Palad Vol. 17

palad

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About the cover He is the hallway haunted by the alternating cadences of students’ howls to the moon when their failing grades wouldn’t let them close their eyes and dream. He is never at peace. He is the small waves on the shore trying to drag back the scraps he had pushed away for days. He is full of regrets. He is the gentle creaking of an old door as you insist to open it. He is always hurting. He is the slashed poster hanging along the narrow streets of Tondo. He is always called pretentious. He is the sunlight that passes through the city bus window that exposes the hues of your hair other people fail to see when everything is dark and proper. He sees beauty in different ways. He is all the wasted opportunity and mistakes you had for the past years of your life. He is the connection between you and all the stories in this digest. He is this book.

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palad Literary digest

Volume XVII MARCH 2015

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palad Literary digest of the Heraldo Filipino

Maria Anthonette Gadon Palad Editor Ishiel AniĂąon John Joseph Gementiza Chelsea Ann Montilla Erika Uy Danielle Vince Capuno Rochelle Rivera James Wilson Ramolete Nishtha Nigam Yngwie Eusebio Writers Dr. Lakandupil Garcia Crisselda Robles Denise Anne Valentino John Paul Gonzales Francesca Garchitorena Angelica Mei Dollesin Heidi Sarno Contributors

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Foreword Buti na lang may palad, sapagkat kung wala ito…

Alam kong hindi kita mahahawakan kung hindi ang aking kamay ang iyong mararamdaman.

Alam kong hindi ko mararamdaman ang pagtibok ng mga buto mo sa tuwing ika’y naghahandang tumakas sa kasalanan.

Alam kong hindi ko madadampian ng pagtanggap ang puso mong tahimik na umiiyak ng “patawad.”

Alam kong hindi ko maapuhap ang bukol ng pagsisising nagtatago sa iyong nagbubuhulang mga ugat.

Alam kong hindi ka mabubuksan kung hindi palad ko ang tatapik sa mga nakasarang parte ng pagkatao mo.

The issue of palad you are about to walk through has a theme that is less understood when explained but is much appreciated when read and felt. I will explore all the avenues to explain it clearly since it is the job of this page anyway.

From the moment I took writing seriously, I always assume that writers have the eyes that could see things invisible to those who do not engage in creative writing.

I believe that writing allows a person to explore the roads and highways in this world, but even more so the infinite boulevards of the universe that the faint of heart do not dare to explore. We did our best to allow you access to all these roads, both from inside and outside of the world, and encourage you to find out where you want to go.

The literary writers of this year’s team created literary pieces that will show you a glimpse of how things are connected with one another. In all honesty, this theme is definitely a challenge for us; we can never really write the intangible concept that is connection. This challenge demanded that we make your senses perceive connection just the way we do as writers, all through the way we arrange words.

In this digest, stories teamed up with poetry to direct you along the least spacious of streets the same way a crowd of people would in a stampede. So pace yourself, it is going to be a journey.

Buti na lang may palad, sapagkat kung wala ito…

Maria Anthonette B. Gadon Literary Editor

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Message Sadyang nakahihiyang ihanay ang iyong akda sa likha ng mga taong ginagamit ang panitikan upang baguhin ang persepsiyon ng mga tao sa realidad ng mundo. Ngunit kung ito ang unang iisipin bago ang pagnanais na ipamalas ang sining ng mga salita ay walang mararating ang isang manunulat. Hindi rin naman lahat ng mga akdang nagbago sa mundo ay isinulat ng may intensiyong baguhin ang sistema. Sa halip ay mas para sa self-gratification nga ang iilan sa mga kuwento at tulang tumatak sa mga tao.

Sa tomong ito ng palad, ang konsepto ng koneksyon ang pinaglaruan ng mga manunulat. Hindi maigagarantiya na mababago ng mga akda ang inyong pananaw sa buhay o na mas maiintindihan at mapapahalagahan ninyo ang koneksiyon ng bawat elemento sa universe. Walang maipapangako sa inyo ang mga manunulat dahil repleksyon niyo sa mga akda ang magdidikta kung paano niyo mai-interpreta ang koneksiyon—sa at ng mga akda, mga manunulat, o ang kabit-kabit na pangyayaring dahilan kung bakit hawak niyo ang aklat na ito ngayon.

Crisselda F. Robles Editor in Chief

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Table of contents TATTOO

by Ishiel Aniñon

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TANIKALA

by Erika Uy

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PALATAYA AKO

by Ishiel Aniñon

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KALAWAKAN NG QUIAPO

by Danielle Vince Capuno

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NAIVETÉ’S BLISS

by Chelsea Ann Montilla

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CANNABIS

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COSMOS

by Nishtha Nigam

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SIRANG PLAKA

by Erika Uy

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FIRST DAY

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COATED, DEEP FRIED, AND PLATED

by John Joseph Gementiza

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NEW EDITION

by James Wilson Ramolete

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CYBERLOVE

by Erika Uy

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SAVIOR

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KULAY

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ONE SECOND OF VULNERABILITY

by Chelsea Ann Montilla

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TALKING LETTERS

by Chelsea Ann Montilla

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REACTION PAPER

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

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BITTER ROOT

by John Joseph Gementiza

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GUTOM

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EXPLOITED SANCTUARY

by Chelsea Ann Montilla

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by James Wilson Ramolete

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

by James Wilson Ramolete

by Yngwie Eusebio

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LABINDALAWANG KAPALARAN

by Ishiel Aniñon

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ANG MGA KINOLEKTANG BALITA NI ANGELO PATERNO

by Danielle Vince Capuno MANININGIL

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

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MAXIMO OLIVEROS

by Yngwie Eusebio

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BED WEATHER

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

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SEE YOU NEXT LIFE

by Denise Anne Valentino

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THE WEAVER OF THREADS

by Rochelle Rivera

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HERS

by Nishtha Nigam

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THE PARABLE OF A BROKEN GLASS

by Rochelle Rivera

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LIHIM

by Crisselda Robles

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VOICE RECORDINGS NI DR. LAZARO MARQUEZ

by Danielle Vince Capuno

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ANINO

by Heidi Sarno

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WHEELIE

by John Joseph Gementiza

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SA DULO NG PUNGLO TAGOS SA KAIBUTURAN NG PUSO

by Dr. Lakandupil Garcia

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DETOUR

by Crisselda Robles

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BLOOD, STEEL, AND THE MILES BETWEEN

by Franchesca Garchitorena

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ATAS

by Heidi Sarno

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INUUGAT

by Angelica Mei Dollesin

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SA ISANG IGLAP

by John Paul Gonzales

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STATUS UPDATE

by Rochelle Rivera 11

Tattoo Sa umpisa’y masakit lalo na ‘pag bumaon ang karayom sa balat na tila tumatarak sa damdaming sinaktan ng pag-ibig at sa bawat guhit ay katumbas ang hapdi ng sugat sa lintik na alaalang bumalot sa puso ko.

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Tanikala Kalunos-lunos ang paghingang kapos ng nagpupumiglas na bihag ng buhay, naliligo sa pawis ang katawang lantutay.

Mga paang nakabitin, sinisipa ang hangin.

Pilit pinapatid ang nakakuwintas na lubid.

Tuwi-tuwina ang pagtingala sa may-ari ng gapos, nagsusumamong pigtasin na ang nakakasakal na tali.

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Palataya ako Palataya ako sa jueteng, ang sugal na ilegal sa lahat Na ginagawang isang libo ang mula sa piso.

Tumataya naman ako sa lotto ang sugal na legal, sweeptakes nating lahat Na naging mailap ang numero, ipinanganak na ang mga bagong mananaya.

Pinagpakasakit ang tamang kombinasyon, sa panaginip at imahinasyon.

Nanaog na sa mga kaarawan at bilang ng populasyon.

Nang ikatlong araw nang pagtaya, Umakyat sa langit ang saya, nang manalo sa 6/55 grand lotto.

Dito na magmumula ang pambayad sa mga utang, pangtustos sa kapatid at panggamot sa magulang.

Hindi na ako tumataya sa lotto at jueteng, Nagbibigay donasyon sa simbahang Katolika, balato sa kasamahan sa trabaho, sa pagpapatawad sa mga naniningil.

Sa pagngiti sa’kin ng suwerte, sana’y mahawakan ko tama ang pera.

At wala pang nanalo sa lotto ang hindi tumataya Puta.

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Kalawakan ng Quiapo Kumikislap ang mga kahel at pulang ilaw na nagsisilbing tanglaw sa mahabang kadiliman.

Inaaliw ng ilaw ng mga bituing halos ‘di gumagalaw ang aking mga mata.

Habang hinihintay ko na kumatok ang antok, hile-hilera naman silang nag-aabang.

Pumikit ako’t kinabisa ang kanilang ganda, iniisip na bumubuo sila ng mga linya; ang mga linya’y lumilikha ng iba’t ibang hugis.

At doon ako mahimbing na naidlip sa maliit at malamig kong planeta: isang kapirasong karitong nilatagan ng sako.

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I

Naiveté’s bliss was carrying the weight of the world on my wings as I dragged my feet toward the Garden glazed by a field of flowers. I should not have toured Paradise for hours after waking up; I was one of the pure souls.

There was a faint echo of a harp and someone was singing, chilling my soul in the distance, as I stared at the rows of flowers sown around the Garden. There was a gathering in the Main Hall, leaving the Garden without other angels to guard it. I had a feeling that this was my only chance to explore the Garden since I’ve been here, so I immediately sneaked in. I won’t be punished if they caught me anyway since I am one of the good guys, but the idea of not getting punished didn’t kill the thrill of sneaking around.

There were flowers everywhere, and at the back of my mind, I knew that they weren’t supposed to bloom at the same time. It would have been nice to know which ones were confined to one season, since none of us could remember who we were in our previous lives and our previous world.

I wandered around, until I stumbled onto a huge Tree. It was approximately as tall as a 10-story building with budding fruits on all branches. I didn’t know that this thing existed, maybe because I evaded the other angels to explore the Garden.

I settled under the shade of the Tree to rest my feet from the long walk. I leaned against its bark and closed my eyes, enjoying the breeze that lightly tickled my skin.

Then something fell on my head.

My eyes snapped open and an apple was on my lap. I wasn’t as tired and hungry as I thought I was so I didn’t pay any attention to it and stared at my surroundings instead. The fruit is calling me, luring me until I grasped its body and savored its flesh.

It tasted like nothing and something at the same time, even though I don’t know how I knew. If I had a beating heart, it would beat faster as I threw the apple away.

Then the tree started to glow and I would have flown away if only my wings didn’t feel like they were made of steel.

I scrambled away from the Tree, hoping I didn’t cause much trouble.

It felt like I became a tree myself with my roots deep in the ground as my surroundings shimmered until the place I was at seemed like a distant memory.

A large pane of glass materialized in front of me, showing a dark alleyway surrounded by buildings shorter than the Tree. They were blurred at first like I was looking through a frosted glass which, as seconds passed, was slowly replaced by a clear glass. I couldn’t stop looking at it, trying to remember if St. Peter, the guy who greeted me when I woke up, said anything like this was supposed to happen—and coming up blank.

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There weren’t any stars in the sky, and the street I was staring at has a streetlight that kept blinking. I rubbed my eyes, wondering what was happening as a man in a suit stepped out from a convenience store, walking along the streets and looking at the abyss of darkness behind him. Seconds later, another guy came out of the same convenience store, his face hidden by some sort of shadow. He stabbed the man and emptied his pockets. I wanted to intervene and stop the second guy from killing and stealing, but they were just images on glass. I was as helpless as a cat would have been if it was there, as the second guy ran away from the scene and the man in a suit lay on the pavement, gurgling to his death.

