tingting sa semento. Magandang Umaga, maganda pa rin ang umaga. Nakatitiyak akong pagdating nitong Kinabukasan, pareho pa rin ang lahat ng daratnan: parehong tunog Ang maririnig mula sa mga parehong bagay, mga parehong bagay Ang masisilayan pa rin sa ilalim nitong parehong liwanag. Nakatitiyak Ako, nakatitiyak akong nakatitiyak ako sa mga bagay na ito Sapagkat alam ko ang daang ito. Sapagkat alam ko kung papaano Ang umapuhap, sapagkat alam ko ang manampalataya. Sapagkat noon, Noong ibinulong ko sa iyong Iniibig kita, alam ko ang ibig sabihin nito: Hinding-hindi ka mawawala.  *mula sa Sapagkat Umiibig 2nd Prize, Poetry in Filipino (Collection Title), 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards 3rd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

35

Sapagkat Iniibig Kita*

Alam kong mawawala ka.

Ang iyong mukha, ang suson-susong maskara Ng sarili, ang marahang pagkalansag ng mga ito, At ang mga mata, pawang mga matang, sa wakas, Mawawala ang itinatago. Ang alimbukad ng iyong Kahubdan at ang pagpapasipat sa akin sa kung ano Ang pasa, sugat, pilat, galos na matatagpuan lang Doon, sa mga sulok na pinakatatago, at ang kabatiran Sa kawalan ko ng kapangyarihan para sa kaganapang Paghilom ng lahat ng mga ito. Ang hindi mapipigilang Pagkalagas, ang pagkahulog, at ang muling pagbalik Sa nag-aabang na bunganga ng lupa, at kung papaanong Ito, ang aking mga palad, ay pansalong hungkag, butasButas upang masagip ka. Ang lahat ng ito, ang hapis, Ang mga araw na hindi ko na kailanman maibabalik O mapipigil sa pagnanasang maitago mula sa iyo Itong lawak at lalim ng hangganan ng dilim.

Ang karupukang uulit-uliting maisasalang sa init At lamig, sa bawat pagkalagas at muling pagsibol Nang ayon sa panahon. Ang hindi maikukubling Karunungang sa lahat ng ito, at hindi maiaalis Ang katotohanang ito kailanman. Ang salitang Pagpaparaya mula sa salitang-ugat na daya, sapagkat Nagpapabulag sa paghaya sa pagpapalaya bagaman Ang posibilidad na madaya nitong banal na daliring *mula sa Sapagkat Umiibig 2nd Prize, Poetry in Filipino (Collection Title), 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards 3rd Prize, Tula, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

36

Gumagabay patungo sa hangganan ng kung saan.

Daliri sa ngalang tadhana. Ang pagkapatda, pagkadapa, Pagluhod, at pagsuko sa harap nito. Ang pagsamba Sa debosyon. Ang pangalan nito, ang pangalan mo.

Ang pangalang humahaplos sa aking mga labi.

Ang hindi maaapuhap ng mga sariling kuko’t daliri.

Itong pinakasandali ng pagkatuyo ng dila’t lalamunan Mula sa kawalan ng salitang maaaring makabibigkas Sa tulang nahihimlay sa pagitan nating dalawa.

Kailanman, ang katotohanang hindi ito ganap na Magpapabigkas. Samakatwid, ang kaganapang Pagpapaubaya sa kawalan ng imik. Ang mga hikbi Nang dahil sa galak. Ang imakuladang kaligayahang Hindi magtatagal kailanman. Matapos ang halakhak, Ang palumpon ng buntonghininga. Itong sandali Ng kahinaan, ang hindi pagiging diyos, hindi pagiging Banal. Sapagkat may hangganan ang bagamundong Katawan, alabok sa alabok, hanggang dito lang Ang kayang marating ng mga palad sa pag-abot Sa panginoring patong-patong para sa lahat ng handang Maihandog. Sapagkat para sa iyo ang lahat ng ito, Sapagkat bagaman ang lahat ng ito, hindi maaaring Maging para sa iyo. Sapagkat ang unibersong hindi Mapapaiyo, itong pag-inog na mananatiling tungkol Sa sarili nito. Sapagkat hindi ko mapapasan sa balikat ko

37

Ang iyong mundo, sapagkat hindi ko papasanin Sa balikat ko ang buong mundo. Sapagkat ikaw Ang kulisap na pakakawalan sa gitna ng gising na dagat, Pinong liwanag sa gitna ng karimlan, mapupundi rin At malulunod kinalaunan sa iyong pagkahapo Sa hindi matapos-tapos na paghahanap para sa lupang Kakanlong sa iyo. Sapagkat kanlungan ang dulong Hinahanap mo. Sapagkat itong paghahanap ang tunay na Kalbaryo, namumukadkad sa pangakong Malapit na, Malapit na, hanggang sa makakarating din doon Kung saan naghihintay pa rin ang pangakong malapit na Ang Malapit na. Sapagkat ang pagkauhaw sapagkat Sa pagkalumbay. Sapagkat batid ang kawalan ng daan Palabas mula sa pasikot-sikot sa laberintong gubat, Baliktarin man ang iyong kamiseta. Sapagkat hahayaang Maganap. Sapagkat batid ko ang kinakailangang Maganap. Sapagkat noong sinabi ko sa iyong Iniibig kita, pinakawalan ka mula sa mga palad ko, Hinayaang maganap ang lahat ng magaganap Sa iyo. Sapagkat iniibig kita, alam kong mawawala ka.

Sapagkat ito ang ehersisyo ng pag-asang maaaring Umuwi lang ang lahat sa wala, patuloy na umaasa Para sa lahat. Sapagkat sa pagdatal ng isang araw, Pagkagising, malilipol ka, bilang ito ang kalikasan Ng lahat sa mundo, at magpapatuloy sa pagsaibayo Doon sa kung saan tunay na hindi maaabotTanaw. Sapagkat nananatili’t mananatili pa rin akong Umaasa. Sapagkat ikaw ang harayang kailanman Hindi mapaparam mula sa kaibuturan ng laman.

Sapagkat dito, sa aking pinakaloob, alam ko ito, alam ko Ito: Sapagkat iniibig kita, hinding-hindi ka mawawala.

38

regine cabato

The Notice The news of the death is swift. It is the details that slug behind, waiting to be found by police, by media men, by all those listening because they heard that death was in town, and they had missed the meet-and-greet. I did not know this girl. I was shooting a documentary about children living in a cemetery. They were playing with discarded bones. I asked them, Don’t you ever get scared? They answered, Why would we? They are already dead. I do not tell this to my friend who is seated next to me in the taxi on the way home. She has just received news of the death, and then, swiftly too, of her sister’s engagement. Pensively she looks out the window, negotiating a time and space for mourning. The world can only accommodate so much of our grief. The rest of the time, it is still spinning. It demands that we contain our sorrow within one time and space; but sorrow is how it is because it spills into other times and other spaces, spaces that were not meant for them, like breakfast, your nephew’s piano recital, the licensure exam.

In Navotas, the boys who climb the graves with no harnesses look at the weekend burial as another means of income and a free meal. They scale the shelves of tombs, light candles for twenty bucks. If they linger long enough at funerals, they will get bread. I wonder if it is only we who consider death so foreign. The theme song of Titanic blares through the radio.

What must go on? As mourner, you are suddenly aware of the grip with which the waves have seized you. The current sweeps you farther from the friend that the tide has taken 39

elsewhere. Water breaks through your portholes, rising rapidly, forcing the mouth open. “Teka lang—” is the phrase that escapes as you gasp for air. “Teka lang.”

40

mayelle nisperos

Absolution i.

Congratulations, young lady, our Headmistress sneers.

You are the first student to receive a double sanction with a single word. She elegantly dons quotation marks; the violation report now reads: Said “Putang ina” to a fellow classmate. 1 count for unladylike behavior, 1 count for speaking in the vernacular. I shrug and stuff the slip into my skirt, then later forge my mother’s maiden name. The last thing she needs is for her daughter to tell her

something she already knows.

41

ii.

The last time we had even said grace before meals was when Lola was still alive. Even if she was a good cook, it was easy to lose your appetite.

Keep your elbows off the table, it’s bad manners, That hemline is much too short, keep your legs together, it’s not proper, did you pray the rosary this morning you go to Mass this afternoon, we’ll say Vespers after diner and tomorrow we can go to confession. Anak, you should join us, it will be good for you,

Mother never did.

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iii.

Lola once told me: the present is the revenge of the past.

I did not quite understand it back then, but it did not take long for me to learn what everyone else already knew. Each time I asked my mother, it was a different story: The President, the Spy, the Rock Star—my favorite was the Astronaut, because I love science— He was both none and all at once. But that was okay; it was always more fun to play pretend. I asked her once if she had a picture. “You have his eyes. Now go to sleep, it’s time for bed.” and that was the last she ever mentioned him.

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iv.

It starts off calm and slowly, like most evenings. Suddenly, her eyebrows furrow, fists clench, and breathing hitches. She breaks out into cold sweat, softly screaming words I know but do not understand.

I’ve relived that night perhaps as often as she has. Some nights, I am there as well, wherever ‘there’ is. I changes each time: Some days an old abandoned warehouse, other days a public restroom, lately it’s by the fields.

He holds her close, one hand wrapped around her neck, knee to her chest, his eyes, my eyes, dilated. She blinks. I maintain eye contact.

Her skin smells of jasmine and tastes of honey. I muffle her whimpers with my mouth. I close my eyes momentarily before the climax. I open them, Neither of them knows I am here. I have a bolo in my hand, poised to strike before he does. One swift move is all it takes. I blink. What are you waiting for?

She writhes against him, cursing, Our father who art in Heaven, Hail Mary full of grace Angel of God, my guardian dear, Help, help, help.

What are you waiting for?

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v.

“It’s Wednesday, so that means Chinese take-out.” Honestly, I prefer Japanese but she insists I’ll learn to love it. “By the way,” —God damn it, she must have found it in the laundry— “You should submit this on time. Sr. Mary Grace gives additional sanctions for late submissions.” She forces a laugh. “You know, you’re lucky: Back in my day, the nuns would wash your mouth with soap.”

—Of course, not unless you’re telling the truth—

45

vi.

We begin with the examination of conscience. Believe in a loving Savior who forgives and gives you grace, Be sincerely sorry for both venial and mortal Yes I have deliberately doubted the teachings of the Church, No I have not recommended myself to God daily, No, I have not avoided profane use of God’s name Yes I have dressed and behaved immodestly during Mass, No I did not defend the Catholic Faith or Church, No I have not been chaste in thought and in word, Yes I have neglected to control my imagination, Yes I have borne hatred, Yes I have desired revenge, Yes I have neglected others’ safety as well as my own Bless me Father for I have sinned, I am heartily sorry for all these and the sins of my past lives. Forgive my mother her promiscuity, forgive me for I have lived, Now absolve me in the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, Amen.

46

andrea lopez

Island “the City was just like this place, before the Gods forsook it. Did you know? I saw it happen. I saw its downfall. I was there—” and he was laughing now, the chief, as he bent over the sand and clutched at his flushed face, swaying with manic unbelief. The islanders, loyal as they were, averted their eyes. Grief had a habit of making punch lines out of people, even those as reputable as the leader of their own town. “Ah, Gods! Have I not forfeited my own hands for your work?

Yet, they all leave, in the end. They all leave! Ha-ha! Me! Into her arms they return, her vile, whoring fingers—” His mouth, which had been rather occupied with slurring letters, stilled. His eyes grew wild, swiveling skywards to catch sight of it: the giant moth, its wings mottled and paper-thin, fluttering down to rest on his shoulder. He saw it, the islanders saw it, and the moth—the moth sat in meaningful silence, and stared.

The chief crumpled to his knees. “Let us pray,” someone said, and so they did.

After Hao left, and they all knew to where, the whole town swore their acquaintance with him. Suddenly, they were a concerned guardian, an ex-lover, a friend­—which was, by far, the worst claim of all, Raya thought, for it resembled the lie the most. For years Hao had been nothing but a ghost to this place, just like she and Pai had been; but his departure swept the island into a resurrected furor, dangling the conversation piece like a slab of meat before a pack of ravenous dogs, had them spouting things like: “He was always a troubled boy. ‘Twas in his eyes, see, had that mad look to 'im. Saw it when the chief first moved from the mainland with 'im trotting by. Never smiled, that boy. Even when the other kids came an’ tried ta talk to him. Just stared ahead. Collecting them beetles. Beetles! Never a good sign.”

