Palad Vol. 18

palad

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About the cover Napipitikan ng camera ang ‘di nakikita ng mga mata. *** Nakahiga sa manipis na banig si Ingkong doon sa kahoy naming bahay noong mga sandaling ‘yon. Malalim ang paghinga n’ya. Malamig sa probinsya. Sa bawat pagbaba ng dibdib ni Ingkong ay may kapiranggot na usok na tumatakas sa tuyong labi n’ya; napapawi naman agad ang usok na buhat ng lamig. Mula sa apo sa talampakan hanggang sa anak ay nakapaligid sa kanya. Gamit ang huling lakas n’ya, hinila n’ya ang maliit kong katawan at sinabitan ako ng isang kuwintas. Literal na dumilim ang paningin ko. At ang sunod kong nakita ay ang luhaang mga mata ng buong pamilya… at ang kapreng nakasilip sa bintana. Ang mga duwendeng nakatuntong sa tiyan ni Ingkong. Ang tikbalang sa may pinto na tila nakikihapis din. Sa buong paligid ay mga lumulutang na apoy na parang maliliit na sindi ng kandila.

Iniwasan ko sila.

Matagal ko silang ‘di pinansin hanggang isang umaga nang nasa bakuran ako, bumati sa ‘kin ang kapre ng, “Magandang umaga.”

Noong nakaraang mga taon, sumikat ang Humans of New York sa internet.

(Salamat, Brandon Stanton). At do’n ko naisip ang ideyang ito.

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palad

Literary Digest VOLUME XVIII 2015-2016

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palad

Literary Digest of Heraldo Filipino

Danielle Vince Capuno Palad Editor Rochelle Rivera Palad Coordinator Nishtha Nigam, John Paul Gonzales, Jose Alfonso Sacdalan, Marie Joy Sarmiento Writers Maria Antonette Gadon, John Joseph Gementiza, Cerisse Madlangbayan, Denise Ann Valentino Contributors Lynoelle Kyle Arayata, Camille Joy Gallardo, Enrico Paolo Topacio, Chandler Belaro, Lexzene Dela Cruz, Jeff Treat Dimaano, Christian Mateo, Chesleigh Nofiel, Mikaela Torres, Sheka Ignaco, Timmy Joy Lomarda Artists

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Foreword Ang Palad na hawak mo ngayon ay isang eksperimento; likha at katha ng kamay at isip ng mga manunulat na umaaktong mga siyentipikong tumutuklas ng mga bagong teorya sa uniberso ng parehong realidad at piksyon. Gumamit kami ng mga pormulang sa tingin namin ay amin. O kaya nama’y pinaghalo-halo ang aming imahinasyon at mga napulot na kaalaman at karunungan sa aming piyesa na parang mga sangkap para makabuo ng isang bago at katangi-tanging kemikal. O kaya nama’y humugot kami ng mga konsepto sa aming puwitan na para bang gusto naming maging ama o ina ng isang panibagong uri ng pag-aaral (puwitical science, okay na rin?).

Lahat ng ito ay dahil sa iisang hangarin.

Siguro ay napakaliit na langgam lamang ng literary section ng Heraldo Filipino para sa hangaring ito, pero gusto naming simulan ang pagsibol ng isang henerasyon. Hangad naming gawing batas ang aming mga teorya. Kumbaga sa konsepto ng ebolusyon, gusto naming mapaltan na ang sapiens sa Homo sapiens.

Gusto naming sabihing tama at wasto ang mga pinaniniwalaan at paninindigan namin para makapasok sa bagong henerasyon ng mga manunulat.

Bago ko tapusin ang mensaheng ito, gusto kong linawin na tinawag kong eksperimento ang Palad na ito hindi dahil tinuturing kong pangit at huwag kayong umasa ng malaki sa librong ito. Sa halip, gusto ko ipahiwatig ang salungat. Tingnan n’yo ito. Haplusin n’yo. Buklatin. Dahil eksperimento ang simula ng pagmumukadkad ng mga enggrandeng bagay.

Danielle Vince Capuno Palad Editor

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Message Literary writing seems almost like magic. Freedom makes literary writers so powerful that they can be anyone, anywhere at any time. Yet with possibilities that stretch as far as the universe, the abundance of movie remakes and formulaic novels make it seem as if all stories have been told. And why would that be so hard to believe? Humans have been telling stories since people lived in caves, after all.

Then again, as life is introduced everyday, so is a new “Once upon a time…” Not everyone’s voice is heard but the literary writer has a platform. In Team 30’s Palad, our writers lent their voice to the disturbed. Through experimentation of forms and ideas, they shed a light on dark places not because they intend to scare you, but because with every piece of fiction, there are hidden truths waiting to be acknowledged. Don’t get me wrong though. We don’t promise to enlighten you. Where these stories and poems leave you is entirely up to your imagination.

Daniella Shaira Cortez Editor in Chief

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Oath of a death angel

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7-day confession

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The Perry Paradox

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V

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Pause

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Biyatityuds

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Spells for the unenchanted

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Eat

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Biyaheng Ligaw

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Anatomical Anarchy

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Matches

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Dis Aether

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Rock-paper-scissors

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Longing

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Karayom sa dayami

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Aeron’s anomaly

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It

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A piece of peace

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My idiomatic cat

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Extinction of reality

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Physics Final Exam

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The nightly absurd story-telling competition

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No strings attached

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Marino

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monsters of manila

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“Why are you here in the Philippines? Your legends did not originate from this land so I see no reason why you should be here.”

“Man, we also don’t know shit. The last thing I remembered was that I was fucking enjoying a gang fight with mah mates.

We were getting the upper hand when I saw the enemies retreating like faggots—those cheating ghouls. They entered an abandoned building and we followed, thinking we could get rid of every last one of those turds. We really thought we succeeded in invading their base. But after infiltrating the building, it was suddenly dark; I couldn’t see a fucking thing. Then, there was an explosion. I could hear sizzling sounds and my comrades were screaming like the building we invaded was Hell itself. I was growling too, shouting what the fuck was wrong. It finally reached my skin and nostrils—it reeked of garlic! Those ghouls!

They fucking lured us into a trap—a genocide of garlic smoke bombs! Fuck! It’s the most painful shit my vampiric skin ever experienced. I think I passed out after that. We woke up here in this country. We were told that we shall serve a certain Bathala and that we are his alipin now. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They fucking sold us here to be slaves. They should have just killed us.”

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Oath of a death angel

by Nishtha Nigam

Until the last heart ceases to beat, I, (name of recipient), the shadow of life, do gravely swear that not a sole soul shall I dare exempt by reason of wealth, age, or purity.

I shall be indifferent to contempt for it is as inevitable as me.

Even so, I shall honor the dying spirit who gladly summons me— the soldier, the martyr, the oppressed, and the diseased.

For life is seldom what it could have been.

I shall be punctual but patient as I pull out their crystal souls from between the flesh and bones, and the skins that clothed them.

All souls shall float through the skies as stars to return to where they began.

Each soul shall grace every candescent constellation and ornament the sober night with bygone emotion.

For this task, I shall always remember that the elderly soul emits a dim glow, having lived up all its fuel.

The repentant soul flickers nervously, often smothered by guilt.

The young soul dazzles bright with ambition for unaccomplished dreams.

A child’s soul radiates in blinding splendor of untouched joys and pristine luster.

For if life were to be the sun, I am like the moon— ever-present in the sky, but acknowledged only after the sun ends it show.

This is my purpose.

And never shall my compassion deter me from this duty.

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7-Day Confession

by Rochelle Rivera

Day 1 - Ghosts “I told them I can see ghosts when I really don’t. It was just for fun at first, but then they easily believed me. Maybe because at that time, everyone was so caught up in ghost stories. I liked the attention. They all come to me, asking if there were ghosts in the school library, restrooms, dance hall, and auditorium —no. Please. Just let me finish. This has something to do with the murder.

Everything I’ll say here has something to do with the murder. So. Uhm. As I said, I liked the attention. I told them every place was haunted by ghosts. It’s funny how people are fond of being scared [laughs]. They are scared but they welcome the feeling anyway. Actually, I’ve come up with several theories on why we welcome fear. I’ve come to realize that maybe it’s fear that makes us human. We abide by the law because we fear punishment. We love because we fear being alone. Christians pray because they fear being condemned by their God. The thought of burning in hell with their souls screaming through eternity of damnation makes them cling to morality. Once we disregard fear, we begin to disregard the need to be good. Being fearless isn’t synonymous to being brave. In order to be fearless, we’d be closing doors to emotions. We become empty shells, incapable of feeling anything to the point that we tend to do inhuman things. In my case, I killed. So anyway, uh … it was all for fun till I got tired, then I decided I’m going to reveal I don’t really see ghosts. I got bored with the repetitive stories I tell about a girl hanging in the comfort room or a little boy hiding in one of the library shelves … shit like that. But then, money got involved. They started coming after me, making me do ‘psychic activities’ like talking to the dead. It all started when a student committed suicide and his group of friends initiated to have one last talk with him. They offered a price I couldn’t refuse so I bit it. Things have become more interesting. It was fun again [laughs]. Ohh. Here comes my lawyer. I’ll let him talk to you for now.”

Day 2 – Weeds “It’s nice seeing you again, Officer. I think I need to pee … oh, okay. Quite a temper today, huh? Fine [clears throat]. So when the prof’s out for a threehour class instead of going home, my friends and I go to our hang-out. It’s in the boarding house Makoy and I share, 45 minutes away from the university.

It’s on the sixth block down Acacia Street. That bastard had a lot of weeds. If you’d check out our house right now, you’d see. Anyway, we smoke pots and stay high until the next day. Then, we get drunk, smoke cigarettes, and there goes all the money I get from pretending I’m a psychic. Yeah, we’re some hopeless shit. My parents? Well, they’re abroad—in Hawaii—together with my

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siblings. So anyway, there was one time when I went to class with bloodshot eyes. I was high and the professor didn’t notice a damn thing. Maybe because he’s high himself. I don’t know [laughs]. What? Wait! If you just have the patience to let me finish, you’d know how these all sums up to the murder you’re investigating. What? Nonsense? Let me finish! I am giving a testimonial.

You can’t just shut me off!”

Day 3 – Dead body “You searched the house? Where are the weeds? I know you took some [laughs]. Aww! Why the fuck would you slap me? I was just kidding! Okay.

Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you a specific detail from the murder. I hid Mary’s body on a septic tank inside the house. And it really surprised me you didn’t find it together with the weeds. Anyway, it’s in the kitchen. If you just observed closely, one of the tiles there looked oddly new from the rest. If you take that one out, you’d see her. No. A piece of her. Because I chopped her body into pieces using a meat cleaver and gently placed every piece in a plastic bag. I was supposed to put it in the fridge but I think I mistook the septic tank for a fridge. Or maybe I felt a tinge of fear from getting caught so I hid her in a place where no one would notice. I can’t really remember; I was so high then. But I remember putting the meat cleaver under the big couch. You didn’t see that too? How stupid can your men be in operating a search? [laughs] Ahh! Ahh! Sorry. No! Please don’t! Aww! Shit! I think you broke my arm! Fuck.”

Day 4 – Restatement “I take it all back. I’m begging you. The next statement I’ll tell you is the truth. It wasn’t me. It was Makoy! Yes, it’s true we smoke pot in the boarding house, obviously, because he was the one who influenced me. He threatened that if I don’t surrender myself as Mary’s killer, my life would be over. He said he’d throw me right next to her in the septic tank. I knew everything he did, from where he hid the murder weapon and the dead body, because I was there when he did that! I’m a witness. I was supposed to buy weeds when I saw him chopping her head. You won’t believe how horrifying that was! I felt my insides turn upside down. And then when I was about to go, he turned around and found me. I pissed my pants. What? Oh. I’m telling you the truth now because I can’t handle it anymore. I am not a murderer. The worst I could do is pretend I see ghosts and do some psychic shit. But raping and killing a girl? No! How could I? That’s some twisted fuck and I know you think it too. I’d rather die than stay in jail, knowing that the real culprit is still free out there. Please, Officer! I know you can find him! Find Makoy and arrest that fucker [sobs].”

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Day 5 – The Crime “You didn’t find him? Well, of course you never will … Because Makoy doesn’t exist! Ha! I made him up! [laughs] Didn’t you doubt that I know in detail how Mary was killed? A witness wouldn’t know that much! Once you receive the results from examining the murder weapon, that bloody meat cleaver, you’d see that the fingerprints are mine. And I don’t have any friends to smoke pot with. I’m a loner. That’s why I liked the attention people gave me when they thought I see ghosts. What? Aw! I just wanted to demonstrate how easy it is to deceive people. And also, I wanted to show how poorly you do your job. Our country is doomed not because of criminals like me, but because of stupid officers like you who should have been protecting their people! [laughs] Ah! Aw! Shit. If you kill me now, you wouldn’t know the real story! Everyone’s been caught up in this murder case. The media updates the public about this every day, don’t they? What would you say to them? Take that gun off of my face! You can’t kill me anyway. Now, for the real story. So Mary came to me after my night class. The girl’s brother just died and said she wanted to talk to him one last time. I didn’t think she was pretty. I didn’t think about raping her right at that moment. No. I just thought, ‘well, that’s some money I could use.’