The grin that crept on the murderer’s face as he rushed off with the stolen wallet slithered to my heart—a snake that tainted my heart with evil.

He ran, even when he knew that no one could be following him. As he came to a highway, he tried to pocket the wallet, failing for a few times before he finally looked up and a truck blasted him away, smashing onto a parked car. I knew, when the blinding flash from the truck illuminated him, that he was as familiar as the sun’s glare in my eyes when I woke up in Paradise. The truck screeched to a stop meters away from him as he lay with his eyes closed, gasping for air until he stopped.

The glass disappeared before a second passed and I remained sitting on the ground in a field of flowers, staring at the Tree whose glow slowly disappeared.

I winced as a pain in my head forced me to hug my knees, my nails digging into my skin until memories of a forgotten past started dripping down. Blinding flashes of images in my head appeared from when I was born till the day I wheezed for my last breath. I killed someone and laughed. Tears of regret trickled down my mouth, the sour realization that I wasn’t as pure as I thought I was. My wings were lies painted with purity when it should have been as dark as a starless night sky.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be spending the afterlife twisting and moaning in pain, not basking in the warmth of happiness.

The pain in my head subsided as I slowly opened my eyes, knowing my soul was covered in the grime of immorality.

I can’t be here.

As I stood, I knew that no grace should ever be wasted on me again. Breathing heavily, I spread my wings. I can’t stay here, I kept repeating in my head. Furrowing my brows, I grabbed my left wing and hacked at it until it tore off—pristine feathers tainted with the crimson truth. I bit my lips until I tasted rust, preventing a scream to be heard by those in the Main Hall as I kneeled from the spasms of pain I knew would never end.

A chuckle roared in my head as I prepared to tear my remaining wing off. As I blinked in confusion, my surroundings changed. Less than a second later, bullets of sweat tainted my robe until it clung to my body as lava crumbled the floor into dust.

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My eyes widened as something roared, “Have fun here kiddo. And remember, you did this to yourself.” I could only close my eyes with a smile on my face, knowing that I should have been here the whole time instead of frolicking on Earth. As the tongue of the whip slashed across my skin, a question flitted across my mind.

Why wasn’t I here in the first place?

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ur

tho

so u g h t s are m ari ng ov way up high i n g , yo leaving a uk tra now il e am big uous every in thi its ng wak e

Cannabis

ams, dre ke mo s of

O

20 th at th and l l a ing link

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Cosmos When they finally came from a galaxy universes away, all that’s left on this naked land had bowed under their clawed feet.

And I stood rooted to the ground, till a passel of tentacles stabbed me down.

Then my legs hardened into claws to crush the pride of man-made laws.

And tentacles sprout out my jaws To strangle this forged order into chaos.

And before I did the same to you, when your desperate wails, echoed back memories of the human I was moments ago, that’s when I learned what power really was.

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Sirang plaka Walang humpay ang pagdagundong Kabi-kabila ang mga pagsabog Putok ng mga baril ay umaalingawngaw Gasgas na ang boses ng mga humihiyaw ngunit magpapanggap kaming walang marinig.

Palakas nang palakas ang ingay, ngunit mas nakaririndi ang kalansing ng kaban ng bayan at ang aming nakabibinging halakhakan.

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First day Ngayon pa lang siya nakapasok sa isang silid-aralan.

B l a n k o ang kaniyang tingin sa poster na: “Vote wisely!�

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T

Coated, deep fried, and plated

he noises coming from the road clashed with the noise inside my head. I looked down on the blank sheet of notepad on my lap then looked back outside. The only thing I could describe would be the chaos of the riot just outside our news van. There was a fucking riot in the middle of a highway sandwiched by shanties and townhouses and that was all I could think of as a lead. People were bashing each other just for their own absurd beliefs—or not, as I saw a banner that says “death to the infidels.” This may end up to be fun after all.

My team and I continue to search for someone to interview, but most of the road was either blocked or scattered with casualties from the ongoing riot. While scanning the surroundings, we noticed a part of the road where there are few people scrambling for their lives. I nodded to that direction and the crew followed. Arriving to the spot, I wrote the report’s introduction as quick as they rushed into my head and thrust the pad to the reporter as I told the cameraman the shot I want. The cameraman started to roll as the reporter delivered his lines.

A riot errupted near the national highway, as rioters fight for their rights and beliefs. Jessica Aladra, an 18-year-old transwoman, was found dead.

After filming the stand-upper, we wasted no time running through the chaos again to find someone worth interviewing. Trying to make it through the rampaging crowd, I found someone whose gaze is reminiscent of a video camera that has always been used in filming hazardous conditions—almost shattered and has seen conditions not meant for humanity to witness. I tapped her on the shoulder, only to be greeted with a hostility.

“Who the fuck are you?” the lady shouted.

If only she could see what we could make her. It’s no use, I heard from behind, as I turned around and almost smacked someone with my pad. I turned back and found her again, with the hopes of securing an ambush interview, not bothering to conduct all those journalism protocols and etiquette.

“Why are you staging this riot?”

She looked at my face with her brows raised, staring into the depths of my eyes.

“What?”

“Why are you staging this riot?” Now emphasizing on the word “Why” “They need to hear what we need to say! They killed my daughter!”

My eyes widened, looking at her. My cameraman nudged me and asked me to continue further. At least we could use this footage in the interview. This. Is. A. Scoop.

“Why do you think they did it?” I asked the interviewee, as sweat marked a map on her duster dress, her cheeks swelling, and her eyes brimming with tears.

“Because they only care for themselves,” she replied, her voice going raspier as she yells, “those

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bastards must pay!”

“Who?” I asked, now liking the moment.

“The ones from the other side. The ones living in their stacked townhouses across the highway—the ones who must pay!” she shouted.

Passing through security forces overrun by individuals fighting for their own causes, my team managed to get out of that massive hellhole, only to find the other network’s team already blistered inside that area. Worse, we still need to find another person to interview.

After running through barriers and rampaging people, we found our next interviewee. This person looks like he knows stuff; with a shaved face and hair that still looks good under chaos, I know I have a chance to show the world what’s happening here.

I asked him almost the same question I did to the previous one.

“Well, it seems that they are angry about us doing something to one of them.” He said calmly. This amazed me, especially how calm this guy looked despite being surrounded by people fighting.

“So, why do you think they’re staging a riot against your quarters?” I asked.

“Probably because of the girl they found on the river yesterday,” he said. “I heard rumors that she’s trans. They thought that someone from our side of the highway killed her, so they rushed our side and initiated this.”

“Therefore, they rushed to your place without any proofs?”

“Yes, sadly. They were initially stopped by the police, but even the cops’ shields were useless.”

I thanked the person for his cooperation, and left the vicinity. But, I stopped when I felt a hand pull me back. I looked behind, and I saw the same guy I interviewed a while back. He asked, “What’s your name?”

“Andy.” I replied. “Andy Marquez. And you?”

“Steve.”

We rushed back to the news van where my reporter recorded his voice over and I edited our coverage into a news package. I can only marvel at the face of the people who would watch this. *** Returning to my apartment exhausted, I reached for the remote and turned on the TV while lying limp on the sofa. After a few hours of rest, I opened my eyes, coincidentally, with the news about the riots we filmed airing.

A riot errupted near the national highway, as rioters fight for their rights and beliefs. Jessica Aladra, an 18-year-old transwoman, was found dead a few hours prior to the riot. A witness found her naked body on a ditch just this noon. Close relatives and friends of Aladra, said in an interview that they think the suspect is one of the

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people living on the other side of their subdivision.

“They need to hear what we need to say! They killed my daughter! Those Bastards must pay!”

However, people from the said place deny the claims, even saying that Aladra deserved the death due to his stature.

“They thought that someone from our side of the highway killed her, so, they rushed into our side.”

As of press time, the number of injured and casualties is increasing rapidly. The police have tried to set up a barricade between the rioters and the residence of the accused party, but to no avail. People, especially from the accused party, are now fighting as the riots continue to escalate further out of control.

Laying down the sofa, my torso feels two things: laughter and hunger. To satiate these feelings, I may as well prepare some potatoes for this evening. Getting them out of the fridge, I still laugh at the report. As I quarter the potatoes, I also quartered the laughter then my knife broke. I felt my stomach rumble. Grabbing another knife out of the knife block, I successfully quartered them. My father would kill me if he sees me doing theirs, but who cares, I’m alone here and no one’s going to feed me unless I feed myself.

I rubbed them with salt before laying them in a tray to put in the oven toaster. I cranked the timer to an hour, and started to wait again, huddling my own body as my stomach rumbles some more while smelling the aroma of the potatoes cooking. The feeling got worse as the smell went from aromatic to burning. Shutting off the oven, I pulled out the potatoes, not knowing my stupidity; I burned my hands pulling out the hot tray of potatoes, accidentally pulling them to the floor. After cooling my hands, I looked at the burnt quarters, and forced myself to eat them. I do not want to eat these charcoal blocks, but my stomach won’t quit growling. So I decided to save them by boiling some leftover stock, and mixing the potatoes. With some milk and bacon, I may turn this into chowder.

After minutes of mixing mush, a miracle was born. As I got myself a bowl of this delicacy, I heard a knock on the door. The man we interviewed earlier was standing there when I opened it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wondering why in the world is this person not home.

He just smirked at me and held a gun to my head. The bullet grazed my forehead, as I tackled him down. But all’s too late as I felt the barrel vibrate on my stomach, blood pouring from my mouth.

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New edition I saw you covered in dust, just the way I left you lying at the very end of the shelf with withering pages filled with fading words that tell us of the old stories confined within you.

So I held you in my hands, contemplating whether or not to give you or throw you away.

Then I noticed the folds and creases that lined the corners of your pages and I wonder how many other pairs of eyes have seen the beauty of your story.

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Cyberlove Gabi-gabi, nagpapainit siya sa piling ng kanyang laptop— Bawat kurap ng cursor ay parang palitan ng kindat at sulyap.

Simbilis ng tikatik ng keyboard ang pagpintig ng kaniyang pusong giniginaw.

Sabik siyang humaplos ng mga tulad niyang gutom sa kalinga gamit ang mga mapupusok na salita.

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Savior And there is Papa, firmly holding a black rosary, crying, “O Diyos! Maligtas sana ni Dok misis ko!�

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Kulay Masdan mo ang pulang nagliliyab na damdaming makabayan, at ang nagniningning na dilaw, na sinag ng pag-asa— ang mga dahilan ng aking pagsusulat.

Ganito ang mundo sa mga mata ng makata.

Damhin mo ang bughaw na kanyang nadarama, ang kasawian na kanyang dinadala sa blankong kaputian ng buhay.

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One second of vulnerability

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leep was my unwanted visitor these past few nights, forcing me to drift into a space pervaded by dreams and nightmares. So when I felt it caressing my cheeks tonight, I slapped it away. I stood from my bed, a fog clouding my vision as I stumbled to the kitchen. Staying in bed was a mistake, knowing that no matter what I do, sleep will always sneak behind my back, knocking me out with its chloroform perfume.

Tears escaped my eyes as I yawned to open the fridge. The momentary darkness before the light came on from the fridge reminded me of what was always hiding in the shadows, taking over my dreams. At first I thought it was a figment of my imagination, designed to bring me to my knees; where every touch, lick, and movement of it would stimulate my senses to overdrive, bringing the most mind-numbing, earth-shattering orgasm a girl could have. After I fell asleep the next night, it came again, moaning and groaning in a low voice that made me want to fuck it over and over until I lay dying—crippled but satisfied.