47

“If the mother had done her job in the first place, we wouldn’t be having this problem, would we? Poor pups,” they said, clucking.

“Always end up like the bitch.”

Some said Hao never left. The moths consumed him, they whispered. It was the Angels, letting him pay penance for his wanderlust.

At this, The Priestess shook her head. “The Angels did not touch him,” she declared – Raya's sister, who she now hated with her whole twisting heart. She had a lilting voice, and it rose like sea foam over the congregation. “The boy made his choice. He chose to leave, and They watched him go. There was no sense in punishing him. Where he is going... it is punishment enough.”

That was when Pai began to cry­—small, hitching sobs, a fist pressed into his mouth. Raya held him then; rather, she held on to him, her own stomach falling into trench-long depths, heavy with regret. How they wished they’d seen the signs; how swiftly Hao had changed, how quiet. They were tethered now, she and Pai, still in their ceremonial garb from the night before with even their own Goshka tree in the forest to prove it—but what was the use in that? Now that one of them drifted too far, too late for moorings?

Later, when they were too weary for tears, and their parents left them to their grief, Pai curled closer and whispered the cruel unsaid: “How long do you think it’ll be before—” a shudder rattled him through, “before It—eats?”

Raya pulled in a brittle breath. She shook her head.

“But Hao has been nothing but good to us, he hasn’t done anything—” the last words were choked out of him. It took awhile before he could gather himself. Then, even softer, the barest of breath: “Do you... do you think the Gods will be kind, after all?”

There is no sky in The City, no sea, her mother had said. Only death and ash and shadows and their teeth.

She squeezed his hand, and learned to lie.

At ten they were schoolmates, the three of them, and knew each other but only by principle. After all, oddities were a mainstay in local 48

discourse. And with the novelty of three in place that ruled in quiet and peace, it was rather difficult to ignore.

Pai was descendant to a long line of fisherfolk who lived by the shore, where the heat clung like an overeager lover and people grew patience like they grew callouses, waiting upon the hand of the Sea to grant them plenty. Today they were favored, and the bamboo slats groaned with the weight of blessing. From the blue, catch after catch; the rafts they prided in keeping their village afloat tipped in daring degrees.

But his father’s face was a terrible thing the moment he’d arrived home from class; he was a little late, and it was long walk after all, but this didn’t matter. What mattered, his father growled, twisting his ear, was that the trout was here when it needed to be with his mother, at the market; before people grew sick of it, before Kaya stole everyone else into her stall, as she always did. The load strained his bird-bones, but the warning tugged insistently at his ears—so he forged ahead, prayed he’d make it in time before another earful of vulgarities, another starburst of blue over the old where the light didn’t reach.

The shrine shrouded Raya’s house. Tucked like a secret within the island, it was fringed by the Goshka forest—creation’s first, they were; the tall, bone-white trees that stretched towards the Sky in longing, whose restless roots clawed their way down into the Sea. It was a mutual agreement; her older sister anointed as Priestess, her parents had been more than honored to accept a place so close to sacred ground.

But though obviously sisters, the disparity between them was apparent. Where sister was a beacon, radiant and warm—she imagined herself a shipwreck, choking on the fumes. Where her sister soared, she blundered. She did not just pale in comparison. Next to The Priestess, she was colorless, little talks about her existence fraught with disappointment: Raya, who forwent her prayers for catching frogs. Raya, the other daughter.

She knew what it meant, when her parents forced her into dresses and too-tight shoes, pointed at her sister during offerings and spoke of grace, of blessing. It felt like anger, what she sowed into her bones until it festered, cracked her joints as she bent to pray in the mornings 49

and once again before the last sliver of moonlight crept into the trees, but today—today would be different. After class, she slipped past the girls she walked home with every day—not that they’d be looking, but the thought of returning to that house made her stomach roil.

She would not return where she was not wanted, so she kicked off her shoes, turned her back to the path, and walked.

Now Hao was the chief ’s only child, shut in a solitary house by the lantern-lit path that wound through the forest. He was a study in dichotomy, balancing both excess and restriction like a platter upon his delicate head, and he did it so well he rarely thought about it anymore. Today was a house day, which meant he could not leave the walls. He had an inkling it was because he’d asked about The Boatman, and why do people hate him so? But his father had a way with dressing down words and still making them seem like answers.

It hadn’t always been this way. He was a babe when his mother left, and though he was allowed to write to her there was much rearranging to be done to occupy the space she’d so easily left behind. His father, half-crazed with sorrow, kept him close. His was a smothering love, the shape of a voice that promised many evils beyond the gates; it said, no running, no playing with dirt, no talking to strangers, and be fearful, the world is ever waiting to snatch you up into its maw. His father, who built him a haven of banisters spiraling and shelves groaning with books and walls longing for windows.

But there was one in his own bathroom. Square and modestly sized, it was right above the lavatory. And, outside the glass—a tree.

She saw them send the basket flying out of his hands—the brown fisher boy, as she came barefoot into the clearing and saw the flinch cut across his face, saw him fold back into himself, into the soil. The basket that lurched into the underbrush, bestowing upon the earth a spray of silver fish. Their laughter, which had been a grating, nasal torrent, petered out as they took note of her presence. Her gaze was flint-sharp. They looked stupid like this, their eyes wide as dinner plates, but as she stepped between them, her disgust rolling off of her in waves, she felt her chest hollow. The likeness was uncanny; even 50

with four years apart, it was too easy to mistake her for their beloved Priestess. Her hands shook. It was astonishing, the many ways her sister could haunt her.

Even here, as they fumbled and fretted and then turned to leave.

She yelled for them. Still, they did not stop. Cowards, she roared; the word fell clumsily into the air. They kept on walking. They would not turn.

She felt it come loose then. It made a home out of her, burning all the way down to her fingers, her toes, heard it waterfall into her ears and finally come crashing out of her mouth with a sound so terrible it made them falter in their steps and turn their heads, made the Angels, asleep among the boughs, stir within the dark bowels of the forest; made Pai, trembling fitfully behind her, go quiet, and finally – uncurl from himself, and stare. Fine, she thought, as she burned and bit and bled, you won’t see me? I’ll make you. I’ll make you.

And Hao—well, Hao saw everything. Saw how they squashed him down, even as he soldiered on with a smile, the basket rolling towards the bush where he’d taken refuge. Saw how quickly stillness overtook his panic, after the girl launched herself like an animal at them—his face a picture of perfect calm, eyes wide and clear like an unfettered sky. How he simply watched, as she brought her fist down, again, and again, and again— Pai did not shudder. His limbs slackened with each crack of her fist, a sound he knew too well. Today, the Angels, peering down from their perch among the leaves, were his witnesses. Today, he would be the one to watch.

After the hurricane left her, and they fled beyond her reach, sobbing as they went—Raya came up panting, each ragged breath sweet as summer fruit, and the throb in her arms was the most wondrous kind of ache. She expected gratitude when she turned, but the boy had eyes only for his basket, upturned in the green. Suffice to say she was disappointed, but as she went to voice this a dark head emerged from what had only been a bush seconds ago, and now, an arm, barely brushed by the sun, a torso—until she recognized him: the chief ’s son, in the flesh, with a leaf in his hair.

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Hao saw familiarity flash in her eyes, and he bit back a yelp.

There it was, brandished, that same dagger-sharp look of distrust, now leveled at him. “You one of them?” The girl spoke. Fervently, he shook his head. For some reason words fled him. “So, what are you doing here then? Have you been watching all this time?” He could not lie; his silence was extraordinary. She glared at him then, walking over. “Well, then you might as well be,” she spat. “Despicable.”

Hao blinked at the jab. The derision was—unfamiliar. “Well?” she said, caustic, and as he stared her face grew perplexed by the second.

Beside her, the boy dusted himself off as he stood. His hands were scraped, but his eyes were unclouded as he watched him. Waiting.

Years later Hao would remember this: this chance to be anything, anyone. Like a window flung open, just for him.

He paused, then bent to right the basket beside his bush. Silently, he began collecting fish.

When his work was through, he set the basket down in front them. His fingers stank of something that died at Sea, and dirt was drying fast beneath his nails. But when he turned to look the girl had her mouth twisted to the side, losing most of its sharpness, and the boy—the boy smiling at him, brilliantly, like his mouth was made for it.

It need not be said that the insult Pai’s mom had so readily prepared died a very quick death on her tongue the moment she saw them hobbling up the path. Her son—bloodied and filthy as a washrag, flanked by the town leader’s son and the Priestess’ sister—with his father’s catch, of course, which he sat heavily upon her counter. Sorry mother, he said, I came as fast as I could, and it was infused with so much strange cheer she could do nothing but nod in silence. Nothing.

Days later, the town found itself stirring from its self-imposed lackadaisical stupor. Teachers stared, and students mocked, then told their parents who talked some more. There they were: the oddball trio, their desks pushed together, far too lost in each other to notice the world spinning on a thread woven from stories meant

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to spite them. They gathered in hushed tones until they were jostling each other over stolen fruit, and soon they were laughing, racing each other up the path. What a strange sight, the islanders muttered to themselves, and soon forgot. Later, the chief ’s servants would murmur amongst themselves: delirium, they whispered. A daydream of the Angels. Finally, mercy for the child. After he left the letter on his father’s desk, they peered at him from behind doors as he passed. There, again—a lovely wisp of a voice, floating down the halls.

His father, alone in his office, collected his glasses, and listened.

Singing. Now, would you look that.

The City is alive, and it eats people. That was what Raya’s mother was telling her, wrestling with her daughter’s hair beneath the kitchen lights for the most intricate weaves. It would be a quarter moon tonight, and there would be an offering. After that, a feast. It was a stubborn thing, her hair, and her mother tugged and tugged and she grit her teeth and tried to listen around a grimace—because her mother was in those rare, chatty moods where she’d talk if Raya asked, and she could be a good girl now, couldn’t she? While it lasted?

“It leeches on you,” she was saying. “You walk in, entranced as you are, and you come out—different. This sad, hollowed-out thing.

It was such a vibrant, beautiful place, the City. That is, used to be, years ago. Before the Gods abandoned it and cut the place off from Their bounty. S’pose that’s why It’s so hungry.” Her mother sounded thoughtful. “Nevertheless, look what It did to chief Kalo—poor thing, seduced his good wife and left him with child. And The Boatman!

Stole his eyes, that’s what—” Raya conjured up that pearly gaze, the boat like a blight upon the spotless horizon, steadfast through each storm. “A wonder he can navigate that rusty piece o’ junk o’ his. See, the Angels tried to warn him. But he didn’t listen. Think The City might’ve taken a lil’ bit of his mind too. Poor fella. Now, he comes back and starts spouting blasphemous things, giving away these cursed objects—I say, Angels were right in taking his children.

He couldn’t raise anyone right with that head on his shoulders.”

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Raya blanched. “The Angels,” she stammered. “They took his—” “His daughters,” her mother emphasized with another tug, “are with the Priestess now. Tied to this island, tending to its needs.

Harvesting its blessings. It is the highest honor.” And Raya could hear behind the unspoken: if only they would take you too, but she kept her silence, and left her mother to her work.

“He can’t speak to them, not anymore. Their tongues have forgotten our language. They can only commune with the Angels now. But, for the life of me, I can’t fathom why anyone would want to leave for that wasteland. Here, we are protected, sweetling. Here there is life, there is blessing.”

This, she knew. It was a beautiful tale, the first everyone learned on the island. How, long ago, the Heavens and the Sea were lovers.

Their passion was perfect, pure; but although He could send Her His rain, and She could rise high enough to graze His clouds, the distance was too far even for Gods to traverse. And so, consumed with such terrible longing, They chose to spend Themselves half of Their spirit: the Heavens, releasing Himself from His lofty perch, came crashing down. And She, below Him, threw Herself into the Sky with such a mighty leap She came uprooted from the ground. Their reunion was a miracle; they filled the world with a display of lights and made an instrument out of the sky. Wherever they touched, forests bloomed—towering Goshka trees to bridge the distance, like fingers straining, reaching. The earth gasped its first breath of life; the Gods’ love, reborn. They could never meet like this again. So, from fog and foam They fashioned Angels, veiled as creatures of the earth, as its keepers.

That was why, every new moon, they would bring the very best of their bounty to burn upon a raft set to sail; an offering of smoke for the Heavens, and its ash for the Sea. Proof of their love and life, while the Gods rested for their coming reunion, to build another earth.