I invited her to my boarding house and told her to bring the most precious thing her brother gave her and a scented candle. I made everyone believe I could see more ghosts while I’m high. I even invented a ritual before talking to the dead—like a real psychic would have. Except mine’s way cooler—I smoked pot [laughs]. Mary came to my house at exactly 12 AM, bringing the scented candle and a blue dress her brother gave her. She was in the living room while I was locked in my own room, getting high. I went out after an hour, held her hands, and closed my eyes. I told her I am her brother. The stupid girl cried and hugged me. For a while, we just stayed on the couch, talking for hours about so many things I couldn’t remember. At 5 AM, my head was torturing me. I was no longer under the drug’s influence. Then, for the first time, I felt guilty.

She was so happy she talked to her brother. Her head was on my chest and I was starting to feel uncomfortable. I suddenly stood from the couch and went inside my room. After a minute, I stormed out and blurted I was fake, that I don’t really see ghosts or even have the ability to talk to dead people. I told her the truth. She was the first person I confessed to. But the ungrateful bitch didn’t appreciate it! She got really mad. When I tried to stop her from hitting me, saying ‘sorry’ a bunch of times, she kicked me in the gut! It was a wrong move. I grabbed her and pinned her to the wall. I didn’t feel sorry anymore.

She stared at me like I was some monster, so I played along. I was the monster and she was my prey, all I felt was this sudden desire to get to her. I forced her to lie on the floor, her back on me. I was much stronger. I pulled her pants off

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while she went on screaming. Then I … What? Don’t you want to hear that part? Seriously? Aw! Aw! Stop hitting me! Okay! Okay! I was annoyed of her screaming so I covered her face with my backpack and I think that was how she died. But I only realized she was dead when I was done playing with her and she hadn’t moved for a while, or even made a sound. I was … not terrified. Not one bit. I didn’t know why. But I was disgusted at the sight of her and I realized that if I’m gonna hide her, she should be smaller. And that was why I chopped her into pieces—Hey! Where are you taking me? I still have a lot to say! Don’t!”

Day 6 – Behind the confession “I’m hearing a lot of rumors about the real reason why I confessed. I just heard from my lawyer. But they’re all wrong. I don’t see ghosts, even until now.

I didn’t confess because I see her ghost and she’s haunting me. It would have been better if I can see her though. This is the problem with the media. They add plot twists to real stories to make it more interesting. You see, there’s so much evil in this world. Some are too obvious to point out—like me. But most are disguised well enough not to get noticed by everyone. Feel blessed that you had a better fate. I used to think that life is a matter of choice. If I didn’t choose this road, I wouldn’t be here—that this was the consequence of all the bad choices I made. But Mary? She didn’t choose any of this. She just had some bad fate before her, I must say. But because of her, I now have one good choice—to take responsibility.”

Day 7 – The Murderer “Woah, what’s with those cameras? So it’s serious? The media’s all over my story! Hi [smiles and poses for the cameras]. Let me walk through though, I’ll be going back to my cell, as you all know. The court trial went well. There isn’t much to argue anymore. Wait, what? You’re asking for my statement? Uhh. [sighs] I know you all think this is the most absurd of all rape and murder cases.

And I’m aware of how the entire country must have felt about witnessing how a girl got raped by another girl. I hate to say this but I’m not sorry. Saying that I am will make me a hypocrite, like some politician giving speeches about a bright future while secretly using all your money to build his own private mansion.

Oh, wait. I think that’s worse [laughs]. Anyway, almost everyone asked me.

But no, I was never a lesbian before. Not even now. She was my first girl. It just happened. I can’t exactly tell why. But don’t be too harsh on me. This has happened and is happening in other parts of the world. I didn’t mess up this holy land. It was messed up all along, big time [sounds of camera shutters and police siren].”

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monsters of manila

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“Puta. Putang ina talaga. Kapag nabawi ko lang talaga ‘yung gintong buhok ko, makakatikim sa ‘kin ng sandamakmak na sipa ‘yung hinayupak na lasinggerong ‘yun.”

“Bakit, ano bang nangyari sa ‘yo?”

“Nung isang buwan kasi, gabi ‘yon, may lasinggerong umihi do’n sa punong balete ko. Sisipain ko na sana kaso bigla s’yang natumba, sa sobrang kalasingan siguro. Nilapit ko ‘yung mukha ko sa mukha n’ya para tingnan kung nawalan na siya ng malay. Aba, nagkamalay ang mortal tapos hinablot ‘yung gintong buhok ko. Alam mo namang kailangang sundin ng isang tikbalang ang kung sino mang may hawak ng gintong buhok n’ya, ‘di ba? Ikaw pa, marami akong naririnig na balita sa’yo. Pagkatapos n’yang makuha ang buhok ko, nag-anyong kabayo ako at hindi ko na ulit magawang bumalik sa tunay kong anyo. Umalis ‘yong lasing dala ‘yung gintong buhok. Ngayon, sinundan ko s’ya at nakita n’ya ko kinaumagahan. Nahimasmasan na si gago. Nagtataka s’ya kung kaninong kabayo ako.

Ako naman, minamatyagan ko kung nasaan ‘yung buhok ko. No’ng malaman n’yang walang nagmamay-ari sa ‘kin, inangkin n’ya ‘ko. Aba puta, ginawa akong kabayong pangkarera! ‘Di ko alam kung saan n’ya tinatago ‘yung gintong buhok. Sabuyan sana ang hayop na ‘yon ng galit ni Bathala!”

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The Perry Paradox

by Jose Alfonso Sacdalan

This story started with you staring at the monitor screen, eyes heavy, the aroma of coffee heightening your senses. Your head ached. The constant noise of your nagging co-workers filled your ears, along with the name Perry echoing inside your head like a song you’re hooked on. You balled your hand, took a deep breath, and tapped your fingers against the desk.

Your whole body shivered, everything felt out of place. Chaotic, but you knew it was all inside your head. Just as you were about to scream, a hand touched your shoulder.

“Oh hi hello Perry. You okay?” your co-worker asked. Your eyes went to the edge of your desk where the name Perry Z13B-E was embossed.

“Oh, hi uh hello, I’m just, uh, a little dizzy,” you said. You didn’t know why, but you forgot that Perry was your name.

You stared at him. You have no idea who he was, but the first thing you noticed about him were his earphones. They were the size of fists, and you were wondering how something that big could hang around his ears.

Then you scoped the room to find out that everyone was wearing them except you. The next thing you noticed was his bald head.

“Here. Take this, Perry,” he handed you a packaged capsule along with a glass of water. “You’re probably just stressed from work. Always do your best but don’t exhaust yourself too much,” he smiled, then he walked away to sit at the cubicle behind you.

You looked around, realizing that you don’t know where you are exactly. In fact, you don’t even know why you’re here or who you are.

You couldn’t remember anything. As the thought registered in your brain, your heart slowly pummeled in panic. It was as if you came out from your mother’s womb and poof—you’re an adult, pay some taxes.

You blinked. Your hands were shaking as you sipped the water along with the capsule your bald mate gave you earlier. You noticed the message flickering on your screen: “Perry Z13B-E, due to your outstanding service, you have been promoted to the position of Master Controller. Do not panic, for you may experience mild memory loss and headache as your M1-ND headgear has been confiscated. Please proceed to the Main Control Center immediately.”

You could see visions of you—staring at the monitor, staring at the monitor, staring at the monitor—different words filling the screen each time. You remembered your co-worker, the bald guy’s name was Perry too.

You had so much fun drinking coffee and giving each other capsules when you needed then.

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Your head spun and you vomited in the trashcan right beside your cubicle. You gagged water, some stuff you hoped wasn’t the capsule, and coughed. You saw a camera watching you from above, switching its lenses between you and your vomit.

“Oh hi hello Perry. You sure you’re okay?” the bald guy came to you again.

“Oh hi hello Perry. Do you want a higher dosage?” a blonde woman from another cubicle asked.

“No, Perry. I think this Perry is actually sick. We should send him to the medication room,” the bald guy replied.

“Yes. I think you’re right, Perry. You should go to the medication room,” the blonde woman agreed.

It didn’t make sense. Your name is Perry. You are Perry. But as your eyes wandered across the room, looking at every other cubicle, you noticed the pattern: a repetition. For at the edge of each of their desks were the same names embossed in iron, “Perry Z13D-E” and “Perry Z13G-E”.

“Oh hi hello Perry. Congratulations on your promotion!” It came from another guy with glasses. “Perry, I’m sure you’ll consider my work,” he handed you a document with the name Stable Weather Machine Prototype printed on it. His name was Perry Z13F-E. “Uh…h-h-hi hello Perr—” you stopped. You recognized how much you talked like them. They always start with the same three words as a greeting.

“S-s-sure thing, Perry,” you stammered.

Your whole body was trembling and your hands were palsied. You weren’t sure what to do anymore. So you started walking, wandering around the workspace, trying to rationalize the situation. Maybe you have been dreaming—that this will end with the sound of an alarm telling you how late you were for work.

But what work? You thought of this as you continued observing their features. Eye bags, coffee, headgears, pie charts, glasses, and poor sense of fashion. They all seemed normal at first, except for the fact that everyone was too jolly, with their kind smiles and concerned eyes. There was Perry laughing with the 3D-printer. Another Perry smiling at his monitor that displayed only his cursor and a white screen. This wasn’t normal.

“Perry, you seem stressed. Why did they confiscate your M1 headgear?” asked the guy with the glasses. “We need it to stay calm and happy. It plays good music!”

You ignored him. Your eyes darted to the screen of your computer and at the text you previously read. Do not panic, you may experience mild memory loss and headache. It made sense, for (1) you can’t recall much and (2) your head hurts. The sentence after that said Please proceed to the Main Control Center. Your monitor flickered for a second, showing the word

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mind instead of main.

“Oh hi—” you paused, trying to break the series of words you knew you were to say. “Where’s the way to the Main Control Center?” you asked Perry.

“Excited for your new job, Perry? I see, I see,” said the blonde woman.

“Simple. Head to the elevator and go to the top floor, Perry,” replied the man with glasses. *** Staring at the floor numbers on the elevator, you felt curious. Mind Control Center, you thought. Seriously, everyone with the same name? Everyone talking the exact same way? Everything’s too obvious. And since you’re promoted as the Master Controller, the only thing you needed to do now was to—the elevator beeped, opening into a narrow hallway that led straight to a double-sided door.

The first thing you noticed was the wall made entirely of TV screens with versions spanning from 1948 and above, getting more advanced the farther you walked.

The screens played different news and documentaries; some you could even recognize. There were the early footages of World War 2, Adolf Hitler, the Nuclear Era, and the Beatles. Then there came the one with colors: the age of information, computers, mobile phones, Facebook, Twitter, terrorist attacks, and some political jingles that you found amusing. And halfway through the hall were the ones you didn’t recognize.

One TV screen revealed a public advisory, “Global examination for the intellectual and future innovators of the world. You could be the hope of our race.”

You made your way in awe watching each headline appear after another. “Global examination results: the assembly of chosen geniuses is now complete. Welcome the Perry Paradox!” You could hear the pounding of your heart. “Earth now has unlimited energy, thanks to the Perrys!” You didn’t notice it, but the tip of your lips pointed up to your ears. “Cancer vaccines out for public use!”, “Recycling at its finest!”, “The Perry Paradox has created a perfect world!”, “The cure to death is now in our hands!

Immortality is upon us!”

“Hail the Perrys!”

The last one appeared in a television made of laser-lights, just a thin square frame plugged into nothing. It featured videos of notable places on Earth with people enjoying life in luxury.

The idea itself astounded you; little by little you remembered the images flashing on the screens. You wondered, does this mean all the Perrys including yourself, sacrificed their whole lives laboring their brains out to provide endless comfort and convenience for the rest of the world?

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As you reached the end of the doorway, a giant dome welcomed your sight. It was made of multiple screens linked together into one huge observatory, displaying instructions made just for you.

“Welcome Perry Z13B-E, you have been promoted as the Master Controller,” it said, then blinked, “Please scan your ID to start the system.”

In front of you was a round platform floating in the middle of the place. At the edge was a control panel with blue transparent screens and complicated buttons. You found your ID inside your pocket and looked at the picture of your horrid face. You weren’t pleased, so you just let the scanner scan your ID. The dome showed you your profile.

“Name & Number: Perry Z13B-E Position: Master Controller Years of employment: 553 years, 3 months, 18 days, 15 hours, 21 minutes” You read it again in case you were wrong. Then you read it again as your legs weakened. Five and a half centuries, you thought.

“Humanity overview: Total planets inhabited: 2. Total sectors constructed: 27” Your head ached, and images started flashing inside your head. All those things you did for the company: hands on the keyboard making blueprints for a new mega-city, holding your tablet writing computations on the amount of solar energy needed to power the city, talking to Perry, saying hi hello because you don’t have a family and you needed to socialize with “friends.”

Total manpower available: 109, 512 capable and fully functional Perrys. Please handle with care.