Though somehow I knew that it wasn’t an incorporeal thing my mind created for the best sex of my life; it was a sexual thing that wanted to consume me in a frenzy of sensuality and orgasms. It may have been my entire world at that moment, but I certainly don’t want it to be my last. There were more nights I wanted to lay in bed, contemplating about doing things and getting them done, because I knew that if it seizes me again in my dreams, I would never wake up.

I grabbed a cold tumbler, took a sip, then poured the contents on my head. The chilled water woke me enough to know that I couldn’t be staying still like a prey sitting around, waiting for the predator to come and bite her. It would be better if I were in a place where there are a lot of things to distract me. Or maybe just a person that transforms the butterflies in my stomach into wild ravenous animals, and whose dimples were always too shy to show when he smiles. My cheeks felt warm as I thought of Dan, the guy over the convenience store counter. It would be nice to see him after the three weeks I was gone for the province. I know that the moment I looked at him, my heart would beat faster, chasing the sleep away just so I could focus on him.

I headed out into the starless night and into my car, seemingly wearing an oversized dress. In less than a minute, I was in the convenience store, my vision clearing up a little as I entered with a smile on my face, expecting Dan’s heart-stopping stare. Instead, there was an unfamiliar guy slouching on his chair behind the counter, reading an FHM magazine which he quickly hid when he saw me looking at him.

“Where’s Dan?” I asked, not caring how obvious my feelings for Dan were.

The guy creased his eyebrows, looking around the almost-empty store. “So you don’t know? He died two weeks ago.”

I was ready to be a prisoner by the monster of my dreams as I got in my car and drove home with shaking hands and a heavy head from sleep deprivation. As I flopped onto my bed, hugging my knees, I couldn’t help but wonder what could have happened if I hadn’t left for the province before. Maybe I would have had the chance to tell him that I liked him, or at least bid him goodbye at his funeral.

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Fuck. I don’t even know if he had a funeral, I thought as I closed my eyes. Just for a second. Maybe one second of shut-eye would do miracles for me.

One second.

I opened my eyes and knew, from the dark surroundings, that I’ve fallen into the trap I had carefully eluded for days. I scrambled to get away but as the thing in the darkness unveiled itself and grinned, the fear I felt from the past nightmares vanished and left no trace in any part of my brain. It wasn’t the monster I feared. It was just a guy. A guy so beautiful and familiar that my hand moved on its own, wanting to touch every inch of his perfection. I couldn’t place who he was exactly, but the way his dimple tries to hide the few times he smiled, made it seem that I’ve met him somewhere before. As he slowly walked toward me and the shirt and jeans he had been wearing disappeared in the blink of an eye. I realized then that I shouldn’t have been admiring how implausible his perfection was—even for a second. It was still the same monster I’ve tried running away from.

I slapped myself, hoping I would wake up but he kept coming at me until he had me in his arms again. I screamed until my throat hurt as he ripped my clothes off.

This shouldn’t be happening. Any of this shouldn’t be real. But at the back of my mind I knew, it wasn’t make-believe as I felt myself being consumed into a world that continuously stirs the most sensuous and painful orgasm I’ve ever hoped to have until I was exhausted beyond awakening.

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Talking letters 6” x 9” hardcover A heap of ink-dabbed papers.

Or perhaps the mouths of unspoken thought and ears that listen to unheard cries Or rather the eyes to unseen places and hearts that guard deep secrets Or hands that hold neglected hands and legs that walk on imaginary lands.

Worlds within a world that undermines words Yet each surreal fantasy the soul of reality.

6” x 9” hardcover A heap of ink-dabbed papers.

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Reaction paper Bee lung am ah nun bye yawn, knock ah at tongue saw ah king valley cut an mung ah so lee running at tin din nut nun at mung ah loom me lit tow saw cuss saw look koi yawn. Hind dip puma dull lee an true bah who nah eat two, at taw oh lung poo ah quo, may run ding a gum-a gum.

Peer raw, mung a boss, sky yow an gum a go ah nun trans four mass young at tin teen a tam as a. Kai yow an sue sea nun pug pop a tool LOI nun la hat nun pose see tea bong pug bah bag go nah a about nut teen. Boo Ong boo oh an tea wall la quo: NASA ex scene nah man ah quo, oh wall la, two Tung oh an Feel lee pin no saw dap at knee young pat Tung ooh hon.

Kai yow an aiming lock cuss. Mar rum Ming shall lam matt ho.

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Bitter root These curvaceous slopes hung over the cliff of my gaping mouth.

Tipping the tea over, and stepping onto those plains, I saw my reflection being chased by a mob of painters and sculptors screaming, “Oh such beauty!” I tried to touch the reflection, but a branch took hold of my hand, and forced me to drink some more of your tea—like you recommended, and roots embedded through my being like a shrew burrowing the ground for food. I can feel its rough tendrils sculpt down my body, shoveling the very liberties I created for years. With the purpose of saving what’s left, I flushed the roots out of my system—to no avail— they still wrap around my innards like a snake wrapping around its victim.

I collapsed, crying as they envelop my once-glorified fortress of bliss.

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Gutom Batang uhugin may yamang lihim Ang kanin na malata sinabawan ng luha “salamat sa biyaya� dasal ng maralita.

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40

I

Exploited Sanctuary

couldn’t help but cringe when the flaming-eyed monster in front of me grinned as it raised its whip. A never-ending fire consumed my body every time the sharp, burning tongue of the whip licked my skin and tasted the darkness inside my soul.

I bit my tongue to stop a scream from escaping my lips and satisfying the demon’s sadistic urges, trying hard to shut my eyes and myself away from the pain.

You. I saw you smiling as you sat on the empty stool you pulled in front of the cash register I was manning that night. Every time a smile adorns your face, I couldn’t help but blink continuously, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to look at you for long without being blinded with your beauty—as if you were the sun that used to blind me in the morning with its vibrance. I remembered the last night I saw you before I was stuck in this place. You kept blinking and yawning every second the clock ticked by, counting the seconds before night passed and my shift was over.

Emptiness covered me like a blanket I knew I couldn’t remove, suffocating me until memories of you freed me. Once, you even fell asleep on the counter. I thanked God then that there weren’t any customers that night as I watched you sleep the rest of my shift off. It was like I spent hours with a hanger in my mouth because when you woke up, a smile was on my face even as you shook your head and left to go home. You never said anything about how you felt and you didn’t have to, the same way that I didn’t need to tell you that every time I see you, a smile graces my lips because you were there.

If I had the chance to see you again, I would pleasure you until all you could feel are the waves of satisfaction. Until all that you are is a woman existing to be dominated, moaning at every brief touch and lick—always wanting more.

I couldn’t help but open my eyes slowly, feeling that it had been more than a second that the demon had mercilessly whipped me to shreds. There was a grin on the demon’s face, enough to trigger my worst nightmares, but oddly enough, I grinned along with him. Without question, I knew that I was no longer trapped to damnation like the rest of the souls here, even if there were still shackles on my hands and feet. My body felt cool, like a breeze passed by, despite the echoes of the misfortunate against the fires repeatedly burning their bodies.

I closed my eyes again, and imagined my skin growing back without scars and the dimple on my once scarred face, returning. I grinned, knowing that I could see you once again, as my consciousness slid away from me.

I felt myself slowly slipping into the cracks of your dreams as the image of you sleeping started getting clearer. I’m coming back baby, and this time you would know the truth behind my feelings as I consume your body and eventually, your soul. I would fuck you until you’re gasping for breath, seconds away from dying, and still wanting more.

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Labindalawang kapalaran ARIES Mukha mo‘y maamong tupa, batang-batang kongresista.

Trabaho mo’y bulok pala, minana sa iyong ama.

TAURUS Ang nanalong kandidato ay kung sino pang perwisyo, pagkatapos ng eleksyon baya’y nagmistulang toro.

GEMINI Nangurakot kang opisyal, nagmaskara siyang banal.

Kambal kayong sumasakal: Ekonomiya’y tumumal.

CANCER Mag-ingat—maraming galit sa tulad mong naninipit.

Ma-utak ma’y ‘di napikit, biglang-tago ‘pag nagipit.

LEO ‘Wag matakot sa kuwento na may leon sa gobyerno.

Ungol ay galing sa mga nasa labas ng palasyo.

VIRGO Ang dalagang republika Lagi na lang nadadapa, Bumangon man at lumaya Sa huli’y tumitihaya.

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PISCES Ang interogasyon sa‘yo ay parang malansang isda, amoy ang pagkabilasa pilit pa ring inihahanda.

AQUARIUS Tayo ay galon ng tubig Presidente’y taga bitbit Sa bayan ay mag-aangat kahit paa’y nakayapak.

CAPRICORN Pinapastol ng gobyerno ang alaga nitong tao, Kaunti lang silang gan’to Naglingkod siyang totoo.

SAGITTARIUS Pulitikong nangabayo pumapana pa ng kuwento, Umiwas ka sa palaso Minsan ito’y asintado.

SCORPIO Heto na po si Alakdan Niligtas n’ya buong bayan, Lumaban sa kahirapan Kahit ‘di naparangalan.

LIBRA Nakasalansang pangarap Isa-isa mong inangat, Pagaw na sigaw ng masa ang dinalanging hustisya.

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Ang mga kinolektang balita ni Angelo Paterno Recorded video ng programang Bente Singko Oras, Enero 2010 Senador, biglang naglaho! Nawala na lamang na parang bula si Senator Gregorio Burgos sa kanilang tahanan nitong madaling araw ng Linggo. Ayon sa asawa nitong si Regina Burgos, sabay pa raw silang natulog ng mister noong gabi bago ito mawala. Kinaumagahan, ‘di na muli pang nakita ang senador.

Dagdag pa ng asawa, kakaiba ang ikinikilos ng senador noong araw bago s’ya mawala.

Balisa raw ito at tila depressed. “May binabasa s’yang kapirasong papel pero nilukot n’ya agad tapos ay kinuha n’ya ang kanyang telepono at tumawag,” paliwanag ni Mrs. Burgos.

Samantala, hindi na nakita pa ang papel na sinasabing binasa ng senador bago ang insidente at ‘di pa rin natutukoy ang tinawagang indibidwal. Wala ring call history sa naiwan nitong smartphone at hindi nakarehistro sa phonebook. Ayon sa ulat, natagpuan ng mga awtoridad ang baril ng senador sa kanilang hardin. Walang anumang nakitang ebidensya ng pag-alis nito ng tahanan. Espekulasyon ng nakararami ay nagtatago ang senador dahil sa mga isyu ng kurapsyong kinasasangkutan nito.

Kasalukuyang patuloy ang imbestigasyon sa pagkawala ng nasabing senador.

Recording ng Radyo Sais, Enero 2010 Street children sa Quiapo, nawawala! Napansin daw ng mga residente ng Hidalgo Street na halos wala nang gumagalang nanlilimos sa kahabaan ng naturang kalye. Nakapagtataka raw ito dahil dati ay araw-araw ang pangungulit ng mga bata sa mga biyahero at pedestrians sa lugar.

Pinaniniwalaang dinukot ang mga bata ng isang sindikatong notorious sa lugar na tuma-target sa mga menor de edad.

Recording ng DMMZ Radyo Ronda, Pebrero 2010 Sa Dasmariñas City, Cavite, isang high school student na biktima ng pambu-bully, nawawala.