“We are a chosen people, sweetling. Only we can partake of this bounty, if only we wish it. You’ll find someone to be tethered to, someday, as the Gods did, and your lives will be intertwined, fated to be blessed in all your lives. Even in Summerland, if you are chosen.”

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Raya tried to grasp it, the promise of life eternal, devoid of the pains the plagued mere mortals like her. But it was too transient against her fingers, like catching clouds. So she thought about Hao, the untroubled crease of his brow, his head tucked into a book. She thought about Pai, afloat somewhere upon the swell of the Sea, diving for pearls. She thought of their promise—of acres and acres of trees for them to climb tomorrow; an entire ocean of their own.

“Chosen,” her mother was saying, her voice somewhere far away.

When they were through pilfering coconuts, and then kicking them around, and then cracking them open to feast on its succulent meat, they were contented kids, sun-browned and sleepy, stretched by the shore just out of sight of the fisherfolk hauling in their nets.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Hao made them swear, because he was writing a letter to his mother, and no one could find out, otherwise there would be questions, rumors. Threats to his father’s name. The existence of the letters themselves were meant to be confined within the four walls of his room. But they had no room for secrets between them, and they would not start now.

“Has she written back?” Pai asked, after a while, after a bored Raya left to collect sea shells.

“No,” Hao said. “Father says letters get lost in The City. When the eagles drop them from the sky, they get swallowed by the ash clouds. But he sends them anyway, because it keeps me quiet.” A smile crooked his mouth.

Pai hummed, sat back, his hands crossed behind his head. The surf crashed endlessly into the sand. When he spoke again his eyes were glazed over: “Hey. Hey, uh. Before school ends, what are you going to do?”

From Pai’s periphery, Hao’s pen stilled. They were sixteen then, and grew with such a closeness people stopped to stare; but not once did they talk about this. They both knew what Pai really meant, and it rung around them with a jackhammering noise as if he’d said it out loud. There was only one thing left, after all, between school and the life set beyond them. They shrank in the silence, and the silence 55

echoed: who are you taking to the Goshkatari?

At the word, Pai’s heart clamored. The thought was a restless thing, and it grew roots in him. He was young when he first heard of it, eating Goshka slices on the table on the rare times his father was sober, and a good night’s rest softened the lines on his mother’s face.

They called it special, the tree they ventured all the way to the forest for. But all trees looked the same to him, even the fruit, and there were perfectly good ones at the market, too. But each year there they were, trudging up the path to that same, weatherworn tree.

“That’s our tree, your father’s and mine,” and his mother had smiled, in that way that made the years fall away from her face.

“You know the song, don’t you? If two people are tethered—when they dance before the Gods as proof of their love and plant a Goshka seed together, the Heavens and the Sea will unite them for all their lifetimes. I was eighteen when we were tethered, your father and I, as you will be, when you turn, as customary. Promise me you’ll choose well, when the time comes. Now, don’t give me that face. You’ll be thinking about it soon enough.”

And he was thinking about it now. Thinking about Raya in those exquisite robes, about his hands upon the swell of her hips, playfully passing a goshka seed as they met and turned and swayed. He was thinking about Hao—his melodious laugh, a seed pressed between their palms, thinking about how he’d dance with both of them, how it would work—when, out from the forest, the Angels begin singing.

The song was euphonic, billowing in one note only. Pai slipped right out of his reverie and felt his old courage return. He chanced a look; for a moment, Hao’s face was eclipsed beneath the shadow of an overhead tree. But then he blinked, and it was gone, like a cloud, or a memory of it.

Hao was gathering his things. “The sun’s setting.” His voice was light, unbothered.

Pai stared at him, then nodded. In the distance, Raya was scrambling out of the waves. The song signaled prayer hour for Raya, and curfew for Hao. Pai needed to be by the docks to carry off whatever his father brought home from Sea into the market, if there 56

was plenty to spare. Always, the song marked the end of their day together. As he hurried home, he pushed the thought down, careful not to step on any starfish or crabs, lest he earn the Angels’ ire, and, soon as he arrived, forgot merrily. It was too early to be thinking of such things, after all.

By sundown the ocean breeze was like a salve. In a winding line down the shore, islanders passed their offerings in armfuls to the maidens, who laid them in heaps upon the raft. Each one the Priestess blessed—a fleeting two-fingered gesture upon the item before it was bundled with the rest, then supplanted with words of promise from the Gods themselves. Hao spotted Raya up ahead, with her silk and curlicue chairs. Pai had gone earliest with their meager catch.

Soon, it was his turn. Baskets and baskets of summer-grown fruit passed by The Priestess’ hands. Now, for the blessing. She turned to them, but something else shadowed the sagely smile they knew so well. The calm shattered in her eyes; in them was no warmth.

And then, the end: “You smell like death.”

Later, he would remember what had transpired in pieces only: the moth clinging to his collar, an Angel in disguise, harbinger of death; the Priestess, full of pity and piety, whispering: can’t you hear it? For you they sing. They can smell the rot, clinging to you; the flash of Pai’s eyes, Raya’s shout; one last look of the sky, wide and impossibly blue, receding from view as the room swallows him whole, Father barring the door; the absence like an ache.

Days passed in obscurity. Withdrawing him from public school was the best his father could do. Tutors were paid in plenty and came to busy him with lessons. Moths swarmed the windows, and his father’s madness returned like it never left. Out of the forest, Angels came slithering out from their secret beds to watch him. A cat peered at him from its perch on the branch by his window, its tail swinging in a soundless countdown.

Sometimes, his father cried. On those nights, Hao wrote.

“Where—where are we going?”

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He was squinting into the dark, tipsy with sleep. His stomach was a volatile blend of bewilderment and longing, because here was Raya, half of her dangling precariously into the window of his bathroom, empty hands straining for him. He’d jolted to wakefulness after they’d pelted his windows, and now here she was, tugging him out—here into the cold prickle of the night, where Hao was waving at them from below. Again, he asked; in answer, she flashed her sickle-smile, and Pai took his hand. And then they were running, running, with wild abandon into the dark, past the needle-like Goshka trees, until the shore rose to meet them. Hao watched as Pai tugged a rope from behind some rocks, until a raft fell out, and then a paddle; Raya was shaking the sand from the beams, and both of them pushed it into the water. Hao stood back, half in shadow.

“Well, come on then.” Raya rolled her eyes and Pai grinned at him, beckoning, and he clambered into the raft next to them. Soon Pai was rowing, cutting into the waves, sea legs keeping him steady.

The words pushed insistently behind his tongue, but he kept still.

Then, before he could bear it no longer, Pai made a sound; he’d been gleaning the view for something, and now seemed to have found it; hidden in the rocks this shadowed patch like a mouth on the tail end of the island. As Pai led the them into it, the world and the waves fell into whispers behind them.

“High tide,” Raya announced into the dark, as Pai moored the raft into the rocks—it was a near-miracle he could see. “You can only reach this place during high tide. I checked.”

Inside, the air was a held breath, and stalactites bore upon them like daggers. Moonlight filtered from above, clouding a small enclosure where tidewater was pooled.

For a long time, Hao did not breathe. He did not dare.

“You can’t hear them here.” Raya’s voice went soft. “The Angels, I mean.” And Hao—understood.

“Ours,” Pai said, with a simple finality, and reached for him.

The fire changed them. It had to happen, the islanders said, because they grew too lenient with their offerings, their prayers. The Gods 58

were unhappy, and this was divine work; that even before the forest grew swollen with flames, before the first curl of smoke trailed into the clouds, the Angels were singing—but no one heard.

Hao hadn’t been there when the trees snapped. He couldn’t imagine it—those proud Goshka trees, defiant even in the fall, the white of their skin corroding in the blaze. But he caught the stench. As he came stumbling out the sun was peaked in the sky, and people were thundering down the path, to take solace in the shore.

“Hao,” it was Pai’s voice, he’d know it anywhere, kind even in breathlessness. Hao turned to meet him and relief rattled his bones.

The question came as their eyes met: Raya? She had to be here; if not, she was at the shrine still. Over the tiding bodies, Hao’s father was shouting. Pai caught his gaze; the shrine was the heart of this hell. There was not even a second of hesitation; they ran headlong into the smoke.

Here, the heat was a living thing; it whipped at their heels, coughed into their eyes. The crowd thinned as the path evened out, but another was gathering a few feet before them, and suddenly Hao’s breath tasted like ash in his mouth. The shrine—he was so used to its impenetrable splendor—crackled feebly in its own embers. Raya’s in there, he thought first. And second: the Priestess— Snap. Another tree came fainting over the roof. Beams groaned.

Another starburst of flames tore through the gaps. Hao's feet moved before he could think, but then there was a hand on his arm, rooting him back—a servant, he saw, and then: Pai, cutting past him, into the crowd. Hao yelled for him, or he thought he did; either way the cry was a frantic jumble too late. Pai stilled, mere seconds before the crowd could spare him a glance from their mourning, pumping his sailor’s lungs full to bursting—and disappeared in the smoke.

It was a test, they said. Of faith, of loyalty in the midst of ruin. That was why the rain came, ready to douse the flames once they proved themselves. The Gods were faithful, after all.

Raya emerged first, trailed by her parents, their hair a dark halo of soot. And then, finally—the Priestess, crutched heavily against 59

a limping Pai but still whole and alive and, Pai—Pai was a hero.

The morning after people knelt around the ashes and increased their prayers threefold. Pai was summoned to the front. He was fidgeting mess between Raya and the Priestess, and not even his mother could prod his spine straight. But he smiled over clenched teeth, and that was enough. Savior, they called him. Chosen. Something cold and disgusting rushed into Hao all at once it left him winded, and he hated himself for it. Something had shifted; and a great maw yawned between them, as he stared into Pai and Raya’s faces, each word coming from the Priestess’ mouth magnified like the cavern winds.

“With only days away before the Goshkatari, we now have found our representatives to lead us to our renewal. Out of the ashes, the Gods have brought them together. Out of decay—life!”

“You know, I don’t really hate my sister.”

It was tradition now, theirs, that every night he’d clamber down his tree and meet them by the rocks to the grotto. It would not be long, he knew, before his father would find out about the secret window, but for now, he would take his chance. As Hao crept closer Raya’s voice grew flimsy, faltering.

“I say that a lot, but, I don’t. Not really, and I just—“ and whatever it was was easily forgotten as Pai held her close, his gaze intent and so completely alien Hao froze. Could do nothing but tear his eyes away, and flee.

“A lot of moths you got there,” The Boatman said, as Hao gasped and slowed to a stop, and Hao knew it was him, because there was no one else who’d be out this late at night, besides Pai, Raya and himself.

That, and the speck on the horizon he usually occupied was gone.

And, perhaps it was because he was lonely, and lost, and half-mad with jealousy when he’d fled a few moments ago, when the earth slid out of axis from beneath his feet—that he chose to stay.

“Father says nothing grows in The City,” he said, and sat on the empty patch of sand next to him. Any other day he’d think himself mad to be speaking to The Boatman, of all people, but he found he cared little. “He says it is a place for ghosts.”

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The Boatman laughed, and the dull of his eyes caught moonlight.

“And why are you telling me this?”

Hao paused. “You are still here. Alive. It makes me wonder.”

“The City,” he said, “is whatever you want it to be. Awfully simple, really. Don’t quite understand the fuss.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Boatman took a swig from his bottle. It looked repulsive.

“Eh, that’s alright.”

“What terrible thing did you bring back?” Hao asked, because he was tired of curbing his curiosity, and here it could grow as enormous as it really was.

In the distance, a seabird cried. The Boatman’s laugh was wide and expansive and just a little bit biting, as if Hao had asked something rather silly.

“The truth.”

Ten was when he found the letter. The first time a house day was declared, he’d upturned an entire shelf onto the floor in anger, his small fists trembling. It was then that he found it, its corner peeking shyly out of the cover of A Manual of Etiquette. And, on the back, in the most elegant scrawl: H-a-o. L-o-v-e, M-o-t-h-e-r When he slid his own letter across the table, his father simply stared at the writing. Take it to the eagle’s post, he demanded, but his young voice broke and faltered. He had answers for any questions, he was ready—but his father simply took the envelope and nodded, like he understood.