You remembered about your constant smiling. You remembered feeling happy doing your job because it’s making the world a better place. You had dedication and passion to do what you were doing, and you were satisfied— or were you, really? Weren’t you just a slave, bound to the commands of whoever the Master Controller was?

Immortality and slavery, you thought, they’re not supposed to go together.

Whatever the past was, or whatever it is that happened five hundred years ago—you’re not going to continue it. You are the Master Controller now.

They didn’t expect you to agree with this, right?

Again, the dome blinked. This time it didn’t show the text written in black and white. It split into one thousand screens showing different images at once.

They were your co-workers; each were working in their cubicles—those were people once living a simple life of freedom; once dreamt of using their intelligence to help the world, but now merely generations of abused servitude.

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You gazed at the control panel, at the blue screen floating at the center of the machine. It showed you the transitions of workers to view based on the alphabetized sectors they’re in. At the bottom, you clicked on M1-ND control settings. The text “M1-ND Manager” appeared at the top of the screen.

“Number of Perrys unaffected by the M1-ND Protocol: 1.” That must be me, you thought.

Description: M1-ND is a healthy emotion-control device that works using brainwaves. It experiments with the Alpha, Theta, Delta, and Prime waves that help relieve stress and keep users emotionally stable.

Please select a sector.”

You clicked Sector Z, which you assumed was your sector because you were named Z13B. The screen displayed different state of positive emotions: happy, serious, neutral—all adjustable by a slide bar right beside it.

You couldn’t do this. Whoever chose you for this new position was wrong. You sat in front of all those computers and searched through all the programs and codes that were input. For the first time in years, you felt your brain working according to your own will. Relieved and horrified, you studied the files with rapture. Until you found something—a folder locked with a passcode that the guidelines have not mentioned. Curiosity pulsed through your veins, and within seconds you were able to compute the number of the alphabet plus the infinity of numbers needed to unlock it. The probability of getting access is less than 50. But it made you all the more eager, you typed some combinations of letters and numbers. You did it.

For a moment you thought that was strangely simple. So easy in fact that it was as if the creator really intended the folder to be accessed right away.

All the files opened at once, and you felt yourself smiling. It suddenly made sense. Then you turned to the monitor on your left where your data was displayed, and gazed at the details on the bottom, “Every Master Controller could only stay for a total of two years, and would be freed from The Perry Paradox and released to the real world.”

You knew it was impossible for all the past mind controllers to just let this abusive government continue. For years, those Master Controllers were devising plans to terminate what they once thought would be the solution for all the crises of human race. But they never had the chance to complete it. So they all just saved their works on this folder, hoping that the next mind controller can figure out a way to finally complete their one last project.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes for a second. You nodded your head, copied all the codes, and configured them into one database.

After 500 years, the past Perrys’ efforts to bring everything back to

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normal—to abolish this slavery—is already complete. The one job left for you to do is launch it.

You almost jumped from your seat when the nearby com speaker started beeping. You picked it up, “Oh hi hello boss! A status report!” he said.

“The Philippines responded to its new public waterslide. They said that the 200ft dive is the most thrilling of them all, but everyone who tried it ended up in the hospital. It ruined their day, and the overall population happiness decreased to 0.000067%,” he continued. “It seemed very bad, boss, so maybe we could get Perry G10R-L to work on this and reconsider his design?”

“Uh, yeah, you could do that,” you said, still uncertain.

“Oh boss, another thing. We currently have an Atomic Reorganizer by Perry B34N-E. It could turn anything into water and solve the drought in Mars. You should see it. It’s stupendous!” He kept on talking about things you didn’t want to hear anymore. Your fingers itched as it hovered above the command “enter.” One click and this Perry will shut up, along with their great inventions—but at a price of their freedom.

“Hey hi hello boss, you still there?”

You stared at the database on your main control screen, eyes focused on the option that you have all the power to press—ENTER. You could choose to terminate everything, see what happens next. Or you could stay there for two years. Keep the world as happy and progressive as it is, but holding off 109, 512 Perrys in a mind-controlled system at the same time. This is your story after all, and it will always end with you.

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V

by Danielle Vince Capuno

1. Pumikit. Pahupain ang paghinga. Pakalmahin ang mga makinang nagpapabilis sa pag-ugong ng dibdib.

2. Tumayo. Labanan ang hila ng grabidad. Isiping ang magkabilang binti ay hindi pinahihinto ng kalawang.

3. Ihakbang ang isang paa. At ang kabila. Paganahing muli ang mga tulog na kable at kuryente sa metal mong katawan.

4. Imulat na ang mga mata. Tingnan ang landas.

Huwag hayaang kumurap ang dalawang talukap.

5. Ilagay ang dalawang kamay sa dibdib at hugutin mula dito ang espada. Tapusin ang kalaban.

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Pause

by Marie Joy Sarmiento

Listen carefully and gently fill the missing notes, for the answers may vary once in a while. ___________ (Play, Stop) others’ melody.

Your fingers tap as the song beats in your chest, voices dictating every pace.

You tighten your hold on your breath and tighten your grip on notes you’ll hear on the soundtrack, with your tune playing on it. ___________ (Skip, Repeat) the sound of “now playing.”

It takes time to find music with lyrics that will please and captivate you.

Sometimes you despise or admire a verse over and over till your fingertips find a way to skip a song and bid it goodbye. ___________ (Skip, Repeat) the sharps and flats.

Smooth keys give harmony to low and high pitch.

Bleeding us so lovingly with notes, some you want to sing, some leave you in its deafening volume.

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___________ (Repeat, Stop) the same playlist.

You lend your ears to the unchanging rhythm, a sigh escaping your lips instead of a voice, be it of weariness or boredom.

You leave the music playing. ___________ (Search, Shuffle) unknown genres.

Stumbling on newfound chords, embracing different sets of chorus, connecting bridges, and composing alternating refrains; you only recognize the noise.

Pause just once in a while, my dear.

For there is solace in the empty rests of a continuous sound.

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monsters of manila

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“Parating na si Bakunawa at kakainin n’ya ang huling buwang natitira. Pero ‘wag kang mag-alala, paaalisin ko s’ya. ”

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Biyatityuds

by John Paul Gonzales

Sa harap ng karamihan, tumindig sila’t nagkapit-bisig; at umalingawngaw ang kanilang pangalang hinihiyaw ng mga tao: 1

Mababatid mo ang ilang kapuna-punang karakter na kanilang ipinapakita. At matuturan mo ang iyong sarili, 2

Mapapalad ang mga mapagkumbaba sapagkat aanihin nila ang loob ng madla.

3

Mapapalad ang mga nakikihapis sa mga nawalan sapagkat sila’y uulanin ng utang na loob.

4

Mapapalad ang mga may mukhang maaamo sapagkat kanilang maaakit ang mga bulag sa anyo nilang pilit na kinikimkim.

5

Mapapalad ang nagsasabing sila’y gutom at uhaw sa paninilbihan sapagkat takaw nila’y ‘di madaling mapunan.

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Mapapalad ang mga nakikisimpatya sa mga naghihikahos sapagkat ang pinaghirapa’y ilalaan sa kanila.

7

Mapapalad ang mga magpapatuloy sa nasimulan ng angkan sapagkat sila’y hihiranging tagapagmana ng kanilang pinaghaharian.

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Mapapalad ang mga dumudulog sa santong paspasan sapagkat diringgin nito ang hiling na katarungan.

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Mapapalad ang mga batikan sa ibang larangan sapagkat sila’y papanigan ng mga umiidolo sa kanila.

10

Mapapalad kayo sapagkat kayo’y inaalimura’t inuusig ng mga kalaban ninyo sa napipisil niyong upuan, at ang mga nakatunghayod sa inyo’y nakikitang kayo’y api.

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Mangumbinsi kayo at manligaw nang labis sapagkat unti-unting nauulinigan ng mga pangkaraniwang tao ang inyong mga itinatago.

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Spells for the unenchanted

by Nishtha Nigam

I. Ipsa Acceptio Category: Visibility Spell Lunar Phase: Full moon Effect: Makes you visible to those who ignore you Ingredients: •1 hair strand of the subject •3 candles •Unendurable agony of being ignored by your own people Procedure: Stand under a clear night sky on a full moon, position the candles in a triangle and place the hair strand in the middle, then chant: Under these stars and full moon night, each word I utter may you abide.

Color after color you erased me out, till I faded from your sight and my existence was a doubt.

Because in this turmoil of inevitable change, I’ve outgrown your tiny visual range of limited lines and colors of who I should be and never again shall you dare unsee me.

Because if a flaw is all you choose to see among the array of colors that adorn me, I’ll fade my colors just to brighten up yours and yet a place in your sights would still be obscure.

So by the power of my intolerable agony, using this spell to end this ordeal, to you, I command: Trace me back with the love I’m worth Paint me back with the respect I deserve Shade me back with the trust I need.

Witness, oh stars, the spell I cast

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may the magic remain till eternity lasts II. Aperto Caelo Category: Relief Spell Lunar Phase: Full moon Effect: Relieves the burden of expectations Ingredients: • A white helium balloon • A handful of expectations Procedure: Stand under an open, night sky, facing the full moon. Hold the balloon in front so that the moon shines through your balloon. Before you let go of your balloon, chant: Standing here in the likeness of the balloon I hold, may the magic in the words I speak unfold.

You told me that the sky was the limit.

And I was too scared of letting you down to admit that when you let go of my thread and sent me to explore, to fly up up above and soar, I left the world I loved below for the sake of the hope you filled in me long ago.

Now that I fly alone among the clouds, I’ve made you proud, you tell the crowds.

You watch with eager eyes and hungry desire, unaware that even as I fly higher and higher, the pressure of your hopes and blatant pride threatens to crack me apart from inside.

So by the power of my intolerable agony, using this spell to end this ordeal, to you, I command: Bring me back to where I should be, among the hands afraid of losing me.

For that is the world where I am free.

Till my balloon flies with you at last, bless me, oh moon, and the spell I cast.

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41

Eat

by Maria Anthonette Gadon

My age was six when Papa told me that I have a pet inside my body that feeds on my flesh. The thought of it did not scare me because I always loved animals and I find it exciting to have one inside me. I asked him if it is good, and he just said that he is doing his very best, together with my doctors, to take it off me.

“Do I give it food? Will that make me a good boy, Papa?” I remembered asking him once during dinner.

The image of him, hesitant to answer, is still clear in my mind. But his manly spirit forced him to answer anyway. “Of course. Of course, Anton.

But that pet inside you should not stay in you forever. We are going to get that out, OK? That’s why you need to take this tablet every once in a while,” he said as he handed me another tablet that only makes me sleepy after gulping it with water. Papa’s smile is the same with my doctors. Their smile is similar to that time when the four year-old me tried to help my yaya fold my clothes but ended up ruining everything instead.

“What animal is this? Is it a dog, too, like Bran?” My curiosity doesn’t keep my mouth shut as I carefully rubbed my stomach. Even if the landing of my hand on my stomach was as light as a falling leaf, it felt prickly and hot. Bran, on the other side, was our dog that I only get to play with twice because I was prohibited to go outside at an early age.

“We are not sure yet. But it doesn’t matter for now. OK, Anton?” He said. His hand was patting my hair. It was just for a while but it already felt sore. I can feel the strands holding tightly on my skin with their last strength. I only told Papa once that it hurts. But when I noticed that he keeps on forgetting his unbearable mannerism, I just let it be. It was sweet, but painful. I couldn’t deny.

I am not sure where in my body my pet was living. But I think it’s in my stomach because it hurts sometimes at night, and then it crawls or runs, I am not sure, to my head as I can feel it literally biting my cells. There are times when the pet inside me is too hungry—hungrier than a newly roused me in the morning. I can say it is hungry because it was asking for more of me and it’s being less friendly when he does. It’s getting more furious that it has already wounded my insides. I told Papa and he said it’s where the blood I vomit comes from.

I’ve been living with my pet, which I was never allowed to name, for two years now and I’m getting used to it. Although it has eaten enough stacks of my body meat that I’m already skinnier than my bones, Papa and my doctors are still finding ways to remove this growing pet that’s slowly making me weak. My lips have gone fifty shades paler with dark cracks. I’ve

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undergone operations; even hospital tubes can’t take this animal out of me.

Most of the time when I am alone, I talk to my pet, asking him to take an exit as early as possible, before Papa runs out of tears. But its only answer always makes me vomit more and more blood, which I believe was a “No.” One evening, as my nurse was about to inject my dinner into my hand, my pet went wild. It was running fast, back and forth, at different parts of my body. It was so fast that I couldn’t recognize where in my body it was!

I was wailing severely as if my throat is giving way for an exit. My eyes have started to lose its sanity, too. They are slowly letting go of my clear sight of the nurse and everything around me. But I could hear her calling the doctors and the Saints. She held my arms but it didn’t help. The only way my animal and I stopped was when it pressed its paws on my lungs that made me exhale my life out of me.