Huling nakita ng mga kamag-aral ang dose anyos na si Kent Rey Majaba noong ika-sampu ng Pebrero sa kanilang eskuwelahan.

Ayon sa kaklase nitong si Mon, ‘di n’ya tunay na pangalan, araw-araw daw na pinag-iinitan ng mga kaklase nila si Kent. Ito raw ay dahil sa apilyido nito at dahil na rin daw may katabaan ang bata. Nang ‘di na raw kayanin nito ang panunukso ng mga kaklase, tumakbo itong umiiyak sa mapunong bahagi ng paaralan. Pinabayaan na lang daw ito ng mga kaklase dahil bumabalik din naman daw si Kent sa oras ng klase. Ngunit sa pagkakataong ‘yon, ‘di na bumalik ang bata at doon na rin ito huling nakita.

Tumanggi si Mon na pangalanan ang mga kaklase nitong diumano’y nambu-bully kay Kent. ‘Di pa rin nagbibigay ng testimonya ang paaralan ukol sa kaso. Mariing iniimbestigahan ng mga pulis ang iba’t ibang anggulo na puwedeng maging batayan sa pagkawala ng bata.

Parte ng recorded interview ng TV Ronda kay Mon, Pebrero 2010 INTERVIEWER: Ahm, Mon, nakausap mo ba si Kent noong panahong ‘yon?

MON: Opo. Bago s’ya tumakbo sa gubat sa likod ng school.

INTERVIEWER: Anong sinabi n’ya sa’yo?

MON: Sabi n’ya po, ayaw n’ya na raw pong pumasok sa school namin. Umiiyak po s’ya. T’as sabi pa po n’ya gusto na lang po n’ya mawala… mapunta sa lugar daw po na walang nakakakilala sa kanya.

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Video recording ng flash report ng testigo, Marso 2010 Bilanggong may kasong pagpatay, nakatakas sa New Bilibid Prison. Ang nakatakas na preso na si Roy Dizon, 21 taong gulang, ay nakatakas nito lamang Biyernes, ika-26 ng Marso.

Sabi ng mga kakosa nito, wala na raw sa kama nito si Dizon kinaumagahan ng Biyernes.

Si Dizon ay kinasuhan ng murder at sinintensyahan? ng habang-buhay na pagkakakulong.

Ito’y matapos s’yang paratangan sa pagpatay sa kapitan ng kanilang baranggay noong nakaraang Disyembre 2009. Tinanggi ni Dizon ang paratang hanggang sa korte ngunit natalo pa rin s’ya sa kaso.

Sa kasalukuyan, ‘di pa alam ang ginamit na paraan ni Dizon sa pagtakas sa bilibid at wala pang lead kung saan s’ya nagtatago.

Nagkalat na flyer sa Metro Manila at walang pagkakakilanlan, Mayo 2010

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Forum post ni Angelo Paterno sa Symbianize.com, Setyembre 2014 Post ni darkrigor16 (Forum account ni Angelo Paterno): (Naka-attach ang mga balita at flyer sa post n’yang ito) Look at these mind-blowing data I collected. Read it. See? See the connections?! There must be something! There must be something fishy going on here! Hindi ‘to hoax at hindi ako troll.

Isa siguro ‘tong underground na sindikato. Isa itong conspiracy!

Comment ni bluedragon123: Lol. Sinong maniniwala dito? It’s just a coincidence. Fuck yourself, dude. You have so much free time in your hands collecting these data, use it in a more productive way.

Comment ni bhoszxlight: Go kill yourself! TROLOLOLOLOLOLOL. Comment ni urknightinshiningarmor: Whoah. Even though halatang hoax, cool pa rin ‘yung idea. Hehe.

Reply ni Angelo Paterno: Bahala kayo kung ayaw n’yong maniwala. I’ll prove it myself. You’ll see.

Comment ni bluedragon123: Go ahead, dude. But if I were you, I won’t waste my time with this bullcrap.

Poster ng nawawala na nakapaskil sa Ayala Center MRT Station, Makati, Oktubre 2014 MISSING Angelo Paterno, Age: 18, Height: 5’6” Fair complexion with black, curly hair and brown eyes Last seen at PUP Taguig wearing uniform If you have any information about his whereabouts, please contact the following: Orlando Paterno, 09220482683, SUN Maricar Paterno, 09167588901, GLOBE Isang liham na natagpuan sa bakuran ng mga Paterno, Oktubre 2014 (Ang liham ay nakuha ni Maricar Paterno sa sobreng gawa sa tuyong dahon habang s’ya ay nagwawalis sa kanilang bakuran.)

‘Wag na po kayong mag-alala sa’kin. Nagpapasalamat pa nga po ako dahil naimbitahan ako sa lugar na ito. Masaya na po ako dito. Wala pong nangungutya sa’kin dito. Walang pakialam ang mga kapwa kong bata rito kung mataba ako o pangit ang apelyido ko. Sagana rin po kami sa pagkain. Kahit anong pagkain na hilingin namin ay nakakain namin at sobrang sarap po ng itim na kanin na pinapakain nila sa’min. Halos lahat ng bahay dito ay ganito. Inaalagan din po kami ni Mang Ping at Kuya Roy. Habang sinusulat ko po ito sa inyo, may usapang meron daw po ulit na bagong dating na magiging mamamayan ng Punso.

Kent Rey P.S. Sana po ay nakarating ito d’yan sa atin. May pagka-ulyanin na po kasi si Amang Nuno. Baka ‘di n’ya na maalala kung saan n’ya ‘ko unang sinundo.

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Maniningil Hinainan kami ni itay ng isAng bilaong pancit na bihon— ang Paborito naming pasalubong sa t’wing kAtapusan ng buwan. at tulad ng kinauGalian, hindi piyesta pero sobra-sobra ang mga pinggan at silya.

Kalansing ng mga kutsara’t tinidor lang ang sumAsaliw sa mga nagbubulungan naming sIkmura.

Nang naNgalahati ang bilao, tama na raw sabi ni itAy, sabay balot ng mga tira para ilagay sa plato ng mga Nagsi-upuang mga bisita na mahilig manghingi kahit sila ang may sobra.

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Maximo Oliveros I will hold my heart secure inside my ribcage even though it would pump war cries of fear as I proudly parade myself with my new wings through the valley of envious caterpillars.

I would not let the beauty within me be subjected to the trials of acceptance Just so you would feel safe to embrace me in my naked skin.

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49

Bed weather Sabay ng pagpatak ng ulan sa bubungan ay ang pagpatak ng aking ulan sa‘yong damuhan.

50

See you next life One of these nights (that were usually after a day of smiling to your co-workers like you had a flawless childhood), you will lie awake on your bed, staring at the ceiling, finally able to grasp that you can never have someone to lie beside you, not because of your extreme fear of having sexual intercourse, but because the one meant to lie beside you died in jail for doing so.

You will ask yourself how many children it takes for an old man to make love with so he could be labeled as a pedophile. You wonder if it is still pedophilia if you were the only one.

His only one.

Your heart will be a punching bag of memories from lifetimes ago, as forgotten scenes hit you one after the other, the way his memories hit him when he saw you in that playground. And you will smile and cry and muffle a groan with your pillow as you realize that the way he looked at you when you were seven and he was seventy was the same way he looked at you when you were both seventeen.

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52

The weaver of threads “

T

he story of the world,” I repeated to her, almost asking. Before we bid each other good night, I always tell her at least one bedtime story. She said it made her nights a little less scary. She brushed the hair off her face and I could clearly see how her eyebrows raised, saying, yes, I want to know where we all came from.

Nikki is just five. Her small bones wrapped with skin so blanched made her look much thinner, like a walking string. The doctors who have been her second parents said she was born with a weak heart—that it can easily break when there is too much emotion.

“Tell me about the world,” she laid her head on my lap and looked at me expectantly.

I touched her cheeks lightly, “OK, I’ll tell you about the world.”

I looked around her little pink room. There is a sewing kit on top of her drawer beside the handmade teddy bear we together. For a five-year-old, it was amazing how she plays with threads. Somehow, she finds colorful threads fascinating. I smiled at her and silently prayed this story would make sense to her.

“The world is,” I started, “a big sewing machine.”

Her eyes went, “Woah,” at the thought of the world being a sewing machine.

She even grinned, and it looked like the flawless version of the world—with all her teeth showing. Nikki leaned back on her pillow and pulled the blanket to her chest.

I was suddenly terrified. She’s fading away from me, like if our molecules were interlacing strings, I could feel them loosening. If I could only find our end strings I’d burn and melt them back together.

“The world is a big sewing machine,” I repeated, “And behind it...” I changed my voice the way magicians do when presenting their magic trick and gestured my hands as if picturing something enormous, “...is The Weaver of Threads.”

I saw her eyes beam with curiosity even in the dim light of her Hello Kitty lampshade.

“And we are his threads, each one of us. We’re all woven together in one fabric,” I added and Nikki nodded her head like I was just confirming a theory she already had in mind.

“But if we are just threads, how do we become one big fabric?” she asked, obviously absorbed the story I made up.

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“By this,” I pulled her into my arms, “by our attachment to the people we love.”

“Just like how the trees are green and brown threads woven together, and how the ocean and the sky are threads in different shades of blue. The birds are the lightest thread, the air can lift them, while people like you and me are the special threads.

We are special because we’re the only set of threads clothed with fabric,” I pointed at her sleepwear and we laughed because it seemed entirely right and at the same time ridiculous.

“The Weaver of Threads is so cool! How does he manage to do that?”

“Do you know what else he can do?”

“What? What? What?” she repeated like her life depended on the answer.

“Whenever you’re cold, he would weave gloves for your hands and a long scarf around your neck. When you feel hot, he would snip off your sleeves. When you feel heavy, he would do alterations on your fabric so you would feel more comfortable.”

“Wow,” she said, followed by an abrupt cough. I almost forgot she couldn’t get too excited. So before I could hear another ball of sound from her throat, I made her turn her back so I could gently rub it.

“It’s a little late,” I said. “Get some rest and I’ll tell you more stories about The Weaver of Threads tomorrow.”

“Is he your friend? The Weaver of Threads?”

“Yeah,” “Can I meet him too? Can we also be friends?”

“Of course.”

“When will I meet him?”

I stopped rubbing her back. My eyes have gone watery again. For the past years that I’ve been taking care of her, I learned that stopping myself from crying is equally difficult as leaving this world. I was glad she couldn’t see my face, I let a tear slip, “Soon,” I said. *** October came, and as the wind turned cold, her body became more vulnerable that she had to cough every time. She would cover her mouth with her small hands, her shoulders shaking, like an old woman laughing, except she’s not old and she’s not laughing. Sometimes, I couldn’t even look at her.

Knowing she might not make it till Christmas, I prepared my gift and handed it to her one Tuesday morning. “Merry Christmas, my little Nikki,” I greeted.

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“But it’s still a month and two weeks away,” she said.

“I know. But I just want to start celebrating it with you,” I tried to smile.

“Okay,” she smiled back and opened the gift. It was a small pink sewing machine made from plastic, with flowers and butterfly prints. “Oh my,” she cried. “This is too beautiful! Thank you, Nurse Jane!” *** On October 29th, Wednesday, at exactly two o’ clock in the morning, Nikki was rushed to the hospital. Coughing large amounts of blood, she blurted, “The Weaver of Threads must have tightened a knot in my chest.”

The doctor said her condition got worse as she developed pneumonia.

I entered her room and saw her staring out the window. “Hey,” I said, not even minding the tears that were running down my cheeks. I could almost see us like threads desperately clinging onto one another—two parts of a fabric being ripped apart.