Hao didn’t come to the Place, even on the many nights he heard Pai rapping insistently on the window now barred from the inside. He pretended not to hear, even on the nights Raya howled her bird-cry for him. In the mornings there were pearls on the windowsill. Other days they were shells. Still, he would not descend, and weeks passed until the silence grew arresting, and today when Pai rapped on his window—he opened it.

When they reached the grotto, the stillness enveloped them easily; years of familiarity allowed them to map their way through, til they found themselves at the edge of the pool now a brimful of fading light.

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Raya moved first; she slid off her clothes and slipped in with a happy sound. Pai was next, echoing the motion, albeit rather sheepishly, fumbling with his own limbs. They stared up at him. Hao undressed quickly and crept in.

When they were young, they had to strain their arms to keep their heads above water. Now, their bodies filled the spaces easily. Hao could feel the jagged floor, their eyes soaking him in, the glaring weight of their nakedness.

“Just like when we were kids,” Pai said.

They hadn’t been kids for a long time.

Hao knew he would dream of tonight, when he returned home damp and shaking all over. He had not snuck back in this late before, and within a few hours the sun was sure to show behind the canopy. But then he saw it, smelled it: Father, his back, the smoke from the pile turning into black coils. His feet scuffed the ground, and his father stiffened, turning to him slowly. But Hao didn’t see the look on his face. He was watching the letters—watching them turn black, turning, turning, turning.

The truth, when he found it, was rather simple. The truth, his truth, was that there was nothing left for him here, in this island of bounty and blessing and beauty. Here, where he was to rot like the bad fish.

Now his room grew swollen with Angels the servants could barely open the door. Snakes slept around his ankles, beetles filled his pockets, and cats lazed on his pillows. All of them, waiting, perhaps, for it to happen. It was only a question of when, after all.

Nothing ever survives for long in The City, he thought, watching The Boatman leave from behind his window. Not even trees.

After the end, Raya wished she had not been so foolish. Of course, she thought, of course Hao would leave. And of course, of course—Pai would follow. She was laughing now, and then she was crying, until she was shaking with rage. Do you think the Gods will be kind, after all?

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Pai had asked. Kind enough to keep him alive before I come after him?

She found herself marching up into the forest after she grew sick the pity; poor child, only two days tethered and left behind for The City. She passed the shrine, passed their tree marked with their names, and vowed to murder them both once she found them again, but now, she was a woman possessed. She knocked the incense candle into the ground until the dried leaves caught fire, and she kicked aside the mats and knocked down the pots and made such a terrible noise it woke every single Angel in the forest and sent them converging all around her. Snakes and rabbits and birds and bees. The fire caught the trees, and Raya saw the moths blanketing the branches dissipate into the sky. Did the moths fled Hao too, when he left? She stormed the shrine, brought to ruin everything her hands touched; outside, the Angels watched.

You will hear me, every part of her meant to say. You cannot weather this storm.

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carlomar arcangel daoana

The Incorruptible Within a heart-shaped glass, dulled By trapped condensation, fastened Round the edge with filigrees of copper Or gold (that curl around rivets of ruby, Or rhinestone), held aloft by two angels In a reliquary composed of four columns, Domed and finialed with a cross, Is St. Camillus’ incorruptible heart.

One cannot make out the arteries Or valves, simply see a mass of muscle Seemingly scorched black, cratered And calcified. Less human than stone, Less anthracite than tektite, it looks As if it wants to be tossed aside And forgotten—a rock among The many—and yet it is here, spotlit And venerated, as a woman touches A handkerchief against its protective case, Which she will then press to a site Of tumor. After all, the heart—which Will resurrect along St. Camillus’ Other body parts—signifies that the saint Is still present in this world, therefore More immediate in his intercessions.

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My turn to approach and hinge a plea On the relic, I think of the body That once encaged the blackened core, The true flesh that deduced the light Over the hills, of how, deciding to start The day early to care for the sick, It must have goosefleshed in the cold, Must have kicked a pebble as it walked.

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Happiness for DRM In my frequent days of living alone, I make room For the bed where we coordinated our sleep, Our shed skins staining the sheets the color of weak tea.

We were aspirants to an otherworldly kind of peace Though a fraction of me—mute and subconscious— Worried that you may leap from the bed, figure out The locks and run headlong to the outside, carlights Pulsing against your lids. You sleepwalked once, You told me, ending in a park where a swing, rusting In its chains, twisted and creaked. On the mattress We moved and parried like twins. I look at our nightly Conclusions not with wonderment but doubt.

How did we ever manage such an arrangement when, The morning after, we would assume our old faces With little or no reluctance? I credit our little dance Before I slept: I cooking something for two, us Sharing dinner and small talk, you washing the dishes.

This went on for years. I would watch you at the sink, Your back, shirtless, to me. I loved your waved hair, Your slight shoulders, your thin, unquestioning arms.

Suds braceleting your wrists trained under a faucet, 66

You lifted a plate like a slice of mineral, translucent And semi-precious. You were vivid in fluorescent light.

Not once did I mention and call it the only thing it was.

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joshua uyheng

When I Turn To You In Silence You must know what I have in mind. A house made of stairs. My body riddled with holes. These hands, what moves between them, as I move them through the water.

Sound and glimmer. Surfacing fish, white eyes brimming. Dismembered grin. Lips, singing a song about emptiness, never uttering emptiness. Only singing. You must remember my arms around your back. You must remember this pulse. Haptic twist, creaking turn of the weathervane. Dust descending upon the ochre field. What began to grow there, what failed to. It was 9PM on a Monday night when I resolved to address the impasse.

To disturb the surface of the lake, disturb the sleep of the boy in pajamas who would one day become you, would one day fail to. You must understand what happens next: The sky turning horses. The horses turning loose upon the dislocated city. The dislocated city

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with its roads converging on the uncrowded intersection where your body lies. Where my body lies solemn and stranded, straining its neck, wishing for a different sound to escape its throat—anything, anything but singing. But stop singing, your body says. Stop making a scene. Or the neighbors will hear.

Or the neighbors will think we’re doing something festive. That imagines music necessary. That insists on the light. You’re right, it isn’t like that.

This isn’t the place. This isn’t the graying hill where we looked out at the skyline.

Not where it swallowed us. Not where it grasped us by the knuckles and asked us to sit down.

Not where it failed to. You must realize there is nothing to fail to. Nothing for. But here: your manic teeth, their syncopated sneer again.

My legs with their exertions, ache, recapitulating this house again, ascending and descending its stairs again. The windows begging need for repair again. The storm with its fist on the door.

69

You must know what it is here for.

You must know what it is trying to say.

70

bianca lynn therese v. roxas

Ghost My mama likes to play with dolls in a yellow room with a glow-in-the-dark solar system on the ceiling. She already has 35 dolls, and is acquiring quite a large collection. Papa hoped that when I came along mama would lose interest in her dolls, but she hasn’t, so papa is very disappointed, and this makes me worry because papa drinks too much when he is upset.

Aling Magdalena, the kind maid, tells me that I shouldn’t fret because the house is just sad about Maricar being gone, and mama and papa’s issues have nothing to do with me. Aling Jasmina, the mean maid, tells me that I am a tiyanak and could never replace Maricar, so I better stop calling her bosses mama and papa especially since they were soon taking me back to the slums. As if to agree with her, the Golden Retriever she takes care of barked and barked at me.

Through the house helps, I learned the name of the little girl in the framed photos that line the hallway. There are pictures of her graduating with honors in kindergarten. There are pictures of her at birthday parties. There are pictures of her solo. There are Christmas-themed pictures of her in between mama and papa. She is very pretty, like a miniature of mama. Papa and mama never take pictures of me. Sometimes, I turn her photos over, and the people in the house say that Maricar’s visited.

Last night, I strung together the bottle caps I collected from the beer bottles papa leaves at the lanai. I slid the necklace under the door of mama’s room when I heard her and papa arguing. It made them quiet for a while.

71

72 This is an attempt to understand art in its various forms, to see if language could master what cannot be. Semantic corresponding: anything that does not dwell on mere transcription aspires for translation, goes beyond transliteration. To believe that art has the capability to traverse boundaries, a variation of experience that keeps all meaning intact. What collation results to is a risky endeavor to call this an experiment with no hypotheses.

Ars Technica*

reina kristel j. adriano

73

*First published in Transit (2015)

Fortunately, art willingly volunteers itself in service; a vehicle for the readers to enter a mode of discourse with language.

Consider the passive and active shifts, the contraction and expansion of musings. Also, dissonance. Every reader's interpretation and misinterpretation count. I call myself the curator with no experience. It must be then excused: to acknowledge that the absence of form is form itself.  

74

After the shutter clicks, after the processing in the dark room, after exposure, after glossy finish— what does form entail? Still life repositioned.

If the man fell, we cannot remain suspended in hesitation, either. The need to create a story is only for the curious. To bring back history means disregarding news; causal disruption is the jump in tragedy. Here we cannot justify the colors, cannot rearrange elements of the captured image. The tower is nowhere in sight in the future context. We can only hypothesize for now, until now. Heroic discourse, critics acclaimed. Instillation of reality: the man’s hand in his pocket, supposed to be holding his wife or mistress. Perhaps flying, perhaps dreaming.

Limitations of focus: the man, perhaps: Beautiful.

The Falling Man

75

Skyscrapers, skyline towers - imagine their rooftop a mouth opening towards the clouds.

The public sign says, "Repainted," meaning, the ground takes caution. For the rest, beware.

Cement and concrete struck by modern apparitions: vehicles zigzagging in and out of the suburbs. Who knows where the intersections are?

People create silhouettes against tinted windows.

Architecture is a mere construct of art in the city. I let technicality dissolve into words. The dilapidated facade weeps; another wall extends through some part of the city. Hear the waters howl for company against brine and rubble. Tall monuments, low arches, the curves between mountains and valleys far away. This description suspends character. Towers are made for humans to perceive falling. But my city is desperate for touch, this is to confess.

Tektite Towers

76

Create noise within noise for something hollow inside. Something like the faint sound of the reed flute. The sheets read too many times lay scattered across the floor. Somebody forgets.

What is music that seems like memory of pain?

The journey here is to finish the meditation of longing. Once in a while, pause to see faces in different expressions. See the woman’s bare feet slip through the hem of her skirt.

One contemplates on the call for retrieval.

Eurydice

At midnight, the crowd has spoken and gathered. We are bound to know why there are people hushed and hidden behind silk curtains.

It is fated to happen. Some silhouettes of the feminine. This is the reconciliation of sound with moving images. Speech posited with dialogue. The reverence of bowing succumbs to the conception of ideas. Characterization as a build-up of plot; no matter, cuts and transitions heighten dramatization.

The Last Emperor

77

How many people insist someone is better off behind the curtains? Draw them in, or not, light remains when they fall back, anyway.

Somebody remembers to succumb to desire.

The woman was not exiled—that we all know.

She was remembered and that was why she was left alone. No sympathy for her. Now the stage craves for presence. The show need not want this. But they do. They all do. They will all wait and ask for what has been missing. When the rest is gone and silence is the only one left.

Biopic of royalty: history as an oral edifice, only to be torn down by reconstructing parts of the past. Imagine the early camera spanning out of a majestic scene. Figures in front and behind lenses. Slow-motion lingering creates direct focus on the details of the face. I linger on the sadness of the characters—the emperor and his forgotten mother, some betrayal to intensify the moment. Then, abandonment. But what the experts say: tragedy is a result of consciousness.

78 Color is a statement of mastery: I call the light cerulean but someone is convinced it is blue.

Hues blend while in motion—slight changes in the faces of a man and a woman in solemn conversation, all depending on the peripheries.

The floor must creak to announce a presence.

See the tint shift in the light, an onlooker tells me. The figures framed in a matter of curiosity.

Recognition in awe. The ephemeral attempts to create contact with reality. Something scuffles underneath their feet. We fail to notice what goes on between one viewer and the other. To claim consciousness is to also consider texture.

Roughness of canvas against viscosity of paint. I resolve to reinvent what eventually lives. Length of shadows, depth of perception, contrast. Here I must support the consistencies: the flick of the wrist, the grandeur of a promised stroke, unseen.

Summer Evening

79

No maid is doing the laundry, no ricefields in the painting. No lady or man or vase or dog. No face.

No view, no model, no gestures. No scenery, no figure. Nothing is in sight, but something is. A message, could be. Still, no maid, no ricefields.