And then, everything went dark. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed but the next thing I remembered was the sharp heat needling my skin, digging my flesh down to my bones, piercing and pushing it so hard that I cracked … and I was pulverized. I could hear wailings, but it seemed like it’s from the outside, which left me with the conclusion that I was in a burning chamber. All voices were unrecognizable but my Papa’s. His sobbing were five times worse than he usually does at home when I’m pretending to sleep. When I was out from the chamber, I heard him speak to me in his most depressing voice, the words I wish I could understand by now, “I miss you, Anton,” there was weeping in between every phrases, “I did my best to provide for you,” his voice was trembling, “everything to cure you,” really hard, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I lied about your pet.

We didn’t know how,” his voice went huskier, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Anton.” * * * It took days, weeks, months, or years, I am not certain, before Papa decided to finally let my memories go. He has chosen the backyard to be my next home—the place Papa built for me but did not get to experience much when I was still alive. Accepting the fact that I no longer live in a breathing body was made easier by the fact that nothing much changed in me. Only that I cannot see and move as a living human does, and there is no more pet inside me now. But I can still feel the air and get hungry. And that’s what I am feeling right now: Hungry. Very hungry. All this time, I was kept in a huge jar with only my powdered self in it.

As I was sprinkled throughout the backyard, the air was taking my every particle everywhere it wanted. And then, while I was free falling, I saw Bran, our dog that I only got to touch once before. He was sitting hurt under our Indian mango tree, just near our door where Papa was standing. He has a huge wound at the back that seemed like it was caused by a barbwire. Naughty dog, as Papa used to say. The wound was so huge

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that I can see it from afar … No … I’m heading toward him now. My other bits landed on different parts of him while I, together with the others, landed on his wound. I know he felt it because he moved and made a short squealing sound. Though Papa doesn’t look like he heard it. He just finished scattering my ashes around and then went back inside, still holding my second abandoned home.

I was left lying flat on Bran’s wound. It took me a few smelling before I remembered how hungry I was and this was what I’ve been looking for: flesh. So without wasting thoughts, I took a small bite. Oh! Is this even real? I took another one. And another one. And another one. This taste must be a joke! I never thought that this tastes so magical that my other particles couldn’t stop biting, swallowing, and zipping the liquid that I couldn’t guess was blood or meat juice. I could hear their strong chews.

Bran’s meat, though bleeding and uncooked, tastes like life!

I was about to rest after the feast when I heard Bran growl. I wondered what he saw that made him stand, walk, and run. No. I wondered what made him gain strength to move despite being crippled. He kept running and growling around. He took several rounds already but I still couldn’t hear any sound from his foe. His behavior was getting more ferocious that some of my particles fell from his fur. Since my new appearance doesn’t include holding through hands, I bit his flesh instead to keep me on hold.

But that was a bad idea. Bran was moaning and jumping, and his bark was on its roughest. He howled so loud that Papa rushed to go outside and check him.

“Bran! Who’s out there?” He shouted as he quickly pushed sideways our sliding door. The small wheels under hurt my hearing. But before I could even catch a sound of his footstep on the grass, Bran sprinted toward him and unleashed an ear-numbing roar.

Then there was silence— for a while.

I could hear the leaves from above, moving fast like people trying to take a peek on a crime scene. It was indeed windy. The breeze helped me figure out that it was already evening. I should be taking a rest by now, but I am still waiting for Papa’s voice. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know if he was able to close the glass door before Bran finished his long roar.

Then I heard a dog cry. Bran is alive.

I also heard a lazy groan, but it sounded more human, more like from a seriously drunk bastard. The growl continued and was then followed by lazy heavy footsteps. Bran followed. It went another block farther as I judged through their steps. I heard our gate being forced opened. And then what came next was a scream from a girl. The manly grumble went stronger as well as Bran’s. And another scream. Bran attacked. And another scream of Papa’s name.

“He’s alive, too,” I guessed.

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monsters of manila

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“Pogi, puwede bang patulong aketch. Sumabit ang intestines at pakpak ko dito sa sanga, e. Gogora na sana ‘ko pauwi galing sa chibugan kaninang hating-gabi kaso mukhang lumalabo na ang night vision eyes ng lola mo. Help naman d’yan. Sisikat na ang chakang araw, o. ‘Yung legs ko nasa kakahuyan pa. Pleaaaase.”

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Biyaheng Ligaw

by Rochelle Rivera

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III It was pretty much like rebirth. All of a sudden you are out in a strange world and then it becomes your home, except you are limited to one feeling—lost.

But it is only fair punishment for being a bad man.

You earned an endless ride toward nowhere—something more torturous than death itself. And you bring other people in this world with you.

Because for you, it’s fine to be lost, as long as you aren’t alone.

Then you would remember what they always say: There’s a special place for you in hell.

II I regretted hearing that story because now I was alone and lost on my way to a birthday party, I thought, what if I try it now? I had goose bumps at the mere idea, but it was tempting to know if anything ever really happens or if urban legends were just some stories imaginative people spread to pass the time.

After drawing a box with an X on the ground, I laughed at myself.

Nothing happened, I was still lost.

But when I was about to start walking again, I heard an engine. I turned around and stopped breathing for a while—a jeepney was on its way with its headlights on even when it’s still daylight. It stopped in front of me.

I shook my head and convinced myself it was just a coincidence. I jumped on the front seat beside the driver who looked just fine. I asked, “Manong, anong biyahe ho ‘to?”

“Biyaheng Ligaw.”

“Biyahe ng ligaw?” I almost jumped back on the road, my heart thumped so hard. Then I noticed he didn’t have any other passengers but me. I gave out a nervous laugh, trying to bring myself to sanity. I asked, “Ah. Lugar ho ba ‘yung Ligaw?” as I gave my remaining seven peso coins.

He looked at me, took the coins as if he was amused and answered, “Puwede.”

My hands were becoming sweaty; it happens to me every time I feel nervous or scared. But my paranoia ended when I started seeing other people, cars, stores, buildings, and houses along the way. In a minute, I was already near the grocery store where Rico said he’d fetch me.

“Dito na lang ho,” I hopped out of the jeepney and a thick smoke enveloped me—then the jeepney slowly faded away, like an image blurring from a picture. It actually disappeared in front of me.

Even when I wanted to stay and stare blankly at what I just witnessed, I forced myself to run to the store because it was suddenly raining so hard and the cars’ headlights were blinding me.

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My phone rang, it was Rico, and I made a small cheer, “Hello?”

“Hey, ‘san ka na? Nandito na ‘ko sa tapat ng 678. What’s taking you so long?”

“Ha? Nasa’n ka? Nandito na rin ako sa tapat ng 678, e. Basa na nga ako ng ulan,” I said as I brushed my damp hair off my face.

“What? Anong ulan? Tirik na tirik ang araw, Jenna. Nasa’n ka ba?”

He could not be joking and neither was I. I froze when I realized it wasn’t just raining. I looked at the sky, the moon shone on me. I held my phone to my face; it was just 3 in the afternoon. My hands and legs were trembling as I turned to the grocery store’s name, and I fell down on my knees as it read 876.

“Holy shit,” I whispered over the loud static that was thickening between me and Rico—the last contact of my world.

I It all started with a little girl, a lost little girl. The reason why she was lost—if she was accidentally separated from her family or was purposely left behind—no one knows. But it all started with her walking alone at night, wearing her white dress that she wore for the mass that evening, they say, because it was the season of Simbang Gabi. She was crying and was too scared to approach people who passed her by. And those who noticed her, did nothing much but to look at her sorry and pitiful.

She kept on walking until she reached that part of the city with tall grasslands, unlit posts, and where seldom cars went by. She was tired and somehow, she found comfort beside a huge, old tree. She picked up a small branch, drew a big box that could fit her and sat there cross-legged, thinking the box could work like walls that would ward off any beasts that might lurk around the shadows on the other side of the tree.

But it was just a box drawn on soil.

So when a bad man who smelled of weeds came and saw her, the little girl was helpless. She might have reasoned that he couldn’t touch her if she was in the box, but it was laughable. He pushed the girl aside and said something like, “this box means nothing, little girl.” And with a stone, he put a big X inside it.

Pulling his pants back on, he left the little girl stripped naked and barely breathing. Despite her desperate wailing, no one seemed to have heard.

The bad man went back to his jeepney, but didn’t turn on the engine. He just sat and stared at the road like he was waiting for something.

As weak as she could, the little girl wore her ruined dress again, walked toward the long road, and hoped for rescue. The best she could think of was to stand in the middle to stop any cars, and as if on cue, the bad man turned his headlights on and swiftly drove toward the little girl’s direction.

It was her head that first crashed, next was her left shoulder—twisting

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from the impact. Her ribcage struck her lungs and she rolled lifeless on the ground.

The bad man took his jeep back to life and left. Some say he never made it home, that he disappeared that same night. Others say, he surrendered to the police the very next day and spent the rest of his life in jail.

But all versions of this story had one similar ending. They all say that from then on, when someone was lost and they try to draw a box with an X inside, something happens.

What happens?

No one knows. No one ever comes back to tell that part.

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Anatomical anarchy

by Jose Alfonso Sacdalan

Life and Death are the sides of the coin where I wage my fate, flipping through my tendons day by day.

And until the tails plummet down my fingers, my bones and flesh shall spin through another round of insanity.

Serenity is the pollution that crawls into my chest; it blackens my lungs with ashes and cinders.

While trying to inhale a noxious delight, my dread vaporized to puffs of smog, along with the seconds I have left to breathe.

Desperation is trying to drown my anguish with bottles of poison, slowly corroding my insides.

No matter how holy the blood of Christ can be, my intestines can never digest my despair nor can my kidneys cleanse my agony.

Guilt was the blood coursing through my vessels, flowing from flesh to flesh with its addicting itch.

As my heart pumps desire into a screaming little girl, my body trembles and my veins vibrate regret.

Madness—maybe, is carrying my rotting organs within the edge of my ribcage, keeping myself alive with this systematical dysfunction.

As each delusion reduces my sanity, reality crumbles— and I trudge the thin line between Life and Death.

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Matches

by Marie Joy Sarmiento

For every time I open the box, a part of me is burned. | My cheeks melted with tears as the fire slowly blistered my skin; flames eating up my veins, drinking my blood.

The things that were lighting up my chest and head slowly darken into silvery-gray, powdered as fire kisses them ever so slightly.

The wick that held me together for so long will be finally swallowed as the last smoke escapes my lips.

For candles are waxes of breaths and heartbeats and mine is in fading light as my body burns bright to light up darkness’ life. || It flashed light into the lens of these eyes so blind as I try to look into the photographs once again.

But every picture will soon be in embers with their corners slowly being incinarated as our laughter and voices escape them.

Our eyes were staring at me with fire in them, with warmth in our smiles, with hands reaching out—pulling me in as series of coal-black memories leave spots of dark brightness in my eyes, dimming my vision.

Memories are images of the past and ours are now cinders.

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||| The flames devoured the walls that bound me; eyes caught up at ceilings and dreams, locked up inside doors with make-believes.

Inside the same walls, I was retained; with floors that once was trickled with my hopeless hopefulness, with rooms of courage and strength, with the roof protecting me from losing.

I finally found a way out when everything crashes, everything turned into ashes in front of me; I am homeless but finally free. |||| I will burn the trees planted in the darkest of my forests.

I held the torch up, finding my way to every trunk when I got lost in the woods.

Wandering on every flower field that sprung on my mind, rowing on every river that flowed in my veins, peeking on bird nests, the home of my unsung melodies; with fog, lifting my soul.

Yet, the canopies block the light.

So I put the torch down.

Goodbye to the forest that is in me.

Goodbye to the forest that was in me.

And goodbye to the forest that is me.

For every time I close the box, there is light.

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“Tuwang-tuwa talaga ako rito sa bagong imbensyon ng mga mortal, e. Vape o kaya e-cigarette ang tawag nila dito. ‘Di ko na kailangang magpatuyo at magbilad ng tabako; kukunin ko na lang ‘yung katas ng dahon tapos ipapalsak ko dito sa vape. Mas mausok pa ‘to kaysa sa ginagamit ko noon. Naaalala ko no’ng una kong ginamit ‘to, sobrang naadik ako, ‘di ko napansing naging hamog na pala ‘yung mga usok na binuga ko (tatawa). Nabalitaan kong may aksidenteng nangyari no’ng panahong ‘yon dahil daw sa biglaang paghamog kahit hindi naman malamig. Pasensya na (tatawa).”

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Dis Aether

by John Joseph Gementiza

If this is how my life will end, then I have no regrets; I did everything I can to serve the One-above-us-all, even though this is what I will experience at the end of the tunnel of life. All I could do now is pray. *** Opening my eyes to face a new day the One-above-us-all has given, I got up and reached for the remote. Just before going to church, I switched through the channels and landed on the morning news.

Chara:

Good morning, people! Chara Raymundo here for The Morning News. Breaking news! A new virus discovered on the 13th of June is on the rise, and now it has already infected its fourth victim. This status report

by Eva Alegria.

Eva:

Viral Research head Adelaide Coronacion said that the new virus they call Sanguinia Virus was found in contaminated water sources and can cause the infected to go berserk and be aggressive after one hour of ingesting contaminated fluid.

Patient Relative:

Nakakagulat ‘yung sakit kasi bigla mo na lang makikita na nagwawala ‘yung biktima.