She didn’t speak. She just reached for my hand, glad that I was there. I sat beside her and held her. I sighed. “How are you?”

She tried to mimick my sigh, opening her mouth ever so lightly. Then she bit her lower lip, breathed in, and with little voice she has, she said, “The fabric I’m wearing is too heavy for me.”

Every word, its weight and sound, no matter how soft she said it blasted on my eardrums. I could feel it echoed through my whole body—making me numb and unable to speak.

“Can you ask The Weaver of Threads to make some alterations?” she added, smiling sheepishly.

Inside of her, right in her chest, was a frail work of art. But to think that she may be a result of a faulty sewing machine would be wrong—an irrational result for lack of good faith. Because no matter how a child like her suffers so much it makes no sense, Nikki’s existence wasn’t a mistake—never a result of some faulty creation—it was a miracle I am proud to witness.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “No need for that because you’ll be meeting him soon enough,” I caressed her hair, “he needs his special thread.”

And that night, Nikki really left me. I cried until my eyes ran dry. I cried because I never told her about the real story of the world—because the story of The Weaver of Threads wasn’t for her comfort, but mine.

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Hers I always believed you’ll look like me But now that you are finally in my arms, your blond hair and blue eyes speak the contrary.

So I return you to your mother’s arms.

For we traded our needs all along: wealth for me, a child for a mother.

Now you are hers and I’m incomplete.

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The parable of a broken glass

O

nce there was a boy who used to wander the streets through the loud noise and rumbling of car engines. His friends called him ‘Andoy,’ a name he most preferred. It was because he believed his real name was unfitting for the way he was living.

Andoy was an industrious boy. He helped his mother and father by selling things he can find from the streets which can still be salvaged. Even when his clothes get filthy and smelly, inside of them was a strong body driven with deep ambition and dreams.

He was an 11-year-old and he was poor, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining great things. He imagined the glass jar he found to be something great, even when it was from a wet plastic bag which smelled like rotten banana. There was no genie inside, but he admired it like it was a gold bar.

He went home with the glass jar and a big smile that night. Because he sold enough items to the junk shop, he was able to buy eggs and a kilo of rice.

At dinner, he proudly put his glass on their table, after washing and making sure it didn’t smell like rotten banana anymore. Sure it won’t grant him three wishes, but without anyone knowing, that glass became the only thing he had closest to wealth—the only thing he can call his own. He couldn’t trade it for anything.

Not even after three days, big guys came to demolish their whole neighborhood. Like a choir they chorused, “Time to leave this place, squat rats!”

Andoy helplessly looked at his father. “What are we going to do?” he asked, his heart raising and stomach growling.

When his father didn’t answer and he’s sure there was nothing they could do, he only thought of one thing to save—his glass jar. Andoy left their house with his mother and father.

They didn’t know that outside their house, the situation was worse. People were fighting and running and the houses were being destroyed.

As they tried to escape, Andoy accidentally tripped. Of all the times he could have been clumsy, his feet chose that moment, and over a dead body. In his horror and dread, he screamed. The screaming, the panic, the people running around him, and hands—seemingly out of nowhere—pulling him up got Andoy’s mind off the glass jar. It slipped from his hands and, like his dreams and faith for good things, it shattered to million pieces. ***

It rained and many storms passed; trees fell down and new seeds were planted. Thirteen years of day and night cycles, the demolished area was turned into a subdivision. All of the violent and bloody memories were buried beneath the posh houses’ new tiled floors—no one remembered except the man who had just moved in a glass house. There he stood, about to

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cut the red ribbon by his door entrance. It swayed in the warm breeze of May like teasing a kid to open his birthday gift. He held the scissors with his callused hands, and with a quick motion the ribbon fell and touched the ground. Everyone around him applauded.

When the house blessing was over, all the visitors went to the garden where an Olympic-sized pool and a long buffet table welcomed them.

The mayor, who surprisingly accepted the invitation, asked, “Where did you get the idea of its architectural design?”

The man looked at his house proudly and smiled, “Once there was a boy who used to wander the streets. While he was searching for scraps or food to eat, he found a glass jar. It has nothing on it—not a single coin—but he still decided to keep it.”

“And then the authorities decided that their place needed to be demolished. They destroyed everything, sir. Anyway, this boy’s glass jar was one of the many things that has been destroyed.”

The man paused, giving it a moment, like people do when they talk about a loved one who passed away. Then he added, “And that broken glass jar inspired this house.”

The mayor just stared at the man, his lips midway to a mocking smile of disbelief.

“That’s the irony of this all,” the man said, amusement flooded his voice. “The ghost of the things you failed to protect haunts you, urging a change in your perception and your dreams. How about I ask you one thing, sir. Do you mind?”

“No. Go ahead.”

“How can you just build over something you shattered?”

“I-I don’t get what you mean,” the mayor stuttered. He pretended to answer a call and excused himself.

The man just shrugged, satisfied with the mayor’s reaction. He walked toward one of the glass windows. He still cannot believe that he was able to piece it all together. His reflection revealed a fine man with scars both visible and unseen to other people. The eyes stared back at him, innocently and endearing as if saying, “Look at me. Recognize me.”

“Excuse me.” A woman approached him, breaking his thoughts from wandering. The man turned to her as she asks, “I believe you are Sir Prince Anthony Tamayo, the owner of this house?”

The man just stared at her blankly.

“I’m sorry, am I wrong?”

“Yes. No! I mean yes. I’m Mr. Tamayo and no, you’re not wrong. Sorry,” he laughed, and reminded himself—he finally deserves his real name.

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Lihim May sakit sa loob ng libog na siya namang binabalutan ng manipis na tela ng pag-ibig.

Nang iyong tanggalin ang tela, ‘di ka naman nagulat sa natagpuan.

Tinuloy mo lang ang pagbukas hanggang makita mo ang sakit: parang bato, umiilaw Na biglang tumalon patungo sa paanan ng pintuan Hinabol mo naman ang sakit na siyang sumiksik sa espasyo sa pagitan ng pinto at ng sahig Hinabol mo pa rin, binuksan ang pinto at bumungad sa iyo ang kalawakan

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Voice recordings ni Dr. Lazaro Marquez

C

hief, ‘eto na po ‘yung pinapakuha n’yo,” Inabot ng lalaking naka-uniporme kay Chief Inspector Agosto Peji ang isang 32 gigabyte na flash drive, envelop na naglalaman ng mga litrato ng nasunog na klinika kahapon, forensic report, at DNA test results tungkol sa pagkakakilanlan ng namatay sa sunog. Humigop muna ng mainit na kap eng barako ang inspektor bago abutin ang mga ito at ilagay sa tabi ng kanyang laptop. “

“Salamat, Karlo. Baka pinakinggan n’yo ‘yung na-retrieve na audio files galing sa nakitang recorder ha?”

Biro ng inspektor kay PO3 Karlo Roque.

“Nako, sir, hindi po.”

“Good.” Humigop muli ito ng kape. “Dumagdag pa ‘tong sunog na ‘to. Ang dami na ngang reports ng nawawala simula nang magsimula itong taon. Ta’s kahapon lang may nakatakas pa d’yan sa Bilibid—‘yung Dizon daw na sumaksak kay Kapitan Lucio. Busy-busy-han na tayo.” Hinawi n’ya ang mga nakakalat na papeles sa kanyang mesa at inilatag ang files ng bagong report.

“Hmm, ‘nga pala, may nakuha pa ba kayong info tungkol dito?” tinapik-tapik n’ya ang flash drive sabay tingin sa mga litrato at reports.

“Ay, opo. Kay Dr. Marquez ‘yung recorder sa crime scene. Sabi ng mga kakilala n’ya, protocol daw po kasi n’ya ang mag-record ng cases ng pasyente n’ya. Parang pinaka journal na raw po n’ya.”

“Ah. O s’ya, itse-check ko muna ‘tong mga ‘to ha. Good work.”

“Salamat po, sir.”

Pagkaalis ni Karlo, tiningnan ng inspektor ang mga litrato at umiling-iling. Kinuha nito ang flash drive at ipinalsak sa USB port ng laptop. Nang na-read na ang flash drive, binuksan n’ya ang unang file mula sa recorder na nakita sa naabong Marquez Private Clinic at ipinalsak ang earphones sa kanyang tainga. *** 2010-02-06_recording11.mp3 (LALAKI 1): GIBO: RODOLFO: DR. MARQUEZ: (BABAE 2): DR. MARQUEZ: CECILIA: RODOLFO: DR. MARQUEZ: RODOLFO: 62

Ipasok n’yo. Ihiga n’yo rito. Anong nangyari kay Gibo, Mang Rodolfo?

Aray! Aray! Masakit. Ang hapdi!

Nakagat po ng aso, dok. E gago kasi, sinipa, ayan tuloy.

Kaninong aso?

Sa’min po. Lasing po ata kasi ‘yang si Gibo eh.

Tatanga-tanga kasi.

May anti-rabies ho ba ang aso n’yo, Aling Cecilia?

Ay nako, palagay ko ho wala, dok. Asong gala lang ho ata ‘yung si Blackie. Pumunta lang ho ‘yon sa’min ta’s pinakain ng mister ko. Simula noon hindi na po umalis sa bahay.

Eh kawawa naman kasi ‘yung aso.

Ano pong ginawa n’yo sa sugat?

Oy, Randy, ano bang ginawa mo sa sugat ng kuya mo?

RANDY: GIBO: DR. MARQUEZ:

Hinugasan lang po ng sabon tas pinahiran ng dinikdik na bawang.

Gagong aso ‘yon! Ikakaldereta ko talaga ‘yung hayop na ‘yon! Aray!

Good. Hmm. May kagat sa magkabilang hita tapos ay meron din sa braso. Sige. Tuturukan ko ng bakuna ta’s lilinisin at tatahiin na rin ang sugat. Maupo muna kayo.

2010-02-09_recording14.mp3 DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY: DR. MARQUEZ: GIBO: DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY:

DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY: DR. MARQUEZ:

Ayan, naiturok ko na ang pangalawang injection. Kailangan n’yo pa ring bumalik sa a trese at a bente para sa pangatlo at pang-apat na session.

Sige po, dok.

So, wala ka bang nararamdamang mali o kakaiba, Gibo?

Panghihina lang po, dok.

Sige sige.

Dok, kinulong po namin ‘yung aso na kumagat. Parang nanghihina ho. Ayaw ho kumain at ungol nang ungol.

Tapos ‘diba ho sabi ng matatanda eh ‘pag daw ho na-ulol ang aso, masisiraan daw rin ho ng bait ‘yung kinagat? Doble bantay na rin ho tuloy kami kay Gibo.

(Napatawa) Nako, ‘di totoo ‘yon. Walang ano mang koneksyon ang aso at biktima nito pagkatapos makagat.

Matandang paniniwala lang ‘yon.

(Mapapatawa rin) Palagay ko rin po, dok. Para namang magic ‘yon. Pero sige po, dok. Balik na lang po kami.

Sige sige. God bless.

2010-02-13_recording15.mp3 RANDY: DR. MARQUEZ:

RANDY: DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY:

Dok, ‘yung aso ho, parang nagiging mabangis. Naglalaway tapos eh nginangatngat ‘yung kawayan n’yang kulungan.

T’as nanlilisik ang tingin sa lahat ng dumadaan sa’min.