Keep the laundry somewhere else. The paintings, here, yes: juxtaposing one color and another to create contradiction if not harmony. If not war, then peace, but remember, peace is not the absence of war. It would be complete theory as to understand why this was done: warm color together with the cool one. Sometimes, all warm. Side-by-side. Laying next to each other.

Like people in love, or what they think is love but is actually desire, but still not talking. Just staring at each other. Or at opposite directions.

Does that not mean anything to the lonely and unloved—also, us.

Seagram Murals

80 In context of what can be grasped: fingers protruding from the enamel. The lacquer white, subtlety of movement. What is difficult is the emphasis of touch. I am resolved to call this smoothness that accentuates fluidity that maintains distinction. Abstraction for perception: what forces you to see the image of a woman. There is no need to attend to the details; to attend to the subject as free-flowing is consolable. You who have once articulated the contours and continuities in this point of direction, consider vulnerability as an act of reparation. For example, the fragility of hands on another. Bated breath. Slow whirring of anticipated curves now cupped by palms. I am seeking restoration, the execution of space.

Altum White

81

Should I happen to enter the formation, take note: whiteness upon white dissolves into uncertainty.

The transparency of shrink wraps to cover an exhibit. I was not philosophizing. Heidegger's point was appealing. The quality of complication is intricate. It had been a map, someone once claimed. To step into the art itself was like finding the point which claimed one’s position. What was framed had to become in of itself. Another said it would be like constellations, points scattered enough to lead us somewhere. We are only searching for a structure of information.

Now then, how to navigate in a place where we forced ourselves to appear. That would be like representing what seeks to represent. Always, the double motive to conceal and reveal. Have I betrayed myself in passing off what is art.

Ambiguity points to the mystery of all revealing

82 As if the minds constructs the unreal.

Like oblivion disguised as another world where the structure of this ship has formed. As if I know “Rebecca,� the name of a person, now the ship. As if I see arts in terms of its technicality.

As if there is something that separates us from reality. As if movement is always countered. Some encounters.

As if people interact the way objects are placed in motion. As if obliteration of truth. Hence, the unreal. Hence, apperception. Hence, design aids the digital. Hence, do not assume I understand. Hence, the pertinence of the visual. Or, the residuals. Mind what is sensual. Hence, what is unfathomed and concurred are abruptly made possible. Hence, the improbable exist.

If it exists. If only. In existence. Hence.

Low Tide

83

The character once lived upon his entrance. Little did we know of a tikbalang or an aswang. The climax allowed for action. Meaning: there was a sudden shift in the story. Or: the composition of genre mattered.

We were still in want of compartmentalizing elements. It was real, then again it was not. The page was lost from within. Forced composure for the rest of us, the insertion of oneself as a character. In order to understand, we had to create stories within a story that has already been written. [STORY ARC] See the hero or the heroine descend upon the downfall of the enemy. Timeline jumps once we have seen too much – all of them in wartime from 1521 to 1944. [CAPTION] Text must adhere to the image. Such portrayal is rendered effectively through the use of language, whatever that may be. [LAYOUT] Consider this panel interacting with the one beside it. Speech bubbles antagonize the silence. Sound effects provide closure between the reader and the page. See here, we have legions and legends. [PLOT] Timeline is suggested to be sequential, what of the foreseeable conflict. Would we know about Lapu-Lapu if not for Magellan's death. To gain discontent between frames is to encapsulate speech; however, the point here is not to object.

Skyworld

84 The imitation sunlight. Or waves. Waves that break. Until somebody drowns. I am all for interpretation before appraisal. Reverberations of music. Once called taunting and daunting and now haunted. Play along for the temporary resurrection. Self-awareness. Stifle all according to motion. Before the pas de deux, notice the vehemence of syncopation. Everyone is called to wait for the black swan. Now lift legs taut. Elbows pointed out. The neck should follow. The curve of the shoulders. Light to create shadows. For emphasis. Concaves after convexes. There we go with elegance of posture. Graceful tiptoes. In assurance of the connectedness. Synchronization with gesture. Now, movement. Now, actions.

First with the body. Then with others. Accentuate style with style. The key here is to pretend there’s a message.

Dance of the Four Little Swans

85

In variations of tone there exists a contradiction somewhere the lone note apprehended on its own the melody too feels lonely and lonesome—does it really—as percussion juxtaposes with strings the condemnation of harmony against the beat that goes thump thump clash whirring this sweetness of rhythm is rather called sensation call it instinct of one's ears ouido how can the mind experience music without reading the charmers say glissando is delicateness of movement also swift but gentle although painful to one’s fingers remember that the cadence of keys in scale to set the dynamics pianissimo or mezzoforte whichever I take no notice of the pitch but everyone knows what appears in tune is conceived by sound —

Forbidden Friendship

86 on distentio: words adrift a/float certain Hemispheres of the brain that thought! sentence(word vomit, more utterances, more haphazard searches) construction sometimes words, Too, looking for a home absence of; Syllables attachment to ideasconceptsspaces now linger… Pronunciation? Self-implication—where is it Formation present the Contradiction what I am looking / where are you now / For is how language and evolution understand each other. in this work is the urgency - the dramatic situation of words then Meaning lost syntax could be corrected before sounds before images before understanding what do we mean by TENSION is to WHAT FOR “speak the words [must mean] comprehend” (somewhere):(there) :: (inconsolable):(existence) go Here ||

Short Talks

jasmine nikki paredes

Ikejime* I whack a mackerel on its head— strike first where the gills flare—sever blood vessels at the tail.

I take a piano wire and shove it down the spine. This way an animal doesn’t remember it’s dying. I dip the fish in water—red to rigor mortis— head and tail bent as in a question while the rest of the body exclaims Reader, I am breaking bread with you.

Shall we feast and choke on the bones?

*from We Will See the Scatter 1st Prize, Poetry in English, 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

87

Hurt Business* “I deserve all my sacrifices” —Emmanuel “Manny” Dapidran Pacquiao Boxing is, you know, hitting each other—we do a—we do mitts a couple of rounds and I like—land up the middle an upper cut.

Only fighter who can outRocky Rocky—can hit and am not hurt, can do mitts but I don’t want to disappoint—stay my feet on the ground, so I think— never cut the hair before the fight—like feel I’m weak, like pray before, then sing after. That’s the only me—

*from We Will See the Scatter 1st Prize, Poetry in English, 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

88

Saranggani Southpaw—rose and a green snake—meteor and a left hook, you know?

89

Lactacyd White Intimate Feminine Wash* Roomsful of focus groups concur, “Too-tight clothing darkens skin around the intimate area” —what brouhaha!

I’ll take before & after shots of my hoo-ha, answer the message board query: CAN I USE IT FOR MY FACE TOO? My dear lackof-white,

*from We Will See the Scatter 1st Prize, Poetry in English, 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

90

lugubrious split, ignore them.

Desert their allergenic formulae, their thumb-sized art.

O my dark, engulf them—

91

Port Glory* A friend asked that I use the word indehiscent in a poem, but I put the fruit back on the cart because it reeked of pesticide. These mangoes came to America in large container vans moved by steel cranes and old barges. There’s a city, I say when I encounter an impressive view.

It starts to rain and everything in Chinatown is go, go, go. Order, eat and pay at the counter. A barge peals its indecent horn. Go home.

Sometimes the poem is sweeter than the fruit.

*from We Will See the Scatter 1st Prize, Poetry in English, 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

92

Whose Drone Is This* whose BQM-74E is this. on our shores. this orange toy plane. this downed drone, drowned fish off our archipelago. it’s rude and we’re sorry, dear fishermen. we ask you point your sticks back to the meaty conch and simply fish. we praise you. not this garbage. it’s going to eat all our good mangoes. our brown and elegant girls. rusty phallic boomthing with a wing at the back that says target. to whom do you belong. who missed you. stop spying on our poems.

*from We Will See the Scatter 1st Prize, Poetry in English, 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

93

patricia ngo

The Rain Race* A lot of people hate the rain— They think it’s just too sad But I don’t see why they’d think that way— Rainy days are far from bad!

Sure, I can’t go out to play, And it can be quite a bummer Especially when I have plans To meet friends over the summer But I love sitting by the window Inside my room, my favorite place, And wait for the rain to land on the glass To mark the start of the droplets’ race!

I often pick the droplet I think will win (Usually the one that’s already ahead) And when that droplet begins losing, I wonder if I should’ve chosen another instead.

I whisper my cheers through the glass, Hoping my chosen droplet will hear, And I can’t help but break into a smile When, to the finish line, it’s near!

*from Ordinary Adventures 2nd Prize, Poetry for Children, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

94

And when the finish line gets crossed I feel like a winner, too, See how fun rainy days can be?

They don’t have to be so blue!

95

Tea Party* I’m glad that I have a much easier time Whenever I have guests coming over for tea, Because, unlike those of my mother, They never require real food from me.

My Teddy is fine with eating toy bread, And drinking from teacups with nothing inside, And since he and the other toys don’t make a mess, It’s easy to clean up after teatime outside.

Lucky never barks at me whenever he’s hungry, Unlike real dogs that definitely would, And he’s perfectly fine with my pan-fried fish (Though, maybe he wouldn’t eat it if he could.)

It doesn’t matter to them what I serve, anyways Because the method of cooking is all the same— Get random toy food to put into pans, Then place them on a stove with no flame.

My mother warns me that when I grow up, I’m going to have to learn how to cook for real, But, for now, I’m going to enjoy How easy it is for me to whip up a meal.

*from Ordinary Adventures 2nd Prize, Poetry for Children, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

96

Cloud Kingdom* When the sky is filled with clouds, I can’t help but feel much glee— Each day has something different, Something new for me to see!

Sometimes I see fish swimming In the deep blue of the sky, Sometimes I see dragons sleeping, On their feet, getting ready to fly!

I can hear the lions roar, And their prey cry out with fear, I sometimes shiver and feel afraid, too, As if it were to me the lions were near!

I long to visit the castles that float here and there, And wonder about the people inside— Are they kind rulers to the rest of Cloud Kingdom, Or in their souls, does evil reside?

Would they let me visit the place If and when I find a pair of wings?

Would they give me a place to stay, And provide necessary things?

*from Ordinary Adventures 2nd Prize, Poetry for Children, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

97

Even if I don’t have the power to fly And those people, I may never see, My garden, where I can lie down on the grass, Is a wonderful place to be.

98

maria la viĂąa

On hearing of your first book* Your words spoken in serif on threadbound pages coax my waking at dawn as though from murmurs rises muck from dreampond to daylight.

Stone to silk and silk to stone, they intone.

As fish and loaves unending wake new hunger, I long to fill my pockets with the stones of your words and skip them down my childhood river, that one day (finding myself downstream) there they’ll be: beneath water, darkly burnished stone, chance of shattered glass, and the glass unsheltered waiting, nearly invisible. As hindsight and forgetting invent answers, I sit listening, without air tank or aqualung. Apologia, mythology, prayer.

Manifold, repeating. In the dream where my hair has grown rivers, you are standing with scissors.

I am whistling in the dark with my eyes closed.

Whose borrowed songs fill the hours?

*from We Will See the Scatter 3rd Prize, Poetry in English 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

99

Stones* Skipped before sinking.

Plucked from sand to pocket.

Weight of place, of shelter.

Boulder, pebble, cobble, quartz.

Marker. Palmed and slingshot.

Sharpens knives.

At play, trumps scissors, decides small fates.

Some marble conceals angels.

Mocks glass and ice, endures. Something has to.

Something has to shatter.

*from We Will See the Scatter 3rd Prize, Poetry in English 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

100

Agate, garnet, jade, malachite.

The list goes on.

Practice on stones, they said, before confessions of any kind.

I may never stop.

But how to eke out a life from onyx, obsidian?

Neither alchemy nor magic.

It was a stone.

I cast it.

101

Couples* She wore the ring like talisman, like amulet.

He heard her smiling clearly as the alphabet.

He couldn’t give her reasons, only rhetoric.

She wrapped her arms around him like a tourniquet.

She couldn’t write him love poems, only limericks.

He couldn’t give her answers, only asterisks.

*from We Will See the Scatter 3rd Prize, Poetry in English 2015 Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards

102

miguel lizada

The Bangkok Masseur* 1.

Celebrated on the 2nd weekend of April, Songkran is a three-day holiday befitting Bangkok, the city of rivers and waterways.