Wow. Is this like rabies? I asked myself, scratching my head as I fold the bed sheets.

Eva:

According to the research team, the virus takes control of the adrenal glands, causing excessive amounts of adrenaline release. This, in turn, causes the affected person to suddenly burst in anger, as well as experience sudden exhaustion after the outburst. However, the virus does something else to the victim. It also controls the hypothalamus, which is located in the brain. By controlling these areas of the body, it causes an overflow of hormones, sexually arousing the victims.

“I was shocked when he suddenly woke up after he fell. He pushed me to bed, which left us both satisfied,” one of Patient Zero’s relative said.

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Holy mother of One-above-us-all! How the hell could Sanguinia exist?

Sure, back then we had deadly viruses like HIV and Ebola, but those kill, not make you miserable. I wondered as I changed into decent clothing, wiping the sweat off my scrunched forehead.

Eva:

Researchers are still studying other effects of the virus. For now, people should be cautious with their drinking water sources. This is Eva Alegria, The Morning News.

I left the dormitories still scratching my head from the alarming news. I head for the church just a few blocks away to tend to my altar duties. Aside from my devotion to the One-above-us-all, the church’s architecture makes me want to fall down on my knees and worship the One-above-us-all for such a masterpiece. The church is actually made of etherglass, advertised as a durable glass that can substitute concrete. It was voted that this material be installed for the church’s renovation—and last week, the doors of the church were opened for the masses. Entering this almost ethereal place, I noticed the sky becoming greyer, and the rain started to pour, inviting the entire glass church sing its echoes of salvation. As I shifted my head left and right, I noticed Father in one of the front pews praying. I decided to go to the one across him and also started praying for a day free from worries over something that may harm us all. Just as I was about to concentrate on my thoughts, I heard the church turn from a choir to an orchestra. I closed my eyes to hear its crescendo as my consciousness conjured a bridge out of nowhere. Its pristine bars shining like the golden gates of Heaven— maybe I really am on my way to heaven— “Father!” I exclaimed, as my shoulder ached, his beady eyes staring at the horizon. “Why did you hit me?”

“Get up from your sleep, altar boy,” he replied. “You seem to need some water from the etherglass!”

“From the very etherglass pipeline or the one from the broiler down the cellar?” I asked. Why he would think I needed such a commodity while I am in solemn prayer?

“From the pipeline itself; it tastes as if the Creator just gave us the most refreshing drink mankind could ever taste!”

Great. It’s that pipeline, only now made more beautiful because the etherglass was also used for it. Walking toward the altar, I saw the tabernacle in the center concealing a lever inside. Father then pulled that lever, and from above came a thin torrent of water pouring down into the chalice on the table. He grabs the cup and takes a sip. He urged me to do the same, but considering that the water is for the people—not to mention it seemed unsanitary—I rejected Father’s offer. I remembered that one time when I was still a lad, before all of this viral talk, in one of his major masses, he

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pulled the lever and there they go, people making lines from their places as if it was communion and tapping their feet while waiting to go towards the “elixir.” I would not want to feel feet trampling my body for that. I sighed, “I am sorry Father, but I am still not drinking water from there.”

“Why?” He asked, rubbing his tubby chin.

“Because I do not think I am worthy of trying it,” I replied, copying his stroking. “Just curious, where does it come from?”

“The Heavens above, of course,” his lips contorted into a smirk. As far as I know, the reason boiling exists is so that the water can be purified.

Even though you could call etherglass something from the Heavens, it does not mean it is clean. Or maybe I am just paranoid after watching the news about the virus?

“Father, what do you know about the virus?” I asked, thinking that he would have a clue on what’s happening.

“No. I don’t want to stress myself with such news. I’d rather take care of you!” Wow. His ignorant statement just makes me want to rip my ears off. Looking behind, I sighed over the fact that I may end up being insane in this place. “But really, do you not want to drink it?”

“I really apologize, Father, but I refuse.”

“Very well, I cannot force you to drink this. Let us just thank the Oneabove-us-all that we are alive.” He sighed heavily as we both knelt. While in prayer, I cannot seem to grasp what Father said—and that I also cannot grasp why he is scratching his head like bees were stinging him. I looked at him, and he looked into my eyes, clutching the table near the altar.

“Stay,” he suddenly growled, teeth grinding like a dog seeing someone threatening. “Away!”

As he shouted, I tried looking for a hiding place. Good enough, the room used for penance is hidden from plain sight. As I closed the door, I heard the steps of someone—not the one who raised me, but rather the clicks of the heels from someone who wanted to kill his prey. Without anyone else in the vicinity, he tried to find me, his only target.

All I ever wanted was to serve the One-above-us-all, but then the only person who raised me with loving care suddenly turned into a monster right in front of me. My body turned to glass with betrayal. All I could do is go hide, praying that this person would return to its original form.

While hiding in this bunker, I could only ask myself how the hell the virus entered this church. The news flashed into my mind, and I could only pray that his anger would subside, and that I could keep quiet.

Moments later, silence pierced my ears—no growling madman roaming the aisles, and even the rain stopped. I tried to look at the table behind the altar and heard Father’s awfully maddening scream. As I went near him to check if he’s hurt, he started to rush toward me, with a face not contorted with anger, but something perverse and too carnal for this place.

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I immediately turned away from him, dashed toward the cellar, and hid under there. I guess I could count myself lucky because this is the only place that is not built with etherglass.

The screws of my mind turned loose. A one-eyed monster broke through the door and grew in all its bulging hideousness. It’s as if someone wrapped me in a duct tape and all I could do is stare at this monstrosity. Father always said that a way to stave miasma is through prayer, but as I pray that this urge would go down its course, a voice spoke in my head, “Come. Touch me, and ye shall be free.”

How cliché. This thing is asking me for salvation. The only salvation that I know of is the one Father taught me came from above. Fuck, all I could see is this monster dangling in my face. “Come on, join already!” It jerked again. I wished it would stop, but all I have right now is my own sense.

Scampering in the cellar, I grabbed what seemed to be a metal cross and decided to slit its neck. An inhuman scream burst through the being as it waved back and forth, shaking over the pain of a slice it did not see. As its blood gushed over like the water from this church, it shrunk like a turtle’s retreating head back to its shell—and finally, disappeared.

Sensing that all seemed safe, I rose from the cellar and looked around the crystalline area. It did not take me long to see Father beside the cellar door in a bloody mess. His hands covered his crotch, gushing blood like water finding an opening to burst through. Is he the monster? I thought as both of us looked eye to eye, our eyes filled with dread and horror, realizing what in the fucking world happened.

“I’m sorry Father, I had no choice,” I said, choking on my own saliva while rambling like a mad person escaping a mental asylum. I ran away from the church, screaming repeatedly: “The glass is a virus!”

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Rock-paper-scissors

by Marie Joy Sarmiento

Scissors The colors painted on my back were the same colors chased out of my garden.

My tattooed wings were pinned at the walls, awfully patterned by others’ reckless needles. Their blades cut deep into my back, then through my chest, and I was crippled. Slowly, they ripped off my wings, dissecting pieces of me. My wings are gone. The edges of their tongues continued to pierce through my insides and senses, and I locked myself back inside a dark silk room. I almost lived there.

Paper Almost. Then I squirmed my days out of the chrysalis, leaving my old skin. I was back crawling in the garden of my flowering fear—never to soar, never to feel the air beneath me again. I picked the petals of condolence and planted seeds of wariness. I should’ve known I might spend biting and munching on the leaves all my life.

I hid under another layer of skin, feeling smaller than before, and listed the ways I could grow on a leaf. If only I can remove the pins that kept my head down and fix the pieces dissected from me, then maybe I’ll find the stretchable strands of hope to stitch myself back. Maybe I could wrap myself with strips from the list like they were bandages and mend my torn sheets with my mistakes written all over me—my folded and crumpled self. But still, I ended up on reverse transition. I indulged in the flourishing leaves until there was no climb. Layers of skin thickened constantly with the frailty seeded inside me till I have become as tiny as dust— invisible and pushed aside.

Rock Flowers sprouted and grabbed me with their demeaning roots. I fell hard on the ground with stones soiling what’s left of me. The flowers looked down on me.

Do flowers bloom on one’s downfall?

I shouldn’t have let anyone touch my wings—now I’m sulking at the thought of being my own disgrace. I shouldn’t have crept and flown into a garden of toxic buds and stinging stems. In the slow process, not only did I lose my wings and descend in disgrace, I also lost the ability to keep track of my trail. Their yells and disapproving glares led my flight to a path ridden by others. The scars they carved in me created new markings, uninvited and refused by my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut then laid them in this white round room. The fight to survive this suffocating room brought me to my knees, overflowing thoughts riding my back and hammering my chest—aggressive and heavy. The only way to make it out of here, to hatch myself and be reborn, to grow my wings and become whole again will be hard and tough. But so will I be.

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Longing

by Marie Joy Sarmiento

I was overwhelmed with craving, here in this tight space—the desire to eat through my words as I choked in my thoughts. I swallowed all my nights, sipping and savouring the lines and letters.

I filled my hunger by dreaming with open eyes. I quenched my thirst by flicking through pages.

I let the phrases and clauses trace my body as they lingered through my veins and my skin.

But then, uncertainty haunted me, along with the slices of anxiety and distrust.

I could’ve missed the point, not reading between the lines. I might not have been able to reach the peak of purpose, the essence of every phrase. As I reread all of the boundaries, all my ideas were unscathed and living; I was the same. All were sound, brave, loved, and free. Likewise, I was.

I have never felt so warm until I was able to fit the pieces and the pieces were able to fit me. I have melted with the words until I found myself getting lost in them.

Since then, I became brave to tell stories of different dimensions. And I could tell my own, most of my angles and sides to aim and feast one’s eyes onto.

But after everything that I’ve done. I was never able to figure out my role.

Now I wonder, who am I?

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Karayom sa dayami

by John Paul Gonzales

Matapos ang pakikipagkaibigan sa mga kaklase’t propesor, pakikipagrelasyon sa mga libro’t handouts, at pakikiapid sa ibang test paper tuwing pagsusulit, ikababahala ng institusyong nilisan mo ang mga sumusunod na katangian:

God-hating

Umusbong na ang isang basong tubig-alat sa katawan mong banayad na diniligan ng hamog at binalot ng bughaw at itim na tela dahil sa masidhing nakatutuyong gabay ng araw.

Ngunit, hindi mo pa rin matagpuan ang butil na maaari mong ipunla para sa ‘yong kinabukasan.

Sampung halinhinan ng araw at buwan na ang lumipas at inip na inip na binabagtas ang daang uhaw sa ulan; kunot-noong ginagalugad ang bawat sulok ng mga nagtataasang konkretong talahib at panay ang pagsambit ng mura’t sumpa sa May-ari ng lupa na nagsaboy ng butil.

Passion for mediocrity

Nasumpungan mo ang butil sa talahiban at sinimulang bungkalin ang lupang banayad na kinukumutan ng tubig.

Nang matapos ay ‘yong ipinunla ang butil at pag-aalaga’y walang sandaling ‘di niya naranasan hanggang sa ito’y yumabong at magbunga nang masagana.

Ngunit sa patuloy na pagyabong nito’y siya namang pagtamlay ng ‘yong kalingang humantong sa kapabayaan sa puntong unti-unti itong nagtampo.

‘Di na ito muling nagbunga’t nalagas ang lahat ng dahon at nilisan ng tubig ang kanyang katawan.

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Pay-triotic

Isang paanyayang dala ng malamig na hangin ang pumukaw sa ‘yong atensyon; mensahe niya’y butil sa konkretong talahibang pinamugaran ng hamog.

Kaagad mong binitiwan ang ‘yong oo na uhaw sa masaganang pamumuhay at sumama sa hangin upang makaalpas sa lupang patuloy na dinadarang ng nakatutunaw na init.

Hinatid ka’t sinamahan nito hanggang sa ‘yong maiapak ang mga paang sabik sa yakap ng halumigmig

at doo’y ika’y muling nagsimulang humanap ng panibagong butil.

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monsters of manila

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“May bali-balita na meron pa raw isang nakatagong presinto sa ilalim ng New Bilibid Prison. ‘Di ko alam kung totoo talaga ang kuwento pero sabi nila sa kalagitnaan daw ng gabi, tuwing tulog na ang halos lahat ng preso, may iba’t ibang tunog daw na maririnig galing sa ilalim. Kapag nakahiga ka raw sa kama, bigla ka na lang maaalimpungatan dahil sa mga tunog na ‘to. May mga nagsasabing parang bulungan daw ng maliliit na boses. Meron ding nakarinig ng iyak ng sanggol. ‘Yung iba naman, tunog daw ng aso o pusa, minsan kabayo pa nga (tatawa). Pero isa raw ang sigurado—hindi tao ang gumagawa ng mga ingay na ‘to.”