Gano’n talaga. Sign ‘yon na may rabies ang aso. Meron na ring virus ang aso kaya’t nagkakagano’n s’ya. ‘Yon ang dahilan kung bakit nauulol ang aso. Dahil din do’n, maaring mamatay na s’ya pagkatapos ng dalawa, hanggang tatlo o apat na araw.

Nako, gano’n po ba? Sasabihin ko na lang kay Aling Cecilia at Mang Rodolfo mamaya.

Sige. Sa January 20 ang huling turok ha? Wag kalimutan.

Opo. Salamat, dok.

2010-02-20_recording18.mp3 DR. MARQUEZ: GIBO:

Ayan, huling turok mo na ‘yon Gibo. Wag ka nang maninipa ng aso ha?

(Natatawa) Opo, doc.

2010-02-28_recording26.mp3

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DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY: DR. MARQUEZ: RANDY:

DR. MARQUEZ:

Hala! Ipasok n’yo. Pasok! Ihiga n’yo. Anong nangyari?

Ewan ko po, dok! Sobrang taas ho ng lagnat.

Kinukumbulsyon nga ho ata. Tapos po tumirik ang mata at bumula ang bibig.

O s’ya, s’ya. Ako na ang bahala.

Dok, ‘yung aso ho pala, patay na. Bago ho ‘yung oras na lagnatin si Gibo eh bigla na lang daw hong tumigil sa pag kahol si Blackie at pagtingin nina Mang Rodolfo, patay na.

Hala dok, baka nga totoo ‘yung sabi-sabi ng matatanda.

Sabi ko sa’yo, hindi totoo ‘yon. Iwan mo muna rito si Gibo.

Kumuha ka ng damit n’ya. Ako na ang bahala.

2010-03-01_recording27.mp3 DR. MARQUEZ:

Dilated ang mga mata. 40 celsius ang lagnat. Malalim ang paghinga at masyadong mabilis ang respiratory rate.

Tapos, masyadong mabilis ang pulse at heart rate. Delikado ‘to.

2010-03-01_recording28.mp3 (May bumagsak na baso, at kung anu-ano pang stainless na kagamitan) DR. MARQUEZ:

Sino ka? Ano ka?!

(Malakas na alulong ng aso. Tunog ng napupunit na tela. Maririnig ang malakas na paghinga at yabag ng takbo ni Dr. Marquez.)

2010-03-01_recording29.mp3 DR. MARQUEZ:

(Hinihingal) Kung… kung sino man ang makakakuha ng recorder na ‘to. Kung maisasalba pa ‘to, gusto kong malaman n’yo na may isang kung anong nilalang ang humahabol sa’kin. Nakatayo ito sa dalawang paa at mabuhok. Nanlilisik ang mga mata, naglalaway, at mahahaba ang kuko. Nasa kabilang kuwarto ako ng clinic.

(Maingay ang pagbagsak ng mga kagamitan sa kabilang kuwarto.)

DR. MARQUEZ:

Hawak ko ang isang malaking medicine bottle at sinasalinan ko ito ngayon ng gasolina. (Maririnig ang tunog ng napupunit na damit) Gamit ang pinilas na damit ko na nilagyan ng alcohol, tatakpan ko ang bote. Isa itong Molotov. Papatayin ko ang halimaw na…

(Bumukas ang pinto at humiyaw ang kung anong hayop. Rinig ang tunog ng pagkiskis ng posporo sa kahon at ang pagsirit ng ningas nito.) *** Tinanggal ni Inspector Peji ang earphones sa kanyang tainga. Dinampot n’ya ang mga litrato ng sunog na bangkay, ang papel kung saan nakasulat ang detalye ng imbestigasyon sa krimen, at DNA test results tungkol sa identipikasyon ng bangkay. Nakasaad sa mga papeles na hindi pa rin alam kung nasaan si Dr. Lazaro Marquez at ang labi naman ay kinilalang si Gibo Matias.

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Anino Anino’y nananahan sa ilalim ng buwan sundan mo nang marahan at may patutunguhan.

65

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Wheelie

V

iktor can only sigh at his life. He wished that he could have a different owner, but he knows a dream is just a dream. The elevator doors opened, a nd he co u l d j u s t i m a g i n e th e an g e l o f d ea th d esc en d i n g to m eet hi m.

“He llo, ba by . C ar e f o r a r i d e to d a y ? ” V i k to r shi v ered a s he hea rd hi s owner ’ s voice. He could only sigh as cheers emanated from the other cars in the condominium’s parking lot when they saw his owner—and those who cheered were either depraved perverts or those bruised with cracks and scratches.

“Sure, Marc,” Viktor felt his sides creak and snap as Marc opened his door and got in. “You dipshit.” Marc is a boisterous man with an attitude that can melt metal and make smoke fumigate from every orifice of his mechanical body.

“Damn, that really hurt!” his wheels screeched in pain as they revved off out into the open road.

Smirking, Marc switched on the radio. Viktor could feel his insides vibrate from the radio’s wailing distortions. He wished that the reverberation inside him would stop, but his owner was still feeling the rush of dopamine that the music induces.

They stopped under a tree near the road. The car thought that his master would get out, but for some reason, he stayed. Then from the rearview mirror, Viktor saw it.

Marc was stripping off his clothes. Sliding his pants off, he looked at the rearview mirror and slid down the seats to do what couples in heat would do—shove dicks in holes until they climatically explode. Viktor can only stare in shock from the fornication happening right inside him. Marc may be a jerk, but never did he think that his owner will try to do debauchery to him. Viktor’s groans turned into grunts as he felt the heat rise from his clutch, repeatedly ramming Marc’s exhaust. By chance and excessive sweat, Marc slipped on the sweat-covered leather seat and accidentally kicked Viktor. Viktor screamed in agony, alarming the attention of a guard nearby.

“Shit!” Marc hissed, fumbling for his clothes before he gets caught with pants down. Viktor rolled down the passenger window facing the guard and laughed as Marc greeted the guard with an awkward smile.

Back at the parking lot, Marc slammed the door so hard. Worse, he lashed out and kicked Viktor’s sides, denting them. The other cars looked and smirked at him as if a slut trotted among them. Viktor can feel the headlights of other cars focused on him. He realized he needs to take care of his owner—no matter how absurd and awful Marc’s actions may be.

When Viktor saw Marc coming out of the elevator again days later, he found himself excited. Driving along the unused grasslands of subdivisions, they halted in the middle of a big bushy field. Viktor thought Marc will encore what he did the last time they got out. Thinking of what his master will do, Viktor decided to play—he

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knew that Marc would fuck him again. Viktor felt Marc’s caresses, with Marc’s finger pressing the button that made Viktor’s trunk pop up. Victor has never had his system this hot. He hoped that he could make him burst in flames just by heating up. Then Marc unzipped his pants.

“Hello, honey,” Marc said seductively. Viktor played along, waiting for the excitement to rush into Marc. After enough strokes, Viktor felt Marc’s excitement.

All of Viktor’s lights flashed as he, along with Marc, were now experiencing orgasm.

In an ear-piercing finish, Marc grunted as Viktor’s hood popped open. The passion and lust left both of them panting, but satisfied.

Is this even real? Viktor thought, his insides filled with jazz music. From that moment on, every moment with his master made his engines rev up and dance. After every ordeal though, Marc subdues him with a flurry of kicks. Nevertheless, he still treated Marc as someone worth his respect.

That is until one night, at the parking, he saw Marc get out of the elevator dressed in a suit—someone else dressed in heels and smeared with make-up. He felt his gas tank rumble, like the way his exhaust would vibrate from exhaling smoke. As Marc opened the door for the girl, Viktor noticed something in Marc’s smile that was never there, even during their times together. His engines rev up in ire.

They stopped at the field where he and Marc have fucked for the first time. Not here, you asshole! Viktor thought. With heavy moans, the field brimmed of euphoric echoes of lust from Marc and his girl.

Viktor adjusted himself backwards, pushing the couple into the ground. He reversed himself further onto the pair, as Marc and his girl screamed out their ecstasyridden agony.

“No hard feelings, fuckers,” he said to the severed bodies of the humans who broke him.

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Sa dulo ng punglo tagos sa kaibuturan ng puso Laon nang batid, laon nang handa: pumatay, mamatay… mapatay!!!

Ngunit tanggap din ba kung pumatay ng kalahi mamatay nang walang laban mapatay ng mga nagnanasa ng “katahimikan”?

Balintuna ang umagang yaon…

Pumasok sa kutang ‘di na nagisnan ang paglabas Mabangis na binistay ng bala ng mga inaakalang kapatid Sumunod sa utos ng lisyang pinuno mula sa payong dalisay … at basbas ng piping Pinoy Ah! Tagumpay na binalot ng mga bigong pangarap!

Ang pagtaas ba ng mga kamay ay tanda ng pagsuko o kawalan na ng pag-asa para sa kapayapaan?

Ang paglilibing ba ng inyong mga bangkay ay huling hantungan o huling hibla na ng minimithing kasunduan?

Ang inyo bang kabayanihan ay alaala o bangungot ng punong naghahangad ng tuwid na daan?

Sinlalim sana ng pagdukit ng mga mata ang maging pagsisiyasat Simbilis sana ng paglagos ng punglo sa bungo ang nasang katarungan Sinlawak sana ng sumabog na laman ang mithing kapayapaan Pagkat kung hindi (huwag sana)…

Patuloy na magbabaga ang dulo ng mga sandata!

Di mapapatid ang tibok ng mga pusong sawi!! at Walang pagmamaliw ang ipinamana ninyong KABAYANIHAN!!!

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Detour Noong bata ka pa may iba kang pangarap, Prinsipyo na nalusaw sa mundong pitumpung porsyentong tubig Kaya ang iyong isip ay hindi na muling nilisan ang lupa Natakot na ang bagong ambisyon ay lunuring muli ng mundo ‘Di wari na kabiyak ng tubig at lupa ang hangin at puwedeng lumipad.

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Blood, steel, and the miles between

F

rom the ground where Belen Peralta lay hidden in the woods, the canopy of leaves above her seemed to have woven themselves across the orange clouds as they stretched out into the horizon ahead. She gazed at the tapestry and realized she had never seen anything look so ominous and beautiful all at once.

If only my sister can see such a heartbreaking sight for herself—

Thinking about Ricahermosa brought a new surge of pain in her throat, almost choking her, and Belen quickly wiped her eyes before the tears even escaped. She may be out of touch, Belen thought, but she is not beyond saving.

The forest was a deep labyrinth, and in a few moments it will be touched by a kind of darkness that could create all sorts of fears inside Belen, even though she grew up more than accustomed to the dark. Rica wouldn’t be scared. The darkness is the only familiar thing in her sister’s life after all.

The only difference is that she didn’t choose it that way while Belen had always sought it out.

As soon as the sky grew dim, Belen prepared to walk. She wore her last pair of clean shirt and pants, and carried her weapons in a brown duffel bag that hung on her right shoulder. Her 71

bandaged arm was not as weak as it was three days before. On all accounts, Belen could still fight.

Her body might be broken in some places, but her mind is not. Soon she will get to the compound and confront Mikoletto, her ex-husband. His savagery knew no bounds, and Belen knew she had to end it once and for all. The more she thought about him, the fiercer her rage grew. Rica had seen with her heart who he truly is, Belen thought. She felt the helplessness about to gnaw at her again.

How could I have been the blind one?