The city returns to its true form: children with blue and red water rifles counterflow the gray pedestrian logic of the streets, laughter bubbles from the streaming alleys, jets of water crisscross and cloud the scrapers spiked to the earth. For many foreign gay men, the holidays are exciting opportunities to flirt with locals and fellow tourists. Siam Square becomes an open playground. The dynamics of Silom are a different case: wet the cute ones with your colorful phallic object, aim true, and do not forget to smear each other’s faces with white chalk dust. These are blessings. Bless the body with the element of rebirth.

My companions simply wanted see how Bangkok would dissolve in its wet and wild carnivalesque of a basin on a Songkran weekend.

I shared their excitement too, but there was an equally important goal for this trip.

When the story is not finished, return to the place.

2.

He was the finest twink in the set.

Outside and downstairs, the canned singing voice of Jennifer Lopez urged the denizens of the Christmas lights-draped streets of Silom to “dance the night away and stay young on the floor.” Coming to this place, an American grabbed my twig of an arm and pulled me to his table where his friends raised their beer bottles in my direction. *3rd Prize, Essay, 2015 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature

103

I freed myself from his tan-haired grip forcefully and bumped into a local who gave me a buck-toothed smile and a pinch on the cheek.

The masseurs, uniformed for fetish—white undershirt, schoolboy shorts, and sneakers—lined up in front of us. He was different. He did not have the same red-eyed tiredness that others had. His lips that curved into a bright red smile matched his ivory skin. An easy choice.

I did not plan to have sex that night, especially in the hiv capital of Southeast Asia. We were here on a dare. The malls were closed, the clubs were crowded, our legs were beat from the shopping, and it was summer.

3.

Like all eldest children, I was the subject of my parents’ experiments. Every possible theory on child rearing (milk brand, the color of the crib, the right preschool) they tried on me.

When I was five, they enrolled me in the Milo Best Basketball Summer Program at the old Ateneo de Davao Grade School building.

On the very first day of the program, we were taught that masculinity had a hierarchy, determined by age, basketball experience, and leg hair count. First rule. In fact the only rule I remembered: whenever a coach would blow his whistle, all boys would have to stop, bend our knees, raise our open hands shoulder level, shout “Deeeeeefense!” and stomp the ground several times—how that would have made me a better basketball player, I still do not know. All I remember was that I was terrible at dribbling the ball using fancy maneuvers and converting shots at the freethrow line. I was so awful that the ever-smiling Coach Raldz demoted me from the freethrow line to the biodegradable trash can. Either my parents realized that I was truly hopeless or Coach Raldz who was my father’s colleague at the high school secretly told my parents that the sport was not for me. I was not stirred to suit up for the culminating 5-on-5 exhibition game in the distant, uncharted land of the high school covered courts.

While freed from the ordeal, the hours of sleep and play I regained would eventually cost me my place in the inner circle of Alpha male 104

coolness. Every recess, the boys would disappear to play downstairs while I had Butter Coconut biscuit chats with my girl classmates about Land Before Time 2.

I did try to be one of the boys. I started watching wwf in Grade 6 only because all the guys in the class did. While my classmates were fascinated with the fancy wrestling maneuvers, I was more interested in the storylines. Free periods were converted to Wrestemania main events. We pushed the armchairs to the corners of the classroom and started the match for the world championship. I insisted on playing the role of The Undertaker, the tattooed “dead man” with a penchant for smoke and mirror entrances. The boys did not agree with me, called me Mr. McMahon, the bullied boss of WWF, and made me the receiving end of their Stonecold Stunners.

Among the wrestlers in class, my nemesis was a short and feisty classmate who idolized and played the cocky wrestler, the Rock of the same name. As in all wrestling feuds, my rivalry with him started a few months back—I defeated him in a class debate and he in turn outclassed me in the elocution contest. After months of banters and passing snide remarks, The Rock challenged me to a one-on-one match. The fight did not last long: he tripped me with a leg swipe and schoolboy-pinned me to the floor and forced me to say “I Quit” in front of my then girl crush.

What hurt the most in that indoor playground brawl was not the desolation before peers and friends or the bruise that patched the side of my leg hours after; it was the experience of being pinned. With his shoulders and back on the ground, a young boy is emasculated. Pinned to the floor in muscled humiliation and forced to acknowledge defeat through eye contact and speech, it was my first bodied experience of frailty and of being feminized.

4.

“No extra service. No extra service,” I insisted as he led me up the stairs, holding my hand.

“Yes, yes,” 105

He laughed. My pale-faced plea must have amused him. Here we were in the central plaza of the flesh night market of Bangkok where white men sought solace from the work-then-play linearity of Western modernity and from the script of fatherhood. You go to Bangkok to lose yourself, a Thai friend told me as he led me to this alley of queer fantasies. Casual sex with a masseur, a temporal carnal relationship you would eventually lose to the sewers of urban oblivion, was one such way to lose yourself. And here I was insisting on not getting any.

I was not here to break away albeit temporarily from anything.

In fact, my trip to this city was the fulfillment of a cinematic fantasy.

Watching the film Love of Siam was an important rite of passage for many young Filipino gay men. The film is a story of childhood friends, Mew and Tong (played by pre-Penshoppe Mario Maurer) who are reunited after a decade of separation in the bustling streets of Siam Square. They eventually fall in love and their touchy-feely middle class romance is rendered against the backdrop of Bangkok during Christmas. To travel to Bangkok then was a pilgrimage, a homage to the Adam and Steve of Asian cosmopolitan kabaklaan. To be touched and if lucky kissed by a local twink was a corporeal culmination of this utopian narrative. The Bangkok of this masseur was gray, with the mixed scent of canal water, incense, and a puffed black blast of vehicular waste.

He had the occasional forceful tug of a playful child. His hand however was petals on my palm. He looked excited.

“Are you new?”

“Hmm?” “Um. New in the job?”

“Hmm?” I wished for subtitles.

“First time? First month?”

“Oh, oh yes, yes.”

The third floor felt like a different realm. The walls felt like cool jade. The harp instrumentals and the murmuring water from the artificial Zen fountain drowned the carnivelesque screams and the Pussycat Doll songs outside. He led me to the farthest room and 106

closed the door behind us. A white mattress rested neatly on an elevated platform corned by burning scented candles. I turned and looked at him, this masseur of Bangkok, in that virgin moment of intimacy.

“Okay, take off,” he said.

I unshirted and dropped my pants.

“That too,” he said, pointing at my underwear. He was already naked.

“Okay, I lie down now?”

“No, no,” he unhooked a towel from the rack and held my hand.

“We shower first.”

5.

After failing to build a successful marriage between my hands and height, my mother decided to rectify a childhood frustration through me.

“Because those who know how to play the piano are also good in Math!” my mother insisted.

I was introduced to two teachers who used the same text book: John Thompson’s Easiest Piano Course, a picture book with gnomes and dwarves pointing at notes with their sharp fingernails. Back then, the goal was to reach and open what I called Red Book, the second part of the “easiest piano” course. My first teacher Teacher Menchie was a tall, curly-haired woman whose owl-like eyes would grow bigger every time I missed a beat. Every Saturday morning, the long doorbell ring was a banshee’s shriek that signaled the return of the owl to the house. If the piano book dwarves were alive, they probably would have joined Teacher Menchie in hitting me with their thorny fingernails. After spending one and a half sessions on “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and three on “The Chimes,” the owl decided that enough was enough; the Red Book was shelved.

In high school, my grandfather rounded up all his grandsons and dragged us to Conpinco. There were five small piano rooms and each boy was assigned one teacher for an hour of enclosed encounters with John Thompson’s gnomes. I no longer remember her full name; 107

I simply called her Ybiernas because it sounded a lot like imbyerna.

Ybiernas, like Teacher Menchie, had big eyes. She had a mole on her cheek and had a eureka moment way of saying “Yes!” every time I got a piece or a note right. I only learned one thing from her: curve your fingers when you play. We would spend more then ten minutes doing the warm-up exercises because my fingers would often slide down the keys.

The piano no longer interested me at that point; my hands were already interested in doing other things. Four years after I was pinned me to the floor, I avoided any physical activity that had to do with sweat and dirt. I joined the school paper team, read and wrote poems for my girl crush, and looked forward to doing and writing class plays. Writing for me became the opposite of drumming the keys; it was the pleasure of easy, quick finishes. The poem on fate and love and why you were the one meant for me was there immediately after an hour of sitting with a cup of 3-in-1 coffee. Playing the piano was about prolonged control­—about the notes, the beats, and Ybiernas telling me what I could do with my fingers; writing for me meant having my own stroked rhythm. Ybiernas released me a month later—an arrangement that satisfied us both. She said goodbye to one incompetent student and I was happily unshackled from the keyboard and from the land of black and white gnomes.

Living an intensely hormonal but cerebral adolescent life, I had forgotten that underneath the white polo and khaki pants was a body thinning with neglect. Schoolmates around me were losing their virginity, or at the very least, getting their first kiss. I courted two girls and failed miserably, losing them to two boys whom, in retrospect, I would have actually also liked had I came out sooner.

I did regret my aborted basketball and piano lessons. More than inscribing me into the mainstream narrative of masculinity, mastering the art of ball handling could have taught me how to hold shapes – curving the hand in communion and cooperation with what was familiar and different, and learning how to retract it back to its original, flattened state at the point of release. Music, I learned, was not just the language of notes and beats; the labor of bending 108

one’s fingertips meant recreating the cadence of the world’s pulses .

Obedience to the order of the pulsing world was grace. Had I stuck with these, I would have learned that dexterity was simply about familiarity with the body and how such familiarity would come to embrace the malleability of things.

6.

The bathroom was different. While dim like the corridor and the service room, it did not have the same smooth aura of comfort I found in the rest of the floor. The small white tiles marked with the mildew of browned encounters reminded me that we were bodies in processed labor, herded to this room by a script penned by someone well-versed with the vocabulary and syntax of fleeting intimacies.

A yellowing curtain smeared with polka dots of neglect partitioned the two showers. We entered the first cubicle and removed our threadbare towels. I stiffened and he must have sensed it as he reached for the hand shower.

It was only in my second encounter with him a year later that I realized that there was sincerity in the way he handled me. The fingertipped touches were indistinguishable from the spatter of cold shower water.

“Weh you fwom?” he asked.

“Philippines.”

“Oh Filipin,” he smiled as he soaped and fondled my crotch.

“How long you stay in Bangkok?”

“Four days.”

“Turn, turn, wash yoh back,” his feather voice drowned the moans, grunts, and what seemed like light spanking in the other cubicle.

I reached down and covered my ass with my two hands—how sure was I that he would not attack me from behind? He laughed.

“What’s yoh name?”

“Miguel.”

“Hmmm?”

“Migs.”

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“Too complicated.”

“You can say complicated, but not Migs?”

He did not understand.

“Yoh tuhn. Wash me.”

It was like a bad rehearsal for a porn film, if ever there was one anyway, with an amateur model playing the lead role: right hand trembling on the hand shower (accidentally watering his face and hair), my left one aimlessly soaping his enamel chest in awkward counterclockwise movement, marking him with water and erasing my awkwardness with each imperfect stroke.

“This okay?” I wanted to appease him by affording him with the same equal amount of gentleness he afforded me.

“Yes,” he replied as he knobbed the shower shut. “Come, come.

Back to room.”

7.

I was a late bloomer.

There was something about living two years in the university male dormitory and growing accustomed to the stink and clutter of men day in and day out—the flies that nest on that empty cup of instant noodles, the ecosystem that develops from the mountain of unwashed clothes, the sight of toweled men that accompanies the ringing of the alarm clock—that makes one want to partner with that kind of mess for the rest of his life.

A gay toddler at 19, I colored what was then a series of discreet desires with a creative kind of compartmentalization. I called it my Magical Rainbow of Men: The Blues were my favorite crushes (there was Simply Blue, Sky Blue, and Blue Plus—my ultimate crush!), the Reds were those whose faces turned red when they laughed or when they had too much to drink, the Greens were obviously the Lasallians, the Yellows were my Chinese crushes, there was one Indigo and one Orange, only because those was the colors of the shirt they were

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wearing when I met them. But rainbows I realized were not just signs of hope and symbols of beauty, but they were also exclusively visual and intangible things – one can only enjoy rainbows from a distance. Of the many colors that lived in the horizon of my fantasies, only two colors eventually knew about how I felt about them: Simply Blue who immediately turned me down by pulling out and playing everyone’s favorite rejection card: “We’re better off as a friends” and Orange who ran away with someone else after he brought me to Club Government. Simply Blue and Orange could not be blamed.