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Aeron’s anomaly

by Jose Alfonso Sacdalan

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Our brain could only handle so much m-□□-madness and paranoia before the edge of our s-□□-sanity breaks. Sometimes, curiosity just gets the best of us and we just couldn’t leave the questions in our minds unanswered. Possibly, this feeling of rush, this adrenaline driven by great curiosity was enough of an excuse to justify the fact that I murdered my mother— No, I’m not insane. As far as my m-□□-memory would allow me to process, I am perfectly rational. And I, a very sane man had a theory in mind that this world is an illusion. Just try to consider this in my point of view. I thought—not thought, actually—deduced that the r-□□-reality of this world was meant to be questioned. I mean, look at how generic and repetitive the pattern of the clouds are embossed on the blue sky or the arrangement of trees and bushes on the sceneries like a barber’s pole i-□□infinitely rolling. Now, aren’t those rather odd?

My s-□□-speculations emerged after mother got hit by an overspeeding car one morning. Crowd almost flocked in a blink. Police cars’ sirens boomed to life. An ambulance rushed to mother’s death scene in less than a minute. It was strange because I knew for sure that the n-□□-nearest hospital is miles away and that rescue suddenly popping out of nowhere is next to impossible.

After they operated my mother by constantly poking her with their t-□□-tools, she got up casually and walked toward me, smiling. The crowd dispersed like nothing happened. Even the overspeeding car and the police went about like they had nothing to do with each other. No one filed a case and no one was arrested. That wasn’t right. I’m absolutely certain you’d agree with me if I declared that that wasn’t supposed to happen.

The next day, my mother cooked b-□□-bacon for breakfast. The smell and sting of onion lingered on the kitchen knife that I stabbed her with.

I watched how the crime scene cleaned itself, I don’t see my face but I know my eyes were wide with shock, and my mouth fell open. Her wounds healed, the blood disappeared, and she was revived after the next few minutes.

I had to test it on other people, see if they could come back too.

I smashed the head of the annoying kid across the street with a blunt pipe. I buried his body five feet deep. The next morning, he was there t-□□-throwing a ball at our window.

I murdered another, and another, and another. I murdered total strangers and simply dragged them to alleys or dark places and let my knife do its job. It proves the fact that the resurrected versions of them weren’t just my hallucinations. They all k-□□-kept coming back, and I swear I never saw one of them bleed. My blade always felt like slicing through rendered p-□□-pixels. See, these creatures, they weren’t really biological beings. They’re nothing more but a dimension of skin and empty space,

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moving by the simple logic of true or f-□□-false.

I’ve been roaming this city, meeting the same shapes of eyes and its color, nose, lips, skin tone, facial features and contours, and hair styles, mixed together forming a variety of faces. It made me wonder how I will e-□□-eject myself from this fixed world. Forget that, how did I even get here?

In another ge-□□-generic morning, still continuing my ex-□□experiments to provide more proof for my theory, they appeared—flying pigs. They came to existence through a process I called reverse dis-□□disintegration. Pink and white dusts gathered around and fused to form these flabby beasts. They suddenly flocked the city, bumping against skyscrapers, nibbling through the trash bins, eating walls and c-□□-cars, and no one seemed to care.

[0/100] A flying pig munched a man’s head off, and a c-□□-counter that read “zero” appeared above where his head is supposed to be located. That n-□□-number reminded me that I don’t have the choice but to watch him die.

As if the a-□□-anomalies I’m witnessing from the very beginning were not enough and as I was hiding from those fat beasts along these dark alleys, dusts collected in front of a c-□□-convenience store in front of me.

It spiraled like a sandstorm brewing until a leg ma-□□-materialized from it. Reverse disintegration. I watched as the sand bared a man.

If my theory was correct, then he was my key out of this world.

I grinned, slipping my knife out of the pocket, its si-□□-silver edge shining in the dark as the light from the post reflected against it. He’s not yet moving. I ran and jumped on him, ready to slash his carotid but I only scraped his neck.

[1240/1256] “What the fuck?!” he asked, his pi-□□-pixelated face tried its best to imitate human fear.

I buried the knife into his leg. He fell. I grinned. Supposed he couldn’t really do much running now. I could end this all for him but that’ll be too quick, he wouldn’t be able to process his imminent death. But with me?

No. He would feel every single second of it.

[1020/1256] “No, no,” he panicked. “I’m supposed to be immune while my memory is being uploaded,” he looked at me, “and what kind of shit character are you?”

I stabbed his arm. Hacked. Hacked it off. His scream was a valid evidence that he’s really feeling the g-□□-gravity of the situation he was in.

I mean, look at him crawling away from me, ha.

[500/1256] “Get me out of here! Brendan, GET ME OUT OF HERE! I promise, I

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will not overspeed in the game anymore!”

I s-□□-slid the edge on his forehead, b-□□-buried the knife through his skull, and opened his head like a coconut husk.

[0/1256] They couldn’t get him out, I mean he wasn’t even here. His existence was stuck between his world and this world, and taking him out would damage him. I could describe it like, pulling a f-□□-flash drive while still u-□□-uploading a file. It would c-□□-corrupt the data. The moment I struck the knife into his head, he was dead in my world and partially dead in his world too.

A ho-□□-holographic square suddenly appeared in front of his dead body.

“Memory upload stopped at 79% Memory upload will be terminated in 5… 4…”

Eat. Actually, with all those killings, I still haven’t tried s-□□-something. I scooped the chunks of flesh from the inside of his skull and poured it all over my mouth. Squeezed. Munched. Savored. Good enough.

“Memory upload recipient transferred.”

Good. Good.

“Memory upload resumes at 80%... 81%...” *** My head ached.

I w-woke into w-what seemed to be a coffin. I struggled to push my w-way outside, but someone else opened it for me.

“Hey, Aeron, you okay?” In front of me w-was a male, biological, breathing human. The f-features of his f-face showed concern, and his skin texture w-was so detailed compared from the simulation w-where I came from. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Oh, thank God. Man, that psycho AI is a real problem. If he killed you before your consciousness was fully booted up, you might’ve went brain dead.” His voice w-was filled with emotion, real and caring.

I stretched my arms and neck. I stood, completely naked, then I started removing the suction plugs sticking around my body.

“What do you think might’ve gone wrong?” Brendan w-wondered— something in my head told me his name was Brendan. “Take a look at it,” he tossed me a cartridge.

The label read Humans the Simulation: The 21st Century.

A videogame. I laughed, with a huge smile carved on my face. I w-was right. I mean, I w-wasn’t insane after all, was I? “Bloody bugs. Who would even code a psycho AI? Must’ve been a real idiot!” he snarled.

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“That can’t be helped. The game is still at its Beta phase and besides, the technology is still experimental,” I replied.

“Oh man, well, at least you’re alive,” he smiled. “Look at you, it’s like you actually died.” He pointed at the mirror attached right across the room. There I saw my reflection—brown hair, black eyes, deep eye bags, in my 20’s—I looked exactly like the last guy I killed. His name was Aeron, a tech-genius, I guess. I retained all of his memories before I killed him in the game. He must’ve been a very essential character, but now I’m in his place so the w-whole story would be going in a different direction.

I could hear the noisy buzzing and beeping of computers. I could also see the messy bed, chips, and soft drinks scattered around. Videogame posters pasted all over the wall.

I w-would look at all the angles and corners, everything else seemed very detailed and thought out—the bright colors, Brendan’s movement, and how humane and emotional he was.

I also noticed another thing that w-was out of place: the strong smell of paper and ink; the inconsistent presence of light—sometimes there is too little, too much and then none at all—it wasn’t anything like day and night.

It was something else. It was as if we were in a place that somebody could just open or shut close.

But the thing that was freaking me out the most was this voice, not a schizophrenic symptom of hearing voices, but something like a monotonous command somewhere—a narration. It was telling what I was thinking, and was about to do.

I held my breath, it said. So I held my breath.

“Dude, are you sure you’re fine? Wanna go outside and grab some pizza or something?” I stared at him, his f-face. A short scar under his lip, black hair carelessly spreading around everywhere. His f-facial expressions w-were very induced, as if it w-was suggesting something all this time.

Everything w-was the w-way it was intended to be, very detailed, very exex-expressive, as if it w-was almost being spoon-fed.

Perhaps I could test this new theory by killing another chunk of toogood-to-be-true humans. Considering all the variables given by the present situation, I could rationally deduce that—no. Not again. But I think I know exactly where I am and I just can’t be wrong…

Congratulations for having made it this far into the book.

Tell you what—I won’t stop here. Not until I’m in the real world.

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It

by Marie Joy Sarmiento

Your palms clasp your face as you stand under the moonlight while they count to ten before laying their eyes on you.

One, you sprint far enough, shards piercing your skin as you hide between the mirrors.

Two, you wrap your body with the shards from your feet, reflecting faint light.

Three, you fill your cracks with gold.

Four, you dye your tongue with people’s favorite colors.

Five, you mask your face with paint.

Until six, you look through the glass and see a ghost, a clone, so you fall on your knees as the glass shatters with your body; you are better than this.

Seven, you pluck the shards that decorated your skin.

Eight, you wash your tongue and coat it with your spectrum.

Nine, your blood mixes with gold.

You flash your bright colors, blinding their eyes with the truth.

Ten, you let their eyes explore you; they discover your soul.

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A piece of peace

by Nishtha Nigam

Someday, when you’re dazed by the ways of the olden days, you’ll be glad that the past has passed when swords soared, painting skies red, and men were born to die —slaughtered, mutilated, holed whole over God, over ground, over gold.

You’ll be relieved that the past has passed, where every morning was the beginning of a new mourning, knees and candles left kneeling at the altar, and lives were too broken to be altered.

You’ll think that the past has passed until it presents itself in your present.

And then vengeance will know no limits.

Because with the roar of every battle’s victory, are echoes of egos hurt beyond healing.

And no amend can ever mend the broken lives that paid the cost of what it all caused.

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My idiomatic cat

by Nishtha Nigam

My cat with nine lives lives on cloud nine, a whole nine yards above the skyline.

But once in a blue moon, he’ll walk down the stars that lead to my roof and down to my garden to pay for his tuna, a pound for a pound.

And then while he and I sit on the fence, he’ll advise me on how to make sense of my life.

For example, he advised me to turn a new leaf and leave no leaf unturned, until I’ve found the purrfect stepping stone, for then I can kill two birds with one stone.

You see, he’s an aboriginal cat, from the planet that makes prodigious cats.

For ordinary cats love boxes but boxes are not his cup of tea.

He thinks out of the box, even though he’s too humble to agree.

Soon he’ll return to his cloud with the silver lining, but not before he’s whispurred his ultimate secret to me: Darling, when you can’t stop crying over spilled milk, a piece of cake never fails to do the trick.

And then he’ll jump straight onto his cloud as I ponder his words, spellbound.

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monsters of manila

“Alam ko kung ano ‘yang suot mong kuwintas. Isang mutya.”

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Extinction of reality

by Rochelle Rivera

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It’s a normal day.

I woke up with Mia still sleeping beside me. I like staring at her as her chest heaves up and down like a painting in a fancy museum—a beautiful depiction of the morning. But as the train (the size of Mia’s thin and long arms) chugged its way, floating above our heads, her eyes fluttered in a gentle rhythm and she woke up, stretching both her arms and legs. She smiled and her dimples left me breathless. We gaped at the Zeno Express and watched how a train looks like from below (we keep forgetting every time). “Good morning,” Mrs. Cruz greeted as she and her son, Mike, hopped out of the train. They were fancy tiny people that were as small as key chains. “How have you been?” I greeted. Mike rolled his eyes, “Would have been lovely if only—” “He still feels bad about missing the special episode of The Ordinary while being a good boy, helping me at the Church,” Mrs. Cruz interrupted.

“Don’t worry, Mike.” Mia carried him into her rosy pink palm. “I saved the latest episode for you.” Mike’s eyes went wild, “What a goddess you are!”

And he danced while we all laughed.

I wake up alone.

The bed seems too big for me. I lay my back flat on the cushion and stare at the blank, white ceiling. It’s too quiet. I ask myself, “What’s going on?”

Mia prepared breakfast—fresh seafood and rice, crunchy vegetables, and hot tea. Mrs. Cruz and Mike shared a teaspoon full of each, which was like a buffet for them. They sat on the clay furniture I made that suited their size. “I’d kill for this meal,” I said. Mia only replied with a sweet kiss on my cheek—a promise that she’d do her best to cook for me every day so I won’t resort to killing.

I walk to the kitchen and prepare my own food. I don’t know what’s happening.

“Mia? Mrs. Cruz? Mike?” I call out their names. No one answers. There is nobody here.

After washing the dishes and taking a quick shower, Mia and I went to work together. But before leaving, I called to our dog, “Bonnie!” He was just a puppy when I found him one night on my way home. He has golden brown hair, long ears, and a pointed nose. He ran toward me, sticking his tongue out and wiggling his tail. “Be sure to take care of Mrs. Cruz and Mike,” I fondled his head. “Yes, sir!” he answered. “But can I bring my friend Cathy here?” “Cathy, the cat?” “Indeed, sir. It turns out we’re compatible.” Mia laughed. “Oh, dogs and cats these days.”

After washing the dishes, I take a long, cold shower. As the water drips over me, I think of all the terrifying things that can happen if this goes on. I won’t be able to go to work. I won’t be able to see my wife. And the PhaDocs will come and get me.