The pathway was covered with tall shrubbery. With her good arm, Belen took out her bolo knife and hacked through them as she stepped into the clearing with caution. Doing so right-handed was a challenge, but her other arm, which she sprained just a week ago, was still sore and she didn’t want to put more pressure to it than necessary. After hacking for a few minutes, Belen finally stopped on her tracks. Using her bandaged arm, she carefully reached out for the map inside the breast pocket of her worn-out jacket. Her other hand found the small flashlight in her pants and she bit into it as she examined the map. The route she’s supposed to trail was close.

Belen pocketed the map and the flashlight in one place this time. She couldn’t risk using light to navigate her way through the jungle. Anything that will illuminate her movements and location at hand is dangerous. Besides, Belen has been on-the-run and in hiding for so long that she knew how to read the nature around her even in this tar-black obscurity. Her life, the one she had before Mikoletto stole away her innocence, was nothing but a scrimmaging memory in the constant haze of what is ahead of her now. She dared not to clutch too tightly on nostalgia. It almost got her killed once, and that was a mistake she could not risk making again.

Belen trudged along the woods in haste and stealth, looking sideways only to remember the patterns emerging in the directions she’s walking into. She could hear the steady stream of water from the first river. Belen crouched and lowered her right hand. The sensation of rocks and broken branches on the tips of her fingers warned her that she should walk slower now or she might injure herself. Belen pulled herself up and blinked to adjust her eyesight. The moon was just above her and the shafts of faint light coming from it were enough to help her locate the nearest shallow surface of the river. When she found it, Belen submerged herself into the water. It was only waist-deep. That was good. She hugged the duffel bag against her chest as she crossed.

When she reached the other side, Belen took off her drenched underwear and stuffed it inside her bag. She still has one pair of shorts left so she put that on instead and then her pants. Belen listened to the serenity around her and did not find it comforting. Making her way into the woods shouldn’t be this easy for long. She prepared herself for any ambush that could take place. When she’s on her feet again, Belen took out her revolver and checked the chamber. It was full, but she doesn’t have any spare bullets. With her dwindling provisions, she doesn’t have much time.

She put on the holster with the revolver inside it around her upper torso, just below the armpit where its shape pressed against her bare skin as she walked. Its brass outline was a comforting reminder that she could still fight and win this. *** The piano keys felt dirty underneath her fingers. She traced them with sadness and apprehension.

Ricahermosa imagined that their whiteness has dissolved and rusted beyond recognition. They’re tainted, like the pollution that blemished my soul.

Still, she pressed into them and let their sound occupy the spacious, empty room. It hovered around her, singular and complete. Without sight, her solitude is consuming, a widening chasm of noises with people she will never know completely.

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Ricahermosa persevered. She had music to make sense of the gaps in her life, and it was her most earnest way to explore the world. But these days, since she allowed Mikoletto Montegro to take a large portion of her life, it would seem that all other options of communication have become more inaccessible. She thought nothing could be darker as the darkness she was born with.

While lost in her futile attempt to play the piano, Ricahermosa felt someone behind her. The goose bumps on her nape made the presence impossible to ignore. When the hands touched her shoulders, she almost winced away. She felt the breath on her temple and the sensation of lips pressed against it. Each kiss from him destroys her into splinters and shards every single time. She would have closed her eyes and opened them again in the pitiful hope she would see anything; to finally ascribe an appearance into the tangible things she could touch and hold, including his face.

She wanted to see him just so she could shred his face apart.

“I haven’t heard you play in a while,” he murmured. He kissed her exposed shoulder blade while one hand cupped her chin to keep her in place. “What changed?” His questions, though spoken gently, are always intrusive.

Ricahermosa replied, “I was afraid you might sell it if I don’t use it.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” his hands lowered from her chin to her chest. His palm pressed against her heart as if he was preparing to rip it out. “This piano is an antique and an important piece of your childhood. It could never be disposable. It hurts me that you would think I don’t treasure your things as much as you do.”

He swivelled the wheeled chair she sat on so he could comb his fingers through her hair. “I’ll burn the world down if it means your happiness, Rica.”

Why would that make me happy? She could only nod meekly. “If you say so.”

He said nothing to that. He merely traced a finger through the loose strands of hair from her left temple. With a creepy tenderness, he put them in place.

Ricahermosa didn’t have to touch his mouth to know he’s smiling, but she reached out just the same. Belen once described his face as a picture of a scenic view in a postcard and that his smile was the reason people come to see the place.

Her sister always described things to Ricahermosa even if it’s always pointless because she will never get to imagine them anyway. Ricahermosa was born with the affliction. To her, descriptions are words in the wind, but Belen never stopped. Her sister doesn’t get discouraged easily after all, which is why it took her a while to see for herself the kind of man Mikoletto is. She persisted on her vision of him and Ricahermosa despised her for it, and she paid the price for her sister’s lack of intuition.

After all, she alone had the chance to listen to his words and not be deceived by his face. And every time he would touch her when they were alone—Ricahermosa knew he is not the type of man to ever handle anything with care and affection, even when he’s being gentle, it still feels like he’s clawing your flesh. She could always detect any sign of anger through the intervals in his breathing, and the boiling sensation of his rage could scald her even without direct physical contact. Even with her sister in the room, Ricahermosa is always able to sense Mikoletto’s desire for her, and it was sticky like adhesive in her pores that she could never scrub away.

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“It’s time,” Mikoletto said, the cadence of his voice so gentle as if he was saying the words in prayer. He put his both arms around Ricahermosa and carried her to bed. And then Mikoletto hovered above her with his hands on either side of her body, gripping the sheets. He breathed normally at first and then he started coughing. As he made gagging noises on top of her, Ricahermosa, almost instinctively, began to recite the lyrics to Belen’s favorite song. She did this under her breath as Mikoletto growled and growled until she could feel all his heaviness resting against her chest and stomach. Ricahermosa kept her arms on her side, still mouthing the verses that did little to comfort or prepare her for what was happening above her.

She only knew that the process was complete once she smelled the stench of wet fur and felt the prickling sensation of his pelt against her own skin. A trail of saliva dripped to her collarbones as Mikoletto—this heinous creature who is no longer a man—leaned lower to lick her lips. Ricahermosa did close her eyes this time, allowing the tears to flow. She felt Mikoletto pulling away but only for a moment.

It only took mere seconds before he plunged into her, crowning her head with the rest of his gaping mouth as he coated her face and hair with his saliva so he could ease her girth into his oral passage. His large arms wrapped themselves around the rest of her body as he slowly but surely slid her inside. There was nothing graceful about it except for the fact that it was a bloodless act only because Mikoletto is able to retract his fangs so he wouldn’t bite her or tear her flesh apart.

Ricahermosa willed herself not to breathe, pretending she was merely submerged in sticky, filthy water. It’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon, she reassures herself over and over but never believed it. *** Belen crouched on the ground, hidden among the trees.

The safe house where Mikoletto kept Ricahermosa was only a few yards away. It was a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere which should frighten anyone who would ever come across it, which was why the mountain bike parked in front of the cabin puzzled Belen. She knew it couldn’t have been Mikoletto’s. Keeping Ricahermosa cut off from the rest of human civilization was his topmost priority. He couldn’t just let anyone visit or wander by accident.

Belen stretched herself up and tentatively approached the cabin.

Just as she neared the bike in the entrance, she heard a woman scream. *** What kind of boyfriend would leave his girl by herself in the woods? A stupid shit, that is! Lisa would have thrown her cell phone against a tree out of frustration, but it’s probably her only means of communication with the outside world.

She could hardly believe that it was already mid-afternoon, and she had been riding her bike for ages now, going around in circles like she’s in a trap. The shrubbery is extra high which obscured her line of vision as she collided with a rather large rock planted firmly on the ground. Her knees got scraped and she had run out of water to drink an hour ago. Exhausted, afraid and so, so, so fucking angry, Lisa tried calling anyone in her contacts but there was no cell coverage.

Fifteen minutes passed before she decided that the only way out of here is to ride herself out of 74

the goddamn forest especially now that the sky has gotten dim. She tried to be more conscientious of her surroundings, memorizing her own landmarks so she doesn’t get lost again. Pretty soon, she made a correct turn somehow and found herself facing a cabin. Her heart almost leapt out of her chest as she rushed toward it.

Frantically, she knocked on the door. “Hello? Please, someone help me!”

It took a few more knocks before the door opened and an old woman peered outside to meet her gaze. Lisa smiled back in relief at her. She began. “My name is Lisa Manalo, and I got stranded in this forest. Do you have a phone I can use so I can call for my friends? I’m terribly sorry to bother you but it’s getting dark and I have no place to go…” in spite of herself, she began to tear up again.

“Of course, my dear,” the old woman wearily returned her smile. “Come in.”

Once inside, Lisa hugged the old woman, ignoring whatever propriety is required in this situation. Screw that shit, she’s just happy to find another living soul in this place! The old woman chuckled in her embrace but said nothing until Lisa finally pulled away from her. “Are you hungry?” she inquired.

No reason to fake courtesy now. “Not really, but do you have some water?”

The old woman gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs. Lisa waited patiently as the old woman turned to a corner, possibly leading to the pantry. When she returned a few minutes after, the old woman handed her a glass of water. Lisa thanked her again as she gulped the water down, allowing the cold liquid in her throat wash the rest of her worries away. She’s safe now. She can go home.

Suddenly, the old woman was seized by a violent cough. She dropped the tray and the rest of its contents on the floor. Lisa hurriedly led her to a chair and rubbed her palm behind the woman’s

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back. “Are you sick? Do you need to drink something for that?” Before the old woman could reply, Lisa picked up the ham and bread from the floor and placed them on the empty seat next to them.

She patted Lisa on the knee as the younger girl looked at her with obvious concern. “Can you walk me to my bed over there?”

As soon as the old woman lay down on the mattress, Lisa tucked her under with a blanket.

That was when she noticed the old woman’s hands. She decided to ask, almost sheepishly.

“What happened to your hands?”

The hands in question looked out of place from the rest of the old woman’s body. The thick fingers were as brown and wrinkly as overcooked sausages. The nails looked as if they were clumsily clipped or bitten with irregularly-trimmed tips and a few coagulated blood seeping through. Lisa turned slightly away from them in discomfort. She tried to change the subject but the old woman answered.

“I use my hands for work, dear.” The old woman’s smile was gentle as she explained. “I use them to plant, to sew, to chop myself some wood on the shed in case it gets too cold and I need warmth from the hearth.”

Lisa let out a nervous chuckle. The old woman placed her hand on top of Lisa’s and the younger girl was tempted to draw away because the appearance still mortifies her. Ignoring that instinct, Lisa took a chair and placed herself near the bed so she could comfort the old woman.

Some time during the silence, the old woman’s eyelids drooped until she now had them close. Is she feigning sleep? Lisa was starting to get annoyed but immediately felt guilty about it. “Can you hear me?’ she tried again.

The old woman opened her eyes—perhaps a little too wide. Far, far too wide.

They were practically bulging from the sockets.

What— “—the fuck is wrong with your eyes?!” Lisa took several steps back, knocking down the chair behind her. She should run but the old woman’s gaze froze her in place as she sat up the bed, a playful smirk touching her lips.

“I use my eyes for leisure, dear.” Her smile didn’t falter as she explained in the most soothing of voices. “I use them to see clearly in the dark when I’m out to hunt for prey. I use them to see from miles away where I spotted you coming close to my house.” With a quick jolt and a swish of the blanket, the old woman was on her feet, making her way towards Lisa who stumbled back, grabbing at the table. She pushed it to block the old woman’s way as Lisa headed to the door.