I was truly still a young gay man. I still had to know the distinction between “top” and “bottom,” learn about notions like “versatile” and “discreet,” the chenelyns and the chorvas, the pleasure of having straight men making patol.

Being gay also meant loving your body. Fabulous was not a word to describe the glitter and glamour of queer life. Neither was it a word you would simply assign to drag queens and their song numbers of planet-sized earrings and gold sequins. The purple-tinged impetus to be fabulous referred as well to the will to love one’s own body, to drape it with the necessary cloths of self-love that shields one from stigma and the frequent boon and bane of impermanent desire. With only three pairs of pants, baggy shorts, hangers and hangers of largesized shirts, it was not an issue of sporting branded things but one of disrespecting and neglecting the vessel of my desires.

Losing my virginity then was not a rite of passage; it was pathetically a creaturely desire to be affirmed. Here now were a set of trembling hands that remained untouched and an ass that wished to be entered only because it was the node to a body that desired that liberating rupture.

8.

I closed my eyes and drank the scent of tea leaves and incense, the fountain water whispering outside. There I was, flattened again like

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that grade school boy pinned to submission in a contest of playground manhood. On my belly, the initial sprawl-eagled fear gradually turned into a generous, corporeal utterance of supplication: break me.

He first minted my left thigh while kneading the lower part of my leg with his penis; his breath was gentle, his skin smooth, cool, even refreshing as milk tea on the street. He did the same to my right leg.

His strokes, the streaming feel of white water, had their beautiful violence.

“Turn,” he whispered.

I turned and faced him. The room was now soaked, drenched with the silver scent of oil. His palms glittered in the darkness; my body minted with every instant of his touch. He held my right hand—it was still—as he worked on my left. Without meaning to, I closed my right hand and he responded by gripping it tight. We exchanged gazes for the first time since the start of the service. In that moment and perhaps only in that moment, he appeared ethereal, the singular white presence in the room, the summation of everyone I ever liked and even loved: the perfect twink, an imperfect chest, a pair of droopy eyes that bore the kind of everlasting melancholia I wanted to fill. He held my hand gently, caringly as he pulled me up to finish the service and to lead me to the rack.

“Shower again.”

He led me out and back to the shower room, still holding my hand.

No extra service.

9.

It was the eve of Songkran and we were there for drinks to welcome the Thai New Year. The alley was now familiar the second time around. It was still dark and orange, perfumed by cigarette smoke.

The Christmas lights were still there. The invitations were the same; the doormen dragged us to see the nightly live show of blank-faced fucks. This time, my refusal was firm, polite, and for some reason, respected.

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A surprise ice attack from the chalk-faced manager of the pub drenched us and before we knew it, our tipsy selves were pairing up and dancing with local and foreigner guests.

The massage parlor was just across the pub. My gaze bounced from one masseur to the next until it settled on the leader of the pack.

A year soured his face. His hair was no longer boyishly unkempt; it parted neatly to the right. A black and green tattoo slithered around his arms.

I approached him and asked, “Do you remember me?”

He looked puzzled.

“No, I don’t believe so,” he spoke in his improved English.

“Last year, you and me? Last March?”

“I have many.”

10.

I slumped to my seat, the evaporating oil created an aura of dazed peace around me, the post-massage service tea cupped patiently on the table.

I felt someone tap my knee gently. I turned and smiled at him. He was once more wearing his schoolboy fetish costume. He reached out, gave me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, and proceeded to join his fellow masseurs downstairs for the next round.

“He like you,” the manager said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“He not do that if he didn’t.”

11.

“No, no, I already showered.”

His tattooed arm stopped my hand as it reached for the shower handle.

“Oh, okay. Let’s go?”

“Yes.”

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We were back in the same room.There were no more instrumentals, the fountain was muted. The whole thing was finished in less than the set hour. The ringing of his iPhone punctuated the whole thing.

I read one message. It was in English: “Wer r u?” There were no streaming strokes this time, just careless slipping, sliding. The oil did no minting; it merely made my skin greasy.

“You still don’t remember me?” I asked as he beat my back.

“Just a little. Okay, done.”

“Shower?” I asked.

“No, we shower only if we did it. Like last year, remember?”

12.

When the story is not yet finished, return to the place.

What conclusion did I seek? The deed was done. The service was complete. The fees were paid. Still I saw his face plastered everywhere: drinking fraps by himself in coffee joints, a jolt of a disappointing surprise in uaap basketball games, the passing grin in clubs, Mario Maurer suddenly having chinky droopy eyes and lips the color of fresh, raw blood.

Between that first encounter and this April weekend of wet festivities, I started lifting weights, developed friendships with nice folks I met, gained 15 pounds, and renewed my gym membership.

In the end, it became clear to me that the story was not his or even about our encounter; it was my story of being broken. The story was not incomplete; it only felt incomplete. In our second encounter, in his arms permanently stained by the marks of his city, I learned that the impermanence was necessary. The summer service was a paragraph of an encounter—each stroke was a syllable, each press and clutch, a word dependent on the next and the last, each bending a punctuation - one which culminated when I looked at the mirror the next day, saw myself and said, “I see you.”

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13.

Still carrying his scent, I stepped out into the street. I passed the pack of masseurs who were now ready to call it a night.

I found him, tucked like a sleepy child in the corner.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He told me.

“I will come back to Bangkok for you,” I said.

He gathered what energy he had left and stood up.

The alley was now quiet. The Christmas lights in summer started flickering off as I curled my fingers and curved them around his nape, closed my eyes, and touched his lips with mine, as the streets of Silom prepared to dream.

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Sophia Lorraine G. Demanawa. Slept Through July. Digital.

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Meg Villena. Tea Time with My Imaginary Friend. Photomanipulation.

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Janell Angelika B. Quien. Dreamcatching. Digital.

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Juan Carlos Concepcion. Skulls in Bedlam. Ink. 5x 8 in.

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Manuel I単igo A. Angulo. no.3 from It is said that (series).

Graphite on paper. 25.7 x 18.9 cm.

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Ma. Kristina Ysabel P. Da Silva. Gondola. Watercolor pencil and digital.

8 x 11.5 in.

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Karl Estuart. Dark Room. Digital photography.

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Ida de Jesus. Iterations. Acrylic and ink on canvas. 24 x 24 in.

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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan. In Site. Acrylic on canvas. 4 x 4 ft.

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Insight. Acrylic on canvas. 4 x 4 ft.

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Robyn Angeli Saquin. Foundations from Topography (series). Mixed media.

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Movements from Topography (series). Mixed media.

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Manuel I単igo A. Angulo. Untitled (series). Ink on aluminum.

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Gabriel Lukban. The Chase. Digital photography.

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Gab Mesina. Growing Pains (triptych). Digital photography.

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Marco Emmanuel T. Torrijos. Loop. Ink on paper. 11.75 x 8.25 in.

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Jeremy Willis Real Alog. Clatter. Digital photography.

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Carl Lorenz G. Cervantes. Stills from Lovingly.

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Iana Salazar. Vietnam. Film photography. 18 x 12 in.

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Angelo Juarez. Streams of Consciousness (series) i. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) ii. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) iii. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) iv. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) v. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) vi. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) vii. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) viii. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) ix. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) x. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) xi. Digital photography.

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Streams of Consciousness (series) xii. Digital photography.

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Jeremy Willis Real Alog (3 BS Management Engineering) Trivia #74: Jeremy doesn't like writing bionotes.

Nonetheless, he would like to thank: his peers, always inspiring, and his parents, always financing.

Manuel Inigo A. Angulo (4 AB Communication) Manuel was a fellow of the 4th Ateneo heights Artists Workshop, under the mentorship of Toym Imao. He is thankful for adoptive blocks and friends made during his stint as a part-time fine arts major.

Manuel has since (sadly) let go of that extra year.

He would one day like to be wise; he is doing his best to get there. The works published in this folio were made some years ago. It is fitting, perhaps, that they come out at this point in time. * The untitled series was from a portraiture exercise. Manuel tried to catch reflections; he does not recommend this. "no. 3" is from a series entitled It is said that. Playing on the communication dynamics between two individuals, Manuel relayed instruction to one participant, who would relay the same to his or her partner. This specific piece was between two friends.

Reina Krizel J. Adriano (4 BS/M Applied Mathematics, Major in Mathematical Finance) Reina was a fellow for the essay in the 20th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. Her works have been published in the previous issues of The Rising Phoenix Review, Yellow Chair, heights, and Plural Prose Journal. She is, as always, thankful.

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Arsenio Mari M. Armas (5 BFA Creative Writing) ahr-SE-nyo Gender: Masculine Variant of Greek arsenios (Αρσενιος) Definition: virile virile (adj.) late 15th century, “characteristic of a man; marked by manly force,” directly from Latin virilis “of a man, manly, worthy of a man.”

(Taken nearly word-for-word from www.behindthename.com/name/arsenio and www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=virile) Christian Benitez (4 AB Literature-Filipino, Minor in Creative Writing) Nasa ikaapat na taon sa pag-aaral ng Panitikang Filipino, kasalukuyang nagsisilbi si Christian bilang patnugot para sa Heights at transit. Naging fellow sa ilang palihan at nabigyang parangal para sa kanyang tula, nailathala na ang ilan sa kanyang mga akda sa High Chair, transit, Cha, Heights, at iba pa. Nais niyang pasalamatan ang mga nagturo sa kanya kung paano lumakad at umalis, at huminto at manatili.

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Regine Cabato (4 AB Communication, Minor in Creative Writing) “I am not sad anymore; I am on the rooftop of my life / cheering until my body of hallways opens, jade and steaming.”

—EJ Koh, Ingredients for Memories That Can Be Used As Explosives Regine Cabato is a journalism student pursuing a minor in Creative Writing. Her poetry has been published in Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry, Philippines Free Press, Kritika Kultura, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and heights. She hails from Zamboanga City. She is always aspiring to tell stories better.

Carl Lorenz G. Cervantes (BS Psychology 2015) Carl Cer-van-tes, (n). 1 An individual having thick eyebrows in an often intimidating way: I wonder what is underneath the eyebrows of Carl Cervantes. 2 The correct spelling of "Carlo" Cervantes: Carl was confused because this was the fifth person in that party who incorrecly called him Carlo.

ORIGIN: The union of his father and mother, forming a human child named after his grandparents, Carlos and Lorenzo—wherein they dropped the letters O, S, O and retained Carl Lorenz. Thus, his nickname was Oso, or bear. He is pretty hairy.

Juan Carlos Concepcion (4 BFA Information Design) Lost in space.

Ma. Kristina Ysabel P. Da Silva (2 BFA Information Design) This one here was probably a puppy raised by cats in her past life.

She's equal parts high energy and quiet reflection, and is therefore a pretty lukewarm but solid human girl.

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Carlomar Arcangel Daoana (Fine Arts Program) Carlomar Arcangel Daoana is the author of Loose Tongue, a gathering of his uncollected poems written between 2001 to 2013, recently published by the UST Publishing House. His three previous collections are: Marginal Bliss (UP Press, 2002), The Fashionista’s Book of Enlightenment (dbw, 2009) and Clairvoyance (UST Publishing House, 2011). He has won the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature in the English Poetry category for his collections, “The Elegant Ghost” (grand prize, 2012) and “Crown for Maria” (second prize, 2013). In the 2014 Ateneo Art Awards, he was declared as the inaugural winner of the Purita Kalaw Ledesma Prize for Art Criticism.

Currently, he teaches Art Writing at the Fine Arts Department.

Ida de Jesus (3 BFA Information Design) 1. Where I Found You – Future Islands 2. Perfect – The Smashing Pumpkins 3. Lazy Eye ­­– Silversun Pickups 4. Collar Full – Panic! at the Disco 5. Apartment Story – The National Sophia Lorraine G. Demanawa (1 BFA Creative Writing) You'll find me in the lost and profound.

Abner Dormiendo (AB Philosophy 2014) Si Abner ay kasalukuyang nagtuturo ng Filipino sa Xavier School Nuvali at umuuwi sa Antipolo tuwing Sabado at Linggo (minsan nang labag sa kalooban) upang palihim na gumawa ng Noli/Fili fan fiction.

Gusto niyang magpasalamat sa jac Liner at kay aleng nagbabantay sa notary public sa may Masinag.

Karl Estuart (2 BSM Applied Mathematics and Finance) “…but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.”

—Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being 156

Angelo Juarez (BS Management Engineering 2014) Sinong may sabing ‘di ka makakapag art sa office?` Marie La Viña (AB Philosophy 2010) Marie La Viña attended the Philippine High School for the Arts, Ateneo de Manila, and Fordham University. Her poems have appeared in the Sunday Inquirer Magazine, Philippines Free Press and heights, among others. They’ve won second and third prizes at the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. Marie works as an editorial assistant for the Higher Education Group at Oxford University Press. She lives in New York City.

Miguel Antonio N. Lizada (English Department) Miguel Lizada holds a Master of Arts in Literary Studies from the National University of Singapore (2011). He served as Associate English Editor of Heights from 2005 to 2006. He currently teaches English language and literature at the Ateneo de Manila University.

Next year, he will take a leave from teaching to set up his own Pokemon-Go Gym somewhere in Manila.

Andrea Lopez (3 AB Communication) Andrea Lopez is a 19-year old Communication junior. She's a meme with a lot of feelings. She's also trying very hard. One day, she'll get there, but for now, she's grateful for this existence, for cartoons, teh tahrik, and fanfiction.

Gabriel Lukban (1 BS Psychology) I've always wanted to time-travel and tell stories. Photography lets me do both.

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Alfred Benedict C. Marasigan (Fine Arts Program) Alfred Marasigan is a visual artist from the Philippines. He graduated magna cum laude from the Ateneo de Manila University in 2013 with a bfa in Information Design and a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts (Graphic Design). Last June 2015, he became a First Round Winner (General Category) of Art Olympia: International Open Art Competition in Tokyo, Japan.

His other artworks have also been included in various local and foreign exhibitions such as Galerie Métanoïa's Un Seul Grain de Riz: A Small format Graphic Art Competition (2014-15). Metropolitan Museum of Manila's met Open 2014, Metrobank Art and Design Excellence (made) Painting Competition Exhibtiion (Semifinalist, 2014); and publications like Fordham University's mura Magazine, SFMoMA's Tumble, and Ateneo's heights.

Alfred is now taking up his mfa in up Diliman's College of Fine Arts, and is also a faculty member of the Ateneo Fine Arts. He does freelance design and art commissions on the side.

Gab Mesina (2 BFA Information Design) I like all things gooey, gory, and glittery.

Mayelle Nisperos (4 BS Legal Management, Minor in Creative Writing) “Every great story has a beginning, middle, and end, but not necessarily in that order.”

—Jean Luc-Godard Patricia Celina A. Ngo (3 BS Management Engineering) Patricia is currently a Management Engineering junior. She lives on good books, movies, music, and food.

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Jasmine Nikki C. Paredes (Fine Arts Program) Jasmine Nikki “Nikay” C. Paredes was born and raised in Cebu City, Philippines. She received a bfa in Creative Writing (2009) from the Ateneo de Manila University and an mfa in Poetry (2013) from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, ny. She is the author of the chapbook collection We Will See The Scatter (dancing girl press, 2014), which won first prize in the Maningning Miclat Awards for Poetry - English Division in 2015. She currently teaches at the Fine Arts Program.

Allan Popa (Kagawaran ng Filipino) Si Allan Popa ay nagtuturo ng Panitikan at Malikhaing Pagsulat sa Ateneo de Manila University. Autor ng sampung aklat ng mga tula kabilang na ang Drone (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2013), Laan (De La Salle University Publishing House, 2013) at Maaari: Mga Bago at Piling Tula (UP Press, 2004). Editor din siya ng antolohiyang Latay sa Isipan: Mga Bagong Tulang Filipino (UST Press, 2007). Nagwagi na siya ng Philippines Fress Literary Award at Manila Critics Circle National Book Award for Poetry. Nagtapos siya ng mfa in Writing sa Washington University in Saint Louis kung saan siya nagwagi ng Academy of American Poets Prize at Norma Lowry Memorial Prize. Kumukuha siya ng Ph.D. in Literature sa De La Salle University-Manila.

Janell Angelika B. Quien (2 BS Legal Management) Jaq is a moment collector, thought doodler, and certified foodie.

When she's actually awake, she enjoys quality time with her beloved sketchpad and laptop. Constantly shifting between dreams and reality, she's just living in th emoment and trying to balance tons of hobbies with life's career goals.

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Bianca Lynn Therese V. Roxas (3 BS Legal Management) I am an Atenean-Augustian on the way to becoming a lawyer, writer, and business woman. I’m in love with Ed Sheeran. Lastly, my favorite movie ending is John Connor signing off with ‘Life is what you make it’ at the end of Terminator Salvation. :) Iana Salazar (3 AB Communication) Iana Salazar is a full-time student, avid photographer, and broke traveler. She is starting to delve into the world of videography, but until she can get the money for equipment, she lives through her iPhone. Iana spends her free time dancing and looking for future hostels to stay in around the world.

Robyn Angeli Saquin (2 BFA Information Design) I have no idea how I ended up here again, but I’m so grateful. Thank you for tolerating the bouts of insecurity and thank you for believing in me.

Marco Emmanuel T. Torrijos (2 BS Management) Marco T. Torrijos is a student at the Ateneo de Manila Unviersity currently taking up a BS Management degree. He is a self-taught practicing visual artist whose preferred choice of medium is ink on paper, but also occasionally deals with watercolors and paints.

Apart from that, he does both film and digital photography, and has a decent background on editing and graphics. He has done multiple independent freelance jobs for multiple clients regarding design and branding.

Marco has worked as an illustrator in the bfa Information Design home organization, grids, and has documented for the Loyola Film Circle during the school year 2014-2015.

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Fe Esperanza Trampe (BFA Creative Writing 2015, Ateneo Law School 2019) Si Fe Esperanza Trampe ang katangi-tanging mag-aaral na ginawaran ng Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts sa larangan ng Creative Writing (Fiction). Nakamit niya ang ikalawang timpalak sa Frank L. Sullivan Memorial Short Story Contest ng 2014 University Writing Awards ng Loyola Marymount University sa Los Angeles, California, at kabilang siya sa siyam na mga piling manunulat na kasalukuyang sumasailalim sa kauna-unahang KABANATA: Young Adult Writers’ Workshop ng Philippine Board on Books for Young People. Nailimbag na ang ilan sa mga akda niya sa heights, ang primyadong pampanitikan na publikasyon ng pamantasang Ateneo de Manila.

Joshua Uyheng (4 BS Psychology) For this insistence, and the night you told me you no longer believe in a god.

Meg Villena (1 BFA Information Design) Meg is a photojournalist and a fine art photographer who believes that when art is done for a cause, it becomes most meaningful. She expresses ideas, emotions, and realities through illusions. Despite the irony, she finds comfort in knowing that both journalism and photo manipulation can communicate a certain kind of truth. !! To understand what she's talking about, check her work at mtfv.tumblr. com

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Errata In heights vol. 61 no. 3, the third line of the fourth verse of Gwen Bañaria’s piece, “Flora,” should read “napalitan ang halimuyak ng pagkaanta” instead of “napalitan ang halimuyak ng pagkanta.”

In the same folio, a portion of Angelo Juarez’s write-up was erroneously cut off.

The heights editorial board would like to apologize for the aforementioned mistakes.

Acknowledgments Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj and the Office of the President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Mr. Bobby Guevara and the Office of the Dean for Student Formation Dr. Josefina D. Hofile単a and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Mr. Danilo M. Reyes and the English Department Mr. Martin V. Villanueva and the Fine Arts Program Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Christopher Fernando F. Castillo and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of the Dean for Student and Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos and the Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig and the Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes and the Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego and the University Archives Ms. Ma. Victoria T. Herrera and the Ateneo Art Gallery The mvp Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Celina Santos and tugon Ateneo Ms. Erin Feliciano and the Sector-Based Cluster of Organizations Ms. Mai Valera, Mr. Alexander Matthew-Co, Quadro, and the Tuloy Foundation Mr. Augusto Ledesma and the UP Writers Club Ms. Emillie Lee and Ateneo Lingua Ars Cultura Ms. Briel Lising and lahi Ms. Roxie Ramirez and The Guidon Mr. Ray Santiago and Matanglawin The Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, and the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo And to those who have been keeping literature and art alive in the community by continuously submitting their works and supporting the endeavors of heights

Editorial Board Editor - in - Chief Regine Miren D. Cabato [ab com 2016] Associate Editor Catherina Maria Luisa G. Dario [bfa cw 2016] Managing Editor for External Affairs Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo [ab com 2016] for Internal Affairs Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza [bs bio 2016] for Finance Selina Irene O. Ablaza [bs com tech 2016] Art Editor Lasmyr D. Edullantes [bs mgt 2017] Associate Art Editor Lorenzo T. Narciso [bs psy 2017] Design Editor Ida Nicola A. de Jesus [bfa id 2017] Associate Design Editor Renzi Martoni S. Rodriguez [bfa id 2016] English Editor Joshua Eric Romulo B. Uyheng [bs psy 2016] Associate English Editor Juan Marco S. Bartolome [ab lit (eng) 2017] Filipino Editor Christian Jil R. Benitez [ab lit (fil) 2016] Associate Filipino Editor Juleini Vivienne I. Nicdao [ab psy 2016] Production Manager Micah Marie F. Naadat [ab com 2017] Associate Production Manager Angelica Bernadette P. Deslate [bs psy 2017] Web Editor Anna Nicola M. Blanco [ab com 2017] Associate Web Editor Ma. Fatima Danielle G. Nisperos [bs lm 2016]

Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Moderator for Art Yael A . Buencamino Moderator for English Martin Villanueva Moderator for Design Jose Fernando Go - Oco Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Moderator for Web Nicko Reginio Caluya

Staffers Art

Arielle Acosta, A. A. Aris Amor, Francesca Ariana Asuncion, Flo Bolivar Balane, Kitkat Barreiro, Ysabel Da Silva, Isabela de Vera, Corrine Golez, Fernando Miguel U. Lofranco, Marion Emmanuel P. Lopez, Anna Nieves Rosario A. Marcelo, Arianna Mercado, Celline Marge Mercado, Veron Andrea A. Oliva, Kimberly Que, Kristelle Adeline Ramos, Robyn Angeli Saquin, Nicole Soriano, Krysten Alarice K. Tan, Yuri Ysabel Tan, Krizelle Te, Alexandria Tuico, Ana Beatriz Fatima K. Venezuela, Fleurbelline Vocalan

Design

Kimberly Alivia, Nina Atienza, John Lazir Caluya, Alex Chua, Juan Carlos Concepcion, Philip De La Torre, Zoe de Ocampo, Ellan Estrologo, Geraldine Fajardo, Patty Ferriol, Miguel N. Galace, Maxine Garcia, Iya Iriberri, Joan Eunice Lao, Ninna Lebrilla, Richard Mercado, Troy Ong, Arantxa Orig,Therese Pedro, Ianthe Pimentel, Jonah Velasquez

English

Rayne Aguilar, Jeremy Willis Alog, A. A. Aris Amor, Geca Arambulo, Helena Maria H. Baraquel, Bianca Ishbelle Bongato, Sophia Bonoan, Karl Estuart, Jamie Anne Gutierrez, Leona Lao, Bee Leung, Janelle Paris, Frances P. Sayson, Chaela Tiglao, Ayana Tolentino, Natalie Ann Unson, Erika Villa-Ignacio

Filipino

Reina Adriano, Rox Angelia, Katrina Bonillo, Mark Guinto, Martina Herra, Jonnel Inojosa, Marc Lopez, Patt Lucido, Jose Medriano iii, Jose Mirabueno, King Palmea, Alija Pandapatan, Bernard Patrick Pingol, Karla Quinita, Ray Santiago, Roanne Yap

Production

Madi Calleja, Dani Celis, Dea de Guzman, Luisa dela Cruz, Lara Intong, Jonnel Inojosa, Meryl Christine Medel, Paula Molina, Betina Santos, Max Suarez, Martin Tempongko, Chao Tiausas, Robert Tiong, Alex Tuico, Pia Zulueta

Web

Arielle Acosta, A. A. Aris Amor, Laura Ang, Rox Angelia, Marianne Antonio, Gaby Baizas, Celina Julianne Chung, Axel Christopher de Lumen, Ashley Martelina, Meryl Christine Medel, Arianna Mercado, Mikaela Pamatmat, Kristoff Sison, Ammera Julia Tungupon, Natalie Ann Isabella Unson, Ella Villaflor