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On our way to work, Mia counted the unicorns that roamed the city.

“There were 64,” she said. “And three of them were pink,” I remarked. “Yes, pink unicorns are hard to find.” “I wonder why.” “I bet the Mayor’s daughters were keeping them at home as decorations or pets,” Mia grimaced. I squeezed her shoulder, “I’m gonna get you one soon.”

Driving my car to work, I look at the plain gray sky, at the tall buildings that looked like they were burnt, and at the people that were happily strolling around not knowing what was around them—a sight that suggests a war has just ended.

I now understand why people would choose to see hallucinations over reality.

Mia and I work on different offices. She’s the head secretary of Mr. Lohan, the grumpy manager of the marketing department. I met him once at a company party. “Have a nice day at work,” Mia interrupted as I tried to remember her boss’s face. “I’ll miss you,” I said and kissed her forehead before heading to my own office.

“What happened to Ryan?” I asked Jenny, the lady I share my office table with. I noticed Ryan’s table was clean and a few police officers were roaming around to ask people about him. Jenny finished putting her classic red lipstick before answering, “They say he’s gone insane. He lost his hallucinations and the PhaDocs were looking for him. He didn’t want to get cured.”

“Jenny,” I say as I sit on my chair. There are tons of paper on my shelf. Tons of work for today.

“What?” she asks while continuously typing something on the computer.

“I think I’ve gone insane,” I say.

She turns to me, “Well, I hope you’re wrong. You don’t want to be in an asylum, right?”

“Right,” I say.

Mia loves ice cream, so we always go to this famous ice cream parlor near our office building after work. “Same as always,” Mia sat on the table beside the window. “Strawberry coming,” I said, mimicking the cashier.

I leave my car and decide to walk home. Maybe I’ll find Mia in the ice cream parlor, together with Mrs. Cruz, Mike, Bonnie, and Cathy the cat.

But the ice cream parlor is gone too. There is but an old abandoned pawnshop and a wrecked wooden bench in front.

Fireworks show can be seen on the top floor of the ice cream parlor every 9 PM. We always wait for it before going home. “Remember the first time we met?” Mia hugged my right arm and rested her head on my shoulder.

“We were just kids and you introduced me to your parents. ‘This is Mia, my imaginary friend’ you said.” “I remember their blank faces,” I said. “Because they couldn’t see me.” “When the PhaDocs fetched them, I was positive they’d get cured. But they refused the drugs. The sickness died with them.” I

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miss my parents, I thought. “I hope you never stop seeing me,” Mia looked me in the eye. “Never.”

I continue walking on dark aisles and unlit streets. Then I start hearing footsteps. Someone’s behind me, I can see his shadow even from the faint light of the moon.

I turn around. “Ryan?”

He removes his orange cap, “Hey.” I take a step back, “What are you doing here? You should surrender yourself and get help from the PhaDocs.”

“Where is Mia? Why aren’t you with her?”

Shit. “She’s … gone home. I had to work overtime.”

“You could have just lied she’s beside you, that I just don’t see her. It would have been more believable.”

Bonnie opened the gates for us, “Welcome home, Sir.” “Where are Mrs. Cruz and Mike?” I asked. “The Zeno Express fetched them.” “Have you eaten yet?” Mia pinched his saggy cheeks. “Oh yes, beautiful.” “Who are you calling beautiful?” Cathy the cat suddenly appeared behind the bushes.

She’s a black cat, which spelled unlucky. “Someone’s in trouble,” I said, and Mia giggled as we entered the house. “Come here,” Mia reached out.

She made me sit on the couch and started massaging my shoulders. I would have lived eternally for nights like this.

As we reach home, I close my window curtains and turn the TV on. I set the volume high, “What are we going to do? How do we get our hallucinations back?”

Ryan only sighs.

“Jenny said you don’t want to be cured.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Should we call the PhaDocs?” I’m about to dial on the phone but Ryan snatches it from me and throws it at the wall. “What the fuck?”

“The PhaDocs doesn’t cure people like us. They manipulate and torture us.

They force out demons from our heads,” he says.

“How can you say that?”

“Like yours, I once had the best life I could ever ask for. But one day, I stopped seeing my daughter, and I went straight to the PhaDocs hoping they’d know how to get her back. They did make me see hallucinations again but they weren’t anything like before,” Ryan places both of his hands in his head and starts pacing back and forth. “My hallucinations returned in the shape of monsters chasing me every night, eating something that reeks of blood on the foot of my bed, and screaming death in my ears. And the PhaDocs let me go in that state, saying it was better than not having any hallucinations at all. So now that I’ve lost those monsters, I don’t have any plans on getting them back.”

I always continue my work at home. After eating dinner, I head straight to my little office and continue to balance accounts. Mia, on the other

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hand, would take a shower and read novels on the couch near my table.

The sweet smell of her hair would keep me distracted and sometimes she intended to do it in order to tempt me into bed and sleep early. I tend to be a workaholic, but it was just a matter of her putting lotion on her legs that would stop me from working. “I get it. Let’s go to our room,” I said, wrapping my arms around her waist.

“What is that?” Ryan calls out as I take a peek from the window. There is a loud siren and two white cars outside my house.

“The PhaDocs found us,” I say in disgust.

“What? How did they know?”

“It must have been Jenny. I told her I think I’ve gone insane.”

“You’re a fucking moron.” *** The United Doctors of the New Phantasmal World PhaDocs’ greatest vision for humanity and social order “To promote the goodness and use of the subconscious in order to reach self-actualization through imagining and living with apparent perceptions regardless of their true absence. By detaching from reality, we can never feel non-existence. Everything will be possible and everyone will be equal.

The mind is our cure. The mind is our strongest power.

To our minds do we surrender.”

Mia and I would always recite the PhaDocs’ mission and vision every night like a prayer before we sleep. It was obligatory and was imposed by the government as duty so we will always be reminded of the meaning and importance of hallucinations in our lives. For Mia, it was like my promise of love, a wedding vow. A confession that I respect her not as a figment of my mind but a concrete part of my being.

The PhaDocs confined us for 40 days. They are doctors in white lab coats with blank expressions on their faces. For 40 days, they were digging in our brains all in the hopes of getting our hallucinations back. For 40 days, they made us go through a series of tests and every time we fail, they inject us with oxaprozin, pamidronate, pentazocine, propoxyphene, and other drugs that cause hallucinations.

And I heard Ryan’s monsters were back.

He was approved to leave the facility.

But those drugs didn’t bring back my Mia. All they did was keep me bedridden.

I only developed several skin rashes and severe headache. I also vomitted more than I ate, and collapsed more than I stayed conscious.

“To our minds do we surrender.” She kissed me immediately after I said

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the final words. “You are so good teasing me into bed,” I kissed her back, more intensely this time. She pulled away, “That’s what I am here for.”

“Don’t leave me,” I said. “I won’t,” she answered, taking my shirt off. I let her fingers explore my back, while I kissed her neck down to her bosom. “Lie down,” I whispered.

I lie down.

“It’s time for your injection,” the doctor says, preparing the syringe.

“I now know why I don’t have any hallucinations.”

“Why?” “Because,” I get up and shrug the syringe off, “I am just a hallucination. I am everyone’s hallucination.”

The doctor put her hand on her mouth. Then she touches my face.

“Oh my,” Mia exhaled as we lay in bed, naked. “I think I’m gonna wake up late tomorrow,” she said. “We can skip work tomorrow,” I suggested while wrapping her around me. She giggled, “Let’s sleep. Good night, love.”

For a second, I think the doctor might have believed me. Not until she reaches for a pair of surgical scissors and stabs my chest with it. I cough out blood.

“That’s too bad,” the doctor says. “You shouldn’t have lied like that.”

“Why…” “You think no patient has tried that trick before?”

I fall down, crumpling on the floor, blood coming out of my chest and mouth.

They say dying is another way to see your hallucinations, but for one last time. I find Mia lying on her side facing me, right on the floor. The space between us, the intersecting lines from the white tiles where my blood spill, feels like a stretch of universe.

“You stopped seeing me,” she says with her voice almost faltering, like she’s in pain and those words are her last breath.

“I see you now,” I say.

“Why are you crying, then?” she asks.

“Good night, love.” Mia closed her eyes and I thought about how lucky I was. Good-natured hallucinations like her don’t bleed or die. I caressed her face and she murmured, “Why aren’t you sleeping? What are you still thinking?” I closed my eyes and answered before drifting away, “It’s just too sad one of us is real.”

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Physics Final Exam

by Nishtha Nigam

Physics Crash course 102 Finals Name: Course/Year/Section: Date: Score: Problem Solving: Read the questions carefully and write your solutions in the answer sheet provided.

1. You are driving a car at a speed of 100 km/hr when you see a truck traveling in the opposite direction toward you. If the truck approaches you at the same average speed of the alcohol running in your system and with half the weight of the guilt you carry for being such a failure, what is the total momentum of the collision between your head full of ambitions with the hard reality you are thrown into?

2. Newton’s first law of motion states that a body in uniform motion will remain in motion until an external force is applied to it. Assuming you were too fed up with your life to wear a seatbelt and that your car lacks airbags, explain how your emotions were set into motion.

3. Illustrate your body’s path of projection when propelled from the car seat to the outside surface if it makes a 20-degree angle. Looking at the path you were destined to take, what are you most likely to crack—your fate, your diamond-studded watch, your cranium, or backbone?

4. Compute the force of the impact in your life.

5. The theory of relativity states that as gravity increases, time slows down. As time slows down, the probability of reliving a lifetime in seconds increases by 92%. If the truck’s light blinded you with the intensity of all your flaws combined, how many memories will come flashing before you collapse?

6. Define time. Is it a series of chances spent in making life what you want it to be? Or is it a timeless paradox that traps people and forces them to live their fated realities?

7. What is the probability of you surviving the crash if time = 5s, shattered glass = 255 pieces, fear of life > fear of death, and the velocity of blood flowing from a gaping hole in your stomach is 0.25m/s?

8. Given that wealth = 3.4 B; house = 3; car = 4; girlfriends = 4; home = 0; real family & friends = - 1000; rate of happiness = 0.0006%, how much can you afford to lose?

9. Outline the final moment.

-End-

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The nightly absurd story-telling competition

by Denise Anne Valentino

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It is true that the strongest magic of the fairy folk resides in the mountains and forests of the provinces, but it does not mean that it cannot be found along the darkest alleys of Quiapo. All you have to do is give the right alms to the right beggar.

Last week, I went to Raon to look for cheap, second-hand typewriters and being there reminded me of a story I once heard about Quiapo. Actually, it wasn’t about Quiapo—whoever told the story said that it began with two roommates living in a haunted college dorm room, who tried to get through the eerie feeling every night by sleeping on the same bed and telling each other the most absurd stories they could ever think of until they fall asleep. Please don’t ask why they didn’t just ask to be transferred to another room or leave to find another dorm.

This story has been retold many times and you know what happens if a story has been retold several times. Anyway, let’s call the roommates A and B—it’s better than The First Dormer and The Second Dormer.

Same as every night, A and B were on their sides, now used to being cramped together in the small space. B had just finished telling the story about a man who chopped off his sister’s corpse’s head in hopes of speaking to her again just because he misses their conversations. A began the story of a young man—let’s just call him The Man. According to A, The Man went to one of Quiapo’s unholy shops, thinking he’ll find a cure for his heartache. But instead, he went home with a vial of magic powder and a piece of paper browned with time that he got from a beggar.

Some versions of this story say the beggar used to be a witch who became a homeless old lady no different from all the other homeless old ladies that have roamed Quiapo before The Man was born—that is, if she wasn’t the same homeless old lady after all those decades. Other versions say that the beggar was one of the remaining engkantos of the urban disguised as a street child. Whether the beggar was a street child or a crazy old lady, one thing was for sure: The Man accidentally included his last bubblegum with the spare change he gave to the beggar, and for whatever reason, it was that accidental bubblegum—not the coins—that pleased beggar. Again, it was not clear if the beggar directly gave The Man the vial of magic powder, or if the beggar only pointed The Man to the shop where he found the vial.

A told B that when The Man got home, he raced for the kitchen to start the instructions written on the piece of paper that came along with the vial. The Man followed the instructions thoroughly without questioning why the water has to be boiled using a large cooking pot or why he has to pour all the powder in—not even why he has to add a few drops of his blood and a lock of his dead girlfriend’s hair (please don’t ask how he got that) into the mixture.

Other people would shake their heads while laughing after seeing the list of instructions, but The Man followed every single step without batting an eye.

The Man was desperate to be happy, and desperation can make a man believe the unbelievable. So The Man followed every single step as if his life depended on it.

The Man waited for hours when the last step instructed to wait for a wailing sound as all the required ingredients boil inside the pot. The Man waited even if he had

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no idea what to do with the outcome of the concoction, let alone what it would be.

The Man waited and waited until a wailing sound finally pierced the silence of his home. The next thing The Man knew, he was taking a newborn baby out of the pot into his arms. She looked like any other newborn except for one tiny detail— she has no navel.

Just when B thought that A was done, A began explaining that the story was absurd not because of The Man’s exaggerated pain paving way for an even more exaggerated desperation. It was not because of the manner he found the vial. It was not because of the instant baby-making potion. The story was absurd because it really happened.