It took her some time to twist the fucking knob. Her hands were numb and cold and kept slipping. She knew she shouldn’t look behind her but she can’t resist. Turning abruptly, she saw the old woman transforming into something gigantic and hairy. The creature’s head almost collided with the ceiling as it towered above her, snarling. As soon as it opened its mouth to devour her, Lisa screamed.

She didn’t stop screaming even as the creature started to laugh at her distress. And then talked.

The fucker even talked! “I know, I know,” it said and it sounded as if it was giggling. “My mouth is enormous. I use it to swallow my food in just one swoop. I will use my fangs to drain the blood from your body once you’re inside my mouth and constricted in my throat”

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With open furry arms, the creature beckoned.

“FUCKSHIT!” was Lisa’s last word as it grabbed her by her hips and shoved her inside his gargantuan orifice. *** It’s not every day that your monsters can be literal.

But, honestly, Belen had no time to philosophize the encounter because she was too busy echoing the other girl’s scream when she shouted “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” as she pulled the revolver from its safety and pointed it at the window.

Everything shatters in that moment and for a while the sound of the bullet zooming through as it splinters the glass deafened everything else around them.

The bullet managed to maim the creature in its left eye. It choked on the body shoved in its mouth. The girl earlier was already waist-deep inside the creature but Belen could tell she was alive especially when her arms struggled to pull the rest of her body out of the gaping hell-hole. She succeeded eventually when the creature twisted around the place, one paw covering the bleeding eye, too busy trying to cope with the pain to notice that his food was fighting to get out. The girl ejected herself by reaching out with a free hand and pushing her palm on what must have been the creature’s nose, and she slipped out of the mouth with the filthiest slurping sound ever heard by humanity. Covered in foul-smelling saliva, she slid down to the floor, far too shaken and repulsed to move or say anything until Belen climbed up through the window, stepping on the shards of glass, to grab her out of the way. “Shit, shit, shit…!” she muttered as she dragged the poor girl.

Belen could feel her teeth chatter in fear and panic. She had to drop the gun just so she could use her uninjured arm to pull the other girl to a corner near the antique piano.

Still, she bravely placed herself between the creature and the saliva-soaked girl, picked up the revolver again, and aimed. The second bullet hit the creature’s throat, and the worst thing that could ever happen, happened. It threw up on Belen.

Belen totally lost it now. “PUTANG INA KA!” Unable to see because of the disgusting bile covering the rest of her, Belen just kept firing until the chamber on her gun was empty. She quickly wiped her face with one arm so she can stare at the damage before her. The creature was on the ground, barely breathing. The slow rise and fall of its furry chest was an infuriating indication and warning that it still lived. Belen walked toward it, passing by the long expanse of its body before she reached its head.

She grabbed one of the chairs on the floor, and then she repeatedly and forcefully tried to break it apart against the floor with all the strength she has left on her one arm. Once she was holding one of its wooden legs, she wasted no time impaling it on the creature’s throat. Relief washed over her instantly but Belen didn’t have time to mull over her success. Limping, she began to run around the room, opening doors to a bedroom, the kitchen, and then the bathroom. No sign of Ricahermosa whatsoever. Belen started knocking on walls and floorboards, hoping there was a hollow space where she could be hidden, but to no avail. Finally, she stepped out of the cabin again and went around it in circles, calling her sister’s name as loud as she could but only the echo of her desperation returned from the depths of the forest’s darkness.

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For a brief minute, Belen just stood there by the doorway, fighting every instinct she has to collapse and sob. She was just about to surrender to that weakening pain in her stomach when she heard the other girl speaking from inside the cabin. Belen forgot about her, too consumed by the numbness of it all. Turning her head to acknowledge her, she asked. “What did you say?”

“I said thank you,” she gripped at the ledge of a sofa near the broken window to steady herself as she stood up, and added. “I think I heard someone inside.”

Belen wasn’t paying attention anymore. She was checking her bandaged arm and all the other new wounds she might have sustained. But the girl wouldn’t shut up. “There’s a voice. I remember trying to get out of its mouth and I heard someone telling me that…it will all be over soon. A girl.

She said I should just close my eyes and stop struggling. It was…a hallucination? I don’t know.”

Belen looked at her again, eyes narrowing, “ The fuck are you talking about?”

“There was someone inside that—” she pointed at the dead monster on the floor. “A girl. I swear she was real. I felt her fingers…”

But Belen had already rushed to the creature’s side, prying its mouth open. She fought her disgust as she cautiously slipped her head inside its grotesque hole. With nothing to lose, she whispered her sister’s name. She half-laughed and half-choked on her tears, feeling utterly ridiculous but hopeful all the same.

And her sister’s tiny voice, buried in the bile and filth of the creature’s hell-hole, answered her back. Belen let out a shriek and immediately headed toward the kitchen to grab all the knives she could manage. She dropped the rest of them on the floor as she picked the largest one and began to chop through the fur and the hard muscle underneath. The other girl just stood there awestruck for a few minutes, watching Belen almost fanatically slice and cut through everything, whispering her sister’s name, promising her that she’s here and that she will never leave her again.

The length of steel glistened red and brown as Belen sawed her way in the chest cavity without stopping for breath or rest. The other girl was transfixed as she observed. Belen’s eyes shimmered with something positively alive and it scared her.

Finally, the other girl decided to help. She groaned every once in awhile as she hacked her own portion of the body, flinching away from the bits and pieces of rotten flesh flying across the room because of Belen’s excitement, but she was surprisingly supportive all the way through. Dropping their knives, they sank their fingers through the delicate marrow in the stomach where they felt a definable bulge and peeled it off as carefully as they could. More blood flowed accompanied by an unmistakable rancid smell. The other girl stumbled back and threw up on her hands and knees.

Belen was pulling her sister out of the gory mess, clutching her by the shoulders then by the hips as she dragged her out of the creature once and for all. Sobbing and rejoicing, Belen wound her arms around Ricahermosa, refusing to ever let her go even when her body was craving for fresh air; even when they were still caked in the nauseous chaos of the monster’s carcass. What mattered right now was that her sister’s head lay there on her chest, that she had both eyes wide open as she reached up to touch Belen’s face, unseeing as always, but madly joyful to be reunited with her.

Ricahermosa started crying now, and the tears mingled with the blood on her cheeks. Belen chuckled as she tried to wipe them off with her hand which was just as drenched in filth as the rest of her. But neither sister cared. Tightening her embrace around Belen, Ricahermosa held onto her until she drew her final breath.

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Atas Parating na ang atas gaano man ang lakas kahit magpupumiglas, hindi makatatakas.

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Inuugat Kailan makakatungtong Sa baitang ng ‘Yong dunong?

Dumaan ang mga siglong Pitas nang pitas ng tanong.

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Sa isang iglap Sa unang araw ng semestre, inilatag niya ang mga paraphernalia na gagamitin sa kanyang unang pagtatanghal.

Tumindig siya sa harap ng mga estudyante tangan ang isang manipis na salansan ng mga papel at sinimulang ikumpas ang whiteboard marker kasabay ng pagwika ng mga salitang tila nanggaling sa dila ng isang henyo.

Makaraan ang ilang beses na halinhinan ng araw at buwan, unti-unting naghimutok ang mga parokyano dahil sa kanyang pagtamlay dulot ng umay sa paulit-ulit na pagtatanghal.

Sa itinakdang araw ng markahan, ang mga ‘di nagsumikap ang siyang nasiyahan samantalang ang mga pursigido’y ninakawan ng ngiti ng kanyang kakayahang magbalasa ng mga baraha.

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Status update Umupo ang Diyos at nag-browse sa newsfeed. Araw-araw niya itong ginagawa nang maraming beses. Nakita niyang may bago kang status update saying, “Sad life </3” Marami ang nag-like ngunit walang nagtanong ng ‘bakit?’

Either wala silang pakialam o sanay na sila sa ‘yong kadramahan.

Tiningnan ng Diyos kung online ka nga ba at nagpasya siyang i-PM ka. Nag-appear ito sa‘yong message icon ngunit hindi mo agad napansin dahil busy ka sa pag-download ng mga picture quotes ni Marcelo Santos at mga video ni Ramon Bautista. Dumating ang gabi at tsaka mo pa lamang naisipang pansinin ang chat box ninyo ng Diyos. Pero sa sobrang dami ng loading pages at tabs na naka open sa browser mo, dumagdag pa ang seeding ng torrent, ang tangi mong nabasa sa chat box, “Failed to connect.”

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“

Her soft trailing fingers would continue to attempt a connection that I refused to allow; that I couldn’t allow if I wanted to survive.

”

— J.D. Stroube

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Writers

Maria Anthonette Gadon

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“

”

Disturbed and disturbing.

John Joseph Gementiza

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We control the universe— but are we the ones pushing the buttons?

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”

Stays in her cave all day writing and drawing portraits of Game of Thrones cast. Possessed an addiction of Trese where she’s been caught fan girling Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo. She still sleeps with the lights on.

Chelsea Ann Montilla

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Ishiel Aniñon

Her mind is a mess of stories and prose never perfected and never written.

”

”

“

Erika Uy

She is struggling to master the agonizing art of cutting ties.

”

Danielle Vince Capuno

Rochelle Rivera

Nakakabulag ang dilim at nakakasilaw ang liwanag.

For every word I write, I trade my soul— a constant bargain for immortality. And such agreement is sealed within the curves of my ink.

“

“ ”

James Wilson Ramolete

Nishtha Nigam

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He had the magnificence of the sunset coursing through his veins the way ink flows through paper.

”

“

”

“ ”

My pen is a social worker dedicated to feeding hungry paper.

Yngwie Eusebio

My heaven would be hell without alcohol, cigarettes, and you. And hell would be heaven even if there were imps peeling the skin off my body as along as they do it while I’m getting drunk with you.

”

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Contributors

Dr. Lakandupil Garcia

Crisselda Robles

Denise Anne Valentino

John Paul Gonzales

Francesca Garchitorena

Angelica Mei Dollesin

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Heidi Sarno

Artists

Ricardo Martin Cabale

Chandler Belaro

Jaimee Maniago

Enrico Paolo Topacio

Alphonse Topacio

JeďŹ&#x20AC; Treat Dimaano

Camille Joy Gallardo

Christian Mateo

Lynoelle Kyle Arayata

Rigel Almira

Jerome Quinto

Marco Belarmino

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The Official Student Publication of De La Salle University-DasmariĂąas Founded: June 1985 Member, College Editors Guild of the Philippines

Editorial Board AY 2014-2015 Crisselda F. Robles, Editor in Chief Denise Anne A. Valentino, Associate Editor Sheena Faye G. Lopez, Managing Director Daniella Shaira T. Cortez, Copy Editor John Paul R. Gonzales, Office Supervisor Florence Rio D. Bistoyong, News Editor Patricia Mae M. Estenoso, Features Editor Maria Anthonette B. Gadon, Literary Editor Krizza Mae M. Bautista, Sports Editor Chandler M. Belaro, Art Director Ricardo Martin O. Cabale, Chief Layout Artist Patricia Loise Lucero, Chief Photographer Dr. Lakandupil C. Garcia, Adviser

The Heraldo Filipino has its editorial office at Room 213, Gregoria Montoya Hall (Administration Building) De La Salle University-DasmariĂąas, Cavite, Philippines 4115.

Telephone: +63 46 481 1900 local 3063 Email: officialheraldofilipino@gmail.com Contributions, comments, suggestions, and signed letters should be addressed to the editor in chief.

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palad is the literary digest of the H eraldo F ilipino , official student publication of De La Salle Univeristy-DasmariĂąas The Literary works published in this digest remain as properties of their authors. palad Volume XVII 2014-2015

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