There was a long silence between A and B until B finally asked A if she’s fooling around. A smiled, took B’s hand, and guided it under her shirt.

B felt A’s belly under her palm.

She felt the soft skin.

She felt the gentle warmth.

But she felt no navel.

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No strings attached

by Cerisse Madlangbayan

My goodness, she was beautiful.

Euan never would have thought to come across a half-wooden, halfglass casket in the middle of the woods, much less a goddess inside it. For the forest was full of horror and miracles—it played him like a dog with its tricks and promises of good sceneries to capture, and then drove him frantic like a child lost in the mall. Whether or not the woods thought to cut him some slack by chancing upon a dame of winsomeness and charm, he would never know.

Although most cases have that one big sign that tells people not to lean against the glass, Euan leaned still. Because for the lady inside the halfglass casket, he could be a rebel or a freaking renegade if she asked him to.

If she was conscious enough to actually mouth anything, that is.

Euan knew for sure that he didn’t want to leave her there in the middle of nowhere, but it was getting late and he didn’t have the tools to open the stupid glass case. He tried sitting on the crystal cover, hoping it’d break.

Alas, the new suitor must tread the dangerous path home alone, without his pretty beloved.

He was glad to have tied his multi-colored string to a tree near his aunt’s vacation house, because he wasn’t sure he could find his way back in the evening darkness. Gathering the last yard of string, he opened the door only to find his friend Marya ready to slap him with her sandals.

“Hindi nga kita niloloko. Mamatay man,” he told her as he pounded his soft, weak chest. He revealed how he got lost taking pictures of trees and whatnots before his tale about the divine creature that ensnared his very being. It was true that all he could see was her heart-shaped face and slender shoulders. But that was enough for him to offer her his heart and soul.

“Ulol,” Marya replied. “‘Wag ka nga.”

With much convincing, Marya finally acknowledged—but rolling her eyes as sign of defeat—his story. That night, she helped him pack some camping materials in a large backpack. While Euan seemed to have been prepared to go hiking, he had forgotten the one thing that helped him survive the day he got lost in the woods: a thin, long, multi-colored bundle of string.

Before setting foot in the forest, he looked back at Marya and asked if she wanted to accompany him for tomorrow’s journey. [You perchance slide your feet into Marya’s tiny sandals; in her shoes, what would you reply to Euan?] ***

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A. “Bahala ka sa buhay mo. Hanapin mo ‘yang Diyosa mo nang mag-isa.”

Euan started trekking, completely peeved. While Marya almost believed his story the night before and even helped him pack, she was against him going back to the woods to find what she calls “an imaginary goddess.” The Tasty bread wasn’t stale so he didn’t know what Marya ate that made her crabby enough not to accompany him like they planned. She told him that if he still thought the girl in the woods was worth it, then he can damn sure hike the forest alone.

When he passed this particularly large tree, he tried to brush away the thought of Marya and focused on the mystery lady instead. Her long, black hair cascaded down her smooth, tan skin. Her nose was small and a little upturned, while her lips were red like santan. Oh, how he longed to hold her in his arms.

He fell for her at first sight and he wished she would do the same. But what if she didn’t? His stomach and arms were a little soft, and he was gangly and awkward like an idle papaya tree that was moved time and time again by livid storms. And he couldn’t even think about his face without feeling like he already lost the lottery. After walking and ruminating for an hour, he stopped and rested by this one particularly large tree.

Euan unwrapped a sandwich and went on with his trip. He recalled that the last time he was in the forest, he was trying to find a majestic view to photograph. With an album full of skyscrapers, trees and lakes were a sight for sore eyes. A rock got caught in his rubber shoe and so he leaned against this one particularly large tree and took off the shoe to get that pesky rock out.

Almost immediately, he jumped to the side and fell on the grass. He couldn’t count in two hands the number of times he passed that one particularly large tree. He knew it had to be the same tree because he took a picture of it the last time. They say you need to be one with nature, but he practically fused with its branches, roots, and trunk to the point that he had every bark memorized.

“Tang—,” he yelped, realizing he didn’t have his lucky string with him.

Euan ran like his life depended on it, because at that moment, it did. No matter how many times he turned his shirt upside down or around, he passed by that one stupidly large tree over and over and over again. *** B. “ Sige na nga. Pahamak ka talaga , e.”

Marya was the one to hold the compass, because she didn’t trust Euan one bit with directions. Especially now that he was trying to find some goddess in the woods, whatever that meant. Someone had been whistling at her for a while now and while she tried to rationalize that it was the trees or the bees making

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music, it was starting to creep her out.

“Naririnig mo ba ‘yun?”

“Ibon lang ‘yun,” Euan reassured her.

“Bakit parang kanta ‘pag may patay?” She was about to let it go when she stepped on some bump on the ground. She must have hit it hard, because she almost tripped flat on her face if Euan wasn’t there to hold her back. He was supposed to tell her to be more careful when he saw a spotted thing flying overhead.

“Ano kaya ‘yun?” he asked before it plummeted straight toward them. Euan covered his head for a moment before he started hearing Marya’s screams. He didn’t have time to look at the creature as it was already feasting on his friend. He tried pulling it away from Marya by hitting its wings and any body part he could reach.

He even thought of snaring its beaks with his string, but his fingers couldn’t find it in his bag.

“Lumayo ka!” He tried to tackle it, but it had no business with him. It pecked on Marya instead, tearing at her face and arms. Blood, there was so much blood.

His fingers clawed at the monster, hoping it would set its eyes on him instead.

He wasn’t going to let him take her, he thought, as he dug his nails deep into the monster’s side. He was just holding Marya’s hand for a second before the half-bird shot toward the sky, taking her.

Suddenly, it started raining. Sticky dark liquid were getting into Euan’s eyes as he felt something plop on his shoulder. When he saw Marya’s finger, he fell in a heap and cried, blood and tears sliding down his cheeks. *** C. “Teka lang. Dalhin ko si Brownie, para safe.”

After a solid two hours of walking, stumbling, and practically crawling, Euan stared down at his iPod and its depleting battery life. He already heard the wails of two screamo bands, the dooby doo and doo wop of one dead singer, and Whitney reaching her high notes; and even then, they still haven’t found his goddess. He sighed and petted Brownie, Marya’s tiny puppy who she was convinced had the heart of a lion and the nose of a fox. He begged to differ, but since he realized his string was missing, he knew that Brownie—no matter how teacup-sized and delicate—had to come in handy.

Marya opened a bottle of water and handed it to him. “Maniwala ka sa ‘kin.

Namamalikmata ka lang.”

“Totoo nga kasi, p’re,” he said as he plucked out his earphones, imagining the raven-haired apple of his eye.

Marya turned around and played with her pendant instead because her phone was dead and there was no signal. Euan had the same jewelry because it was his aunt’s gift to both of them—an agimat, they were told. The string of his necklace seemed to have been giving away, so he fished for his trusty multicolored string in his pocket, but realized he must have left it on his desk. Because he was in the

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woods at the moment, he just decided to replace it when he gets home.

“Parang mga kuwentong pambata lang, ‘no?” he asked, tugging at the anting-anting. “Isipin mo, may ganoong kagandang babae sa gitna nitong gubat.

Paano kung diyosa pala talaga ‘yung hinahanap natin?”

It looked like Marya’s patience had snapped and took a dive off the cliff.

She walked up to him, kissed him, and yelled, “Ba’t ka pa kasi humahanap ng iba?” She grabbed Brownie and her compass and stormed out.

“Hoy, saan ka pupunta? Bakit mo ‘ko hinalikan?” he bellowed as she was leaving him there near the rock. Brownie peeked from Marya’s crossed arms, already alerting its owner where to go.

“Uuwi na ako. Magsama kayo ng Maria Makiling mo.” Marya shot him one last glare before taking off completely. Brownie even barked, as if to tell him he’s an ass and a half.

Great, even the puny dog disliked him. He sat down on the rock and placed his bag near this one particularly large tree. Euan wasn’t sure now if he should follow her or continue his search. The leaves—or were those birds?— were whistling and almost instantly, he knew where he needed to be. Before he could stand, he saw that he was sitting on what looked like a yam-colored stone. But with eyes and a full set of fangs.

His hands reached for his necklace, but his trembling fingers couldn’t find the pendant. *** D. “Magbabantay na lang ako rito. Kapag wala ka pa ng alas sais y medya, tatawag na ako ng pulis.”

It must have been luck because there he was standing near the half-glass case, breathing in her beauty. The dark was setting but he didn’t mind. He remembered one of those videos he’s seen on the Internet about opening locks with a string and thought he should try that. But of course, his luck wanted to bitch-slap him, and as fate would have had it, he forgot to bring the damn string with him. Instead, Euan grabbed a fallen log, big enough to smash the padlock that held the glass case together.

As soon as the glass lid opened and air danced in, her eyes—framed lushly with long dark lashes, flickered instantly and shyly held his gaze. There was no sudden exchange of words because Euan couldn’t find any. He was speechless and breathless in her presence. She stretched one hand to touch his face daintily and whispered low, “Aking prinsipe.”

His smile must have cut his face in half as he tried to help her up. She hung her arms around him and buried her face in his hair. She sing-sang, “Sandali lang, mahal.”

“Bakit?” He was busy trying to open the other half of the casket, which was made of wood. As he held her waist and tried to reach for her hips, he felt … nothing. She had no lower body.

The girl smiled against his neck, “Nagugutom ako.”

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Marino

by Danielle Vince Capuno

Sa paglapit mo dala ang mga butil na kristal mula sa araw sa ibabaw ng kalawakan, ipinipikit ko ang aking mga mata.

Sa paglayo mo, Ibinubukas ko silang muli at hindi kailanman isasara, pagmamasdan ka, hahangarin ka, at tatanawan ka hanggang sa muli kang bumalik sa dalampasigan.

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Sa muling pagsilay sa ‘yong pagtalikod, sinubukan kong sumunod.

At ako’y inanod, nalunod, namangha sa lalim mo.

Sumisid pa ako.

Sumisid nang sumisid Hanggang ang tubig mo ang naging hangin ko.

At habang nagtatago sa likod mo ang araw, habang kinakain ka ng dilim, dito lang ako na parang isang bangkang nakadaong.

Pinagmamasdan ka.

Sumasabay sa paggalaw ng ‘yong tubig.

Inaabangan ang ‘yong pagpunta, tinatanawan ang ‘yong paglisan.

Lumakad ako paikot sa baybayin habang hinihintay ka.

Gaano ka kaya kalamig?

Gaano kahigpit ang yakap mo?

Gaano ka kalalim?

Anong nasa kaibuturan mo?

Pero hahayaan na lang na lumubog sa kalaliman ang mga tanong dahil ang simoy mula sa ‘yong karagatan ay sapat na para buhayin ako.

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monsters of manila

“Ah. Bampira? May binili nga akong gano’n noong isang linggo. Masarap mangolekta ng iba’t ibang halimaw galing sa iba’t ibang mitolohiya. Meron akong sphinx, naiad, gargoyle, dragon, gremlin, golem, at marami pang iba. Gusto mong makita?”

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editors profile

Danielle Vince Capuno

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“Ang isang matarik na dahilig ay parehong paahon at palusong.”

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writers profile

It’s just too sad one of us is real.

Rochelle Rivera

Life is unfair to everyone, which is why it is fair.

Jose Alfonso Sacdalan

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A wallflower that blooms within poetry.

Nishtha Nigam

Error: How are you feeling?

Marie Joy Sarmiento

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writers profile + contributors

Naglalakbay mag-isa sa iba’t ibang lugar nang hindi ipinaparamdam ang presensiya.

John Paul Gonzales

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Cerisse Madlangbayan

Denise Ann Valentino

Antonette Gadon

John Joseph Gementiza

artists

Marco Belarmino

Lynoelle Kyle Arayata

Chandler Belaro

Lexzene Dela Cruz

Jeff Treat Dimaano

Camille Joy Gallardo

Sheka Ignaco

Timmy Joy Lomarda

Christian Paul Macapagal

Christian Mateo

Chesleigh Nofiel

Enrico Paolo Topacio

Mikaela Torres 107

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

Editorial Board AY 2015-2016 Daniella Shaira T. Cortez, Editor in Chief Krizza Mae M. Bautista, Associate Editor Cerisse C. Madlangbayan, Copy Editor Erika B. Uy, Office Circulations Manager Katherine Anne C. Aboy, News Editor Anri Ichimura, Features Editor Danielle Vince D. Capuno, In charge, Literary Fernan Patrick R. Flores, Sports Editor Lynoelle Kyle E. Arayata, Art Director Jerome S. Quinto, Chief Photographer Ricardo Martin O. Cabale, Graphics and Layout Director Alphonse Leonard G. Topacio, Web Manager Dr. Lakandupil C. Garcia, Adviser

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

Telephone: +63 46 481 1900 local 3063 Email: officialheraldofilipino@gmail.com Website: heraldofilipino.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 Heraldo Filipino, official student publication of De La Salle University-Dasmariñas.

The literary works published remain as properties of their authors.

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